The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 27

By Pigwidgeon37

In the life of every young wizard, the most important birthdays were the eleventh and the eighteenth. Or rather, it was the eleventh year of their life that was so consequential, because it was the year their institutionalised magical training started, although some of them celebrated their birthday when school had already started. At age eighteen, though, it was the day that counted. To turn eighteen meant that they were allowed to do magic everywhere—as far as the Ministry guidelines allowed it, of course—and could get an Apparition license in case they were able to Apparate. There was, however, another important birthday, namely the twenty-first. Only when a wizard was twenty-one years or older could he or she hold certain positions within the magical community: it was impossible to become a Head of Department at the Ministry of Magic, an Auror or—as in Lucius’s case—a member of the Hogwarts Board of Governors before one’s twenty-first birthday.

The three phoenixes were already preparing the ground for the next step of their plan. Lucius was going to turn twenty-one on 19 March; the next meeting of the Board of Governors was scheduled for 20 April; then he would take his late father’s place. When Severus reported back to Lucius and Owen that Voldemort had been satisfied with the results he had achieved so far in his research for the potion and had not shown any more obvious doubts about his loyalty, the three wizards met at Malfoy Manor to discuss the next steps.

“That means that we can pursue our own goals in peace at least until the summer solstice?” Owen said after Severus had told them about the Devil’s Lily he was going to need, in order to complete the formula.

“Well, basically yes. And even a little longer, for I cannot continue my experiments until I’ve got Thaumatocytes in pure form. They seem very unstable and will probably need to be bound to another substance for the potion to work. I can do some theoretical research in the meantime, but in order to see which ingredients have the best stabilizing effect, I must use the real thing.”

“So what does that mean, in terms of time we have at our disposition?” Lucius asked.

“I can’t tell for sure. September, maybe October. It might take longer, though.”

“Good,” Lucius said, nodding in obvious satisfaction. “The longer, the better. So I suppose it’s time for Owen to play his role.”

Owen wagged his head. “You know,” he said, “it might be helpful to have a concrete reason for my We-Need-Somebody-At-Hogwarts rants. Otherwise, they might appear a bit far-fetched. I mean, why should I start right now? There’s no apparent motive.”

“Mmh.” Severus rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I see your point. You mean that the resistance should play aggressor, just for once, instead of keeping up their essentially defensive role.”

“Exactly. If we could stage something… I don’t know… like… like attacking the family of one of their members, so they call in help… something along those lines, you understand?”

A malicious smile crept over Lucius’s face. “What about the Blacks?”

Severus sighed in exasperation. “Lucius, please! Be reasonable! Try, at least. If we attack the Blacks, they might do some real damage—”

“I don’t think so,” Lucius interrupted him, his sneer growing more feral by the second. “Because they would, of course, be forewarned by Dumbledore. We could—yes,” he said, hitting the armrest of his chair with his right fist, “Yes, that’s brilliant. We could schedule the whole thing for the Easter holidays… Easter is on 15 April, so the students leave Hogwarts on the seventh. If Black goes home, too, we could carry out the attack on the eighth or ninth and have twelve days until the Governors’ meeting. This is absolutely perfect.”

Owen nodded fervently.

“Lucius, I wasn’t criticizing your schedule which, by the way, is brilliant. I was expressing my doubts concerning the target.”

“The target,” Lucius drawled, “makes the whole matter even more interesting. Because they would of course be instructed to neither kill nor arrest. Whereas we…” He raised his palms and looked up to the ceiling. “We might just be a little… well, overzealous.”

“And forget our collaboration with Dumbledore. No, Lucius, that is absolutely out of the question.”

Lucius stared at him out of narrowed eyes, face flushed, mouth a thin line. “You don’t have to lead the operation,” he finally said.

“No, but one of us has to. Or Lestrange. Just imagine what would happen if he were to be in charge.”

“Whomever we attack,” Owen said, “one of us has to be in charge. And we could achieve that more easily if we chose the Blacks. After all, Lucius does have issues with them.”

“That’s exactly what I mean, Owen. He has such a lot of issues with them that I wouldn’t bet a single galleon on his self-control. They killed his father, for Merlin’s sake! It’s because of them that his mother isn’t living here anymore. And the last thing I need are three dead Blacks—what on earth should I tell Dumbledore? He would never continue working with us if we gave him reason to suspect we don’t have a minimum of control!”

“Then suggest another target,” Lucius snapped.

Severus scowled at him. Of course, that vain bastard had seen that he was right, but would rather bite off his tongue than admit it. “The problem is that we don’t know the members of Dumbledore’s group. Wild guesses is all we have. I suppose he might have called back Lupin. The Potters are certainly with him. Figg. Moody. Or do you have any better ideas?” He looked at the other two wizards.

Owen shook his head. “No. But that’s only an argument in Lucius’s favour, although I agree with you that he shouldn’t be in charge.” Lucius growled something unintelligible. “Don’t be such an ass, Lucius, you know he’s right. On the other hand, we need strong adversaries, and not too few of them. The Potters are only two. I don’t know anything about Lupin’s background, so there might be only he. Figg and Moody seem to be loners. Which lands us with the Blacks, there’s no way out of it.”

“Shit!” Severus hissed and threw his glass into the fireplace.

“This was antique Baccarat, Snape,” Lucius said, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Kindly keep your temper in check, or at least don’t ruin family heirlooms. I am aware that you don’t really know what it means to possess them—”

Severus quickly strode over to him and bent over his chair, his hands on the armrests and his nose a mere couple of inches from Lucius’s. “Shut the fuck up, Malfoy!” he hissed. “I am the one who is risking his hair and hide here. And I know that you want your revenge with the Blacks. I wouldn’t put it past you to question our whole plan just for the pleasure of torturing them to death. But you know as well as I what would happen then. The Blacks are the Ministry’s stars. The repressions would be terrible, and we would lose our chance with Dumbledore. Do you want that? Fine with me. But don’t count me in anymore.”

For a while, they merely stared at each other. Then, never breaking the eye contact, Lucius said, “Don’t threaten me, Severus. You know that it doesn’t go down especially well with me.”

“I am not threatening you, I am warning you of the consequences of any inconsiderate actions on your part.” He straightened up again. “And it’s not only about you that I’m worried. To own the truth, I’m way more preoccupied about Sirius Black. Of course he will receive orders from Dumbledore, but there’s no way Dumbledore can possibly guarantee he’ll follow them. What if he has the same second thoughts as you? What if he strikes back in earnest? Do you really look forward to dying or spending your life in Azkaban? Would you really do that to Narcissa?”

“That,” Lucius said hoarsely, “was a very low blow.”

“Low or not, you have to admit that I’m right.”

“Go to hell, Snape!”

Severus nodded grimly. “That’s exactly where the three of us will finish unless we devise a better plan.”

“Are you finished bickering?” Owen asked.

One blonde and one black head whipped around. “Yes!” Lucius and Severus spat in unison.

“Great. Then we might get on with our discussion. Let’s cancel the Black option. It’s too… well, dramatic, and if we’re unfortunate, Lestrange volunteers to be in charge. He has a bone or two to pick with Black, too, so it’s rather likely he might. I say let’s try Lupin. I think I remember he’s a halfblood.”

“Not a Mudblood?” Lucius asked.

“No, I’m rather sure that his mother is or was a Muggle.”

“Why don’t we look him up in the Who’s Who?” Severus said. “He’s bound to be in there, and so we’ll also see who his parents are.”

Lucius shot him a withering glare, to which Severus replied with a sly grin. He knew how much Lucius hated acknowledging that anybody whose name was not Lucius Malfoy had had a good idea. But he got up all the same, drew his wand and summoned the tome. “Let’s see… Ludlum… Luzco, no that’s too far… here we are. Lupin, Remus Jean, born in Pickering, 4 October 1958, Libra…blablabla, son of Arsène Lupin (for further information, see “Qui est qui en France Magique”) and Emma Watson (Muggle). 1969- 1976 Hogwarts… well, we certainly know that! Who the fuck is Arsène Lupin? Bloody French!”

“You’re one to talk!” Owen said, “If I remember correctly, the Malefois—”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Severus said, “Arsène Lupin? He was quite famous! Infinite troubles with the French Ministry of Magic, I definitely recall that. Used his magical skills to commit the most outrageous thefts… I dimly remember something about a necklace… it belonged to some French queen. But—” he raised his right hand, index finger pointing at Lucius “—the name of Watson rings another bell. You remember Sherlock Holmes, the Arithmancy Master?”

“Dimly,” Owen said, “Don’t tell me you paid attention to Binns!”

“Of course not. I read about him in another context. However, I think I recall that Holmes and Lupin weren’t the best of friends. Not exactly enemies, more like competitors. More so as Holmes used to work together with the Muggle police and helped them solve some complex cases by using his Arithmancy skills.”

“Severus,” Lucius interjected, “This is getting extremely boring.”

“Patience, Malfoy, I’m coming to the point. Holmes had a sidekick, called Watson, who was a Squib. He used him for doing the menial work while he himself played the great genius. So I think this Emma Watson might be… wait… she would have to be his daughter.”

“If he was a Squib and married to a Muggle,” Lucius said, “the daughter might be a Muggle. Only in that case we’re unable to find out whether she’s still alive. But I’ll Apparate over to the Château and have a look at old Arsène Lupin.”

“Oh, Malfoy, that really sounds so great,” Severus said, “I’ll Apparate over to the Château. How blasé can you get?”

“It’s hardly my fault that I possess a castle in France,” Lucius snarled back. “You should be grateful, instead of playing the wise-ass here. After all, you are the one who objects to attacking the Blacks and forces us to dig up information about obscure French wizards.”

~~~~*~~~~

“What’s the problem with Lupin?” Lestrange asked, when Lucius suggested that they raid the family’s house in Pickering.

“Really, Lucius,” Severus chimed in, rolling his eyes in fake annoyance, “Is that necessary? I mean, yes, I heard a rumour that he belongs to Dumbledore's group, but it’s only a rumour. Or is this some private scheme of yours? Using our movement for your own plans of vengeance?”

“Well, we all do that, don't we?” Tabitha said before her husband could open his mouth. “But I don't quite see the necessity.”

Owen, as they had previously agreed, steered clear of this debate and played the silent spectator. His part was going to be due later on.

“You might want to realize,” Lucius retorted acidly, “that if the rumour is true, we’re all in grave danger. What if Dumbledore lets him loose during the full moon? He’d be a dangerous weapon, worse even than deadly.”

“Mmh.” Lestrange seemed to ponder this. “That is, of course, right. Although I doubt that Dumbledore would really recur to such a measure.”

“Exactly what I think,” Severus said. “Dumbledore, using a werewolf against fellow wizards! Really, Lucius, this is just preposterous.”

“Preposterous?” Lucius snarled, “Now really? We have driven him with his back to the wall, and sooner or later, he might have to recur to far more drastic measures. Moreover, you should not forget that Lupin is a bloody Gryffindor and thus rather likely to have ideas of his own.”

“That,” Lestrange said, “is certainly worth considering. Lupin might not be as reckless as Black or Potter, but he is certainly capable of doing something inconsiderate. But if he is really in the resistance group, how can you get to him? I suppose he’ll be at Hogwarts, most of the time.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time that we lured somebody home,” Lucius said. “His parents are very old, so I imagine it wouldn’t be too difficult to get him where we want him. With the extra benefit of getting his parents as well.”

Lestrange nodded, shooting a sideways glance at Tabitha, who signalled her assent. Severus felt a wave of anger rising within him—what on earth gave her the right to interfere? And why did Voldemort allow it? As far as Lestrange was concerned, Severus had no doubts that he was not much more than his wife’s obedient sex slave, but that the Dark Lord tolerated her constant meddling was truly beyond him. Or did he maybe even encourage it? It was certainly the perfect way to control St. John, though only if Voldemort could be sure that the young witch's loyalty to himself was stronger than the bonds tying her to her husband. On the other hand, Tabitha was perhaps more Slytherin than all of them put together. Her will to succeed, her craving for power and her absolute lack of scruples were probably matched by Voldemort’s alone. So long as she got what she wanted she was the perfect tool for getting St. John to do whatever was asked of him.

“Very well,” Lestrange said after a brief pause, “So let us target Lupin. Lucius, you seem a little too emotional about the matter, though. I would strongly advise for either Owen or Severus to lead the operation. Any volunteers?”

Nobody uttered a single syllable. Both Severus and Owen avoided their ex-teacher’s eyes.

“Seems as if I’m the one after all,” Lucius snarled, “Considering that Messieurs Snape and McNair show no inclination to do the job.”

“I said no,” Lestrange retorted sharply, “Severus, you go.”

Severus scowled at him. “Why should I—”

“Because I said so. The discussion is closed, gentlemen. Is there anything else we should debate?” Everybody shook their heads. “Good. In that case, we will leave. I have an early course to teach tomorrow. Good night, gentlemen. Come on, Tabitha.”

The other three greeted the departing couple; Lestrange took Tabitha’s hand, and they Disapparated.

“I can’t stand it anymore!” Lucius spat. He rose from his chair and opened the clasps of his robe, impatiently and hurriedly, taking out his anger on the piece of clothing. The third clasp was stuck—a problem usually solved by a simple spell. But Lucius, face suddenly flushed red and blotchy, tore violently at the fabric so that finally it came apart with a nasty screeching noise. The clasp, still unopened, was dangling from the undamaged velvet facing on the left. He shed the robe and flung it on the floor. “I can't stand that… that little slut and her impertinent looks, and I can’t stand St. John’s servile attitude towards her,” he continued his tirade, pacing the room.

“None of us can stand her, Lucius,” Owen said, getting up as well and ridding himself of his robes. “Sev, are you expecting somebody, or can we stay for a nightcap?”

“You can stay unless Lucius demolishes my furniture in his righteous fury,” Severus answered. “But believe me, I’m as fed up with her as you are. Only there's absolutely no way to get rid of her, short of committing a murder.”

Lucius stopped his pacing and threw him a mutinous look. “I know. And if there was a possibility of eliminating her, believe me, I would do so.”

“As we all would,” Owen agreed. He was already pouring himself a rather generous nightcap. “However, this meeting went rather well, I’d say. So you can inform Dumbledore.”

Severus nodded. “Indeed. And make sure he doesn’t send that Black moron.”

“Whom are you going to take along?” Lucius asked after a first sip that seemed to have calmed him down a little.

“Good question. The worst duellers we have, I’d say.”

“Meaning Cedric,” Owen said with a smirk.

“Without any doubt. Pity that Tabitha is so skilled, otherwise I could enlist her and drop a hint to Dumbledore that they need not be lenient on the shortest of the group.”

Lucius snorted. “That would be great. Unfortunately, she lacks neither skills nor scruples. Who else?”

“Mmh…” Severus wagged his head and slowly turned the glass between his fingers. “Difficult… Cameron, I’d say, considering that there will be women as well. He’s never able to get himself to hitting them properly, the stupid git.”

“You know,” Owen said, “that this means another botched mission and therefore another bit of Crucio?”

“I think he has grown addicted to Cruciatus by now,” Lucius said, grinning.

“Well,” Owen commented and poured himself another drink, “you can say the same about me. Only I’m seldom on the receiving end.”

~~~~*~~~~

His eyes were still hurting—as was his whole body—from the Cruciatus Curse Voldemort had cast at him. But he forced himself to open them, to focus them, because physical focus helped him, would hopefully help him, get mental focus, which he so badly needed at the moment. His eyelids reluctantly followed the peremptory order of his brain to rise, to strip his naked eyeballs of their soft but protective shell that shielded them, if not completely, against the deceptively soft daggers of the candlelight. From this perspective, the legs of the table seemed columns of a temple so high that he could not make out where its roof was; maybe it had lost itself in the clouds of pain, because this was a temple of pain, in the innermost cell of which sat enthroned a cruel God, the Master of Pain, the Purveyor of Agony, for whose love Severus’s heart still desperately keened. The Master’s dark crimson robes, the curtain of this theatre of humiliation. The backdrop of the stage was a spider’s net, so intricately woven from threads of love and hate and lies, so many lies in silky strands, so alluring to the eye, so deadly, so gorgeously entrancingly sticky with decaying syrup of a voice that still held every promise… The theatre of his life, where the curtain fell when the play began, where the spectators sat down in their plush fauteuils in complete darkness that was lit by hissing bundles of light as soon as the actors spoke the first word. It was a theatre of truth turned lie turned truth, absurder than absurd, and under the spectators’ feet pink, obese baroque Cupids danced a senseless minuet around the Muse, lost in a sea of blue sky and errant clouds. Maybe there had once been a truth, the illusion of a truth that was love, floating towards him and enveloping him in deceptive warmth. Now, truth was no more. Even the Cupids knew it, laughed at it and crumpled it into a ball of time-yellowed paper they threw at each other—but it left bruises on their tumescent, healthy skin where it hit.

Severus forced himself to breathe evenly, to not lose himself in this drug-like aftermath of the Torturing Curse. It was almost beyond his strength to disentangle himself from this happy nightmare which, if he indulged, would lead him right into madness. Thus, he closed his eyes and stabbed his own lungs with deep swallows of chilly air, so his heart could slow down its race for oxygen. He needed to keep his senses together. He had to give the right answers. It was a game, merely a game, a truculent ballet of wits and power.

“Why did you fail?” Voldemort hissed.

“My Lord, I—” his vocal chords felt as if they were pinched by fiery scorpions “—I have an explanation, if you deign to listen.”

The dark red fabric swished past his eyes. “An explanation, Severus, or a justification?”

“An explanation, My Lord. Am I allowed to tell you?”

Voldemort’s boots came to a halt right in front of Severus’s face, and a sliver of fear rippled through him. They were made of the hide of a Chinese Fireball, with scales as hot and sharp as glass. “Tell me, child. Tell, and confess.”

Now the pain in his throat became unbearable, as if the tears were really there, seething and hissing on the enflamed flesh. Forgive me, father, for I have sinned… A Muggle formula, but powerful. So powerful. Forgive me, father, and caress me with your punishment, throw me into boiling oil, so that my last scream may be ‘I love you! Why cannot you love me?’ “My Lord, there were more people in Lupin’s house than I had reason to expect…”

The right boot gave an infinitesimal twitch, and despite the pain it caused him Severus squeezed his eyes shut, expecting the blow to bore into his skull. It did not come. “More people? Are you saying you were ambushed?”

“Not ambushed, my Lord.” He wants to have a traitor within his ranks. The realization made Severus shiver. With all his might, he wants Lucius or Owen gone. Probably also myself, but only when I have finished the potion for him. He wants to prove his power by stating a flamboyant example, by killing one of his powerful lieutenants. “There were no Aurors. And nobody was waiting for us. But Dumbledore’s resistance group was holding a meeting there.”

Shivering relief, because the boot started pacing again. “How many were there?”

“I cannot tell for sure, My Lord. Twenty-five, maybe. Perhaps thirty. We were only three…”

This had been Dumbledore’s idea, gladly accepted by Severus. In a fight of three against two—because Lupin’s mother was a Muggle—it would have made for a highly improbable story to tell Voldemort, if the two opponents had had the time to call in their friends for help. But if the whole group was present, holding a meeting, not only would Dumbledore be there to guarantee that the likes of Black and Potter did not overreact, the opponents’ strength would also be so overwhelming that all the aggressors could do was Disapparate immediately, before the first curse had even been cast.

“Whom did you recognize?”

“They had performed Confundus Spells, My Lord, so their faces were blurry and unintelligible. I distinctly saw Dumbledore’s hair and beard, though. And I immediately gave order to Disapparate—otherwise there would have been a carnage. We did not stand a chance against so many of them. Forgive me, My Lord. I have failed this mission.”

“Yes, child,” Voldemort whispered, softly tracing the outline of Severus’s jaw with the tip of his boot, cutting deep, “But you have also brought important news. News that make it more evident than ever: we need a spy at Hogwarts.”

It was difficult to resist the urge to go limp with relief. “Yes, My Lord.”

“Yes, My Lord? That is all you have to say?” Voldemort’s voice was dripping with irony.

“My Lord, if you kindly allowed me to give the matter some thought…”

He felt the tendons in his left shoulder snap when the dragonhide boot hit. Finally, the tears were allowed to flow, few of them, and not tears of loving remorse anymore. Just pain. Tears of pain mingling with the blood that seeped through his robes. “Do you think you might succeed where I have failed, child?” The voice caressed his face. So near, so warm, so merciless.

In this fugue of blood and terror, Severus needed another voice, a counterpoint to the pain and to the soft poison of Voldemort’s voice. He bit through his lower lip. A high, sharp, tingling note fluttered above the throbbing melody of crimson. “Forgive me, My Lord. I did not mean to imply…”

“Thoughtless child.” A bony forefinger glided over his bitten lip. “Leave me now to my ponderings.”

~~~~*~~~~

“Now try to move your arm!” Narcissa was standing above him, brows furrowed in concentration, her beautiful face torn by anxiety.

Severus obediently lifted his left arm. Except for a light burning ache in his shoulder, it was as good as new. “You are amazing,” he said, trying to smile. The movement of his facial muscles caused the cuts on his jaw and his bitten lip to bleed anew. He winced.

“Shush,” she smiled. “Wait with the compliments until I’m finished.”

Severus closed his eyes and let her clean and heal his wounds. Narcissa’s cool fingers lingered on his forehead for a moment.

“Done,” she said. “Now stay put, I’ll go and fetch the potion.”

He heard her footsteps on the carpet, then on the floor, heard the door open and muffled voices from outside. When the door opened again a few seconds later, the footsteps were heavier. A familiar, drawling voice muttered “Accio!” and there was the soft thud of a chair landing on the carpet. Fabric rustled, and the chair gave a soft creak.

“Was it very bad?” Lucius asked.

Severus cleared his throat, but was too exhausted to open his eyes again. Besides, the light still hurt. “If it was a piece of cake, it was a big one.”

Lucius snorted. “Considering how much you like sweets… How did it go, then?”

“The attack went exactly as we had planned. Or rather, the non-attack. I immediately Apparated to Albania. He was… furious.”

“I can imagine. What else did he say?”

Despite the still-persistent ache in his muscles, a grin flickered over Severus’s face. “That we need a spy at Hogwarts.”

He could hear Lucius’s sharp intake of breath. “Really? That’s what I call good news. Considering that you paid the price…”

“Rejoice, rejoice!” Severus replied. “But I have to warn you: he practically prompted me to tell him we had been ambushed.”

Lucius chuckled. “St. John must be so pissed off.”

“I suppose so. But don’t underestimate him. If he really wants to get rid of you…”

“Of course he does. Or rather, Tabitha does. She wants a slave who holds power, otherwise where’s the fun? That little bitch. Do you think I should try a subtle aspersion on Lestrange?”

Severus sighed. “I would dissuade you if I were in any condition to argue. So I’ll just say no and let you do whatever you want.”

“Why not, oh delicate flower?”

“Because I think it would be better to wait until we know a little more about this strange triangle. Sooner or later, something will transpire.”

“Yes, when the Queen of Sluts sits on a throne, wielding the sceptre of torture. I for one have no wish to let it come to that.”

“Lucius, we are in no position to start a palace revolution. Better ask Voldemort immediately whether you may see him and make your suggestion before St. John does. He is better acquainted with everything pertinent to Hogwarts and might have the same brilliant idea as we.”

“I’ll wait a couple of hours, though,” Lucius said, rising from his chair, because Narcissa had entered the room, “So that it seems more plausible you might already have told me. Speaking of brilliant…” A warmer note crept into his voice. “What about my wife’s mediwizarding skills?”

“They are amazing,” Severus said, attempting a smile. “And now stop nettling me, and give me that damned potion.”

~~~~*~~~~

“Mr. Malfoy did a very thorough job, I must say.” Dumbledore, this time without his nightcap, but clad in a magnificent dressing gown of midnight blue damask, put down his teacup.

Severus was still nursing his, thankful for the warmth seeping into his hands. He had used the time turner again and gone back to one a.m., which, at least in Dumbledore’s opinion, was still a very reasonable hour for tea. Severus suspected that the tea was only a pretext for the very rich-looking chocolate cake he had politely refused.

“I am glad to hear it. Apart from our plan, he was rather… er, motivated by Lord Voldemort himself.”

“Of course,” Dumbledore nodded and deftly transferred another piece of chocolate cake onto his plate. “Although you might tell Mr. Malfoy that there is no need to constantly question my authority, legitimate birth and magical skills, much as he seems to enjoy it.”

Severus suppressed a snort of mirth. What did Dumbledore expect after so many years of more or less openly discriminating Slytherin? Of course Lucius would jump at the first possibility to pay him back. “I will convey the message, Headmaster, but please consider that he is under no obligation to heed this advice.”

Dumbledore gave him a serene smile. “I know. However, today he was very helpful. Lenient on several other matters but adamant on this one. The other governors did not fail to see the urgency of the request, and therefore I have already sent out various owls to the Potions Masters you indicated to me. The payment and conditions I offered are so ludicrous that hopefully no-one will even consider them. And in order to exclude Lestrange, I added one more conditio sine qua non: the new Potions teacher will also be Head of Slytherin and therefore must not be married.”

“Good thought,” Severus said appreciatively. “I am fairly sure that St. John would never stay separated from Tabitha for more than some days.” He took another sip of tea. “By the way, you don’t want me to become Head of Slytherin, do you?”

“Of course I do. Professor Sinistra has been taking her duties very seriously, but she is not young enough anymore to inspire the kind of confidence we need at this moment.”

“Forgive me if I differ, Headmaster, but I do by no means inspire confidence. Not to mention that I am less than willing to play father substitute to a bunch of teenaged, hormone-ridden—”

“But you must!” Dumbledore’s voice had lost its softness. “You must try and keep them from joining Voldemort. There is no need for you to be a father substitute. On the contrary. What they need is a strong hand. I would even go as far as saying that they need to be intimidated.”

“Are you saying that I should discriminate my own house? If you want me to discipline them, I will discipline them all, regardless of their house affiliation. Without interference, especially on your part.”

“You are asking a lot, Severus.”

“So are you. The fact that teaching Potions at Hogwarts is the only possibility for me to try and stop this madness does not make me like teaching any more than I already do. I am anything but a teacher, and you know that. But all the same I will treat my students with impartiality and justice.”

“Justice…” Dumbledore said and rose from his chair. He walked over to one of the windows and stared out into the night. “Justice,” he repeated, “I wonder whether we know what it means.”

Severus felt the fury mount uncontrollably inside him. “You wonder whether I know what it means, don’t you, Headmaster? Because I am a Slytherin. Because I am on the wrong side.”

“Am?” Dumbledore echoed, “I was under the impression—”

“No.” The word resounded in the dimly lit chamber. “No, Headmaster. Do not delude yourself. I am no repentant sinner and no Prodigal Son. I made a decision and will do everything necessary to carry it out. But there is no guilt involved. No regret and no sentimentality. Much as you would undoubtedly appreciate it. Morals are so much easier to handle than ratio, at least for the likes of you.”

Still with his back to Severus, the Headmaster answered, “I have not inquired about your motives, Severus, and I have no intention to do so. Maybe—” he turned round to face the younger wizard “—pure ratio is preferable to emotions in this situation. So you shall have your wish. I will not interfere with your teaching. However, I will not take your part should it come to conflicts with the other Heads of Houses.”

“Indeed. You continue a most noble tradition,” Severus bit out. He felt childish and petty, but the wounds, even though not open anymore, still smarted.

Dumbledore sighed heavily. “This is not going to be easy for any of us, Severus. I understand your resentments. Maybe—” he returned to his chair and sat down “—maybe they are what drove you towards Voldemort.”

“I can afford a Soul Healer if necessary, Headmaster. There is no need for you to play that part, most of all because you are doing it for your own comfort. Let it be enough for you that I will not betray you because it would be against my very own interests. That should be a sufficiently strong basis of cooperation.”

“That you might betray me is my least worry. This—” and he gave Severus a sharp look “—is one of the more current prejudices against Slytherin, which I certainly do not share. Betrayal isn’t one of the characteristics of your house. But I suggest that we end this particular discussion at this point, as it is not likely to get us anywhere. When can you start teaching here?”

Severus poured himself another cup of tea, more to give himself time to calm down and concentrate on Dumbledore's question, than to quench a thirst he did not feel. But this brief altercation with the Headmaster had opened a window on the future that was awaiting him here. “Whenever you need me to. I suppose that Voldemort will want me to take up my spying as soon as possible. What about the faculty?”

“You mean their reactions to your being hired?” Severus nodded. Not that he had any illusions. “Well,” Dumbledore said, “most of them will be relieved that we finally have a Potions Master—”

“Relieved? Headmaster, this is absurd. I’m not just any Potions Master. I am Severus Snape, a Slytherin who holds a very high position on the Ministry’s list of suspects. Are you seriously implying that this information has been kept secret? It is as clear as daylight that there are leaks—I would even assume that this is a very deliberate process—and that lots of people know. Certainly your faculty is no exception.”

“When I said that I am not going to take your part in conflicts arising with other Heads of House, which of course extends to all staff members, I didn’t mean you are going to be entirely on your own, Severus. I was merely referring to questions of teaching. You asked me not to interfere, and that is exactly what I intend to do. But should anybody dare to cast even the slightest aspersion on you, you will certainly have my full support. If I hire a teacher, whatever his age, personal history or reputation, he is equal to all other teachers in every respect. Especially if he is also Head of House.”

“This is something I will only believe when Black calls me a filthy Death Eater for the first time and you put him into his place,” Severus snapped angrily.

Dumbledore stared into his teacup and slowly shook his head. “Do not think that I’m not fully aware what it means to have both you and Black as teachers. It’s not going to be easy.”

“No,” Severus grimly agreed, “It certainly isn't going to be easy.”