The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Staff meetings at Hogwarts were held every Saturday morning between ten and twelve a.m., except for Quidditch Saturdays; then the meetings were postponed to Sunday morning. It was a strange phenomenon, Severus thought: during the week, when he had to teach and grade homework and listen to the students’ complaints about absolutely inane problems, the days seemed to last endlessly. Whenever he was on his way to one of those damned staff meetings, though, the time that had passed between the present and the previous one seemed to have shrunk into nothingness.

But today, on this hot June day, was the last staff meeting of summer term. Another week, and school would be over, so he could finally return home. If only for a scant two months. But it was certainly better than nothing. He glanced at the other teachers, relatively sure of what they were thinking about him. McGonagall was never openly hostile, but certainly more than a little suspicious. Dumbledore had told him that she had been very sceptical about his choice. Then again, Black was clearly her favourite pet; therefore he should probably deem himself lucky that she was refraining from open enmity. Flitwick was… well, Flitwick. With him, the harmlessness was not an act, as it was with Dumbledore. Flitwick was good-natured and friendly to the marrow of his bones. Bright, yes, undoubtedly; after all he was a Ravenclaw. And a very skilled dueller, as well as a real asset in Charms. It would take him a long time to come to actually dislike somebody, Severus thought. As things were, the Head of Ravenclaw remembered Severus as an excellent student and had no reason to dislike him. All in all, they got on quite well. Same with Demeter Sprout. Severus had always been top of the class in Herbology, simply because profound botanical knowledge was necessary in order to brew perfect potions. During his apprenticeship with McLachlan, Severus had acquired a considerable amount of Herbology skills, and, after his return to Hogwarts, a few conversations had been enough for the Head of Hufflepuff to take him into her heart. All the better for him. After all, he had to meet with the other three Heads of Houses and the Head Boy and Girl every Wednesday evening, and it was by far preferable not to be completely on his own.

The rest of the faculty were relatively unimportant. Except for Acantha Sinistra, the Astronomy teacher, who bore him a grudge because she had acted as temporary Head of Slytherin since Karkaroff’s departure and was now angry because someone forty years younger than she had been chosen to fill that position. And Black, of course. That idiot. At least the most recent tongue-lashing he had got from Dumbledore seemed to have convinced him that he could not call Severus a Death Eater, and that the Headmaster did not appreciate his cunning little schemes to get rid of the loathed Potions Master. Small consolation but, again, better than nothing.

“Well,” Dumbledore said, “If this matter is settled, I think the next point we should discuss are next years’ prefects and Head Students. Suggestions?”

Severus snapped out of his reverie. This was interesting insofar as he was, on the one hand, Head of House, but on the other had not been here long enough to really know his students. He was very curious indeed how Dumbledore was going to handle what would certainly turn into a conflict between himself and Professor Sinistra.

“I think,” McGonagall began—of course without especially being called upon, but then she was Deputy Headmistress, “that we should keep this year’s Head Boy and Girl. After all, even though next year will be their seventh, and in spite of the upcoming N.E.W.T.s, the routine they have acquired by now should help them.”

Nobody voiced an objection. Although he was loath to admit it, Severus silently agreed with McGonagall; Paula Jenkins, a Hufflepuff, and Victor Henderson, a Ravenclaw, were efficient, polite and very popular among the students without having to fraternize with them. They had been a good choice and would certainly continue their activities next year to everybody’s satisfaction.

“Excellent,” Dumbledore said, “So this seems to be clear. Minerva, will you be so kind as to prepare their letters?”

The Deputy nodded and scribbled something on a peace of parchment.

“Then to next year’s Prefects,” the Headmaster continued, “In alphabetical order, as always. Gryffindor?”

McGonagall sighed and took off her glasses. What a theatrical effect, Severus thought. He knew, of course, that she was extremely dissatisfied with the two prefects she had chosen for this year—that much had already transpired during previous meetings. They were fifth-years, and a couple; which meant that more often than not they were off snogging in some less frequented part of the school and thus not to be relied upon for emergency interventions in the Common Room. To do their Head of House justice, they had not yet been a couple when she had selected them; on the contrary, it was their common duties that had made them discover they had more in common than a badge with a shiny P.

“I suppose it would be redundant if I said that we absolutely have to change them.” This sentence was greeted by general hilarity, and she gave the assembled faculty one of her clipped half-smiles. “Considering the difficult times, and that our students are more likely to search assistance and help from their prefects, I daresay it would be better to choose two seventh-years. I know, they have to study, but then everybody has to study for their finals, so the difference is negligible.” At that, some of the teachers cast each other doubtful looks.

Severus had to agree with them and said so. “I am not sure whether this is a valuable argument. If a student botches his or her finals, it is annoying but not a catastrophe. Botch your N.E.W.T.s, and the future looks rather gloomy. Who were you thinking of, anyway?” Black, that moron, was already staring at him angrily. That was one of the many troubles with Gryffindors: if they disliked you, everything you said or did had to be directed against them personally, whether it was objectively right or not.

McGonagall did not seem to be pleased with his objection, either, but at least she had the good grace to accept it. “For one, there is Anthony Beckinsale—”

“What?” Severus interrupted her. Anthony Beckinsale. That was Gryffindor intuition for you. He was the son of one of the most zealous Death Eaters—even more so because he, too, had been a Gryffindor—and Severus knew for sure that Anthony was eager to receive the Dark Mark as soon as he had graduated. If there was a vacancy.

Putting her glasses back on her nose, she threw him a sharp look. “I said Anthony Beckinsale, and rather clearly, I believe. He is a top student, very promising, excellent marks in every subject—what could you possibly have to say against him?” She had raised her voice, which was now on the verge of shrieking.

After catching Dumbledore’s eye—the Headmaster gave a minuscule nod to indicate he had understood that this was serious—Severus answered, as calmly as possible, “Unfortunately, I cannot tell you the reason. But believe me, Beckinsale must not, under any circumstance, become prefect.”

McGonagall inhaled sharply and was obviously preparing for a sharp response, but Black was quicker. “Who the hell do you think you are, Snape?” Crash! His right fist came down on the desktop, making the water glasses of those sitting next to him jump; one even toppled over. It was Professor Kettleburn’s, who frowned at his younger colleague and hastily drew his wand to clean up the mess, while Black continued, unperturbed. “You’ve been here for barely two months, but you think you can give orders—”

“Enough!” Evidently, Dumbledore’s patience was wearing thin. Severus saw it with satisfaction. “I will discuss this matter with Severus in private, after the meeting. For now, Beckinsale will not be regarded as a possible candidate. Who was your other choice, Minerva?”

“Unless Professor Snape puts in his veto,” she said pointedly, “I had been thinking of Lobelia Malkin.” She might have been expecting another fierce objection from Severus, but he merely shrugged. The audible snort came from further down the table. “Yes, Amanda?” she snapped, glaring at Madam Hooch, the flying instructor, “Is there anything you have to say against her?”

Amanda Hooch was something of a wild card in this whole game of hierarchy and power; that much Severus had understood very quickly. Her mother was French, and she had gone to school at Beauxbatons—unfortunately she was more than twenty years older than Narcissa, otherwise Severus could have garnered valuable information from her. After a brief appearance within the ranks of the French National Team, she had fallen in love and married, only to be divorced five years later. After that interlude, her chances at a big international career were gone, and she had played for various smaller teams until Dumbledore had hired her for Hogwarts. Cynicism was written all over her face, and she was rather harsh and ungentle; but despite all those none-too-endearing qualities she was well-liked among the students. With her brusque yet smooth movements, yellowish eyes and spiky hair that had already turned grey, she reminded Severus of an aggressive stray cat. Most of the time, he quite liked her.

“We-ell,” Hooch drawled, leaned back in her chair and lit a cigarette—something that never failed to irritate McGonagall, “We all know that Miss Malkin’s… er, pedigree is a little… how should I express it… tainted?”

Severus allowed himself a silent chuckle. This was promising to become very, very amusing.

And indeed, McGonagall flushed scarlet with fury. “May I suggest,” she hissed, “that you express yourself a little more clearly, my dear? To simply cast aspersions is somewhat insufficient, don’t you think so?”

“Unless your name is Severus Snape,” Black muttered. Severus decided to let that pass, in order not to spoil the fun.

“With the greatest pleasure,” said Madam Hooch and blew three perfect smoke rings. “Rumour has it that Monica Malkin’s brother-in-law was her child’s father. And if I know that, considering I have spent a relatively small part of my life in England, I am sure everybody else knows it, too.”

Severus decided that he, too wanted to participate in the game. To watch the others play was fun, but having an active role was a lot more fun. Especially if he sided with the Gryffindors, protectors of widows and orphans. “And how, pray,” he drawled in his best I-Am-An-Arrogant-Bastard tone, “would that be important?”

Black and McGonagall, already poised to strike, stopped in mid-righteous-fury and abruptly shut their mouths. It was hard not to laugh in their faces.

Amanda Hooch leaned forward, so she could make eye contact with Severus. He gave her an infinitesimal wink. The right corner of her mouth twitched briefly—probably she had understood. “I think it is very important,” she replied, “because our society is a society of hypocrites. Not that I like it—don’t get me wrong. But it is as it is. It won’t be long—in fact, I’d take every bet it’s going to happen the first time she deducts points—until one of her dear fellow students questions her authority on the grounds of her dubious parentage. You know how they are,” she said, more to the general assembly than to Severus, “And don’t pretend you don’t know just how cruel they can be. I assure you, you won’t do the girl a favour by making her prefect. For her, it just means trouble and frustration.”

“Mmmh…” Apart from being a game, this was an interesting way of reasoning, Severus thought. Moreover, she was right. “I think you have a point there.”

Capitulation was not something McGonagall would stomach easily, but in the end she had to. After that, things went rather smoothly; the prefects for all four houses were chosen, and the atmosphere seemed quite relaxed.

“As you all know,” Dumbledore said after a short coffee break, “Mr. Phorme intends to retire at the end of the next school year. I have therefore decided to hire an assistant librarian, beginning with the start of next term. Her name is Alyma Pince, she is thirty-seven years old and has hitherto been working at the Great Library in Alexandria, where she received her training, and then at the Potemkin Magical Library in St. Petersburg. Her references are impeccable.” These last words were clearly spoken in Severus’s direction.

“Which school did she attend?” Severus asked, frowning.

“She had private tutors. Her father was a diplomat and didn’t want his children to stay away from their parents. I think she will prove a valuable addition to our staff.” Everybody nodded, and Dumbledore scrutinized the parchment lying before him. “I think this is all for today, unless somebody has another request?”

This was the moment Severus had been waiting for. He had a request and was most curious to see how it would be accepted. “Yes, Headmaster,” he said, raising his hand, “There is something else.”

Dumbledore looked slightly puzzled but said, “Yes, of course, Severus, what is it?”

“I might need an assistant for the next two or three years.”

Just as he had expected, Black started laughing; a loud, baleful, theatrical bark.

“Please, Sirius!” the Headmaster said, sounding rather irritated. Black fell silent and limited himself to vicious staring. “Er, Severus, could you please tell us the details?”

“Of course,” Severus said silkily. “You see, except for the first-years, all my students will have to catch up on two years’ Potions classes they have missed. On one year, in the case of the second-years. The number of teaching units is limited, and there’s only so much additional material I can squeeze into them. I am all for challenging students, but to overtax them would only frustrate them in the long run. Therefore, many things that would usually be done in class will have to be done by independent study. Which I have to oversee, of course. Constantly. Moreover, I will have to hold additional lessons for next year’s O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. candidates. Combined with the rest of my duties, this is too big a workload for a single person. The situation will, of course, improve with every passing year, but for the next two, maximum three, years I am in need of help.”

“I absolutely second that,” McGonagall said, much to his surprise, “I couldn’t imagine teaching the syllabus of three years compressed into one.” Then, it occurred to him that she probably deemed this an ideal possibility to have somebody spy after him. But whatever the reasons, he had her support, and he really needed an assistant, besides the fringe benefits he hoped to reap—but he was certainly not going to tell that to his esteemed colleagues.

The others nodded their assent, and Dumbledore said, “I do not have any objections. The school can easily afford it, and if it helps to give our students a more profound training, I’m all for it. Do you have any suggestions as to whom you would like as an assistant?”

“I think I do. You certainly remember Mathilda Reynolds—” general ‘mhm’s “—she is a little subdued but very good with younger children. I thought that she might teach the first- and second-years, correct their homework and assist me in surveying the independent studies up to the fourth year.”

“Miss Reynolds!” Cassandra Coleridge, the Divination teacher, piped up, “What a lovely girl! Wasn’t—” she frowned “—wasn’t there some dreadful scandal? Two or three years ago?”

“Not a dreadful scandal, no,” Amanda Hooch chimed in, “But she had to break up her engagement with… what was his name? However, the whole affair was rather fishy—the papers said they simply had fallen out of love, but of course everybody knew that it had political reasons.”

Dumbledore stapled his fingers, elbows resting on the wooden table surface, and patiently waited a few minutes until the female twittering about marriages, scandals and broken hearts had somewhat calmed down. “Could we return to our discussion, please?” he then called, and the noise level immediately went down to zero. “Did you already contact her, Severus?”

“Of course not, Headmaster. I did not want to override the faculty’s decision.”

“In that case, I suggest that you write to her as soon as possible. If she agrees, let me know so I can draft the official letter. Well,” he said to his assorted staff, “this was a very satisfactory meeting. Thank you, everybody. Have a nice last week of term. Severus, would you remain with me for a moment?”

Odd, Severus thought, how certain situations in his life resembled each other. Or rather, the pattern was the same, the matrix seemed identical. And all the same, the difference was as great as could be. There was a meeting. There was a hierarchy. Power games abounded. He, Severus, shared some classified knowledge with the leader. The others were dismissed, whereas he was asked to stay. Alone. With the leader, to discuss important matters in private. And still… It was different. What made the whole situation so puzzling and almost incomprehensible for him was that they could not even be described as two extremes or opposites. Opposites were two sides of the same coin, and thus had something in common, in that they completed each other. But this… this strange otherness that didn’t fit into his system of thought had no relation whatsoever with what he maybe had come to fear, but at least knew. It was as if he had learned the rules of a game, knew them by heart, and then tried to play it with different players who apparently stuck to the same rules—only to become aware that there were no rules. Or at least none he could identify. It made him feel safe and insecure at the same time.

~~~~*~~~~

“You may leave now. Severus, you stay.”

Lucius, Owen and St. John rose, prostrated themselves, kissed the hem of Lord Voldemort’s robes and left the room. Severus remained seated where he was, anxiety pooling in his stomach, although he knew—but that was only his ratio—that today he would probably be safe. There was no such thing as safety anymore, though. Not around the Master. He had become irritated and whimsical, increasingly so. Of course no-one would have dared to ask him why, but they were all wondering what exactly had happened to cause those unexpected, completely unaccountable mood swings. Tabitha seemed to be the only one who never had to suffer from those fits of irrational fury. Small consolation, Severus thought. Or maybe she liked it. Or perhaps she did not like it but was obliviated afterwards. However, he was now very aware that, albeit the bearer of good news, he might leave this room in a considerably worse state than he had entered it.

“Do you have the flower, Severus?”

“Yes, My Lord. I picked it last night at the henge of  Brodgar, according to the ritual. It is now preserved in oil, and I will start working on the experiment immediately.”

“What do you know about strength-enhancing potions, Severus?”

The question caught him completely unawares. “I… I beg your pardon, My Lord? Are you referring to the one I am developing for—”

The eyes that had once been black gleamed purple with impatience, and Voldemort angrily batted his question away with a flick of his right hand. “Of course not. I said strength-enhancing potions. Tell me about them.”

What was worse? If he started talking about the wrong kind of draughts or if he asked again? Why had this to be so difficult? And why so humiliating? Probably because, as he had told the Baron, the love was still there, beaten and bruised but still raising its eyes and face up to the one who had engendered it. He would have to drive a wooden pole through his own heart and soul if he wanted to kill that emotion. Severus decided he would rather ask. “My Lord, forgive me for being so slow, but do you mean physical or magical strength?”

When had he last been hit across the face? It burned and stung. He was a little boy again, stupid and sluggish and unworthy of affection… maybe that was what he really was. He struggled against the desperation that was threatening to swallow him up whole. The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; may the name of the Lord be praised. He felt the tears creep into his eyes, willed them to retreat; he would rather be suffocated by them than cry. No crying, no holding out his hands to him. He had to stay calm and composed. Imagine that an immense black void was surging within him, engulfing, absorbing every emotion. Imagine that it reached out like a cold hand made of starless night, closed around his feelings and squashed them until they were reduced to nothing… a few shards of ice clenched tightly in a fist that retired somewhere. Into the depths. Leaving him empty. He raised his face towards his Master.

“Magical, then, My Lord?” The coldness had seeped into his voice.

Voldemort was standing at the window—that window, Severus thought, and a shard escaped from the fist and bored right through his heart. The window that, three years ago, had been open, letting in a torrent of tepid morning air pregnant with hope and the scent of Mediterranean herbs. It was closed now. Inside the room, the air was sultry, hard to breathe. Voldemort’s back was turned towards him. The Dark Lord had become gaunt—Severus could see the outlines of his shoulder blades thrown into sharp relief under the silk of his robes. And the silky black hair had lost some of its shine. The scene held a strange, gloomy beauty: outside, behind the trees, a thunderstorm was building, its leaden clouds obscuring the sun, stealing the vivid greens and blues from nature, soaking it in colourless shadow. Against that background, framed by it, stood Voldemort’s silhouette. A faceless portrait in black and blood-red.

“Magical,” the Master said, slightly inclining his head.

“All magic-enhancing potions have to contain either unicorn blood or phoenix tears. Experiments have been made with powdered dragon heart string, and a few also with distilled and purified snakes’ venom, mixed with—”

He saw Voldemort’s hands clench the windowsill; a spasm ran through the Dark Lord’s body. “The snakes’ venom… tell me about it, Severus.”

“I…” Severus swallowed. “I confess, My Lord, that this is merely something I remember having read… or maybe heard…”

The room was now almost dark. Outside, the world had come to a standstill; not a leaf was moving, the branches were holding their breath. Above Voldemort’s head, a faraway mountain top was lit by a stray sliver of sunlight, a precious stone crowning raven-black hair.

“Then tell me what you know…”

The first flash of lightning cut the firmament, thunder roaring in its wake. One more instant of stillness, as if the Gods were taking a deep breath, and then the elements hurled themselves forward, blindly, voraciously and full of cruelty.

“I know that those experiments were undertaken on the grounds of an ancient belief, My Lord.” The sound of St. John Lestrange’s voice drifted through his mind. ‘It doesn’t die, it just transforms. Mysteriously, inexplicably. It mutates into something stronger and far more powerful than it was before.’ “The rite of the snake poisoning itself, the uroboros. Basically, it is a strengthening ritual that has been misinterpreted by the alchemists.”

The rain was pouring down now in thick, silvery sheets, beating the leaves and grass, filling the earth that was unprepared for so much liquid, so that it choked and gagged under the onslaught. The window remained closed, though. No fresh air, no scent of humid soil, no sough of water hitting solid ground.

“Misinterpreted… not entirely. It is a ritual of power, so great that no-one has dared to undertake it yet. Don’t you understand, Severus?” The faint whisper of the rain was drowned out by the rustling noise of silk robes when Voldemort turned round.

“My Lord… I… I cannot follow you…”

“Stupid child.” The gentle intonation of a mother, scolding her youngest. “To begin this ritual, which is the ultimate step, I have to gather strength. By way of potions, among them the one you will make for me. St. John told me that it might be better to wait until the child we choose has been exposed twice to the joined forces of Jupiter and Mars. Much as it pains me to wait, I will have the necessary patience. In the meantime, you will brew power-enhancing concoctions for me, Severus. The ones St. John has prepared so far did not have the desired effect.”

St. John… he was an excellent Potions Master but lacked creativity. So maybe those mood swings… “My Lord, may I ask what kind of potions he has been preparing?”

A bolt of lightning cast a fleeting shadow over Voldemort’s face, emphasizing the deep hollows of his cheeks. Yes, Severus thought, he had become emaciated. He had always been slender, but in a graceful, cat-like way. Now he was bony. “He…” Had there really been a slight hesitation in the Dark Lord’s voice? “He… experimented with the distilled snakes’ venom. Without much success.”

“Experimented, My Lord? Have you seen the recipes? The formulas?” Not that it would have had much sense—his Master was a powerful wizard, but little more than average when it came to potions.

“No.” The monosyllable sounded so final that Severus did not dare ask any further. But his mind was roiling in feverish agitation: what in Merlin’s name had Lestrange been doing? Was he deliberately weakening Lord Voldemort? Did he try to poison him? Or was this some misguided ambition, because he wanted to be the one whose potions would multiply his Master’s power?

“I will of course try to find the most effective draughts, My Lord. But how would you like me to deliver them to you? The holidays last only two months, and when I am back at Hogwarts—”

“You will find a way.”

“Yes, My Lord. May I tell you some important news?”

The rain was now a mere drizzle, soft veil of minuscule diamonds caressing where it had beaten, kissing where its teeth had sunk deep. Voldemort left his place at the window and returned to the table. “Is it worth my time?”

Those questions—they looked innocuous enough, like caramels, benignly given. The child took them and, instead of taking its time to suck them carefully, bit down, to scream in pain because its palate was riddled with sharp iron splinters that had been artfully hidden inside the sweet. Severus had learned his lesson, though. “I hope it is, my Lord. It seems to be important.”

His hands, too, had become cadaverous; the fine bone structure seemed to be covered by nothing but paper-thin skin. The fingers fluttered towards his wand. “Then tell me, Severus.”

“Dumbledore doesn’t seem to trust me much, my Lord. He insisted that I get an assistant, probably to keep an eye on me.”

“Well,” Voldemort breathed, “That was only to be expected. I suppose that you could not refuse too strongly?”

“Indeed, My Lord. But I suggested that he might hire Mathilda Reynolds. She is the daughter—”

“I know who Mathilda Reynolds is,” Voldemort cut him off impatiently. “Why she?”

“Because, even though Roger Lovegood is dead by now, the family still has close connections to the Ministry and to the less radical Aurors as well. Besides, her father owns the biggest building company in the country, so I thought she might prove a valuable source of information.”

This had been his own idea, greatly approved by Lucius and Owen. He could not betray Dumbledore, for it would have endangered their whole plan. But Mathilda, if treated kindly and with patience, might provide details he could give to Voldemort—and he needed to supply tangible results, not only to save his own hide. If the Master decided that his presence at Hogwarts was no longer profitable—for who needed a spy if he did not report back anything useful?—he would never let him stay there, and thus their whole subtly-woven net would unravel. But if he had Mathilda, he would be able to squeeze as many facts as possible out of her, label them ‘Dumbledore’ and pass them on to the Dark Lord. 

The red eyes, their shine intensified by the now-visible setting sun, encompassed him in a thoughtful look. “Maybe you are right,” Voldemort said slowly. His heavy eyelids were drooping. “Leave me now, Severus. I must be alone.”

His magical power might be increasing, Severus thought, but he was physically weak. He glided to the floor and kissed the hem of his Master’s robes. No, he decided while pressing his lips into the sleek fabric, he was not going to tell this to anybody. This would remain his secret and his alone. He might betray his Master, but that weakness would remain with him, jealously guarded.

~~~~*~~~~

Three years had gone by, and the girl still looked as if she had only just turned sixteen, Severus thought. “Thank you for coming, Mathilda.”

“No trouble at all,” she smiled, sitting down in one of the wicker chairs on his terrace. “I like seeing other people’s homes. Besides, I grasp every occasion to get away from my own home.”

“I can imagine,” Severus said dryly. “Ah, Peggy, here you are. What may I offer you, Mathilda?”

“I has freshly-baked croissants with ham, Miss Mathilda,” Peggy squealed, over the edge with enthusiasm because of the possibility to show off, “and there is also some fresh apple pie.”

“A slice of apple pie, then,” Mathilda said, “and some tea, please.”

The elf beamed. “Yes, Miss Mathilda. What cans Peggy bring you, Master Severus?”

“Just tea.”

“But you musts eat, Master Severus! Peggy brings—”

“No, Peggy,” he interrupted her, “You already stuffed me like a Christmas turkey at lunch. Really, I’m still quite full.”

Peggy shot him a woeful look and disappeared.

“She does look after you, doesn’t she?”

“Oh yes,” he agreed, “Usually I have to fend her off. And now, during the holidays, she apparently believes that I’m going to starve.”

“Is the food at Hogwarts still as good as it was in our times?”

“It certainly is. Although the company sometimes spoils it a little.”

Peggy brought the tray, with Elias sailing in her wake. “Master Severus, please, you tells Elias he leaves Peggy in peace?”

Severus snorted. “What does he do?”

“I is cleaning the kitchen and polishing the cutlery, and he always steals it!”

“All right, Elias,” Severus said, motioning for the bird to perch on his shoulder, “You stay here with us. Leave Peggy in peace, you obnoxious pest!”

Mathilda poured herself a cupful and leaned back, definitely amused at the scene. “I never thought of you as an animal person, Severus. And now you have a raven as well. Where’s Esmeralda, by the way?”

He still could not think of his cat without a lump forming in his throat. “Dead,” he said.

She gave him a long look. “No questions, eh?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “Better not.”

For a while, they drank their tea in silence. When Mathilda had finished her apple pie, she said, “Tell me about Hogwarts, Severus.”

“What do you mean? It’s been three years, don’t tell me you don’t remember!”

“Of course I do. I wanted to know what you—and Dumbledore of course—expect me to do.”

“Oh, that. Well, I thought you might teach the first- and second-years, for one.”

“That would be nice. I’ll have to go over the syllabus again, but I think I’m definitely up to it. Besides, I like them the better the younger they are. At age eleven or twelve, they are still very cute. Later on…”

“Well,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “Let me formulate it like that: up to age twelve or thirteen, they are troublesome little bastards. When they are older, they are troublesome, hormonal little bastards. That’s the whole difference.”

“For being a teacher, your attitude is quite… well, original.”

“It’s better than coddling them. But to return to our subject: you should also correct their homework, as well as that of the third- and fourth-years. I thought that might suit you better, just in case you are less familiar with what they learn. So you don’t have to answer their questions and supervise their practical work in class, which can prove quite precarious unless you know exactly what you’re doing.”

Now it was her turn to raise her brows. “You don’t seem to have much faith in my abilities.”

“If I didn’t trust your skills, my dear,” he snarled, “I would never have suggested you. But tell me honestly: when was the last time you brewed a potion? And I’m not talking about some basic headache relief here.”

“I always buy those at the apothecary’s,” she said and laughed. “You are absolutely right, Severus, first and second years sit perfectly well with me. Do I have to share your Head of House duties with you?”

“No. I don’t think that would be a good idea. They need a firm hand, and only one. I don’t want them to even think they might play us off against each other. And believe me, they would try—after all, they are Slytherins.”

“I thought that maybe a female ear—”

“No, no. If the girls have problems they want to discuss with a female, there is always the Head Girl. But to split power within the same house is not advisable.”

She nodded. “Divide et impera.”

“Exactly. But Slytherin is ruled by me, and not by the brats.”

“What about the sixth- and seventh-years? Do they respect you? After all, you’re their senior by only three years.”

“Oh, yes, they do.” He fed Elias some crumbs of apple pie. “The seventh-years were only too eager to take their Potions N.E.W.T. and therefore extremely disciplined, and since some of the others served detention with me, they all toe the line.”

“It seems you learned a lot from Lestrange.”

“Yes,” he nodded grimly, “Indeed. I learned a lot from Lestrange.”

~~~~*~~~~

July was very hot this year, but in the evenings the temperature became tolerable, even more so in the country. The air streaming in through the open French doors of the dining room at Malfoy Manor was balsamic and tepid.

“This was the best dinner I’ve had in the last two months,” Severus said, smiling at Narcissa. “The food was excellent and the company delicious.”

“Don’t take that as a compliment, Narcissa. You don’t know who he is comparing us to. That is the sad truth, isn’t it, Severus?”

“Really, Lucius! I didn’t know you were so far beyond Black that you defy comparison,” Severus retorted, emptying his wineglass.

“Okay for me and Black. But who’d you compare this lovely creature to? McGonagall?”

Severus laughed out loud. “I know you’re a fearsome dueller, Lucius, that should be reason enough not to say anything of the kind. By the way, I met Mathilda this afternoon.”

“Listen, boys,” Narcissa said—Severus found that rather endearing, and so did Lucius; then again, she was not Madam Rosmerta. “Why don’t you go for a stroll? I understand that you have to talk business, but I do not know one single of all those Hogwarts people, and thus it is a trifle boring.”

Lucius squeezed her hand and got up. “Very well, my dear,” he drawled, “we will renounce the pleasure of your company then. But I do hope you will take the coffee with us later?”

She nodded, and the two young men strode out into the night.

“So, how did it go with Mathilda?” Lucius asked.

“Not bad. I quizzed her a bit and got rather decent answers. Moreover, she promised to read up on the subject. The only problem is that she’s more than eager to get away from home. I’m afraid I’ll have to feed her a bit of Imperius Potion, so I can send her home for the occasional weekend.”

“Sounds good,” Lucius said, nodding appreciatively. “It’s always best to operate in the twilight zone. Of course the potion would be illegal if anybody knew of its existence. As things are…”

“Exactly. Just as nobody knows about the Falsitaserum.”

“So you didn’t tell Dumbledore.”

Severus stopped in mid-stride. “Lucius, do you really think I’m a complete idiot? I know I might score sympathy points now. But we have to think of the future. Not that I really doubt Dumbledore will stick to his promise, but you never know. He might be killed, or injured… Or, on a less dramatic note, it might be better just to keep up appearances when everything is over. So maybe there will be a few interrogations it would be wiser not to refuse.”

“You make that sound as if this madness were going to end soon,” Lucius said gloomily.

“No, I’m just considering every possibility. Which is exactly why I’m going to brew and transfigure a large quantity of the potion, so that you, I and Owen have enough at our disposal whenever necessary.”

“Speaking of the future,” Lucius said, “What about your money?”

They resumed their walking. “What about my money? It’s at Gringott’s, in my vault.”

“Yes, well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? But don’t you think it would be a very wise move to put it elsewhere?”

“If Lyndon-bloody-Avery didn’t guard our treasures like the proverbial dragon,” Severus said gruffly, “I might consider the possibility. But you know him, Lucius. Besides, he doesn’t like me. He never forgave me for that first lesson about respect I taught him. If he had so much as the shadow of a suspicion, he’d gladly denounce me.”

“I know. And I didn’t mean to suggest that you transfer your whole fortune tomorrow. There’s more than enough time. Don’t forget that nobody can control what you do or don’t possess—you’re living at Hogwarts, so who should come to have a look. Retrieve varying sums, one month a little more, the next a little less.”

“Er, yes, but… I mean, where should I put it?”

“In the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, of course. I assure you that they are almost as secure as the Gringott’s vaults. If not actually more,” he added. “And you know you can trust me with your money—vulgar as it is to say such a thing, I’m rich enough to be honest.”

“That’s the least of my worries. Do you think it’s necessary to go to such lengths?”

“Unless you want to depend on a teacher’s salary, I’d strongly advise you to consider it. If you want me to, I can buy your house in Italy and add the money to the rest.”

“Don’t you have money at Gringott’s?” Severus asked.

“Of course, I do, but only a very small part of the whole fortune. I wouldn’t miss it if they confiscated it—whoever they are, Voldemort or the Ministry. With you, it’s a little different.—Oh, we’ve already arrived at the forest. Time to return, I think.”

They remained standing there for a while, though, both gazing into the night sky. It was almost dark now, with just a last hue of deep orange hovering above the horizon in the west. In the east, a thin moon crescent was rising.

“How much do you know about the more arcane secrets of alchemy?” Severus asked when they were walking back towards the manor.

“Alchemy? Nothing much. Didn’t you—”

“No, Potions and alchemy have less in common than most people think. What about the library?”

Lucius shook his head. “I don’t think so. The Malfoys never were interested in gold-making.”

“This is not about gold, Lucius,” Severus said, shuddering slightly. “This is about something infinitely greater. Terrible, to say the truth.”

Lucius shot him a questioning look. “Sev, did you have too much wine?”

“I wish it were the wine.”

“Well, if it’s so important, why don’t you ask Dumbledore? He’s the alchemist. The twelve uses of dragon blood, the Philosopher’s Stone and all that…”

“No,” Severus said firmly, “This is not for Dumbledore’s ears. At least not yet. I’ll try and see what I can find at the Hogwarts library.”

“You know,” Lucius said, “I’m afraid that, in a few months, you’ll be just as barmy as that old goat.”