The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Difficult to determine which of the two young professors Argus Filch regretted more: Severus Snape or Sirius Black. Severus could almost physically feel the grumpy caretaker’s reluctance to use the title ‘Professor’ with regard to an individual that, some years ago, had still scrubbed the corridors at his mercy. When, on 23 August during lunch, Filch approached the High Table with a beatific smile on his face, Severus was sure that the grimy individual had bad news for either him or Black. The smile grew broader and brighter when Filch’s ugly face came down to hover before Severus’s.

“Professor,” he rasped, “The Headmaster would like to see you immediately.”

“Of course,” Severus said nonchalantly and rose from his seat, pretending not to notice the others’ curious glances. Little did he care about what they whispered behind his back.

“He’s waiting for you at the entrance to your quarters, Sir,” Filch told him, once they were outside the Great Hall, voice dripping with subaltern glee, “And two Aurors are there, too, Professor.”

“Yes,” Severus said coolly, “I know. Listen, Filch, could you take this to Madam Pomfrey?” He rummaged through his pockets, and the caretaker leaned forward, eager to see. “Obliviate! Good day, Mr. Filch. Anything the matter?”

Filch swayed slightly and touched his forehead. “Professor Snape… now what was I doing…”

“I believe,” Severus said amiably and pulled two vials out of his pockets, “you were going to take these to Madam Pomfrey for me.”

Filch nodded and slouched off. “Filthy cockroach!” Severus hissed after him and continued his way towards his quarters. The memory charm had not been agreed upon with the Headmaster, but he would rather be damned than to allow Filch to tell the others—especially Black—that he had been visited by two Aurors.

Dumbledore and two figures clad in resplendent white, embroidered with gold, were standing at the end of the corridor, talking to each other. At the sound of his footsteps, the two Aurors turned round. It took Severus all his self-control not to whip out his wand and fire two killing curses. Alastor Moody and Gordon Black. Exactly the two people he needed. Not that Dumbledore had had much of a choice—there were not too many Aurors he could blindly rely upon. Although Severus had his doubts as to their discretion. If so much as one word leaked out about this operation, he was a dead man. Considering their mutual loathing, his life depended wholly on Dumbledore’s authority over the two men.

It was a long time since he had last seen Gordon Black; his last encounter with Moody had been the desperate fight at the Aurors’ Academy that had cost the Auror his left eye. They had implanted a magical replacement, as he now noticed: a madly swirling and rolling eyeball with an electric-blue iris, probably one of those recently developed prostheses that could penetrate wood and thin walls—very appropriate, he thought with a smirk.

Dumbledore was looking rather tense. “Severus, thank you for coming. This is a mere formality, so please be so kind as to cooperate.”

Ah, Severus realized, so he had not told them the whole truth. All the better for him. But in that case, he had to play along. “Formality, Headmaster? May I inquire—”

“No,” Black cut him off neatly. “You may grant us immediate access to your quarters, though.”

Severus raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me, Headmaster, but this seems a trifle… unusual. I think I am entitled to an explanation.”

“Don’t you use that snotty tone with the Headmaster, you—”

“Please, Alastor.” Dumbledore put his hand on Moody’s forearm. “You have been accused of brewing and developing illicit potions in your quarters. Although I am sure you are doing nothing of the kind, I am also accountable to the Board of Governors. If this unfounded rumour should find its way to them, they will surely demand a thorough examination of the matter. Therefore, I prefer to ascertain your innocence already now, so as to avoid any further trouble.”

“I see. Well, in that case I think we should make that quick. After all, I have a reputation and don’t want my colleagues to see Aurors coming from my quarters. But I would like to discuss this matter with you later, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore bowed his head in assent, and Severus stepped past Moody and Black, called the Dryads and told them to let them in.

“Not bad for a lowly Potions Master,” Moody said, looking round the living room. “Bit secluded, though. I wonder who would have been able to see anything suspicious…”

“That was exactly what I was wondering about, too,” Dumbledore’s calm voice resounded from the doorway. “But somebody pretended they did. And I am certainly not about to disclose the person’s identity, neither to you, Alastor, nor to anybody else.”

Black, who had been tapping his foot on the wooden floor impatiently during their exchange, merely said, “ The laboratory, Snape.”

“Professor Snape, if you don’t mind. And the laboratory is upstairs. Follow me, please.”

The four men climbed the stairs in heavy silence. When Severus opened the door, Moody pushed him aside and quickly stepped into the room, magical eye spinning madly. For a few seconds, he sniffed the air like a dog. “Mmmh,” he growled, “Smells all right.”

Throwing his colleague a none-too-friendly glance, Black repeated the process. Obviously neither of the two men was happy with this new partnership. Small wonder—Moody was a good deal older, but Black was the charismatic star. Not to mention that Moody, being an ex-Slytherin, probably did not have an easy life right now. In times like these, prejudice was rife, and every single of the few Death Eaters that had been captured alive was a former inhabitant of the Snakes’ Den.

“Wait a moment!” Severus said, approaching Moody with a few steps and forcing down his wand arm. “You are not going to destroy anything in here. Not a single vial, is that understood?”

With a forceful yank, Moody jerked his arm from Severus’s grip. “Touch me once more, boy,” he said, “And you’ll regret it. And now shut up and let me do my work.”

The Aurors performed a variety of Dark-Magic Detecting Spells, without a result. Then, they thoroughly examined every book—fortunately, there were not too many of them up here—from front to back cover. Then they proceeded to some vials, filled with potions, that were lined up neatly on one of the worktables.

“We are taking these,” Black announced, pulled a leather pouch from his pocket and grabbed the first vial.

Truly annoyed, Severus said, “For Merlin’s sake, man, those are medicinal draughts I prepared for the infirmary. Leave those here, or else I have to do them all over again!”

Black raised his eyebrows and clucked his tongue. “Such unseemly haste, Professor Snape…”

“Really, Gordon,” Dumbledore interrupted what was threatening to turn into a heated discussion, “It would be enough to open them and smell the contents. If they really are what Professor Snape claims them to be, you can forego the trouble of taking them to the Ministry.”

Shooting the Headmaster a sinister look, Black pulled the stoppers out one by one and sniffed. With each vial he examined and put aside as innocuous, his expression was growing gloomier.

“And what are these?” Moody called over from the far corner.

Finally, Severus thought, it had taken him long enough to hit upon the treasure. “Notes about an experiment I’m conducting,” he answered and strolled over, “I’m trying to find a cure for werewolves and vampires. My very own guilty pleasure.”

The beady black eye was scrutinizing him, while the other one perused the stack of parchment. “Well,” Moody grumbled after performing a few revealing spells on the notes, “Nothing wrong with those. No illegal ingredients, no suspicious formulas… Then again… Albus!” he called over to the Headmaster, “These seem pretty innocuous. Although you never know…” And he threw Severus a venomous glare.

“We-ell,” Dumbledore muttered, stroking his beard, “If you say they contain nothing illicit… Severus,” he said, “Would it be acceptable if I took them?”

“But Headmaster, I need them for—”

“I know, Severus. I know. But please understand that a very serious accusation has been raised against you. I, for one, would prefer to dispel any possible doubt on your behalf. If I take these notes and keep them in a secure place, in the presence of two witnesses, not even the shadow of a doubt can possibly remain.”

“If that is your wish,” Severus said stiffly.

The Headmaster nodded. “Yes, that is my wish. The reputation of my school is more consequential than your experiments, to put it bluntly.”

The briefest of nods. “Of course, Headmaster. I understand.”

After a short tour through Severus’s living area, suspiciously eyed by Elias, the Aurors left. They had already stepped through the door, when Dumbledore, who was bringing up the rear, turned back to Severus and gave him a small wink.

Indeed, Severus thought, returning the gesture, things had gone as planned. It almost seemed too good to be true.

~~~~*~~~~

Not that Severus's feelings towards teaching, his students, or Hogwarts in general had become any friendlier; but not even he could resist the festive atmosphere of the Great Hall on 1 September. The Hogwarts Express was due at six p.m., and at a quarter past six all the teachers had to be in the Great Hall. Fortunately, Amanda Hooch had reminded him that they were expected to wear dress robes, and, more fortunately still, she had done so early enough, so that he could walk down into Hogsmeade to buy some, as he had no intention to Apparate home and dig out the old ones he had worn for his graduation. Wizarding fashion did not change as rapidly or drastically as Muggle clothing styles—Gladrag’s had tried to introduce mini robes, but it had been a spectacular failure that almost caused their bankruptcy—but there were subtle modifications; one year, the sleeves would be rather narrow and barely cover the wrist, and another, there would be less rich folds at the back. Details, maybe. But details a well-trained eye would notice. Severus was by no means vain, but he knew from experience that impeccable attire instilled respect, just like well-chosen words and an haughty manner.

The trip to Hogsmeade had been good for him. After two days spent within the confines of his quarters, mostly in bed, he had needed a brisk walk in fresh air. By now, the last vestiges of Voldemort’s outburst of fury were gone. But he still shuddered when he thought of the confrontation a week ago. Never before had he seen Voldemort so irate, so completely out of control. His face had almost lost all resemblance to humanity—eyes blood-red, face contorted and twisting and twitching with boundless rage… He had, of course, expected to be punished. But that… yes, he had to admit it, that animalistic outburst had deeply shaken him. A voice that was more a shriek, an unearthly scream, than a sound coming from a human throat, a face completely disfigured by the throes of overwhelming fury. A… monster, or very nearly. Cruelty incarnate. But all that would have been, if not easy, so at least possible to come to terms with. What remained there, blocking Severus's horizon like an immense, erratic block of bone-chilling, icy fright, was the awareness that Voldemort could be like that with him. His Master, the one who understood him, who had taken his hand and guided him beyond the boundaries of petty laws and restrictions, this man with whom he had felt such a strong bond… The thought haunted him day and night. Gingerly, he tried to put it on the scale, to maybe counterbalance the weight of his own guilt and betrayal. It did not work, though. Because he, Severus, had been the first to leave the path designated for him. And nothing, nothing could wipe that out. That original sin. The unforgivable betrayal that put him between Cerberus’s inexorable jaws, to be shredded to death, body and soul, together with Brutus, Cassius and Judas.

He pulled himself together. Those reflections were to be kept strictly private—too much showed on his face when he indulged them. Everywhere but in his rooms, his face was a public space. He could not fend off trespassers and thus had to act in the most circumspect manner possible.

The doors opened and, like a river breaking through a long-loathed, forever-eroded dam, the mass of students spilled into the large space, filling it at once with their childish noises of which he had once been a part, not so long ago. He, too, had felt that anticipation, that rush of fresh autumn energy filled with the scent of fallen leaves, rotten fruit and new parchment. The joy of opening the pages of a textbook he had just bought; crackling with newness and echoing his love for printed words… not hurling that love back into his face, but swallowing and digesting it, turning it into something new that was then given back to him, gently, to envelop him like a tepid cloak…

Another effort, this time successful, to regain control over his feelings and facial expression. The students had taken their seats and were now chatting, each trying to talk louder than their neighbours, a mass of voices that formed almost a harmony, an intricate cluster of tonalities, a myriad-faceted expanse of lilting, burbling noise-liquid. Laughter danced over that tightly rippling surface like lunatic elves in a warm July night. The tide of voices sank a little when McGonagall led in the line of first years. How many of them would be put under his… care? Responsibility maybe. Because he certainly did not care about them. And he certainly was not responsible for them. Not for the turn their lives were going to take, anyway. He could teach them how to make potions, and a little discipline. The most important work had already been done by their parents. And later on, they would add the rest.

A movement at the end of the line of aspiring first years, facing the High Table, caught his eye. Severus frowned and, almost without turning his head, glanced over. And felt himself go rigid. From down there, standing at the end of the table where Mathilda Reynolds and the new assistant librarian were chatting animatedly, Gwendolyn Pierson was expectantly looking at him. Her hand came up to waist level, and she gave him a small wave. Severus pretended not to notice and looked straight ahead, slightly unfocusing his eyes, so that the heads and robes, candles, tablecloths and stone walls merged into one hazy, mottled carpet of darkish hues. An easy way to make them all believe he was watching them, whereas in reality he was following his very own path of thoughts. So deep was his concentration that, although he was aware that the Sorting Hat was singing, he heard neither melody nor words.

Gwendolyn Pierson. He had not thought of her, to say the truth. Now, in hindsight, he recalled that the girl had been eight years old that summer three years ago, when he had spent some of his afternoons teaching her how to brew potions without blowing up half the house. Yes, this year she was undoubtedly eleven. Severus had not been overly fond of her—not that he was generally fond of children—but remembered her as a bright, witty girl with considerable talent for the subject he was now teaching. That, however, was not his main point of interest now. Her family background was far more preoccupying. The girl might tell her mother everything about Hogwarts, she might—cheeky little thing that she was—snoop around and find out about things that were not exactly secrets but would not look too well when printed in a newspaper. And, last but not least, her mother might have told her explicitly to watch him. Small danger if she was sorted into another house. If his recollections of Gwendolyn Pierson were correct, however, there was little chance of her ending up anywhere but in Slytherin. He would have to tread very carefully with the girl.

The line of first-years was gradually getting shorter, and then Gwendolyn sat down on the three-legged stool. The hat had only just touched her hair, when it already called “Slytherin!” Severus sighed. This was bad luck. Probably.

He did not talk much during the feast and scarcely noticed what he was eating. As the Head Students were the same as last year, the usual prep talk with the Headmaster and Heads of House was unnecessary; and so, when he saw that the prefects were leading their charges out of the Great Hall, he rose from his chair, greeted his colleagues and left for the Slytherin quarters.

The teaching robes he had bought were very much to his liking. Light but voluminous, they fell down to his ankles in rich, luxurious folds and billowed behind him like ominous black sails when he walked. Many teachers wore other colours than black; he, however, had always preferred this colour—if it could be called a colour—highlighted only by the white of his shirt. Remembering his own schoolday antics and convinced that the students’ nature had not changed very much, he had put sound-muffling charms on all his shoes, so that he could move through the corridors without making a single noise. It was highly practical for approaching unsuspecting trouble-makers, but also had quite an intimidating effect: a tall black figure appearing, seemingly out of nowhere, noiselessly except for a soft swishing of fabric, was bound to make quite an impression on the younger ones. What the older ones lacked in susceptibility would be easily made up by substantial deductions of house points.

When he entered the Common Room, silence fell immediately. The wide-eyed stares he got from the first-years were more than enough confirmation that his appearance had achieved exactly the effect he desired. During the two months he had fulfilled his teaching and Head-of-House duties before the summer, he had been far too busy to establish himself as an authority figure, someone who demanded unconditional respect and obeisance. He had every intention of doing so now. And apparently, the Bloody Baron was aware of the importance of this moment, for when Severus had crossed the threshold, the spectre floated inside next to him.

A few seconds of calculated silence, until the younger ones began to shift uneasily. “Good evening.” He encompassed the group of teenagers in a hard stare. The older ones tried to escape his gaze; the younger students goggled in horrified fascination. “For those among you who do not yet know me: I am Professor Severus Snape, your Head of House, and Potions Master at this school. You have been sorted into Slytherin because you are ambitious and cunning. You want to succeed. In order to do so, you have to abide not only by the school rules, but also by my own. I would not advise you to make me your enemy. The reputation of the House of Slytherin is not as high anymore as it once was, and I will not tolerate any acts that might taint it further. On the other hand, if students or teachers from one of the other houses discriminate you because of your affiliation to Slytherin, you are to report to me.”

Sly grins spread over the faces of some of the older students.

Severus let a few moments pass without speaking, then continued, his voice even lower than before. “If,” he said, looking pointedly at the students who had smiled before, “I discover that you use the solidarity I am offering for your own ends—” the shrewd smiles vanished “—I assure you that you will wish you never thought of that possibility.” Uncomprehending looks from the smaller ones. They would understand very soon. “My office is open to any of you whenever I am there. I demand, though, not to be disturbed because of minor issues that can be dealt with by the prefects. Now go to your dormitories. Good night.”

He turned and left the Common Coom, followed by a weak chorus of “Good night, Sir.” Out in the corridor, he took a deep breath and wandered off towards his chambers. He could, of course, have used the passageway that linked the Slytherin quarters directly to his living room but preferred the rather long walk. His hands balled into fists in a sudden fierce surge of rage. He did not want to do this! This was only the first day of the school year, and he already felt exhausted. It was difficult, much more difficult than he had ever thought, to keep himself and this whole despicable façade together in front of those children. He could feel their curiosity and their expectations tugging at him, sucking his strength from him. There were sons and daughters of Death Eaters of various degrees of importance and loyalty. But next to them, mingling with them, there were the children of mere sympathizers. Even of a few neutral wizards who had managed to steer clear of either side. There was Nathalie Pierson’s daughter, the long ear of the Daily Prophet. And now he, whose personality, whose very essence was already so deeply torn, had to put on yet another mask that would fool everybody, because it was completely impenetrable. A blank sheet on which each of them could read what they desired to see: a Death Eater for the children of Death Eaters, a cautious sympathizer for the spawn of those cowards who did not have the guts to openly declare on whose side they were, and a neutral bystander for the offspring of those who were loyal only to themselves. It had been hard enough until now, with Voldemort, with Dumbledore and everything that lay in between. From now on, Severus felt his situation would be close to unbearable.

With a fleeting smile at the dryads, he stepped though the tapestry and climbed the stairs to his quarters. This was going to be his last evening of undisturbed quiet, or so he hoped. Dumbledore had given him a few books on alchemy from his private library, and he was looking forward to reading them, despite the unpleasant truths they might contain.

~~~~*~~~~

The mornings were already chilly towards the end of September. Wrapped in a heavy, fur-lined cloak, Severus was leaning against one of the massive stone pillars, crowned by winged boars, that flanked the entrance gate to the Hogwarts grounds. The summer had been long and hot, but now autumn seemed to be claiming his rights, touching the trees with a frosty hand and shrouding the grounds in a soft haze that shimmered golden in the morning light. It was quiet, a serene silence disturbed only by the occasional trill of a bird or the rustle of a falling leave. Then, a faint popping sound heralded Lucius’s arrival.

“Brr,” he said, wrapping his cloak around himself more tightly, “I had forgotten how cold it gets up here at this time of year. Good morning Sev.”

They shook hands briefly and started to walk towards the castle.

“Do you think they bought the story about the Quidditch team?” Severus asked.

“Yes, I think they did. What with your notorious disinterest for Quidditch and your less-than-average flying skills… Although I don't quite see why I have to meet that cranky old Muggle-lover.”

“Because it is preferable, that's why. One intention covers the other. Or did you really think this was going to be a social call?”

Lucius snorted. “Not really, no. How is Mathilda doing?”

“Decently, I’d say. Maybe a little too soft with the first-years, I have told her so repeatedly. But all in all, she does a very acceptable job.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Oh, before I forget…” Lucius searched through his pockets. “I suppose it's better if I give it to you out here.”

“I daresay it is.” Severus looked at Voldemort’s seal on the roll of parchment. “Do you know what it says?”

“Just instructions. About those strengthening potions and their delivery. And he wants you to report on the thirteenth of every month. Directly to him.”

Severus heaved an irritated sigh. “You know, this kind of orders just reeks of trap.”

“Meaning?” Lucius glanced at him with raised eyebrows.

“Meaning that, if I get out of Hogwarts too easily on every thirteenth, he might come to suspect that Dumbledore knows. And if I don't, he’s going to punish me because I don't show up. A lose-lose game, in all probability.”

Lucius stopped walking and shook his head. “No, no, Sev. That's merely your paranoia, nothing else. He doesn't suspect you. He just wants you to fulfil his orders, whatever the risk. Or rather, the greater the risk, the better.” Severus gave him a doubtful glance, and Lucius nodded in confirmation of his words before beginning to walk again. “When did you last see him?”

“A little more than a month ago, after the Aurors had visited.”

“Ah, of course. You know, I think he's now taking both your and Lestrange’s potions. I was there… let me think… the day before yesterday, yes. And… his body is changing.”

This time, Severus stopped. “Changing?” he echoed. “In which way? I mean, I noticed that he is becoming more skeletal than ever, but—”

Lucius rolled his eyes and threw up his arms. “Don’t be so daft, Severus. When I want to say that somebody is getting thinner, I am capable of expressing this thought. No, I mean that he is changing. It’s almost imperceptible, but it’s there, without any doubt. I would probably not even have noticed it, if you hadn’t told us about the snake venom. His skin is becoming… well, harder. Colder. Almost like a reptile’s. And his eyes…”

Severus felt his heart sink. “In that case,” he said slowly, “he must really be taking Lestrange's concoctions along with mine. Because I don't use snake venom. Well, in a way it isn't really surprising. Considering that we now know about the ritual…”

“We do?”

“Yes, we do. Especially since I got those books from Dumbledore. Very informative. I’ll show you my notes, later, after the tryout. What about the Daily Prophet?”

Gwendolyn Pierson's presence at Hogwarts had become a problem in a different way than Severus had thought. When Julius Malfoy had had his ‘little talk’ with her mother three years ago, it had never been quite clear how exactly he had persuaded her to give free rein to her animosity towards the Ministry and put in a little extra sympathy for the Death Eaters. In hindsight, though, it seemed that he had half-convinced, half-threatened her. Using her daughter as means of leverage. And, being a true Slytherin, Nathalie Pierson had complied and bided her time, until her daughter was in the safety of Hogwarts. Since the beginning of September, the tone of the Prophet's articles had been subtly but gradually changing. And Severus had already been told by the Headmaster that the girl was to stay at Hogwarts permanently, even over the summer holidays. Not that this was bad in itself, but both Severus and Dumbledore were fearing that the barely hidden animosity of the newspaper—and both were fairly sure that there was more to come—might cause Voldemort to increase the number and force of his attacks.

Lucius grinned at him. “I asked Voldemort’s permission to speak with the Pierson woman.”

“Ah, excellent. And? What did she say?”

“Oh,” Lucius said nonchalantly, “she was very… interested in keeping up the climate of mutual collaboration and, er, trust.”

“That sounds a little too good to be true. What did you tell her?”

“That we have somebody at Hogwarts, of course.”

“What?” Severus grabbed Lucius's cloak, forcing him to stop. “Are you completely insane?”

“Don’t wet them, Sev,” Lucius said, casting him an haughty stare. “Or do you think I told her it was you?”

“No, but… I mean… she can easily put two and two together. She isn't stupid, Lucius!”

“Nor am I, Sev, nor am I. I told her it was Black.”

Severus released the other's cloak and felt his jaw go slack. “You did what?”

“You heard me right, Snape. I told her it was Black. And so Mrs. Pierson will keep her peace. Plus, just in case Voldemort feels the necessity of harming the little girl to remind mummy of her duties, you won’t be suspected. In these days, an accusation raised by such a prominent member of our society is enough to have him thrown into Azkaban without a trial. Needless to mention that I erased her memory of my being a Death Eater.” The broad grin returned to his face.

They looked at each other, and for a moment they were schoolboys again, having just played a successful prank on the hated Gryffindors. Lucius's eyes gleamed with glee, and Severus was unable to resist the laughter that, after so many weeks of tension, struggled to get out. Both had tears of mirth running down their cheeks when they finally calmed down. “Come on,” Severus said, “the Headmaster is expecting us.”

They arrived at the entrance door of the castle. It was a Saturday morning and still very early, so that there were no students or teachers in the corridors. This was less a camouflage measure than a precaution to ensure that Lucius did not by any chance run into Sirius Black. A fight between the resident Dark Arts teacher and one of the school governors was the last thing they needed. Quickly, the two young men strode past suits of armour, statues and barely-awakened portraits to the stone gargoyle blocking the entrance to Dumbledore's office. At Severus's muttered “Sugar Quill”, the gargoyle moved, and they rode up the spiral staircase to the Headmaster's study.

Severus almost fainted with hunger when a delicious aroma of breakfast wafted into his nostrils through the open door. He had skipped dinner the other night, worked until the small hours of the morning and gone to meet Lucius after only four hours of sleep. Unsurprisingly, his knees were feeling a little weak, although the news about Nathalie Pierson had considerably lifted his spirits.

“Ah, Lucius, Severus!” Dumbledore said, coming through a door that led to his library, as Severus had recently found out. He shook Lucius’s hand. “Sit down, please, you must both be hungry.”

Relishing the first bites of egg, bacon and toast, Severus did not pay close attention to the small talk between the two other wizards. Only when Dumbledore said, “Now tell me, Severus, what was the reason for this meeting?” did he reluctantly focus on the ongoing conversation.

“I need your authorization to establish a Floo connection between my rooms and Malfoy Manor,” he said.

Brief silence. The look Dumbledore cast his Potions Master was anything but friendly. “I do not appreciate to be confronted with this kind of questions without previous notice, Severus.”

“I know,” he said calmly, “And neither does Lucius. But you would scarcely have agreed to this meeting, both of you, had you known beforehand.”

Lucius cleared his throat and took a sip of coffee. “Whatever for?” he asked, his voice as icy as his glare.

“For emergencies. And to get out of here and back unseen. I cannot afford to be spied upon by—” No, he thought, it would be rather unwise to explicitly mention Black now. The Headmaster was already irritated. “—by teachers or students,” he finished his sentence.

It was true. He needed the connection, and more so after Lucius had told him what was written in Voldemort’s letter. But what he had said to Lucius on their way to the castle was true in more than one way: one intention covered another. Officially, Malfoy was here to watch the Quidditch tryouts and give an expert opinion Severus did not pretend to have. Amanda Hooch was all right, but he did not put it past her to ingratiate herself with the other Heads of Houses by smuggling one or two second-class players into the Slytherin team. This visit was the cover for the meeting at the Headmaster’s office, the purpose of which Severus had preferred keeping to himself. What he really wanted, though, was to make Lucius witness that he could get what he wanted from the Headmaster, and that Dumbledore really trusted—or pretended to trust, simply because he had no other choice—both of them. As a mere by-product of this meeting, he also intended to discuss the problem of the Philosopher’s Stone. But that was merely accessorial.

It seemed, though, that Lucius had understood his intentions. “I am sure the Headmaster would never agree to such a proposition,” he said silkily. “The risk for myself is quite negligible, considering that your rooms are probably better protected than most of Gringott's vaults.”

Still looking very serious, Dumbledore stroked his beard. “It seems,” he finally said, “that we have to take this calculated risk. Severus is, of course, right. He cannot possibly walk over the grounds for everybody to see whenever he is summoned. And the system of shields and wards protecting Hogwarts is far too complex and interdependent to open an Apparition window, say, on top of Serpens Tower. Therefore, my answer is yes. But the connection must not show up on the Floo directory—”

“Piece of cake!” Lucius interjected, shrugging.

“Indeed. And, more importantly, you must not use the fireplace connected to the main network.”

“Of course,” Lucius said, slightly bowing his head. “I’ll use the one in my study. The room is warded, and no one enters but myself and my wife.”

“Perfect,” Severus said, carefully keeping the satisfaction he felt out of his voice, “That seems to be settled then. What about the Stone?”

Dumbledore nodded pensively. “The Stone, yes. This is, of course, a matter of the utmost importance. The one I made together with Flamel—”

This time, the Headmaster had clearly succeeded in surprising the other two wizards. “The one you…” Severus swallowed.

“Are you saying there is more than one?” Lucius asked, his usual perfect composure more than slightly ruffled.

“No, no. There is only one. Nicholas made his own back in the fifteenth century. When we met…” For a moment, Dumbledore's gaze became dreamy before he continued, “That was more or less eighty years ago. He had succeeded in making the stone, yes; but only when we had discovered the twelve uses of dragon blood could we create the… well, final version.”

“Do you think you might explain this in more detail?” Lucius asked, back to his habitual drawl but obviously very interested.

Dumbledore glanced at the clock on his desk. “Yes, I think there is enough time before the tryouts begin.” He rang for Kitty the elf and ordered fresh coffee. “You see, the Stone Nicolas created by himself worked perfectly well. The only problem being that, unless you add the right kind of dragon blood between the offices of Ablution and of Reduction, the elixir from the Stone will prolong your life, but without stopping the ageing process. The ancient Greeks already knew that, of course—think of the myth of Aurora and Tithonus.”

“The one who finally became a grasshopper?” Severus asked, and heard Lucius mutter “Show-off!”

“The very one. So, that was the factor Nicolas hadn’t reckoned with. When he created the Stone, somewhere around 1380, he was already over fifty—a venerable age back in those days, especially for a Muggle. When we met, five hundred years later, he was quite tatty, but still capable of working. So, with my own input, we recreated the Stone and destroyed the first one. The new Stone successfully stopped his ageing process—and that of his wife, too—so that by now he is still slightly tatty, but perfectly alive.”

“And the stone?” Lucius asked, “Is it… safe?”

“As safe as can be, I suppose. But that would not keep Voldemort from trying to get at Flamel and myself, in order to make us recreate it. We have to be in two for that procedure, you know?”

Severus considered this. “Flamel alone would not be sufficient?”

“No, absolutely not. And not even a Potions Master of your calibre would be able to replace me. You don’t have an alchemist's training. On the other hand, Nicolas has already gone into hiding. A Fidelius Charm has been performed, so that it is virtually impossible for Voldemort to find him. As for myself…”

“No,” Lucius said, “I don't think so. He has no intention at all to attack Hogwarts. As long as you remain here, the risk is practically non-existent. Are you sure he knows about the stone?”

“Of course he does,” Dumbledore said cheerfully. “Grindelwald knew about it, and I am pretty sure they must have met, or at least corresponded. Nothing to worry about presently. What troubles me more is the potion Severus is developing. We will not be able to keep Voldemort waiting forever. And, much as I cherish the thought of our enemy decimating his own ranks, the resulting increase of his magical power would be too high a price for it.”

Slightly vexed, Lucius said, “Well, I will certainly drop a few well-placed hints about the difficulty of Severus's situation here. However, we still have two years to go, and sooner or later…”

“That cannot be helped, I’m afraid,” Dumbledore said. “And now, gentlemen, I think it is time for the official part of this visit. The tryouts start at nine o’clock.”

The two young men got up and took their leave from the Headmaster. On their way out of the castle and down to the Quidditch pitch, both remained silent, each deep in thought. Glad as he was about the successful outcome of his little manoeuvre, Severus could not help feeling frustrated. Hopeless, even. Rationally, he knew that Dumbledore was right: even with his notes allegedly confiscated, he would have to come up with a result sooner or later. And then… then they would have to find a way of convincing Voldemort that he must not use it. Not something he was looking forward to.

~~~~*~~~~

The Slytherin Quidditch team and those students who had applied for the positions of Seeker, Beater and Chaser—the girl that had played Seeker so far wanted to concentrate on her studies, as this was her seventh year, and one Beater and one Chaser had graduated last summer—were already assembled on the lawn, engaged in excited conversation. It was not every day that a school governor and member of Great Britain's most prominent wizarding families personally surveyed a relatively trivial event like a Quidditch tryout. Their looks became even more astonished when Lucius pulled a miniature broom from his pocket, unshrunk it and shed his magnificent robes.

“Lucius, you aren’t going to participate, are you?” Severus asked incredulously.

Lucius grinned. “Of course I am. Not for the Seeker, it's better to watch them from down here. But Chasers and Beaters are best observed while playing. It’s been ages since last I played.” He rubbed his hands.

Obviously Amanda Hooch was not entirely immune to Lucius's good looks—neither were the older girls, as Severus saw with amusement. Most of them were gawking at him and compulsively fidgeting with their hair. After introducing Lucius and the flying instructor, Severus retired to the stands and watched.

“All right,” Lucius said to the students flocking around him, “I am going to play Chaser, so one of the regular players has to cede their position temporarily.”

The male chaser was elbowed in the ribs by his sweetly smiling female counterpart and panted, “Ow, er, I mean, I, Mr. Malfoy. I’ll cede.”

“Perfect. And Madam Hooch here,” he bowed slightly to the blushing flying instructor, “will be so kind as to change the candidates every fifteen minutes. In alphabetical order. Not the Seeker though—but you know as well as I do that they are best watched from the ground.” With these words, he mounted his broom and seared off into the bright autumn sky.

Severus crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back into his seat, momentarily even allowing himself to close his eyes. It was a moment of rare pleasure and relaxation, the feeling of the autumn sun on his skin and the soft breeze playing with his hair. The chatter of the students, the dull thud of the Beaters’ clubs hitting the Bludgers, the players shouting instructions at each other… it was peace. A moment of peace of the fragility of which he was only too conscious. Maybe a moment of happiness. Whatever that was…