The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 34

By Pigwidgeon37

He was so small—maybe he was a child again. Everything around him seemed so impossibly big and tall, and it was cold, so cold… He was not walking, but he was not motionless, either; it almost felt like floating… How could he be floating? And what was this landscape he was traversing? He had certainly never been here before. Difficult to recognize anything, though, no way of gaining any sense of orientation, because everything appeared to be in constant change, the shapes shifted as if to mock him… When he thought he was looking at a tree, it became a house or a tower, and up became down, so he had to perform a kind of somersault if he wanted to avoid looking down into a bottomless sky. Why was he so small? What had become of his body? He tried to move his head, so that he might eventually see his hands and feet and whether he was still whole, and screamed under a sudden, vicious assault of pain. How had he hurt himself so much? The pain increased, became agony, grew into unbearable, incandescent flames that melted away his flesh and dug into his bones with greedy teeth. He could not stop screaming, not anymore, those howls did not seem to be connected to him anymore—nothing he could control, they were dissociated, not a reaction anymore but an independent being. Then, suddenly, the pain redoubled and blasted him out of that floating movement and into solid reality that was filled with noises, lights and voices.

“I think he’s back, Headmaster. But I have no idea—”

“Neither have I, Lucius. Mrs. Malfoy, my most sincere compliments. Without your skills we might have lost him.”

“Thank you. Most of it is due to Severus’s own potions, though. And I am not skilled enough to venture any prognosis… he might have lost his mind for all I know…”

“Narcissa, we’ll leave you here to patch him up—unless you need our help, that is.”

“No, thank you. I concentrate better when I am alone. I will call you as soon as I have finished.”

He might have lost his mind… Yes, probably he had come very close to madness; considering how he felt now, he might even have embraced it gratefully. But this was not for him to choose. The murky doors of lunacy had been irrevocably closed on him, and, much as he might long for it, there was no way back. Almost like a second birth… catapulted into the world that was his own by a spasm of pain, out of that cold and incongruous half-dreamlike Fata Morgana, where he had not been himself but at least unable to feel his tortured body. Healing spells alternated with the gentle touch of cool hands—a purely rational perception, for his physic felt them like icy-hot dabs of liquid metal. But this was Narcissa, and he knew she did not hurt him intentionally; so he persuaded his aching body to let his mind take over and dictate what he was feeling. Again, he forced his eyes open. Not only did the light hurt them, although he was sure it was only the gentle shine of a few candles; there also was the distinct feeling of swollen tissue, with skin, bruised and tense, just barely managing to stretch over it.

More whispered spells, filling the area they were aimed at with a vague sensation of warm pleasure; slight tingles mending splintered bones and torn blood vessels, relocating what had been crushed out of place. He tried a deeper breath and instantly regretted his foolishness, for it made him cough—from under half-closed eyelids he saw Narcissa’s alarmed look and the red sprinkles on her cerulean robes. Then he fell back into blackness; no floating this time, no morphing shapes. Just the dull agony pumping through him at the rhythm of his heartbeat, inescapable.

The next time Severus woke up, the light was more bearable to his frayed optic nerves, and he managed to recognize the people gathered around the bed—yes, he could feel the texture of fine, cool linen under his fingers—he was resting upon. Lucius was standing there, and Narcissa too, and the Headmaster, all three wearing strained and anxious expressions.

“Severus?” Dumbledore said, “Severus, can you hear me?”

Had he been capable of laughter, he would have chuckled at the absurd difficulty he had moving his eyelids. Down and up again, and already he was lapsing back into unconsciousness, as if after some superhuman physical endeavour. Obviously they had no intention of leaving him alone, peacefully wrapped in the black velvet of oblivion, for when he came to again, he felt that a vial was just being taken from his lips.

Dumbledore hovered into view once again. “Severus? Do you recognize me?”

Difficult as it was to imagine or explain how anybody could have flayed his lungs and torn shreds out of his trachea to replace the missing bits with glass shards, his first attempt at speaking made him suspect that somebody had indeed done exactly that. “Dumb…” was all he managed, and the last thing he heard was Lucius’s snort. Then he retreated into the sanctuary of blackness again and was allowed to remain there.

~~~~*~~~~

“Well, Severus, you gave us quite a fright,” Dumbledore said, perching on the edge of the bed.

It was early afternoon now, 14 November, as Severus had been told, and he had been out cold for more than twelve hours. Now, however, he felt a lot better. A little earlier, Narcissa had fed him a few bites of rice and various potions, among them another dose of the anti-Cruciatus draught, and everything had remained in his stomach. When it was obvious that he had recovered sufficiently to answer their burning questions, Lucius had called the Headmaster to Malfoy Manor once again, for it was impossible to transport Severus back to Hogwarts just yet.

“Headmaster,” he croaked, “I would be lying if I said that this concerns me overmuch.”

“Of course. How are you feeling now?”

“Alive, and in full possession of my mental abilities.”

“Well,” Dumbledore said, “That is more than we had expected, given the state you were in. How fortunate indeed that you still had the presence of mind to Apparate to Malfoy Manor. Had you returned to Hogwarts, we might not have found you for a few hours, and you would probably have died.”

Severus managed a crooked smile. “Considering how I’m feeling, that sounds like a very alluring possibility.”

Eyes twinkling, the Headmaster replied, “Although I am sure that you feel ten times better than you look.”

“Oh, no!” Severus groaned, “Is it that bad?”

“Well,” Dumbledore said, passing a finger over the bridge of Severus’s nose, causing him to flinch and moan, “I suppose that your nose will be a little more crooked. As for the rest, you just need time to heal.”

“Time… Headmaster, we don’t have time… lessons to teach…” Speaking became increasingly difficult.

“Miss Reynolds has taken over first to fourth year, and I am stepping in with the rest. No need to worry. The official explanation for your sudden absence is that your mother’s condition has dramatically deteriorated…”

Through the caressing mists of unconsciousness, Dumbledore’s voice became a faraway lullaby that gently danced him into sleep.

~~~~*~~~~

“Sev, after such an extended beauty sleep, you’ll turn out completely irresistible,” Lucius said, smirking at him. “You had another twenty-four hours of rest and should feel much better now. Try to move.” Severus shot him a glare of silent mutiny. “Look, you have to move. Try at least your fingers. After the dose of Cruciatus you must have got, your muscles might suffer permanent damage unless you give them something to do soon. Soon meaning immediately,” he added with a frown.

“Okay, okay, I’ll do my best.” Severus tried to flex his fingers. “That all right?”

Lucius shook his head. “No, not at all. They barely budge.” He stood there, frowning and kneading his chin. “I’m just not sure… I suppose a massage might work...”

“You could fetch Peggy,” Severus suggested, following a sudden inspiration. “My elf,” he explained, seeing Lucius’s uncomprehending look. “She does wonders when I have my migraines—I wouldn’t be surprised if she could help me with this as well.”

Lucius nodded, left the room and, some minutes later, returned with a terrified Peggy clamped firmly under his left arm. On his right shoulder, Elias was riding proudly, apparently fascinated by the wizard’s short, blonde hair which he vainly tried to groom. As soon as the raven saw his master, he gave a sharp croak, took off and landed clumsily on the duvet, where he strutted back and forth as if to make sure that Severus was still in one piece.

“Master Severus, Master Severus!” Peggy squealed, and Lucius dumped her unceremoniously on the floor.

“Yes, your master is here, just as I told you, stupid, obnoxious little creature,” he barked, “Now go and see what you can do to loosen up his muscles.”

Peggy nodded and obediently hopped onto the bed—it was obvious that she was longing to pour out her relief and worries to Severus, but did not dare give in to her urge in Lucius’s presence. When her master smiled and winked at her, though, she silently started working. Meanwhile, Lucius had sat down on a chair near the bed. Tilting his head towards Peggy, he said, “She is bound to you, isn’t she?” Severus nodded. “Very well, so we can talk in her presence. I brought parchment and a dictoquill—” he produced both items from his pockets “—so you can spare yourself the trouble of repeating the whole story to Dumbledore.”

Severus’s eyes went wide. “Lucius, you certainly don’t expect me to—”

“Merlin’s bloody beard, Severus!” Lucius exploded, “Do you really think I’d hand that over to anybody but Dumbledore?”

“No, but it makes me feel uncomfortable! Impossible to foresee what might happen to that piece of parchment—if it falls into the wrong hands, I’m dead. Or in Azkaban.”

“Does that mean,” Lucius purred, “that you don’t trust Dumbledore?”

“You simply don’t want to understand, do you?” Severus said angrily. “I don’t want any of this written anywhere, and that’s all there is to it.”

“What a subtle way of telling me you mistrust me…”

“I don’t—” Severus tried to prop himself up on his right elbow but had to stay prone in his pillows, panting heavily. “Wouldn’t you be afraid of your own shadow if you were in my position?”

“Maybe,” Lucius answered curtly and put away the offending objects. “All right, then, tell me what happened.”

It was difficult not to moan with sheer pleasure when Peggy applied her healing and nerve-stimulating abilities to his sore muscles. But Severus pulled himself together and said, “Nothing much. I tried to convince him that repeating all the experiments and rewriting all I already had before Dumbledore confiscated my notes was a lengthy process. Needless to tell you that he didn’t buy it.”

“I surmised as much,” Lucius commented dryly. “And?”

“St. John and Tabitha were present as well, which made the whole business even more unpleasant, as you can imagine. In the end, he was so furious that he ordered our adorable couple to have their ways with me.”

Lucius nodded slowly. “Did they both cast Cruciatus on you at the same time?”

“Yes.” Severus shuddered at the memory. “And afterwards, just to put the icing on the cake, he kicked me with those dragonhide boots.”

“Ah, that explains it. We thought somebody had gotten at you with a knife, or a razor, but somehow the cuts were too clean and too deep. How long did you have to endure the curse, anyway?”

Severus snorted. “I’m truly sorry, Lucius, but I didn’t look at my watch. Terribly neglectful, I know—”

“Stop it, smart-ass. I just thought… you know, I try to keep myself together by counting the seconds, and so I thought…”

“Oh, I see. I recite potions recipes. To everybody their own methods.” Lucius gave him a lopsided smirk. “Now listen, Lucius. I survived this once. Maybe I’d even survive it a second time—the problem is that I simply don’t want to endure it anymore.”

“Well, I certainly won’t blame you. What about the potion, though?”

“I’ve been thinking about this. The gist of this whole business is that, sooner or later, I have to finish the formula. He’ll never believe or accept that I fail.”

Lucius nodded in assent. “Yes, I agree. He’d kill you in cold blood if you fail, and torture you to the point of insanity if you try to stall for time—not to mention that he’d probably see through it, sooner or later. So, what’s the solution?”

“Well… ah, yes, Peggy, you’re working a miracle,” he addressed the elf, who gave him a happy grin. “Look, Lucius, I can already move my left hand.”

“Impressive, Snape,” Lucius snarled. “The solution, if you please.”

Severus heaved a deep sigh. “I wouldn’t go as far as calling that a solution. But what I was thinking is this: I’m going to finalize the formula until 13 December.”

Lucius stared. “So soon! Can you do that?”

“Of course I can do that. It’s almost finished. That’s not the difficult bit, anyway. The question is, how do we prevent him from letting you or Owen bleed to death, in order to absorb your magical power? And I think I might have come up with an answer to that question.”

“And you always claim that I’m the one attempting to make it as dramatic as possible,” Lucius drawled. “You’re making quite an impressive job of it, too.”

“I know,” Severus said, grinning. “Well, I have done a bit of reading and found out that there is, indeed, a spell for measuring magical power. I found a hint in Hogwarts—A History; it’s one of the spells the Founders put on the Sorting Hat. The rest is in an obscure medieval treatise on—”

“I get the picture,?” Lucius interrupted him, his eyes narrowing. “And how, pray, is that supposed to help? He’ll be able to identify his victims more easily, if you tell him that.”

“Oh, I think he already knows it. But that’s not the point. Tell me: the practice of dispensing Falsitaserum before the attacks hasn’t changed, has it?” Lucius shook his head. “Good. In that case, you and Owen can slip power-enhancing potions to a selected few. I’ll provide power-reducing concoctions with short-term effect for the three of us. That should do the job.”

Lucius’s mouth fell open. “Sev, that is bloody brilliant. There’s one major flaw, though: Once he has used up all his victims, he’ll need to replace them, both as donors and Death Eaters.”

“Of course. But there’s a very promising bunch of seventh-years, who are burning to be initiated as soon as possible. And I will, of course, add a little something to the potion—Voldemort’s, I mean—to cause nasty side effects, so he can’t use it too often. Not more than once every six weeks or every two months.”

“Mmmh…” Lucius was studying his fingers. “And what are you going to tell Dumbledore?”

“A very selective version of the truth, of course. Besides, the Good Guys won’t have anything to complain about—they’ll be facing younger and less trained enemies. We’re doing them a favour, come to think of it. You and Owen must be extremely careful, of course, after you take the weakening potion. But I daresay it’s worth the trouble.”

~~~~*~~~~

It had taken Severus four days to recover, and he returned to Hogwarts the following Saturday, still rather weak but at least without visible signs of the ordeal he had gone through. After dinner, the Headmaster asked him to come to his office, where Severus recounted the events of the thirteenth.

“You are right,” Dumbledore said when he had finished, “We cannot risk your life and sanity merely to stall for time. At least we know that Voldemort will use the potion and grow in strength. We will have to be content with being forewarned. I suppose that Mr. Malfoy and Mr. McNair have been informed?”

“Yes. They know the risk.”

Dumbledore rose from his chair and went over to Fawkes’s perch. To stroke the warm red plumage seemed to have a soothing effect on him, as Severus had already noticed—so the Headmaster was upset. His expression, when he turned towards Severus, confirmed this suspicion. “This situation,” he said, sitting down again, “demands that I take a decision. We might have almost two years at our disposal, but something must be done, or we will find ourselves empty-handed when Voldemort attempts his final coup. If he succeeds in killing one or more children and using their blood for the potion, we are as good as dead. Nothing will be able to withstand him then.”

“I agree. But do you have any ideas as to what strategy you might employ?”

“To be absolutely honest, I don’t.” Absentmindedly, Dumbledore unwrapped a Chocolate Frog and took a bite. “Merely because we do not have many options. The Ministry is completely paralysed, due to the rotation system—in times like these, what we need is a strong, charismatic leader figure. After that disaster with Windham…”

“Yes,” Severus remarked casually, “that was bad luck indeed. You would probably have been the leader figure we needed, but what with the aspersions the papers cast on you…”

“Thank you for the compliment, Severus. Especially as you probably had a hand in that scheme.”

“Of course. Back then, I had no idea how things were going to turn out. However, the situation is as it is, and we cannot change that. And, as you said, our options are but few. As I see it, you can either try to gather as many followers as you can and risk a big battle shortly before Halloween of 1981, or you can attempt to bring about an escalation now.”

“That was exactly what I was thinking. Of course, if Voldemort has the potion and starts decimating his own ranks, that might be a good time to strike. Is he planning to initiate new members anytime soon?”

“As far as I know, he isn’t. But I will tell Lucius and Owen to keep their eyes open. However, what do you think you might gain by pushing your luck right now? And how exactly would you do it? You would have to attack Death Eaters directly, and I don’t think that is a good idea. It would cause public uproar—after all, you have no legal competence to carry out raids. Not to mention that, if you’re very unlucky, you might lose your best allies, because they would end in Azkaban.”

“I know!” Dumbledore replied sharply. “But we have to act instead of merely reacting, don’t you understand? Not that I don’t appreciate the information you provide. It is very important to evacuate targeted persons and thus somewhat lessen the effect of those attacks. But it is also a fact that many members of my group want to confront the enemy—I won’t be able to control them forever. Therefore I think it might be better to let them have their fight. One carefully-planned, effective strike might do wonders for their morale.”

Severus eyed the Headmaster thoughtfully. In a way, the old man was right. He knew from personal experience that it was difficult to maintain control unless you gave people something to do, possibly something with a purpose. During Voldemort’s absence last summer, some of the more hot-headed Death Eaters had become close to unmanageable, due to the lack of action. Although he did certainly not sympathize with Dumbledore’s group, he was perfectly able to understand the rage and aggressive potential they had probably been accumulating over the years. In order to avoid a major catastrophe, some inconsiderate blunder in which the Death Eaters would doubtlessly gain the upper hand, it was preferable to let loose the bloodhounds once. There had to be a way… “Headmaster,” he said suddenly, after a lengthy pause, “I think there might be a solution to the problem that satisfies both sides.” Mostly himself, but that was something Dumbledore did not need to know.

“I would be glad to hear it, then,” the old wizard said, leaning forward and looking at him expectantly.

“Of course.” Severus cleared his throat. “There are certain… elements within our… Voldemort’s ranks that might become a danger to Lucius, Owen and myself. You know the type—they are overzealous and overeager to prove themselves.”

“Yes,” said the Headmaster, “I think I know what you are referring to.”

“Your group might attack one of those. I will have to ponder this question with Lucius and Owen, of course, but I think they might agree. More so as there is something in it for us as well. When your group carries out the attack, I will wait in the near vicinity until they are gone and then cast the Dark Mark. Of course I can do that only on condition that your people curse to kill—if anybody succumbs to innate Gryffindor goodness or Hufflepuff meekness and spares the victims’ lives, we are in more trouble than we can even imagine. We can’t afford to have any surviving witnesses.”

“I see…” Dumbledore gave him a long, searching look. “That would, of course, be very helpful. Not to mention that we would kill more than two birds with a single stone. The troupe’s morale renewed, a potentially dangerous wild card eliminated, and Voldemort confused.”

“Indeed. But I insist that I be informed of every step of your plan of action. You will understand that Lucius and Owen need cast-iron alibis, provided by a completely unsuspicious third party. Lestrange can fret for himself—I couldn’t care less.”

“That is only too understandable. What about yourself?”

Severus smirked at him. “It will not have escaped your attention that I am some sort of recluse, Headmaster. The operation will not take much time, and nobody will notice my absence.”

“Very well, then,” Dumbledore said, stroking his beard, “I will discuss this possibility with the group and inform you of the outcome.”

The conversation had come to an end, as there was nothing else to be said for the time being. Severus took his leave and returned to his quarters. He was sure that both Lucius and Owen would jump at the possibility to have Orel Beckinsale, Death Eater and mediwizard at St. Mungo’s, eliminated. The man had been a thorn in their flesh for far too long, mostly by jeopardizing their authority and orders. He had been accordingly punished, but that seemed to only have increased his recalcitrance. The Dark Mark hovering above the scene of crime would be sufficient to deter his son Anthony, the Gryffindor almost-prefect, from joining Voldemort’s ranks. And maybe Alastor Moody was going to participate in the attack… what delightful vengeance, for Beckinsale’s wife was Alastor Moody’s sister. Curse to kill, indeed.

~~~~*~~~~

“Professor Snape?”

Severus raised his head from the pile of homework he was grading at his office desk. “Good evening, Baron. Are the Slytherins making trouble?”

“Not tonight, no. They all seem to be busy packing. I believe you might want to check on Miss Reynolds, though.”

With a sigh, Severus laid down his quill and rose. “What’s the matter with that silly girl?”

“It seems that she had an altercation with Professor Black.”

“Great,” Severus said acidly, “That is exactly what we need. A lovesick Mathilda. Are you sure I’m the right person to look after her?”

“Yes,” the ghost replied calmly, “If you take along a basic antidote, that is.”

“Are you saying…” Severus looked at the Baron and then nodded to himself. “Of course you are. Basic antidote, you said?” He was already striding towards the Potions classroom, in a corner of which there was a cupboard filled with first-aid medicines. “What did she take, then?”

“A heavy overdose of Dreamless Sleep potion,” responded the Baron who had floated after him.

“In that case—” Severus rummaged through the shelves “—I should also take along some Pepper-Up. Is she in her rooms?” The spectre nodded, and Severus hurried out of the classroom and down the corridor.

He should have seen it coming, he thought. After overhearing that half-whispered conversation on Halloween, he had been watching Mathilda a little more closely; it had not been difficult to find a pretext for observing her—after all, she was his teaching assistant, and he had been telling her on various occasions that he deemed her teaching methods too lenient. Therefore, they had been spending two, sometimes three evenings per week discussing her students’ assignments. He had given her information about those he thought might need a firmer hand, and coached her through correcting homework. From time to time, he had slipped in an innocuous question and monitored her reactions very carefully. The outcome of these almost scientific observations had been that the girl was by no means happy, and that she had definitely a bad conscience. Mathilda could never quite look into his eyes; whenever their looks met, hers literally jumped away and onto some object around them, the farther away the better. Of course she did feel guilty—she had, if not participated in, so at least witnessed the growing enmity between Gryffindors and Slytherins over their seven years at Hogwarts. And, often enough, she had been present when the lingering hostility led to more concrete action.

But Severus was a very skilled judge of human nature and character. Being on top of the Slytherin hierarchy, where his closer relationship with Lucius had placed him since the beginning of his fourth year, meant that the correct assessment of minuscule gestures and reactions was almost something like a survival technique. And thus he knew intuitively that guilt was only one of the reasons that made Mathilda feel uneasy and her eyes shy away from his. The girl was clearly unhappy in her liaison with Black—why, he did not even bother to think about. He was fairly sure, though, and the certainty made him boil with fury, what might have been the last straw for her to take such a desperate step.

Because, just as he had proposed to Dumbledore, he had been an unseen but seeing witness the other night, when a group of four wizards chosen by the Headmaster had successfully attacked the home of Orel Beckinsale. The assault had been timed according to a pre-Christmas reception at the Ministry of Magic, where both Lucius and Owen had appeared for more than two hours, so that over three hundred people could give evidence as to their continued presence on the premises. Severus had been conspicuously asked by Dumbledore to come to his study after dinner for a game of chess or two, so that nobody would be able to question his absence from his own quarters. He had gone to Malfoy Manor via their Floo connection, and Apparated to Beckinsale’s house directly from Lucius’s study.

What he had seen during the fifteen minutes or so the attack had lasted had convinced him once more that whether one became a Death Eater or an Auror had little to do with an innate taste for cruelty and violence. It merely was a question of who was beckoning for you to follow them at the point where the path of your life ceased to be a single track and divided into more branches. Severus had always instinctively disliked Black. On the other hand, he had also been fairly sure the man was an open book for him. Not an overly interesting one at that. A certain streak of impulsive violence was part of the Gryffindor’s character, and Severus had been perfectly aware of it; much as he knew brutal sadism to be a part of Owen’s character. Those were facts and had to be reckoned with—Severus certainly was not the one who would put a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ label on people for what they were. What had astonished him, though, even to the point of revulsion, was the carefully planned and measured, but still brutish and elemental, cruelty Black was capable of.

Among Death Eaters, it was of course a current habit to make family members watch while their parents, children or relatives were tortured. Usually, it served to extract information from them, and in most cases it worked to perfection. It was a method, a means to an end. Which certainly did not exclude that  animals like Owen plainly enjoyed it. But Black… The self-appointed crusader for the Cause of Light, the glorious Knight of the Side of Good and Right… Severus had almost been nauseated by watching him torture Beckinsale to death—not even using the Cruciatus, oh no, he had cast Mutilospasmus on the man, making him scream in agony and vomit his guts before it was finally over. And all the time, Beckinsale’s wife and daughters had been present, under a full body bind, watching his horrific end. Black’s three companions had apparently tried to stop him at some point, but he had turned on them with such a feral gleam in his eyes that they had backed away and left him to his frenzy of gore and vengeance. Then he had freed the wife of the binding spell and beaten her—yes, there was no other word for it, beaten her into a bloody pulp, until one of the others had cast a merciful Avada Kedavra. While Black was still occupied with the woman, another of his companions had quickly finished off the girl. After this valiant feat had been accomplished, they had had to literally drag Black away from his victims. Still bedazzled, Severus had waited until they had Disapparated, cast the Dark Mark and gone back to Hogwarts the same way he had left it.

And he strongly suspected that Mathilda had been subjected to the after-effect these excesses had left on Black.

Of course, the stupid girl had warded her door, and Severus silently cursed while working his way through the protective spells. Finally, the door opened, and he hurried through the small living room into her bedchamber. His first reaction, as he entered the room, was to cover his face with his left sleeve. When he had successfully fought down the bile rising in his throat, he lowered his arm and turned to the Bloody Baron, who had floated inside in his wake. “Just as I thought,” he said grimly, “The overdose contains so much poppy that, in most cases, it provokes violent nausea.”

He moved closer to the bed and put the two vials containing the antidote and the Pepper-Up carefully on the nightstand. “She was fortunate, though,” he explained to the ghost who was hovering over Mathilda’s still form and watching her with clinical interest. “The nausea must have hit her when she was still half-conscious, and so she instinctively turned her head. Had it come later, the vomit would have suffocated her.” He saw the ghost nod and continued, “You might want to look away, Baron, this isn’t going to be appetizing.”

The Baron gave a spectral chuckle. “Believe me, Professor, I have seen worse than that. Much worse. If you do not mind, I would prefer to watch, as this is rather interesting.”

Severus shrugged and bent over the bed to move the body. Mathilda’s head was resting in a pool of vomit, she was ghostly pale and hardly breathed anymore. “No,” he said, more to himself than to the Baron, “No, this won’t do at all.” He drew his wand and levitated her, holding her head up by a clean strand of hair. When he had directed her close enough to him to reach her comfortably, he put down his wand on the bedspread and, grimacing with disgust, used his right forefinger to perfunctorily clean her mouth. Taking up his wand again, he lowered her onto a part of the bed that had not been contaminated. After summoning the two vials, he briefly reflected, then first pulled the stopper from the one that held the Pepper-Up. “I think it is better to stabilize her circulation first,” he explained, and the Baron nodded.

The effect of the concoction was immediate—Mathilda’s cheeks turned rosy, and her respiration grew stronger. “Exactly,” Severus muttered, uncorked the second vial and carefully poured its contents into her mouth. It took some time, but in the end she swallowed it all. “Baron,” Severus said, “Would you do me a big favour?” The ghost nodded and raised his eyebrows. “Could you please get hold of my House Elf Peggy? I haven’t yet decided what to make of this—” a movement of his head at Mathilda and the general mess “—and therefore do not want the rumours to spread all over the school.”

“Discretion is always the best choice,” the Baron agreed and vanished.

Never taking his eyes off the girl, Severus shed his robes and, after a short hesitation, simply threw them into the fireplace and incinerated them. Better be sure than have the House Elves ask bothersome questions. Then he cast a quick cleaning spell on his hands.

Mathilda’s eyelids fluttered open. “Severus?” she said, barely able to articulate.

“Yes it’s me. What the hell did you think?”

And immediately the tears began to flow. “I’m so unhappy! Why didn’t you simply leave me—”

“Because Dumbledore would have torn off my head, that’s why,” he replied dryly. “Besides, Black isn’t worth the life of a Slytherin, you ought to keep that in mind, my dear.”

She looked at him in utter horror. “You… you know?”

“Of course I know. What did that oaf do to you?”

“He…” She tried to sit up but was still too weak. Severus reached under the bedspread, pulled out a pillow and stuffed it under her head. “Thank you,” she said, trying a weak smile. “He was… I don’t know… he was absolutely beside himself. He told me…” She started sobbing.

As Peggy popped into view at exactly that moment, Severus decided to let the girl have her cry-out while the elf quickly changed the sheets and put a clean comforter on the bed. “Oh, and Peggy,” he said, after everything had been restored to a state of pristine cleanliness, “Please bring a pot of strong coffee and an infusion of nettle. We need to get her completely awake and purge her system of the residues of that damned potion.”

Peggy nodded and disappeared, and Severus sat down on the edge of the bed. “Mathilda, you have to tell me. I can’t promise I won’t inform the Headmaster, though. If possible, I will keep it a secret. But unless you tell me I’m going to Dumbledore right away.”

Obviously, this had been the right tactics, because Mathilda immediately started talking. “Sirius… he was totally different, as if under a spell. I don’t know what had got into him. His eyes were… oh, they were terrible. The look of a cornered animal… Severus, it was so horrible!”

“Yes,” he said, trying to sound more patient than he was, “but what did he say or do to you?”

“He didn’t let me approach him. When… when I asked what was wrong, he simply… he just said it was over, he couldn’t be with me anymore…”

The sobs were getting stronger, and Severus cursed at the impossibility of simply administering a calming potion. When Peggy brought the required coffee and herbal tea, he decided to start with the latter. She drank it obediently, and continued, “I asked him what was wrong, what I had done, but… I mean, he simply pushed me away, so hard that I fell, and shouted something about dirty Slytherins, and being dirty himself… I didn’t understand what he meant, really…”

“Of course you didn’t,” Severus said grimly, rising from the bed. “Listen, Mathilda, I’ll leave Peggy here with you. I still have work to do, and there isn’t much I can do right now to help you. If you need me, send Peggy, all right?”

She nodded and reached for his hand. He squeezed her fingers briefly and turned to leave.

“Severus?”

He stopped and looked back. “Yes?”

“You won’t tell Dumbledore… please?”

“No,” he said, “I don’t think it will be necessary.”

Back in his rooms, he went straight into his laboratory and, from one of the cupboards, pulled out a Pensieve. He had acquired it some time ago, more because it was a beautifully crafted object of art than with the intent to use it. Now, however, it came in very handy. He put it down on the worktable, summoned a chair and sat down. Elias, who had followed him upstairs, sat close by and watched with apparent interest as a few wispy strands of memory made their way into the basin where they pooled as silvery liquid.

“You see,” Severus addressed the raven after finishing the process of extracting, “these might turn out to be very useful someday.”

With these words, he put the Pensieve back into its cupboard, which he then locked and warded.

~~~~*~~~~

At last, the students had left—except for the few, of course, who remained at Hogwarts during the Christmas holidays. Mathilda had shown up at breakfast, bravely facing the noise and cheerfulness at the Great Hall, which was always at an unbearable level the day the children were about to board the Hogwarts express. She had taken her customary seat next to Alyma Pince, the assistant librarian, and occasional sideways glances Severus threw towards the two women assured him that Mathilda was talking, which he took as a good sign. Dumbledore was trying to be his usual merry self but did not quite succeed. Maybe, Severus thought, this was visible only to himself, for he knew that the Headmaster, although the decision to carry out the attack had been necessary and plainly justified by the situation, was not so jaded as to shrug off his feelings of guilt. They had not yet talked about the operation, but Lucius had confirmed the other day, talking to Severus by Floo, that it had had the desired effect: Lord Voldemort was furious and had even seemed a trifle insecure. Exactly what they had wanted.

Severus had handed his Master a copy of the formula for the Liberatio Potion—Voldemort himself had come up with the name, for it freed the donors of their magical powers—on 13 December, but had not yet been called upon to put it into practice. After the disaster of two days ago, though, Severus expected to be summoned any minute. The uncertainty the attack on Beckinsale had provoked would infallibly induce the Dark Lord to desire an increase of his own powers. It was, of course, possible that Voldemort would entrust the preparation to Lestrange, considering that he was now in possession of the formula, but Severus somehow doubted that. In a way, he was even looking forward to the event. After all, he had invested considerable amounts of time, thought and energy into creating the recipe, and he was absolutely sure it was going to work. He admitted to himself that he wanted to savour this scientific triumph personally, more so as Lucius and Owen had taken the necessary precautions and slipped strengthening potions to some of their fellow Death Eaters while taking doses of weakening draughts themselves. They still both had enough power left to protect themselves if necessary, but, as Lucius had told him, more energy-consuming curses had become positively draining.

Leisurely following this train of thought, Severus watched the students trickle out of the Great Hall, hoping that they might never come back. He truly hated teaching, as it was diametrically opposed to his nature that sought privacy above anything else. To be constantly exposed to adolescent talk and behaviour was taking a heavy toll on his nerves, and more often than not he took his frustration out directly on those who were causing it. Of course, he was fully aware of moving in a vicious circle—the more he tormented them, the clumsier they became, which led to even higher levels of frustration on his part.

“Severus, you’re looking positively murderous,” Amanda Hooch said, abandoning her chair and sitting down next to him. “You should be glad, they’re leaving.”

He merely glared at her. “This is but a short relief,” he snarled, “They’ll be back before I have even started to recover.”

At that, she laughed. “I see. You certainly have a tougher job than I—flying lessons are far easier to handle. Unless they fall off their brooms, of course,” she added.

“They could be raining down in masses for all I care,” he replied, helping himself to more coffee.

She waited until he passed her the coffee pot, and then asked, “Will you be staying here for the entire holidays?”

“Mmmh…” He nodded without looking at her. “I’ve been granted a leave of absence on Boxing Day, to have dinner with the Malfoys, but else I’m staying, yes. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing… Just because I’m staying as well. Interesting, isn’t it?”

He was about to give her a scathing answer, when suddenly he felt Voldemort was calling him. “Excuse me,” he mumbled, rising hastily, “I have to catch the Prefects before they leave… forgot to tell them…”

Ignoring her astonished look, he strode towards the door. It was time. The Liberatio Potion was going to be put to the test