The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 35

By Pigwidgeon37

The urge was getting almost unbearable, and Severus barely managed to grab his Death Eater robes, the vessel containing the Devil's Lily oil, and to attach a note for Dumbledore to Elias’s leg, before he stumbled into the green flames that took him to Malfoy Manor. Lucius was already waiting near the fireplace, dressed in his Death Eater regalia, mask on, arms crossed, and tapping an impatient rhythm on the floor with his right boot.

“About time!” he snapped and Disapparated.

Severus dressed hastily, touched his Dark Mark and followed him. To his surprise, he was not transported to Albania, as he had somehow been expecting, but to the Ring of Brodgar. The weather had not been too friendly at Hogwarts, but up here it was snowing, and there was little light, due to the time of day and year—the winter solstice had been only the other day. The dull half-light was sufficient, though, for Severus to see that this was a small meeting, with only himself, both Lestranges, Lucius and Owen as participants. And the donor. Severus felt his knees go weak with relief at the sight of the black-clad figure that was lying, prone and immobile, atop the altar-like block of stone in the middle of the circle. Whoever it was, the Phoenixes had been spared.

“You may take off your masks,” Voldemort’s voice resounded from behind them, and they all turned round to greet him, their faces now visible. When the last of them had risen to his feet again, the Dark Lord began, “Today, my trusted friends, you are going to witness a sacrifice. One of my faithful followers will give his life and blood, so as to increase his Master's power.” Lucius and Owen were looking appropriately puzzled. Lestrange and Tabitha were smiling and nodding. Voldemort moved over to Severus and put a hand on his shoulder. “On my behest, Severus has developed the Liberatio Potion, a basic ingredient of which is wizards’ blood. And, although I do not harbour any doubts as to its effectiveness, I have decided all the same that we shall first test it within this circle of friends. You have deserved to be the first ones to be present when Lord Voldemort's power reaches new heights.”

The five bowed their heads and muttered their thanks. Voldemort went back to the stone altar and, in an almost loving gesture, took the mask off the prone figure’s face. Out of the corner of his eye, Severus saw Lucius sway slightly. For a moment, the light grey irises were reduced to narrow, silvery rings encircling unnaturally large pupils. Small wonder, Severus thought. For the intended victim was Thomas Mansfield, ex-Keeper and Quidditch Captain of Slytherin House.

Like a doctor tending to his patient, Voldemort sat down on the edge of the stone and cupped Mansfield's cheek in his hand. Severus saw the young wizard's eyelids flutter in an attempt to blink back tears—whether of joy or desperation was impossible to tell.

“You possess great power, child,” the Master spoke softly, bending over Mansfield, so that his voice was barely audible to the others. “And I will accept this power from you, as a gift freely given.” A barely perceptible nod, a whispered ‘yes, My Lord’, and Voldemort rose, gesturing for Severus to approach the stone. “St. John,” he called over his shoulder, “the scalpel and the vials!”

Lestrange stepped forward and produced the required items from his pocket, charmed them from miniature format back to their original size and deposited them on the stone. “Your turn, Severus,” he said, the acid in his tone unmistakeable.

Had it been possible, Severus would gladly have left the task to him. For a brief moment, he even considered the option, but then quickly discarded it. Not only would he be punished, in the end he would have to do it anyway. Do it. Kill with his own hands, without using a wand. Put his fingers on still-warm skin, feel his way towards the pulsing artery… he felt his stomach heave and cursed himself for having eaten breakfast. There was no way out, though. And so he knelt down.

“My Lord, may I ask St. John to assist me? I will need another hand—”

Voldemort cast him a brief smile. His eyes gleamed red. “Lucius, go help Severus.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

Severus knew Malfoy too well to not notice that he was keeping his composure merely by iron self-discipline. His gait was too stiff and his motions too abrupt. When he knelt on the ground next to Severus, it looked more like falling than like a controlled movement. He was avoiding Mansfield's eyes. But this was not the right time for sentimentalities—Voldemort and Lestrange were standing too close by for Severus to utter a single word or try an even minuscule soothing gesture. So he merely reached for the first vial—it could contain up to a pint of liquid and had to be held with both hands—and thrust it into Lucius’s hands. “You have to hold it right there,” he said, guiding the other’s hands with the vessel towards Mansfield's exposed throat. “When it’s full, I’ll close the wound and you just give it to me.”

Lucius nodded, wordless and stony-faced. Severus took the scalpel, noticing that his right hand was trembling. With a deep breath, he steeled himself to meet Mansfield’s steady gaze. He would have liked to yell at him, order him to close his eyes, because he was a coward and did not need another pair of eyes to haunt his dreams. But he remained silent in the silence of the henge, the stones of which were barely visible through the curtain of snowflakes. They danced down, and came to rest on the black robes of both the victim and the executioner. And with a smile that could express disdain or forgiveness, Mansfield closed his eyes and turned his head to the other side. The pulsing artery was clearly visible under his ear. Very slowly, Severus raised his left hand, index and middle finger spread apart like the blades of a pair of scissors, and put them on the throbbing flesh that seemed unnaturally hot in the bitingly cold air. Spreading his fingers a little more and exerting light pressure, he stretched the skin, took a deep breath and cut.

In the vial, the dark red liquid rose steadily, steaming and emitting a hot smell of metal and of life. When it was almost full, Severus released the scalpel, drew his wand and closed the wound. Lucius, as ashen-faced as the now-unconscious Mansfield, seemed to be frozen in his position, so that Severus had to pry his hands from the crystal. He closed the vial, muttered a locking and a warming charm—the blood must not be coagulated by the cold—and carefully laid it on the ground. The procedure was repeated six times—by then, what had initially been gushes of blood had diminished into a mere trickle. Six pints were enough, though. There was no need to treat Mansfield like a slaughtered pig, cutting his throat and hanging him up by his feet to catch the last drop of blood. Six pints were enough. Six pints were… Severus pulled himself together and looked down at Lucius. He was still kneeling and holding out his arms, as if praying. Gritting his teeth because he heard Tabitha chuckle, Severus forced himself to turn the anger he felt into mere determination, inserted his right hand under Lucius’s left arm and hauled him to his feet, hissing “Get a grip, damn you!” under his breath. Then he turned towards the others. “My Lord,” he said, “Where do you want me to prepare the potion?”

Voldemort tilted his head slightly. “Do you have the Devil’s Lily?”

“Yes, My Lord.” His hand went to the pocket where the small amphora-like container was safely stored.

“Then give it to St. John, he will prepare the potion.”

Too surprised to keep his composure, Severus objected, “But, My Lord—”

“Insubordination?” Voldemort breathed and stepped closer, “I would have expected better of you, Severus.”

Lucius, who had regained his self-control, drew a sharp breath. The expression of cruel anticipation on Tabitha's face was enough for Severus to re-establish his dangerously swaying balance, so that he could respond calmly. “That was not my intention, My Lord. If you are convinced St. John can complete the potion, I will gladly leave the task to him.” He extracted the vessel from his pocket and handed it to Lestrange. “You might want to—”

“Thank you, Severus,” Lestrange interrupted him coldly, “I think I am able to follow the recipe without further advice.”

Severus bowed his head. “Of course, St. John.” So he was going to waste more of the Devil's Lily oil than necessary—all the better for the Phoenixes.

“Owen,” Voldemort called, “you will dispose of the… waste.” A careless gesture of his hand indicated Mansfield’s dead body. Severus saw Lucius’s jaw clench. “Come, St. John, Tabitha. You—” his gaze travelled from Owen to Lucius and Severus “—will join us tonight in Albania. Eight o’clock. Be punctual.” A second later, the three were gone.

The other three remained, immobile first and without speaking. Severus's mind was reeling, and all he could do was concentrate on the thin layer of snow forming on Owens’s hood and shoulders. He had been forced to commit a murder with his bare hands, with a scalpel instead of a wand; had been forced to perpetrate an act that deeply disgusted him but would still have been bearable, because it was only the first step towards something greater and more important. And then, Voldemort… Now he had to struggle for breath. The unmitigated assault of disappointment, revulsion, fury and jealousy was like an iron hand around his throat. Because Voldemort knew him, knew what brewing that potion had meant to him. Without even batting an eyelid, he had taken this treasure from Severus's hands and, in a gesture of carefully calculated, playful cruelty, put it into Lestrange’s hands. Degrading Severus to a mere executioner, good enough to cut the victims throat. Why this deliberate humiliation? What was the reason for so much malice?

When he heard a scream of rage, followed by a dull thud, Severus looked up and saw Owen sprawled on the ground, blood flowing profusely from his nose, and Lucius standing over him, pointing his wand towards the other wizard. For a moment, he thought his imagination was playing a trick on him, but then Owen sat up with a groan and stared incredulously at the slightly trembling wand-point. The bruises that already started to appear on Lucius’s knuckles were sufficient to convince Severus that this was not a dream or illusion, and so he fired an “Expelliarimus!” at him. The next second, he had to disarm Owen as well. Knowing better than to throw himself between the two antagonists, who were standing less than three steps from each other, ready to engage in a bodily fight, he simply cast two stunning spells. After a moment's hesitation, he conjured a shroud to cover Mansfield’s dead body, then levitated the two unconscious wizards, turning them round, so that they had their backs towards the altar when he brought them back to the ground. A short healing spell took care of Owen's nose, and when the two finally woke up, they found themselves sitting on the dead grass, feet and hands magically bound, and a very angry Severus glaring down at them.

Keeping his voice low, as he was wont to do in the classroom, he asked, “Have you gone completely mad? You are behaving like first-years, not like grown men. What's the matter with you, Lucius?”

When Malfoy answered, his voice was pure venom. “You know only too well, Snape, so don't even try to pull a Dumbledore here. This idiot—” he tilted his head towards Owen “—gave the power-enhancing potion to Mansfield, of all people.”

“You are the idiot here, Malfoy, and a sentimental idiot to boot!” Owen retorted. “If you deigned to think logically just for a moment, you’d see that I had no other choice: I could give it to Travers, but it was highly unlikely that Voldemort was going to sacrifice one of our few precious allies at the Ministry. Or to Cedric, but he’d have needed ten doses instead of one, in order to be even remotely eligible. Which left me the choice between Thomas and my own father. So forgive me if I put my own feelings over your delicate—”

“Shut up!” Malfoy yelled, “Shut up, or I swear I’ll kill you as soon as my hands are free. And you—” he looked up at Severus “—take off those bonds this instant!”

Severus shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lucius, but I can’t. You have to calm down first, both of you. We have to talk this over before—”

“There is nothing to talk about!” Lucius spat, wriggling in a vain attempt to free his hands.

“Yes, there is. And stop struggling, it’s useless. Look,” he said, crouching down and glancing from stormy grey to gleaming orange-brown eyes, “We have to sort this out, or we’ll lose everything, all three of us.” Lucius pressed his lips together and looked away. Owen merely growled. “Don’t you see,” he continued, his voice hoarse with exasperation, “that this is exactly what he wants? We can't afford conflicts or grudges—it’s simply too dangerous.”

“I’m not the one creating a conflict here,” Owen replied gruffly.

Closing his eyes, Severus prayed for patience. “This isn't about putting the blame on one of us, Owen. This is about a common interest, to avoid the sentimental concept of loyalty. If we want to reach our common aim, we have to put aside this kind of inner conflicts. At least for the time being. When this is all over, you can beat each other up as long and as often as you want. I couldn’t care less. But right now, these differences have to be forgotten.”

“Okay, okay,” Owen said, rolling his eyes. “No need to get all pathetic, I won't harm him.”

“All right. In that case, I’ll take off the bonds and give you your wand, so you can deal with Mansfield. I’ll stay here with Lucius for a little longer.”

When Owen was gone, taking the dead body with him, Severus sat down cross-legged on the ground. “Care to explain that outburst?”

When Lucius spoke, his voice was devoid of fury, or any other emotion. It was flat, and tired. “Take off those bonds, for Merlin’s sake.”

Severus eyed him doubtfully, then decided that he could stun him again if necessary, and pronounced the counter-spell. The magically conjured ropes dissolved, but Lucius did not budge. He merely covered his face with his hands.

“Lucius, I have no intention to stay here all day long. Besides, I’m not feeling on top of the world myself. So kindly explain what has got into you. Where’s that famous self-control?”

Wearily, Lucius scrambled to his feet and held out his hand. “Give me my wand, Sev. I… I don’t really feel like talking now. Just leave me be—I promise I won’t go after Owen. It was… it was a moment of… I don’t know. We can talk on Boxing Day, if you want. See you tonight in Albania.”

Alone, Severus decided that he ought to Apparate to the gates of Hogwarts rather than to Lucius’s study now. At least he would have half an hour to himself, while walking back to the castle, so that he might at least try to recompose himself. The emotional blow he had suffered would have been enough in and of itself. But Lucius losing control like this—he was deeply preoccupied. A scene like the one he had just witnessed was not a harbinger of happy news.

~~~~*~~~~

“Mansfield? He was a fine young man…” Dumbledore was looking out of the window, on which his breath was condensing in a small, milky patch that expanded and shrank with the rhythm of the old man’s breathing.

“I know, Headmaster. But we had no choice.”

“I am not blaming you, Severus. And I know that, before this madness comes to an end, many more fine young wizards and witches will have to die. When will you brew the potion?”

Glad that Dumbledore was turning his back towards him, Severus tried to keep his voice steady when he answered, “I will not brew it, Headmaster. St. John will.” To admit defeat to himself was bad. To admit it to Dumbledore, here in this office, where he had suffered one of the most humiliating defeats of his life at the Headmaster’s hands, was nothing short of torture.

“He is testing your loyalty.”

“Indeed. Although I have no idea whether he might not use it against me.”

Dumbledore turned round and went back to sit behind his desk. “I’m afraid I do not quite understand.”

“My… loyalty might be genuine, but it might just as well be the disguised wish to stay within his inner circle at any cost, so as to garner as much information as possible.”

“Which… it is.”

“Which it is.” What was the use of explaining to the old man that it was also the desperate hope of being readmitted into that trust and warmth he did no longer deserve? That fervent wish to be acknowledged, cherished for what he was? “I will have to go to him tonight, to be present when he takes the potion. And, of course,” he added after a short pause, “to take the blame for whichever mistake Lestrange might commit.” Dumbledore nodded gravely. “By the way, Headmaster, there is at least one favourable aspect to the fact that Lestrange has to prepare the potion.”

Dumbledore gave him a weak smile. “If you say so.”

“Yes, I do. He is not the one who developed the formula, so he probably won’t think of  the possibility—and I won’t bother you with details now—in one word, he will need more of the Devil’s Lily oil than I would have.”

“Ah,” the Headmaster said, “that is good news indeed.”

“If I told you so. There will only be left enough for two more doses. At least until the next summer solstice.”

Dumbledore sighed. “And after that…”

“After that…” Severus echoed and shrugged. “I’m afraid we’ll have to come up with some incantation… maybe Professor Sprout might have an idea how to prevent that blasted flower from blooming. So we could diminish the number of Devil’s Lilies to a reasonable amount.”

In the silence that fell, the rustle of Fawkes’s wings resounded like a strong gust of wind. The Phoenix took off from his perch and sailed over to his master. After a somewhat awkward landing that swept a stack of parchments from the desk, he swaggered close to Dumbledore, nudging the gnarled hands with his head. “He is a very perceptive bird,” the Headmaster said, almost apologetically, and stroked the fiery plumage. “Seeing as how the mood has reached an all-time low, why don’t you give me some information about the general situation?” Severus raised his eyebrows. “No names, Severus. Not even numbers, if you feel it is too much or too risky. Needless to assure you that whatever you choose to tell me will remain between you and me. You have my solemn promise that I will refer none of it to anybody, whether Ministry or resistance. But you must understand that I have to know, Severus. Unless I know where the enemy is, I will continue making strategic mistakes. And that, as even you will have to admit, is neither in your nor in my interest.”

Severus felt the urge to laugh, hysterically, until the laughter turned into sobs that would hopefully suffocate him, once and for all, so that nobody could demand anything of him anymore. “The moment is well-chosen,” he said, with a piercing stare at the Headmaster.

Dumbledore sighed. “No, Severus. The moment is merely a moment of despair. Nothing else. And if you choose not to disclose anything, I will, of course, accept and respect your decision.”

Leaning forward in his chair, Severus captured the blue gaze in his own. “Nobody respects my decisions, Headmaster,” he said, slowly and with less emotion than he actually felt. “Because I cannot respect them. Because I cannot respect myself for what I am doing. And don’t—” he raised his hand, for Dumbledore obviously meant to interrupt him “—don’t try to feed me that hogwash about Light and Dark or Good and Evil. There are two sides, and neither you nor I can judge which of them is better or worse.”

“We do not kill, Severus.”

“You do not kill, Headmaster. And when you deem it necessary, you do take lives. However, I have decided to side with you, and you will receive the information you requested. But not right now. I am…” He drew a ragged breath. “I am in no condition to tell you now. Give me a few days.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Of course, Severus. I… appreciate that.”

The tears came when, on his way to the door, Severus felt the phoenix land on his shoulder for a brief instant, trilling a single, paradisiacal note into his ear. Fortunately for him, the corridors were empty.

~~~~*~~~~

I could have sworn that the moon was full only a week ago. But it is hanging there, so bright and round—perfect and silvery, turning the forest into a fairytale scenery. Why should I question something so perfect? It is dark in here… Why hasn't Lord Voldemort lit the candles? Does he want complete darkness when he takes his potion? Then he must somehow extinguish the moon… probably he can do that. His power is immense—he can obscure the moon and the sun, pluck the stars from the sky, one by one, like so many silvery daisies. Look, the moon is darkening… now it looks like the setting sun, blood-red and purple.

“Severus, child, come to me!”

Tom… he’s calling me. How I love his voice. How I love being near him. When he touches my shoulder, I feel that I belong.

Who lit the candles? I don't want company, I want to stay with Tom, just the two of us. Tom, please, tell the others to go away. I can’t speak, but you know me, Tom, you know what I desire most, so please tell them to leave. Why do you allow them to enter? They are going to notice how close we are, you and I, and they will be jealous. I would even enjoy their jealousy, were I but sure that they won’t harm me. They’ll want me out of the way, Tom, they want you for themselves…

Look, there's Black… Please, Tom, please tell him that you prefer me to him, you do prefer me to him, don't you, Tom? I’m the one who brews your potions, the draughts that will make you even stronger, so you can not only take down the moon and shatter it like a glass marble on a floor of blood turned stone; no, you will reach up, higher than anybody ever stretched their hands, and you will take the sun between your thumb and index finger, and after a last look, you will squeeze it out like the flame of a candle. All the stars will be yours, Tom; like a rake through fathomless waters your hands will roam across the night sky, reaping stars, thousands of them. Standing by your side, I will watch the darkness fall until it is complete; together we will listen to the desperate wailing around us—they will be full of fear, like the small children they are. They know nothing, Tom. Nothing. Because they don’t know you. But I know you, and I will hold your hand in awe while you reach upwards once again and, with a single forceful grip, rip apart the dark firmament, so that brightness floods the world anew…

Why is he here, Tom? Why Dumbledore? Why does he hold the chalice and give it to you? It was mine to give, Tom… Dumbledore with the red eyes and the pince-nez dangling from his nose… I can’t believe that you are pushing me away! Silently, I have to cower at your feet, looking up at the throne you share with Dumbledore, enduring your cruel laughter and the mocking stare of your blue eyes. You drink the potion I made, and your hair turns white all of a sudden… This is not my fault, Tom, you know I wasn't the one who made you drink, it was Lestrange, not I! Lestrange, who is now wrapping me in chains… no, those are snakes, hissing at me and baring their fangs. What are you doing to me, Tom? Your arm is curled around Dumbledore's shoulder, and you are both watching me with detached interest, as if I were some strange animal.

The chalice is empty now. Don't throw it away, Tom! Where is it? I didn't hear it fall, someone must have caught it… you are waving to him, back there in the darkness he is standing, tall and grey and ghostly… Not a Dementor, Tom! I have already lost my soul, there is nothing for him to feed on! Please, Tom, save me for I have sinned—let me confess at least, before he touches me with those cold hands! Don't let him come near me! Away… I want away, even if it means eternal darkness and separation from you; but the snakes are holding me firmly in place, I can’t escape. The cold comes nearer and nearer… I would never have thought that such cold can exist… now he is lowering his mouth to mine. I can feel the anxious flutter of my soul, it is afraid of so much cold… Tom, please, Tom… But all you do is laugh, a cold, croaking, cackling—

“Professor!” The Bloody Baron floated through Severus once again. “I apologize for the somewhat brutal manner of waking you, but you seem to have a terrible nightmare. Elias here—” he indicated the hysterically fluttering raven “—is very upset.”

“It is all right, Baron.” Feeling as if all his muscles were made of lead, Severus sat up and shivered, when the cool air turned his perspiration-soaked pyjamas into a cold compress of fear. “I just… as you said. It was a nightmare. Come here!” he called out to Elias, who had alighted on the windowsill and was watching the scene with anxious interest. The bird gave a sharp croak and flew across the room to land on his master's forearm. “There, there. I’m all right, you see?—Thank you, Baron,” he said, looking upwards where the ghost was floating near the canopy, “That was… a very pleasant interruption.”

“I suppose so,” the spectre countered with a sardonic smile. “I have often seen you in the throes of nightmares, but never like tonight. However, you seem to be fine now, and thus I will leave you.” He floated straight through the canopy and then was gone.

Immensely grateful that the Baron had not asked any further, Severus got out of bed and went to the bathroom, grabbing a clean set of pyjamas on his way through the dressing room. When the candles and torches flared up and illuminated the paintings on the walls and ceiling, Severus felt that he had completely returned to reality again. Strange, he thought, that a fantasy summer landscape should have the power to reassure and soothe him. He shed his pyjamas and pointed his wand at the ceiling, murmuring “Tempesta calda!”, whereupon the clouds floating across the summer sky slowly hovered towards a spot directly above the tub and gathered into a dark grey storm-cloud. A few moments after Severus had entered the tub, they started releasing a dense, hot rain. With a moan of pleasure, he sat down, knees pulled up and shoulders hunched, exposing the taut muscles of his back to the hot downpour. It was better than any shower.

While gradually relaxing, he allowed his thoughts to return to last night's events. Although his subconscious had turned them into a nightmare, they had by no means been that dramatic. On the contrary: apart from his still-burning humiliation, because St. John had been allowed to prepare the potion, things had gone a lot better than any of them—meaning Lucius, Owen and himself—had expected. Voldemort had been waiting for them, outwardly calm, but his eyes had betrayed feverish anticipation. The same expression had prevailed on St. John and Tabitha's faces, although Lestrange had also been plainly anxious. When he had presented the chalice to their Master, kneeling in proud submissiveness, they had all held their breath. As always in emotional moments, Voldemort’s magical power had been palpable, almost like another person. Breathlessly, they had all watched him drink. The tension had been unbearable during the next seconds; even for Severus, who knew that the concoction had to work, at least theoretically. Then, all of a sudden, he had felt something like a shifting of the power that was permeating the room. A sideways look at the others told him that they, too, had sensed it.

Lifting his head to grant the warm rain access to his face, so that it could wash the traces of salt off his skin, Severus closed his eyes and smiled. He had every reason to do so. For, during the short stretch of time between Voldemort's last sip and the first words he spoke, Severus had realized that the purified snakes’ venom Lestrange used for his power-enhancing potions would probably partly neutralize the impact of the Liberatio Potion. There would be an increase in the Dark Lord’s power, maybe even a noticeable one, but it would never unfold its full effect. And Lestrange had used more than one third of the Devil’s Lily oil.

Nonetheless, Voldemort had been highly satisfied. Silently rejoicing at his realization, Severus admitted to himself that his pride had suffered relatively little when Lestrange reaped all the praise.

~~~~*~~~~

Since 22 December, Severus had not been called anymore. Usually an early riser, he had, for once, taken full advantage of the holidays and slept almost until lunch on the following day. After the interruption his nightmare and the ensuing shower had caused, he had truly needed his rest. He had spent the 23rd doing little more than reading, eating and sleeping, and thus felt thoroughly refreshed when he went down for breakfast in the Great Hall on Christmas Eve.

During the last two days, the snow-clouds had been blown southwards by a vicious northerly wind that whistled and moaned through the rafters and around the walls of Hogwarts. Through the thick veil of flakes, the outlines of the other towers had been barely visible when Severus gazed out of his bedroom window after he woke up. The Great Hall’s enchanted ceiling showed a whirl of grey and white that made the soft yellow light of the hundreds of candles appear even warmer and more welcoming.

It was very unlike Severus to enter a room completely relaxed and with his guards down. He hurriedly put them up again when he saw the woman sitting next to Dumbledore at the High Table. Grateful for his aquiline view that enabled him to recognize people, even at a large distance, before they saw him clearly, he put a mask of polite indifference over his features and continued walking towards the table. While approaching the small group—it was before eight o’clock, and thus only Dumbledore and McGonagall were there to keep Nathalie Pierson company—he carefully scrutinized the Headmaster’s face, detecting with pleasure that the ancient wizard did not seem overjoyed at the visitor's presence. This did not come as a surprise; after all, the Daily Prophet was subtly but constantly dropping hints as to who really retained the power in this country. Let alone that the paper had played a key role in annihilating Dumbledore's possibilities of becoming Minister of Magic after Windham had been killed.

Visibly relieved that he could leave the better part of the conversation to Severus, the Headmaster said genially, “Ah, Severus, here you are. So good of you to come. Mrs. Pierson, this is—”

“We have met.” The contralto voice had not changed, but her face had grown harder. A few more lines around the eyes. The corners of her mouth slightly pinched. The irises more grey than blue now—but that might also be an effect of the wintery light streaming down from the ceiling, Severus thought.

“We have indeed. How are you, Mrs. Pierson?”

The glare she cast him was icy. “As well as you can expect in times like these. You are my daughter's Head of House?”

“And her Potions teacher, yes.” Severus sat down and calmly poured himself some coffee. While taking a first, scalding, sip, he was poignantly aware of her eyes resting on him. He had no intention of returning her look anytime soon, though. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Dumbledore take in the interaction—or rather lack thereof—with something very akin to amusement. He calmly refilled his cup, sensing her angry impatience.

“Well?” she finally said.

As slowly as possible, he let his gaze trail first to her hands and then, almost dragging it, to her face. “I beg your pardon?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I am waiting.”

“You certainly give that impression. May I ask what exactly you are waiting for?”

At that, her fingers twitched briefly. “For an answer, Professor Snape.”

“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows and gave her an almost-smile. “I was not aware that you had asked another question than the one I answered already. Would you pass the butter, please?”

The dish was trembling in her hands. But she avoided his eyes. “My daughter. How is she doing?”

“Ah, I see. Well, I would say.” Severus buttered himself a piece of toast.

“Well?” Barely contained anger vibrated in her voice. “Is that all you have to say? What kind of teacher are you? She has been under your responsibility for almost for months, and you merely tell me she is doing well?”

Carefully dipping a spoon into the orange jelly, Severus scooped up some and transferred it onto his toast. “There is not much more to say, Mrs. Pierson. Gwendolyn is a most… unobtrusive child.” Yes, that would sting, he thought. Tell an ambitious Slytherin that her child does not stand out from the crowd, and she would be totally shocked. Maybe some more? “Pleasantly average, if I may say so.” He took a bite of his toast and looked right into her eyes.

Nostrils flaring, her whole posture expressing forced politeness, stretched to its extremes, she stared right back. While delicately dabbing his mouth with his napkin, Severus glanced past Nathalie towards McGonagall. The expression on the Head of Gryffindor’s face was, to say the least, baleful. Other than Dumbledore, she had a general and indiscriminate dislike of Slytherins; that and the Daily Prophet’s doubtful allegiance was enough to spark an immediate antipathy. Once more, she was going to be his ally, even though their motives could not be more different. “I agree with Professor Snape, Mrs. Pierson.”

Nathalie turned to the other side so brusquely that she almost upset Dumbledore's teacup. She did not apologize. “I beg your pardon?”

Had he not known, from personal experience—although merely as a bystander, never on the receiving end himself—that McGonagall was capable of hearty laughter, he would certainly have declared that she was not; the frigid smile she sent the younger witch was erecting an almost tangible barrier between the two women. “I expressed the conformity of my own assessment to Professor Snape’s, Mrs. Pierson. Your daughter—” with pleasure, Severus noticed the oh-so-slight emphasis on ‘your’, almost worthy of a Slytherin, that hinted at Gwendolyn’s illegitimate birth “—is, and you should take that as a compliment, an inconspicuous student. Average skills, average marks. I cannot remember having deducted points from Slytherin because of her.”

“And that is saying something,” Severus interjected silkily, giving her his best fake smile.

The tension at the table had reached a point where one single incautious word might very well provoke a small catastrophe, and Dumbledore was just about to calm the waters, when another contralto voice, more raucous and less pleasant than Nathalie’s uttered a friendly “Good morning, everybody!” and Amanda Hooch sat down at Severus's left. “Why, hello Sev!” she said, smiling at him. “You look loads better. It seems that you’re human after all—even you need a bit of sleep and relaxation.”

The look on Natalie's face, caused by both the amicable tone and the absence of anger at the abbreviation of Severus's name, was priceless. To put the icing on the cake, Severus turned towards his left-hand neighbour and said, “Good morning, Amanda. The way your minds seems to work is truly admirable: the French half makes a compliment, and the English one tempers it with sarcasm.”

Hooch grinned broadly, whereas Natalie drew a sharp breath.

“Er… Severus,” Dumbledore said, “I will take Mrs. Pierson to my office now. Would you please join us once you have finished your… breakfast?”

“Of course, Headmaster. Should I bring Mrs. Pierson's daughter?”

“That,” Dumbledore said, with a relieved sigh, “would be an excellent idea, I think.”

~~~~*~~~~

Despite the festive mood, the gifts and decorations Severus had hated as long as he could remember, those three days of quiet indolence spent at Hogwarts—with the exception of Nathalie's visit, but even that had not lacked a certain hilarious aspect—had done wonders for Severus. When he arrived at Malfoy Manor in the afternoon of Boxing Day, the contrast between his own well-being and the obvious dismay of his hosts hit him like a fist. He was a guest today, and thus had preferred walking down to the gates and Apparating to travelling to Lucius’s study by Floo. A visibly distressed House Elf opened the door and took his cloak. Then he was greeted by an even more distressed Narcissa.

“Severus, I am so glad you could come,” she said when he bent over her hand to kiss it.

He straightened up and gave her a puzzled look. “Anything the matter, Narcissa? You are looking a little worried…” He had worded his thoughts very carefully, but all the same her eyes were becoming very bright all of a sudden. “Narcissa,” he said, grabbing her hand again, “I don't want to be indiscreet… but are you having troubles with Lucius? He was a little… well, strange, last time I saw him, and—”

She shook her head. “I… not really, no. Come with me, Lucius is already waiting in the library.”

Not really? What was that supposed to mean? Shaking his head, Severus followed her to the library. As she had told him, Lucius was already there. He did not look much better than he had four days ago, when they had taken Mansfield’s blood. When Narcissa and Severus entered the room, he put the tumbler he had been holding on a side table and got up. To judge by the pinkish hue suffusing his face, the glass had been refilled more than once. “Hello, Sev,” he said, “Good to see you.” The lack of expression in his voice was belying his words, though.

No, Severus thought, they did not seem to be quarrelling. If anything, they were sharing some common grief. “Lucius,” he said, a terrible suspicion forming in his mind, “Has anything happened to your mother?”

Lucius shot him an astonished look. “No, of course not. Why are you asking?”

Severus gave an impatient snort. “Maybe you aren't aware anymore, Lucius, but the atmosphere here is downright depressing. First, I thought it was only you. But Narcissa is looking at least as gloomy as you—so what's the matter? If you’d rather be alone, that isn't a problem, just tell me and—”

“No!” Narcissa's hand came to rest on his shoulder, and she smiled at him fondly. “Please, Severus. This has nothing to do with you. Really. We are both glad that you’re here. Would you like something to drink?”

“You’ll need it,” Lucius said grimly.

Completely lost for words, Severus merely nodded and sat down in the chair he usually occupied. Lucius brought him his whisky and then joined Narcissa on the settee. They quietly raised their glasses and took a first sip. Feeling slightly more at his ease, Severus leaned back and crossed his legs.

After a short silence, Narcissa said, “Don't you think we should tell him, Lucius?”

“Yes, I suppose it's better to get it over with. Narcissa is pregnant.”

“Oh,” Severus said, now really at his wit’s end, “congratulations—that’s happy… what’s the… oh, shit!”

“Almost exactly my words,” Lucius observed dryly. “And please don't ask when the child is due.”

Severus downed his whisky in one gulp and went to refill the glass. His hands were trembling. “I suppose,” he said, returning to his chair, “that, considering your past experience, you wouldn't contemplate—”

“No!” Narcissa said sharply. “No way. I want to have this child, and if it means that we have to go into hiding at the end of the world.”

“I don't think that would be very useful,” Severus commented. “If he wants to find you, he will find you, wherever you are.”

“How very true,” Lucius agreed. “We cannot hide, and we both want this child to live. So we will have to think of something else.”

Severus nodded slowly. “And you can’t rely on any mediwizard’s or midwife’s discretion. Otherwise, it would be simple. They can induce the labour some days early, merely by giving her a potion, but—No!” he exclaimed, correctly interpreting the couple's look, “Sorry, but I can’t… this is simply too dangerous—”

“Oh, really?” Lucius snarled, “And what do you think it is for us?”

“I know, Lucius. But what would be the sense of incurring certain doom, you, I and the child?”

With a crash, Lucius smashed his glass down on the table. “You goddamned, bloody coward, what—”

“Please, Lucius,” Narcissa said, grabbing his left forearm and casting an apologetic glance at Severus, “This won't change anything. Let's discuss this as calmly and reasonably as we can… please!” she repeated, tears already running down her cheeks.

Face still flushed, Lucius made a visible effort to calm himself and, in an almost reluctant gesture, brushed the tears off her face with his thumb. This short intermezzo had given Severus time to gather his own wits. “Look,” he said, as composedly as he could, “I’m willing to help. But you must hear me out. There is no way you can keep Narcissa's pregnancy a secret. And there's absolutely no point in lying about the expected date of birth—it’s enough for him to get hold of your mediwizard and torture it out of him. Any objections?”

“No!” Lucius said gruffly, apparently soothed by his wife's distress.

“I’m glad to hear it. Now, if he knows that the child will be born towards the end of July, he will move heaven and earth to make it see the light exactly on 31 July. Which means that whatever we decide to do, we have to do it a lot earlier. And it must be something spectacular, something absolutely unsuspicious nobody can connect with you, myself or one of my potions.”

“Severus…” Narcissa's voice was very small. “If you are suggesting something similar to the… the incident, I… I really cannot go through this ordeal again, not even for this child…”

“No!” Severus said, rolling his eyes, “I’m not a monster, am I? Lucius would turn me into minced meat if I suggested such a thing. No, I was thinking of something else. And,” he added with a smirk at Lucius, “he will have to bear his fair share of pain this time.”

“Wonderful,” Lucius replied. “I only hope this child won't be as much trouble after its birth as it is before.”