The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 36

By Pigwidgeon37

Severus’s students had been subjected to a written exam before the holidays, so that he might gauge their skills and knowledge on a more reliable basis than just observation during the lessons and homework. Apart from grading their papers and making detailed annotations concerning their strengths and weaknesses, he did not have much to do during the rest of the holidays. Madam Pomfrey had asked him for a few potions to restock her stores, but those had been finished quickly. For which he was thoroughly grateful, because he badly needed the rest and quiet. What with the constant stress and pressure during fall term, he had been more or less unaware of just how worn-out he really was. Only when there was finally a possibility to breathe freely and think of other than strictly school- or Voldemort-related things, did he realize that he had almost used up his reserves.

Most of the staff had left for the Christmas break, and there were only few students left. Thus, Severus found it much easier to enjoy the meals in the Great Hall, although he preferred having breakfast in his own rooms. Not a sociable person by nature, he was even less gregarious in the morning and relished those early hours he was now able to spend all by himself, with only Elias for company. Occasionally the Bloody Baron put in an appearance, but the ghost could not really be called chatty; his matutinal visits were mostly spent in quiet contemplation, with a few words exchanged every now and then.

One of the perks of this holiday was, of course, that Black had left the castle, in order to spend some quality time with his beloved Potters. Severus could never resist grinning when he thought of the treatment Black was likely to receive from Lily Potter, in case he tried his typically Gryffindor macho attitudes with her. With only McGonagall, who seemed a lot calmer and less antagonistic now that her lapdog was away, Dumbledore, Amanda Hooch and Cassandra Coleridge around—Mr. Phorme, the librarian, never partook of any repast together with the others, probably because he lived on dust and ink, Severus suspected—the meals could almost be regarded as pleasant, and Severus felt very much at his ease. More so as he had not been called by Lord Voldemort for more than a week. In the quiet atmosphere of the almost-deserted school, it was easy to shut out all thoughts of a reality of the existence of which he was very much aware, but which he preferred to ignore for the time being. Considering that, together with Lucius and Narcissa, they had forged a plan to save the unborn child, Severus did not have much to worry about, if he managed to pretend that the here-and-now was all that counted, at least for the time being. Carpe diem, indeed.

He knew, however, that sooner or later he would need to have another talk with Dumbledore, and when he woke up on New Year’s Eve, he decided that it would be preferable by far if he were the one to initiate it. He therefore finished his morning toilette, ate his breakfast, which he shared with Elias—the raven had developed a taste for small bites of toast alternating with pieces of scrambled egg—and then went over to the fireplace to call the Headmaster. They had not spoken in private since Nathalie’s visit, so that there were a few things Severus had to fill him in on—not least the Malfoy pregnancy—besides providing the information Dumbledore had requested of him.

“Headmaster?” he called into the green flames, and, only seconds later, the ancient wizard’s head appeared on the grate. Severus bade him good morning and said, “Provided you have nothing better to do, would you like to continue our last conversation?”

“I am very glad indeed that you brought up the subject. Considering that I was just idling away the morning, you might come to my rooms right now, if that sits well with you. Liquorice drops, unless you prefer using the Floo.”

“No, thank you,” Severus replied, “I tend to avoid it whenever I can. I’ll be with you in about ten minutes.”

“Excellent. Do you think you might bring your raven? Fawkes seems to be feeling a bit lonely, which means that he is getting quite obnoxious, as always when he’s bored. Some avian company might lighten his mood.”

“Of course,” Severus said, “I’m sure Elias will be delighted.”

He summoned a heavy winter cloak—the living and teaching areas might be well-warmed, but the corridors were incredibly draughty, and one could never absolutely exclude the possibility of a float-through encounter with Peeves—called out for Elias to abandon his breakfast and settle on his shoulder, and off they went into the chill of Hogwarts’ halls.

As Severus had presumed, Dumbledore’s office was warm and cosy. He had not yet completely closed the door, when Fawkes gave an excited trill and took off his perch. Elias answered with a sharp croak, and for a while, the two birds performed some kind of round dance on wings above the two wizards, who did their best to save parchments and quills from being blown off the desk. Finally, raven and phoenix settled on Fawkes’s golden perch, where they remained, deeply engrossed in conversation as it seemed. The Headmaster told Severus to sit down and joined him in front of the fireplace, after ordering two mugs of hot chocolate from his elf Kitty.

When both were holding their cups, inhaling the delicious scent, Dumbledore said, “I would like to thank you again for taking the initiative, Severus. Let me repeat that you only have to disclose what you feel able to tell me.”

“I appreciate that, Headmaster. As I told you last time, I cannot reveal any names. In some cases, I will have to limit myself to mere indications. But first, I’d like to give you some news. Which part do you want to hear first? The good or the bad one?”

“News?” Dumbledore repeated, “I am surprised that there is a good part, really. In these times, news automatically means bad news.” He smiled at Severus. “I think I first want to hear the bad part.”

“Narcissa Malfoy is pregnant, and the child is due at the end of July.”

Dumbledore’s cup was trembling slightly. “Malfoy! He of all people must have known—”

“Indeed,” Severus interrupted him. “Exactly what I told him. At least he had the decency to look appropriately chastised. We have come up with a solution, though.” And he told Dumbledore about their plan.

After he had finished, the Headmaster wagged his head. “It is a very risky scheme, to say the least, but it might work. I suppose there is no chance of Mrs. Malfoy renouncing this child?”

“No, absolutely not. I can’t say I blame her—she lost her first one two years ago, and suffered terribly. She is… well, I suppose you could say that she is an innocent in the middle of all this madness, and thus should not be sacrificed unnecessarily.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore agreed, “That is certainly true.” He glanced over to the perch where Elias was currently grooming Fawkes’s scarlet plumage and obviously enjoying it. “What about the other information, then?”

Severus sighed. This was the part he had dreaded. He might have grown accustomed to being a traitor, although it was by no means easy. The intelligence Dumbledore had got so far, however, had never actively harmed any of Voldemort’s followers. Only in very few cases had there been Aurors waiting for the Death Eaters, and the former had always been led by those the Headmaster cold trust not to kill the assailants. A fragile construction, Severus was perfectly aware of it, but still one that ensured his—equally fragile—peace of mind most of the time. Now, however, he was about to give away knowledge, which, if it got into the wrong hands, might very well serve to get hold of sympathizers and followers. “Headmaster,” he began, “before letting you in on this information, I need to be absolutely sure that you will keep it entirely to yourself. There are cases where it’s easy to conclude which person I’m speaking about, even if I give you neither names nor numbers nor any other details.”

Dumbledore gazed at him attentively. “Like, for example, the Daily Prophet, you mean?”

Somehow, he was reluctant to accuse Nathalie. On the other hand, it was better if Dumbledore was as wary as possible—splitting hairs was not going to be to anybody’s benefit. “Yes,” he said therefore, “like the Daily Prophet. As I said, in some cases it’s easy to put two and two together. If you do it, I trust you sufficiently to be sure you won’t use that knowledge. Others, however, might be less… considerate.”

The Headmaster gazed into his mug and nodded slowly. “Considerate… do you have any idea how much it costs me to be so considerate?”

“Certainly not less than it costs me to keep my temper every time I set eyes on Black or the likes of him. But this situation doesn’t require emotions. It demands cool logic, and detachment from whatever we might feel.”

Lifting his head, the old wizard met Severus’s eyes. “Exactly what you have been practising for quite a long time, I suppose.”

“Yes,” Severus answered, unwavering under the powerful gaze. “But I would prefer not to discuss it.”

The tension passed, and the Headmaster smiled at him again. “I assure you that not a single word of what you are going to reveal will ever be imparted to anybody.”

Momentarily puzzled, Severus said, “I didn’t intend to ask that much, Headmaster. To say the truth, I was thinking of… well, of the near future, until we’ll have… until this is over.”

“This, my dear Severus, will never be over. Trust an old man.” Dumbledore got up and went to stand behind the younger wizard, putting both hands on his shoulders. “Do not deceive yourself, dear boy. You have made a choice, and a very courageous one at that. But you must not think that this is enough. You will be forced to choose again and again, as long as you live. And every time it will seem more difficult.

“To think that one decision is sufficient and will last you for a whole lifetime would mean you are fooling yourself. Who knows how long it will take us to vanquish Voldemort—if we win, that is. But after him, another will be waiting to take his place. Not necessarily as powerful or dangerous as he. Maybe easier to resist, maybe more difficult. Easy for you, difficult for me, who knows? We cannot be sure. But of one thing we can be sure: one choice is never enough.” He returned to his chair and sat down. “Forgive the ramblings of an old wizard. What I wanted to say was this: once this… war is over, many of those who today are sympathizers might recognize their error. What good would it do if I exposed them? Too many people have already lost too much, they are too deeply wounded. We cannot expect them to feel anything but a thirst for revenge—they would have to be saints for it to be otherwise. Considering that only very few among us are saints, it will be better to stop that spiral of hatred.”

And there it was again, that rush of contempt for what seemed weakness, that desire to sneer at the old man. And just like in old times, he was unable to give in to the contempt, and his face refused to turn into a grimace. That damnable Gryffindor goodness… But Severus felt that it was something else, something he was unable to grasp and therefore unable to mock. Neither goodness, nor ingenuity, nor weakness. Damn the old man! “Very well,” he said, “In that case I suggest you simply ask questions—that is easier for me.”

During the next two hours, Severus’s answers painted the picture of Great Britain’s wizarding world, of which Dumbledore already had more than an inkling. Question by question, response by response, the blanks were filled with colour. The Ministry of Magic—half of the staff were sympathizers, among them seven Death Eaters. Most of the big enterprises and more than half of the small ones—in the hands of sympathizers or followers. Urqhart Magical University—another Death Eater besides Lestrange, many sympathizers among the students. Same situation at the Oxford School for Mediwizards. Lots of sympathizers at St. Mungo’s, although Heather’s and, recently, Beckinsale’s demise had deprived Voldemort of his followers there. The Wizards’ Wireless—firmly in Voldemort’s hands. The Daily Prophet—in the Dark Lord’s clutches. And so on, and so on. When the Headmaster had finished asking his questions, he looked twenty years older.

“This is even worse than I thought,” he finally said, his voice flat and spent. “I was sure that we could at least rely on the smaller trades- and craftswizards. And on the majority of the Ministry staff. But how, Severus? How? There are not enough Death Eaters to constantly keep everybody under the Imperius Curse. And I refuse to believe that all of those who actively support Voldemort, and be it only by selling faulty medicine, have truly gone over to him!”

“Many of them have. But he doesn’t need the Imperius Curse, or just for very few of them. There is a most efficient potion that has exactly the same effect. Only the first dose may be tricky; after that, it merely has to be administered regularly.”

“A… potion.” Dumbledore looked over to the two birds, who were peacefully picking food from Fawkes’s bowl, and cast Severus a weary glance. “Severus… please tell me that you are not the one who brews it.”

Should he… no. Besides, it was inconsequential who had discovered the formula. “Lestrange brews and distributes it. He has been doing so for quite a few years.”

The Headmaster nodded. “Lestrange. Loath as I am to ask this question, is there a way to get rid of him?”

“You mean kill him?”

“Yes.” Now the old wizard’s voice was hoarse. “I mean kill him.”

Severus briefly pondered the question, then answered, “I suppose there might be a way. But if I were you, I’d think twice before taking such a step. The repercussions would be terrible—Voldemort would never forgive that, and the situation might very easily get out of hand. Besides, the logical next step would be for him to order me to brew it, in case Lestrange is eliminated. Then you’d have to kill me. And lose one of your few realistic chances.”

So it was possible to catch even Dumbledore unawares, Severus thought on his way back to Serpens Tower. Not that he had particularly enjoyed it. Nor had he disclosed the inventor’s identity. But he had little reason to rejoice, for he had thought Dumbledore possessed a more realistic notion of what was going on in this country. The old man’s distress had filled him with anxiety rather than with glee.

~~~~*~~~~

The Christmas break had almost come to an end, and slowly the teachers were trickling back to the school. Mathilda was the first of them, evidently glad to have returned. At dinner on the last free Saturday, she strode into the Great Hall and sat down next to Severus, after having greeted the other staff members.

“Gods, it’s so good to be back,” she sighed, helping herself to some stew and a slice of bread.

“Really?” Severus arched an eyebrow. “Apart from the fact that you seem to have recovered in a most splendid fashion, what are you going to do about that Gryffindor oaf?” He knew that this was not exactly a gentle or tactful way of phrasing his question, but he had been called by Voldemort in the afternoon and had had quite enough of mincing his words and treading on eggshells.

She did not seem to mind, though. On the contrary, to judge by her answer. “Sirius? I’m going to pay him back for every single second he made me suffer.”

“That’s almost a belated Christmas present, Mathilda. May I ask what brought about this change of mind?”

“Could you pass the pumpkin juice, please?” Severus obliged and she refilled her goblet. “Of course you may ask. Firstly, I may be generous, but there’s only so much I can take. That night—” now, he noticed, her hands were trembling slightly “—I definitely went past the point of no return. I realized how stupid I had been—thanks to you, I’m able to act accordingly. Secondly, Alyma told me that he made advances to her immediately on the next day, right after having pushed me out of his life. It hurt, but it also opened my eyes.”

“I hope Miss Pince has learned from your experience,” Severus observed, “Although I’m well aware that people seldom see others’ misfortune as a lesson for themselves.”

“That is entirely up to her,” Mathilda responded dryly, “and certainly not for me to worry about. What about the exams? Have you already graded them?”

“Of course I have. And I think we should discuss the results before the students return. Come to my quarters whenever it suits you.”

“I could come with you right after dinner,” she said. “It’s not as if I had big plans for tonight.”

And thus, about half an hour later, they were strolling through the corridors in the direction of Serpens Tower.

“And how was your time at home?” Severus asked, less out of interest in her most certainly futile holiday pastimes than in the hope to gather some useful information. After all, her parents were important members of the wizarding society, and Christmas, rather than a time of comfort and joy, was a period of intense social exchange and hence loads of gossip.

“Not as bad as I had thought. We were invited to… let me see… yes, four dinner parties, and hosted five of them. So there was relatively little family time, which I considered a big advantage. You know that I’m not overly fond of society gatherings, but this time I managed to persuade myself that I was in a menagerie, looking at so many strange animals, and had quite a lot of fun.”

They had arrived at the tapestry, and Severus gave the password. “The problem is,” he said, gesturing for Mathilda to precede him, “that those animals can talk. And what they have to say is mostly boring.”

“True,” she agreed, “but I also heard some interesting news.”

“Indeed?” Severus said, feigning disinterest.

“Indeed. Did you know that the Ministry is about to replace the Governor of Azkaban?”

At this bit of news, he did not even have to pretend he was surprised. “Really? And why?”

“Because they suspect him of having a soft spot for Voldemort, that’s why.”

Severus was having serious trouble keeping a straight face. The Governor of Azkaban had resisted numerous invitations, by letter and personally—of course he had been obliviated after the latter—to join the Dark Lord’s ranks. He would have been an invaluable addition because, in a way similar to the Hogwarts House Elves being bound to Dumbledore, the Dementors of Azkaban were bound to the prison’s governor. To have the Dementors as allies would have been a precious asset up Voldemort’s sleeve. So this was extremely important information, more so as Voldemort was still ignorant of this recent development. Otherwise he would certainly have mentioned it during the meeting earlier this day. However, Severus was unsure how to use it. Now that his own interests were not identical to Voldemort’s anymore, he had no desire to see a sympathizer rule over the Dementors.

“And have they already chosen a successor?” he asked, opening the door to his rooms.

“Yes, a certain Dirk Bones. He seems to be beyond suspicion, at least that was what transpired from the conversation. Ex-Ravenclaw and great friend of my uncle. Do you remember the attack on the Aurors’ Academy of two years ago?”

“More or less, yes.”

“My uncle was killed that night, and Bones was one of the two surviving staff members. So you can imagine that he isn’t particularly well-intentioned when it comes to Voldemort and his followers.”

That was good news, he thought. But he would have to make up his mind concerning the handling of this information. Severus was so lost in his ponderings that he did not listen properly to Mathilda’s next words. “I beg your pardon?” he said, “Sorry, I was elsewhere with my thoughts.”

“I said, speaking of Aurors—have you heard about McDonald?”

“Mathilda, I have spent the holidays buried in this pile of old stones. What should I have heard unless it was in the papers?”

“Oh, no, it wasn’t,” she said, sitting down opposite him at the desk, “It’s more of a rumour. It seems that McDonald is so fed up with the Ministry that he has decided to side with Dumbledore. Just imagine the uproar among the Aurors that will cause! And it’s a stupid thing to do, if you ask me, because the Aurors have to swear loyalty to the Ministry, not to their boss.”

“If you regard the matter from that point of view,” Severus said, inwardly rejoicing at the wealth of knowledge she was pouring out for him to grab, “he certainly does a disservice to both himself and Dumbledore. But I’m sure there’s something more to it, don’t you think so? And now let’s have a look at what those dunderheads had to say on the subject of Potions.”

They worked until almost midnight. When Severus saw that his assistant could just barely keep her eyes open, he sent her back to her quarters and, after seeing her off, returned to his fireplace for a nightcap and some serious thinking. After ten minutes or so of silent musings, he shook himself, grabbed the tin of Floo powder and called Lucius.

“Ah,” he said when the blonde head appeared in his fireplace, “you’re still up. Excellent. I got something to discuss with you.”

“All right, but make that short. I was on my way to bed. We had to endure a most appalling dinner party at the Notts’—Narcissa almost fell asleep at the table. But at least we could excuse ourselves and leave early. Pregnancies seem to make perfect pretexts for almost everything.”

“You have my most heartfelt compassion. But this is important, and so you’ll have to bear with me. The Ministry is going to replace Chaucer!”

“Huh? Replace whom?”

“Lionel Chaucer, the Governor of Azakaban.”

All traces of tiredness disappeared from Lucius’s face. “That sounds bad. Do you know who—”

“Yes. A certain Dirk Bones, one of the two survivors of our attack on the Aurors’ Academy.”

Lucius whistled through his teeth. “Indeed. Now that sounds a lot better. What are you going to do? Tell Voldemort?”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to discuss with you. I could tell him that I overheard Dumbledore telling McGonagall, and present it as the first tangible result of my spying activities here.”

“I thought you did get that information from Dumbledore,” Lucius said, looking puzzled.

“No, I didn’t. It’s a tidbit of society chit-chat Mathilda referred to me, only a few hours ago. And she also told me that McDonald is going to link arms with Dumbledore.”

Lucius shook his head. “Has he gone completely mad? First he eliminates all female Aurors, and then he deepens the gap separating Dumbledore and the Ministry? He couldn’t be one of St. John’s patients, could he?”

“I don’t think so. No, this is pure and simple Gryffindor stupidity. Concerning McDonald, my mind is made up: I’m telling Voldemort. We don’t need the Aurors to turn against each other, they’re weak enough as it is. But what about Bones?”

Lucius gazed down, probably into a glass. Then he asked, “How many times has Chaucer been asked to join us?”

“Oh, I don’t remember exactly. Four? Five maybe.”

“Mmmh, yes, that would be my estimate as well. So he won’t last for long anyway. To tell the truth, I rather hope we won’t attack him before he gets sacked—what if history repeats itself, and Voldemort wants one of our troupe to get the position, like he did after Greenbaum kicked the bucket? Three guesses who he’ll blame it on in case the plan fails. I’d say tell him about McDonald but not about Azkaban.”

“Sound reasoning, Malfoy.” Severus smirked at the other wizard. “All right then, I’ll send him a letter before going to bed. Good night, Lucius, and sweet dreams.”

Lucius merely sneered at him and broke the connection.

~~~~*~~~~

The next day—the last of the Christmas break—brought two very unpleasant surprises, one hidden within the other, like malignant Russian dolls. When Severus entered the Great Hall for lunch, a little late because he had been reading and lost track of time, Sirius Black was just sitting down at the table, the only other occupants of which were Alyma Pince, who had returned in the early morning, and Amanda Hooch. The latter had already spotted him, and so had Black. Thus it was impossible for Severus to simply make a strategic retreat and have lunch in his rooms, for he would never give Black the satisfaction of seeing his arch-enemy yield the territory to him. With a short nod to the others, who were already engaged in conversation, Severus sat down at the end of the table and, pretending to brush a rebellious strand of hair from his forehead, cast a Sensacutus Spell on his left ear. Post-holiday conversation might be mostly inane, but sometimes there was the odd needle in the proverbial haystack—case in point: his discussion with Mathilda the other night. And the Potters were Aurors.

So he listened to the ongoing conversation, only very superficially, while absentmindedly eating a plateful of vegetable soup and a slice of wholemeal bread. The breakfasts Peggy regularly forced him to eat did not leave him very hungry at noon. Obviously Black had spent the first half of his holidays at home with his parents, and, much to his bored discontent, Severus had to endure the tale of Gordon Black’s prowess, his reluctance to work together with Alastor Moody, and a detailed repetition of Astraea Black’s numerous rants against the Ministry guidelines that temporarily suspended female Aurors from their duties.

“And while I was staying with James and Lily,” Black continued, “I had to listen to the same niggling all over again. Much as I pitied Lily because of her morning sickness, I must say I was grateful for it—at least while she was vomiting she couldn’t talk.” The words ‘morning sickness’ hit Severus like a Beater’s club.

Miss Pince giggled, and Amanda Hooch said, “You’re nothing but a heartless, unfeeling macho, Black, do you know that?”

“Of course I do. But tell me, what is the use of nagging on and on, if there’s no chance of changing the situation?”

“Poor woman,” Alyma Pince piped up, “And when is the baby due?”

“Some time during the summer, I think,” Black replied carelessly, “End of July, beginning of August, something like that.”

Why did people have to procreate in times like these, Severus thought, furiously dismembering a slice of bread until there was merely a heap of crumbles in front of him. End of July, beginning of August. Another one. Just what they needed. As if they did not have enough trouble without all those cubs. He brusquely rose from the table, cringing because the sound of his chair scraping across the stone floor nearly split his tympanum, and strode out of the Great Hall. After taking the spell off his hear, he quickly went to find Dumbledore.

The Headmaster was not alone; McGonagall was sitting in the visitors’ chair, and both were busy discussing financial questions. When Severus entered the office, she turned to cast the intruder an impatient look. “Professor Snape,” she said, realizing that he had not retreated but was still standing on the threshold, “the Headmaster and I are busy at the moment. Please return—” She stopped in mid-sentence, because Severus merely shook his head. A crease formed between her eyebrows, and her look grew a little icier.

“I’m sorry, but this is important,” Severus said with a pointed glance at Dumbledore. “Important and urgent, to be exact.”

“Well then, go ahead,” she snapped, obviously without any intention to leave.

“And private,” he added. Had the situation been less serious, he would have positively enjoyed the vexed expression on the Deputy’s face.

She did not budge, though, and merely turned back towards Dumbledore, probably expecting him to deal the irreverent young teacher a healthy rebuff. Only she did not get her wish, because the Headmaster, although visibly uncomfortable, said, “In that case… is it really urgent, Severus?” He nodded. “Well, Minerva, I’m afraid you will have to excuse us for a few minutes.”

McGonagall nodded primly, got up and, without another word, stalked out of the office.

The Headmaster heaved a deep sigh. “Severus, I know I’m asking a lot, but I think we will have to tell her sooner or later. I can sense the hostility between the two of you, and I’m fully aware that both of you have more than one reason to dislike each other.” Severus merely snorted. “But you will also acknowledge the fact that, unless she is conscious of your role, there might be some… well, unpleasant situations, and not only unpleasant. They might turn out to your disadvantage.”

“You mean she might keep Black on a somewhat shorter leash if she knew that I’m a Death Eater?” Severus snapped. “I think that this particular information might rather obtain the contrary effect.”

“Now you are being stubborn and prejudiced,” Dumbledore said, frowning at him.

“I beg your pardon? She’s been after my throat ever since Sirius the Wonderboy tried to kill me, she denied me the N.E.W.T. in Advanced Transfiguration under the most absurd pretext, and you are calling me prejudiced? If anything, you might say that I’m bearing her a grudge and—”

“Enough!” Dumbledore called sharply, eyes blazing. “You will have, as you recently admonished me to do, to take a step back and distance yourself from those emotions. As will Minerva. This is no time for grudges, Severus, justified as they might be. Too much is at stake for us to indulge in this kind of feelings.”

Breathing heavily, Severus glanced at the other wizard. Rationally, he knew that Dumbledore’s arguments were right; but this awareness did nothing to soothe the hate and impotent fury he was feeling. Apart from the fact that his emotions were anything but childish, the mere thought of having to give in—again!—made his hackles rise. And the knowledge that, even if he stormed out of the office right now, he would have to return sooner or later and admit defeat, was another thorn in his flesh. Of course, this was different than with Voldemort, because with Dumbledore he was at least able to word his anger. The possibility to argue made the situation appear slightly more bearable, and after venting his feelings, at least partly, is was easier to repress them. “Very well,” he said after a pause, “Then call her. But I won’t take any insults from her. And I don’t react too kindly to self-righteous Gryffindor morals—just so you are forewarned.”

“I know, Severus,” Dumbledore replied, rising and moving towards the fireplace, “And I assure you that, should our discussion become unpleasant, I will most certainly be on your side.” He took the tin with the Floo powder and opened it. “I am well aware that Minerva tends to be a little judgmental at times, but on the other hand I am also sure of her ability to recognize the importance of the decision you have made.”

~~~~*~~~~

Two extremely unpleasant hours later, Severus, Dumbledore and McGonagall were having tea in the Headmaster’s office. The discussion had been heated and exhausting, for all of them, but Severus could not deny that he felt a lot better now. It was, of course, impossible to change the past, or to make things un-happen, but to finally throw his accumulated anger into the face of those who had caused it had been a great relief. They had come to a grudging understanding, a kind of fragile truce based on McGonagall’s reluctant acknowledgement of what he was accomplishing for their side, and on Severus’s innate Slytherin ability to recognize exactly when it was better to just let things rest.

They had emptied their cups in silence, and now Dumbledore refilled them and said, “I believe that you wanted to tell me something, Severus?”

What with the turmoil of emotions he had gone through he had almost forgotten. “Yes, Headmaster. It seems that another child is on its way.”

Dumbledore put down his cup. “I see. Who is it?”

“The Potters. And this is worse than with Lucius.”

McGonagall frowned at him. “Why would it be so much worse? On the contrary, I would have assumed that Voldemort might get more easily to the child of one of his followers…”

Severus told them about the ‘virgin prank’. “Voldemort is patient, you know?” he finished his account, “He has been waiting for more than three years to get his own back at James Potter, and he will certainly wait a little longer, if his patience ensures that the blow he deals them hurts even more. Besides, he does have a certain faible for poetic revenge—blood for blood, that would be very appropriate.”

McGonagall gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Appropriate indeed. We must definitely prevent the news from leaking out.”

“That was exactly why I deemed this a very urgent matter,” Severus retorted, “What with Black bragging about Lily’s pregnancy, as if the child were his…”

“That, Professor Snape, was absolutely uncalled for,” McGonagall said sharply.

“You are both right about the necessity of keeping this a secret,” Dumbledore cut the thread of discussion that threatened to become a fuse, “But I think it will be useless to try and keep James and Lily, or any of their friends, for that matter, from divulging the news. If Sirius knows, it is highly probable that most or all of their friends know by now and have already told others. No, we have to think of something else.”

“We should advise them to go into hiding,” McGonagall offered.

Severus shook his head in disbelief. “Do you seriously think, even for a moment, that Voldemort won’t find them? He will order me to have a look at the birth register and closely monitor the families of all those born on 31 July. The Potters won’t stand a chance.”

Dumbledore sighed and nodded. “Yes, and there is no way you could possibly refuse that order. Besides, much as I hate to say this, James is far too proud and hot-headed to go into hiding. Severus, considering you already made your first experience with the potion, how will the blood be taken?”

“Depends, I suppose,” Severus said, shrugging, “Mansfield was volunteering, more or less, so we could just cut his carotid and let him bleed to death. No,” he hissed, seeing McGonagall’s horrified look, “I did not enjoy it, just in case you were wondering!”

“I… sorry,” she muttered, “I am not really used to—”

“You do get used to it, believe me,” he interrupted her sharply. “Anyway, to return to your question, Headmaster, I presume that Voldemort wouldn’t renounce the pleasure of forcing the Potters to watch their child bleeding to death. So the procedure would probably be the same.”

“I see.” Dumbledore gazed into the merrily crackling flames for a while. “Do you think there is a remote possibility for you to develop a potion that renders the skin impenetrable to a knife?”

Severus pondered the question. “Maybe,” he said slowly, “I could give it a try. But what if he—or whoever has to carry out the mission—uses the killing curse first? The blood may just as well be taken from a dead person.”

“That was why I wanted to know—” Dumbledore began but was interrupted by Severus.

“Wait!” he said, feeling his heart hammer with excitement. A challenge was a challenge, after all, and he had always loved difficult problems he could hone his sharp mind at. “I think I might find a way… you remember, don’t you,” he addressed the Headmaster, “that I told you about the rather weak effect of the Liberatio Potion?” Dumbledore nodded and bent forward, his interest evidently sparked. “Considering that he doesn’t know why the effect is not as strong as he expected—”

“He will find out,” McGonagall objected.

“He certainly won’t find out. Neither he nor Lestrange. So, if the worst really happens, meaning that the child is born on 31 July and he goes after the Potters, I might try to convince him shortly before the attack that the potion would be much stronger if the blood comes from an already-dead person. Because—” he leaned back and crossed his legs “—even if I managed to develop some substance to make the skin impenetrable, Voldemort would put two and two together and kill me on the spot. If, on the other hand, I succeed in finding a formula for a potion that deflects curses, it would be an more unobtrusive way of—”

“Impossible!” McGonagall said, “There is no way of countering the Killing Curse!”

“There is always a way,” Dumbledore said, “And until now, the problem has always been tackled in a more traditional way, by searching a counter-curse. But Severus is, of course, right. Why not try with a potion? We have got one and a half years, and Great Britain’s most brilliant mind for potions-making.”

“You almost make it sound as if it were a piece of cake,” Severus said. He was feeling unaccountably gratified, though. Most of all because, if he was lucky enough with his research, he had found a way to discharge his alleged debt to that thrice-damned Gryffindor and would be rid of his oath once and for all.

~~~~*~~~~

The grand dining room at Malfoy Manor was lit by an inordinate amount of candles, their brightness multiplied by the crystal ornaments of the chandeliers that held them. The table was laid for five, with almost diaphanous porcelain resting on golden plates and surrounded by heavy silver cutlery with gilt handles. Glasses, so fragile that it seemed dangerous to even look at them, had been polished to spotless splendour by the House Elves. The table linen was impeccably white and crisp. Lucius Malfoy was hosting a small dinner party, and the lavish scenery had been set to perfection.

They had agreed that Severus should be the last to arrive, and thus, when he was admitted into the entrance hall by a House Elf, he already heard the sound of voices and laughter from the salon. A quick look into one of the tall mirrors told him that the folds of his black velvet dress robes were falling perfectly, and he quickly followed the elf towards the half-open door leading into the salon.

“Severus!” Lucius said, rising from his chair and striding towards him, “Always the last to arrive.”

They shook hands, and Severus remarked, “Not really. Owen hasn’t arrived yet, or so it seems.” He might be a mere bystander tonight, during this first, important step of their plan, but nonetheless he had to deliver his lines correctly.

“Owen won’t be with us tonight,” Lucius said, schooling his face into an expression on appropriate regret. “He called ten minutes ago—it seems that there is some trouble with a batch of wood they got from Merlin-knows-where, and his father sent him off to set things right.”

“Oh, what a—St. John,” Severus interrupted himself, taking Lestrange’s hand, “Good evening and… well, congratulations! Where are the ladies?”

Lestrange rolled his eyes. “Comparing bellies, I suppose. Which is absolutely insane, considering that both of them are still completely flat.”

“Pregnancy brings out the worst in women,” Lucius said nonchalantly, handing Severus a glass of whisky. “Which is true for my own wife as well as for Tabitha. Since when have you known?”

They raised their glasses. “To parenthood,” Lestrange declared with a smirk. “Severus, you lucky, lucky man. Heed my advice: don’t get married, and if you do, don’t get your wife pregnant.” Severus grinned and bowed his head. “We have known for three weeks, to answer your question,” he continued, addressing Lucius, “And she’s only six weeks pregnant. Why on earth she imagines it might already show I really have no idea.”

Two weeks ago, the three Phoenixes’ feathers had been rather brutally ruffled by Lestrange’s proud announcement that Tabitha, too, was expecting a child. However, their worst fears had proved unfounded, as she was going to give birth towards the middle of September. Not that an early birth could be excluded, but it was a well-known fact that prematurely-born children tended to possess less magical power. This fact considerably diminished the risk of an artificially induced birth for the sake of the Liberatio Potion. Besides, Severus, Lucius and Owen were pretty sure that, rather than use the child’s blood as a potion ingredient, Voldemort might want the little Lestrange to become another faithful follower, raised by strictly loyal parents. Unbeknownst to Lestrange, his announcement had provided the perfect occasion for the first step of Lucius and Severus’s plan to be carried out—a celebratory dinner in the presence of witnesses such as St. John and Tabitha would lend even greater credibility to the whole set-up.

The three wizards talked business for a while, the main topic of discussion being the planned attack on Peter McDonald, Head of the Auror Supervision Committee, and were then joined by the two women. Narcissa, a beauty even under the most averse circumstances, was looking radiant tonight. Severus thought that she might even outshine Yelena Malfoy, with her fair porcelain skin that seemed to gleam, and that aura of happiness. Tabitha, on the other hand, had never borne a more triumphant expression, and it was not for the first time that Severus wondered who might be her child’s father.

A House Elf announced that dinner was ready, and so all five proceeded to the dining room. The table was rectangular, and, due to Owen’s absence, the couples could not be split as was the tradition in wizarding High Society. Therefore Narcissa, the hostess, was seated at the narrow side of the table, facing Lestrange, who had Tabitha at his right. Severus was Tabitha’s right-hand neighbour, and at the opposite side of the table, Lucius had taken his seat.

Starters were served, and the conversation drifted towards the inevitable subject of pregnancies, babies and every imaginable related topic. Severus, who could not contribute much, retired into the role of silent observer, nodding every now and then, trying to look politely bored. When the empty plates were cleared away, he exchanged a furtive glance with Lucius. The game was up.

A House Elf brought in the soup tureen, which was Severus’s cue to involve both Tabitha and her husband into a conversation about the Slytherin Quidditch team. St. John, who during his own school days had been first Seeker and then Beater, joined in eagerly; Tabitha, who had less than fond memories of the female Chaser, made some scathing remarks, and thus none of the two noticed Lucius’s quick movement that caused the elf to drop the tureen, spilling most of the hot liquid over Narcissa’s lap. Her cry of pain was, of course, fake, because her husband had put a cooling charm on her napkin, but the performance was more than adequate.

It was by no means a secret that Lucius used to treat his House Elves very badly, even when they had done nothing to deserve it. Nobody was therefore astonished when he whipped out his wand and cast a Cruciatus Curse on the small creature. He took it off after a few seconds, though, and curtly ordered the elf to bring him a pair of gloves.

Seemingly trembling with fury—and only Severus and Narcissa knew that it was something more akin to performance anxiety—he snatched the gloves from the elf’s hand and, slowly and for everybody to see, slipped them over the long, spindly fingers, accompanied by the elf’s desperate “No, Master Lucius, not gives clothes to Skimpy, please not gives clothes to Skimpy, I is a good elf…”

When he was done, Lucius straightened up and merely said, “Out!”

There was nothing the elf could do but leave. And if Owen was waiting for it outside, as they had planned, the first part of their scheme would have been successfully accomplished.