The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Dear Sybil,

what I am about to do now might very well prove to be the most consequential, and hence the last, error of my whole lifetime. However, I have arrived at a point where I have little to lose. Not much more than my life, come to think of it. And it is not a treasured possession.

To make a long story short: I joined Voldemort immediately after school and used to be his loyal follower until about a year ago. For reasons it would take too long to explain, I decided to change sides, and am now teaching Potions at Hogwarts. Voldemort believes I am his spy, whereas in reality I am spying for Dumbledore. That sounds easy, doesn't it? Perhaps it is easy, and I am the one creating problems where in reality there are none.

Your letter to Dumbledore and the information it contained will be vital in the fight he is leading against Voldemort's forces. I hope that this news satisfies you.

It is not about this prediction, however, that I am now writing to you. It is about the one you gave me on our last evening at Hogwarts. For a long time, I had almost forgotten it. Then, a tragic event brought it back to my memory, and since then it has constantly been on my mind.

You know my opinion regarding Divination. We have never been friends, or even particularly close. Both facts cause me a certain reluctance to ask you whether there is a possibility to explain what exactly you saw in my future. The words are vague and ambiguous. Death and rebirth… sometimes I think I have already died, then again I am convinced that the death you are speaking of is still far away, and that I am going to be turned into a ghost. Of course, I should never have told you about my spying. On the other hand, maybe it helps you to locate at which point of the prophecy I have arrived.

I am aware that communication with the world outside the Academy is not looked upon benevolently by your teachers. But perhaps there is a possibility for you to answer. I am feeling like an idiot. Probably I will burn this letter as soon as I have finished it. In case I really send it off, I suppose it is unnecessary to tell you that you have to destroy it immediately, without mentioning its contents to anybody. (How dramatic that sounds, but these are dangerous times)

Yours sincerely

Severus Snape

~~~~*~~~~

He was far gone indeed, Severus mused, when he put down the quill. Writing to Sybil Trelawney, that jewel-loaded dragonfly, really was the apex of insanity. On the other hand… Exactly. On the other hand. It was an irrefutable fact that he had never felt more burnt-out and empty. Not that he would have claimed happiness, or cheerfulness, or any of that codswallop people usually desired; but that leaden feeling of being stuck in viscid, grey goo, almost unable to resist the suction pulling him downwards, each day a little more—that sensation was impossible to endure for a long time. It had started a while ago, and he had disregarded it. With every obstacle he encountered, every potion his students botched, every senseless bickering during staff meetings, the pressure had grown heavier, though. Until the point when he could not longer deny that he was close to suicide.

Certainly, there were things that brought some cheer to his existence—he was not fool enough to deny that. Working on the immunity potion, for example. Even though it was meant for the as of yet unborn Potter brat. But it was an interesting challenge. Concocting that scheme together with Lucius and Owen, and carrying out the first part of it, had been… well, kind of fun. To see Mathilda nettle that Black oaf did not lack a certain entertainment value. True. All true. But in the end, it was merely shallow entertainment. For the emptiness he felt inside and around himself could not be filled with half-pleasant little moments. He had tried to fill it with hate, but even that had failed, because ultimately it lacked sense. Unable to truly hate Voldemort, his realization that the Dark Lord was none-too-different from those who currently held power in the wizarding world had merely left him with a bitter aftertaste. It had been a long process, the beginning of which he was unable to pin down—maybe it had happened when he helped Lucius before the wedding—a slow growth of the awareness that, ultimately, Voldemort craved power solely for himself and was never going to share it with anybody. If Lestrange was still under that illusion, all the worse for him. He would come to his senses soon enough.

But Severus was sufficiently honest with himself to acknowledge that, if he was incapable of loathing Voldemort, he was also unable to develop any strong sentiment regarding Dumbledore. Neither love nor hate. Love was out of the question anyway, because it made him vulnerable and weak. And hate… No, it was impossible to hate the old wizard. Which merely served to make an already burning question all the more consequential: where did all this leave him, Severus Snape? He was a void, a void that functioned and accomplished what was expected of it. He had lost his youth, his enthusiasm, his drive, because there was no aim worth pursuing. Maybe, he thought, it would be better for him if he were less intelligent. For he might be able to persuade himself that preventing Voldemort from turning into some kind of super-wizard with unprecedented powers was an aim. He knew better, though. It was a task at best, one that might very well cost his life. It might even make his life worth living as long as it took him to accomplish it—but after that?

He knew that what he had told Elias some months ago, after too much whisky on an empty stomach, was nothing but the truth: he had lost his anchoring point. His leverage. He would have needed to belong—to something or somebody, whatever—for that confusion to end. From day to day, he fought his way with gritted teeth, struggled against that leaden feeling that was pulling him down. Muggles called it depression. Only naming a thing did not make it easier to cope with. That he had written to Sybil said it all, really. And he had made a promise to himself: until Voldemort was gone, he would endure. From that day on, he would be free to kill himself whenever he felt unable to go on. It was not much, but somehow it helped.

~~~~*~~~~

“Miss Reynolds seems to quite enjoy her little crusade,” the Bloody Baron remarked. They were now well into February, school had restarted little more than a month ago, and Mathilda had stayed true to her pledge that she would make Black pay for every single moment of suffering he had caused her.

Severus nodded, smiling grimly at the ghost. “I would lie if I said I don't enjoy it. And I have finally understood why she was sorted into Slytherin. The cunning she deploys in her pranks is considerable.”

“Yes,” the Baron agreed, “And her thirst for vengeance is even more astonishing. Although I have to say that, if the Headmaster ever gets any concrete proof—other than Black’s constant ranting against his former flame, of course—that will most certainly be the end of her teaching career.”

It was late in the morning, and a Saturday. Severus had retired to his quarters immediately after breakfast, so as to finish correcting a pile of homework before this afternoon’s Quidditch match. Ravenclaw was playing against Gryffindor, but the Headmaster had made it very clear that all Heads of Houses had to be present at all matches. Another useless attempt at fostering inter-house friendship—as if such a thing even existed—in Severus's opinion. But he had learned to use his energies more economically; and thus, instead of engaging in a fruitless argument, he had complied, as had all the others. Grateful for the break the Baron's appearance provided, he gave this last sentence some thought. “She’s being very circumspect, though,” he finally observed. “Or do you have any reason to fear she might be discovered?”

“No. Not at the moment. But you know how it is with success—sooner or later it gets to people’s heads. You might want to talk some reason into her, Professor. Just as a precautionary measure.”

Severus knew better than to dismiss any warning uttered by the Bloody Baron as unimportant and therefore, after the match had ended with a spectacular 220 to 30 ratio for Gryffindor—Black was gloating in a most insufferable fashion—he invited Mathilda for a drink at the Three Broomsticks. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and the air already smelled of wet earth and new plants, impatient to push through the humid soil, and so the idea of a walk down to Hogsmeade seemed quite appealing. That hint of spring was treacherous, though, for the light breeze ruffling their hair still held a wintery chill, and so they were glad for the warmth, if not for the noise, that welcomed them inside the pub. The two young teachers retired into a quiet booth, followed by a malevolent glance from Madam Rosmerta—she had not forgotten the rebuff Lucius had dealt her when she had dared to call him and Severus ‘boys’. The barmaid brought their drinks, and, after the first invigorating sips, Severus broached the subject of Sirius Black. In the beginning, Mathilda seemed willing enough to talk, but once she realized his intentions she grew stubborn.

“You found me, Severus!” she said, leaning forward to better look him in the eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, and the hands holding her bottle of butterbeer trembled slightly. “You found me,” she repeated, “and you saw first-hand what that bastard did to me!”

Severus stared at her, shaking his head in disbelief. This was preposterous—now he had to defend Black! “Mathilda, suicide is called suicide because you do it to yourself. I agree that he treated you like the bastard he is, but the one who attempted to kill you was yourself.”

She stared back, her eyes suddenly hard. “Why, Severus? Why are you defending him?”

There—he had seen it coming. Of all the stupid—“I am not defending Black! But can’t you see, woman, that what you are doing seriously endangers your position here? Sooner or later you are bound to make a mistake. And considering Black's not exactly favourable opinion on myself, he's probably going to insinuate that I was the one who instigated your little revenge campaign. That's the last thing I need, I assure you.”

“You are afraid of him,” she said slowly, leaning back and casting him a wry smile. “Severus Snape is afraid of Sirius Black. Who would have thought?”

It took all his self-control to not explode there and then. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” he snapped. Then the tumbler he had just emptied yielded to the pressure of his fingers with a silvery ‘crack’. With a furious growl, Severus resisted the childish urge to say something like ‘look what you’ve done’, drew his wand and mended both the glass and his hand. Looking up, he saw that Mathilda was watching him with something very akin to amusement in her eyes. “What?” he bellowed.

“Nothing, really… I just remembered…” Mathilda tilted her head and scrutinized him with a shrewd expression on her face.

Determined not to ask what she had remembered, Severus waved to the barmaid and ordered new drinks. His temper and voice were under control again, and he decided to try another approach. “If you prefer not to heed my advice, may I remind you that you are my teaching assistant. Which makes me your superior. As such, I hereby demand that these ridiculous pranks come to an end. This is an order, just in case you misunderstood.”

“What if—”

“If you continue, this will be regarded as an act of insubordination, of which I will have to inform the Headmaster. Sorry, but you leave me no other choice.”

“And all this trouble because you’re in love with Black…” she replied, in a mocking singsong.

Severus was dumbstruck. “Of all the preposterous—Mathilda, are you mad? What on earth gave you the idea—”

“He does play for both teams, doesn’t he? Remember our fifth year?”

“Of course, but—”

“Look, Severus, I’m not an idiot. Every Slytherin is his own best friend, so why would you go to such lengths in order to protect Sirius? There has to be something else…”

Glad that he had learned, over many years, to maintain a calm exterior while his mind was working furiously, Severus leaned back, face impassive, fingers slowly twirling the tumbler that rested on the polished wooden tabletop. In a way, her reaction was understandable. To her, the tension between him and Black was nothing but a deep but essentially un-dramatic antipathy between two colleagues. Impossible to tell her why he wanted to steer clear of Black as much as possible—the obnoxious Gryffindor had brought about Karkaroff’s hurried flight from Hogwarts by spying after the man. Of course, Severus was a lot smarter and better prepared than the now-fugitive Death Eater, but that certainly did not mean that he wanted to draw Black's attention to himself. If Mathilda was found out, Black would not hesitate a single moment to accuse him of being the mind behind the pranks—and some of them had been really nasty—merely taking advantage of Mathilda’s grudge and using her as a handy tool. Hence, the now-dormant suspicions might flare up anew, and Severus would have a harder time than ever avoiding being spied after. No, that was the last thing he needed. Unwittingly, Mathilda had provided him with a plausible, if entirely unwelcome, explanation. The question was: could it harm him in any way if this rumour found its way through the ever-listening walls of Hogwarts? What if some of the students caught wind of it and told their parents? What if the rumours reached Voldemort? In the end, it all boiled down to this single problem. Could the rumour possibly harm his position in the Dark Lord’s ranks? Homosexuality was not regarded as a repulsive illness or flaw, like in the Muggle world. It was tolerated with raised eyebrows, so to speak. Come to think of it, Voldemort—if he believed it at all—might want to use Severus's alleged sexual persuasion as a weapon against Black, whose presence at Hogwarts was a continuous thorn in his flesh. Or, if he so fancied, the Master might suggest that he win Black for their cause by means of blackmail or sexual enslavement… And that was something Severus could absolutely not allow, because he would be bound to either fail or blow his cover—which of these alternatives was worse he had absolutely no desire to think about. His decision was made.

With a half-smile to Mathilda, he leaned slightly forward, so that his forearms and hands were shielded from her view by the table, and swiftly pulled his wand, pointing it at her. His lips barely moved when he muttered “Obliviate!”, merely erasing the second, more heated part of their discussion. “Well,” he said then, nodding as if in agreement, “Let’s try with a compromise: one more revenge action, and then you stop. How does that sound to you?”

Her expression was slightly puzzled, and Severus waited eagerly for her to answer—he was highly skilled at memory spells, but to cancel a single and very short memory was always quite tricky. “W-well, yes, that seems… reasonable,” she replied. “After all…”

“Exactly. After all, there is enough tension as it is, and we don’t need Black to lose what little self-control he possesses. You know how he is…”

Mathilda nodded docilely. He had difficulties resisting the smirk that wanted to curl his lips. For this was a skill only very few possessed: you had to use the couple of seconds after the memory spell had taken effect, and you had to be convincing. It was almost like replacing the wiped-out memory with another, more appropriate one, during the short time the mind quivered and recomposed itself. Now she believed that she had agreed to the compromise he had offered. Really, he mused while they rose and made for the door, he should have thought of that right at the beginning. Then again, it would never have occurred to him that anybody might think he was infatuated with Black. It had been a close shave, but now he was aware of the possibility, ready to use it if necessary. And readiness, as the Prince of Denmark had so wisely observed, was all.

~~~~*~~~~

Ironically, it was exactly Mathilda’s last action that considerably diminished Black’s rampant suspicions as to Severus being a Death Eater.

Valentine’s day, a purely Muggle festivity, and one that had sneaked its way into British tradition only very recently, was an event almost all of the teachers thoroughly detested. Not only were the students, especially the older ones, nearly uncontrollable for more than twenty-four hours, there was also a noticeable increase in duelling and fighting activities among testosterone-fuelled youngsters. All four Heads of Houses had objected to the Headmaster's idea of holding another ball, and for once he had seen reason. Nothing and nobody could dissuade him, though, from having the hall decorated with pink candles—instead of the customary white ones—the tables strewn with rose petals and heart-shaped chocolates, wrapped in lurid pink paper, and the statues and suits of armour enchanted to sing love songs of their epochs. It was strictly forbidden for the students to use school owls for delivering love letters and Valentine cards, but many of them had their own owls anyway, and those who did not always found ways of sneaking to the owlery.

Severus's nerves were already as tense as bowstrings, because the attack on Peter McDonald, Head of the Auror Supervision Committee and aspiring ally of Albus Dumbledore, was planned for the night of the fourteenth. It was a Wednesday, and thus he was, of course, exempt from participating in the operation. But he knew that Lucius was leading the attack, and that he had been allowed to take only three men—Voldemort had by no means foregone his habit of sending his followers on almost-suicide missions, especially Lucius. McDonald had a wife—she was a colleague of Roberta Rosier, working at St. Mungo's as a soul healer—a pair of twin girls, Melanie and Natalie, who had graduated two years ago and still lived with their parents, and a son, Arthur, who had been a Ravenclaw two years above Severus. This meant that Lucius’s group of four would have to face five grown-up, fully trained wizards. Six of them, if Arthur McDonald’s girlfriend was present. The three Death Eaters Lucius had chosen were experienced and, above all, ruthless fighters, but all the same Severus felt his stomach twist into an uncomfortable knot of anxiety.

Breakfast had been a very strained affair, with an inordinate number of owls flying in and out of the Great Hall for the better part of the meal. He and the other three Heads of Houses had not really enjoyed eating, because they were constantly monitoring the birds, identifying those belonging to the school and writing down the addressees’ names for further interrogation about the senders. His morning classes had been nothing short of a catastrophe, as the students were distracted, giggling and whispering all the time, paying next to no attention to their potions and consequently botching them. Not even Minerva had complained when they passed the hourglasses indicating the house points on their way to lunch. All houses had suffered considerable losses, and she herself had deducted a substantial amount from her own Gryffindors, as she told Severus.

As was to be expected, things got worse in the afternoon. By then, the emotions that had started seething in the morning had arrived at the boiling point, and two sixth-year boys, a Ravenclaw and a Hufflepuff, even had the gall to ruin each other’s potions, due to their shared feelings for a fifth-year Ravenclaw girl. Fortunately, the consequences were not overly dramatic; Severus sent them off to the infirmary under the custody of a Hufflepuff prefect, their hands and faces covered in multicoloured boils.

He knew that he ought to go and have dinner at the Great Hall—if only to confirm his alibi for his obnoxious colleague’s sake—but it was simply beyond him. Therefore, after having cleaned up the remnants of the Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff cockfight, he wearily made his way back to his quarters and called Peggy.

“Master Severus, is you ill?” she asked, peering at him anxiously.

“Not ill, no. Just sick of those hormonal brats. And I’m not going down to dinner.”

The elf nodded sagely. “I sees and hears them all day long; no wonder you is tired, Master Severus. You knows what you needs?”

“A multiple Killing Curse to get rid of my so-called students. Other than that, I really couldn’t say.”

“The students calls it comfort food,” she said and grinned up at him.

“Ah!” Severus raised his eyebrows. “And what exactly would that be?”

“Well, mostly they eats chocolate—”

“That’s Lucius,” he interrupted her, shaking his head, “not me.”

She mimicked his gesture, ears flapping. “Not for you, Master Severus, I knows that. You wants a nice, hot chicken broth, then mashed potatoes with roast onions on top and a lot of gravy, and a bottle of Bordeaux. I has already opened it.”

“Peggy, Peggy,” he sighed, “What would I do without you?”

The elf merely grinned and popped out of sight. A little later, he was comfortably seated at the fireplace, enjoying the chicken soup and wine, and admitting to himself that he was already feeling a lot better. He had even managed to distract himself from the nagging thoughts about tonight's operation, which was to start—he checked his watch—in about half an hour.

“Shalls I treat your neck and shoulders, Master Severus?” Peggy asked, when he had finished his dinner.

“Excellent idea,” he said and straightened up a little, so that she could easily reach the tense muscles while perching on the backrest of his chair.

Thus lulled into a state of physical comfort and bliss, he almost dozed off.

“Severus?”

His head shot up and towards the fireplace, from where Dumbledores face was looking at him, wearing an expression of distress mingled with amusement. “Yes, Headmaster?”

“Could you… er, join me in my office for a moment? We seem to have a… situation that requires your assistance.”

Could this already be about McDonald? Severus thought. Another glance at his watch told him that it was too early—the attack had not even begun yet. Three minutes to go. Besides, the humorous glint in the Headmaster's eyes clearly indicated that the ‘situation’ could not possibly have anything to do with Death Eater activities. “Of course,” he said, rising from his chair and straightening his robes. “Is it urgent, or may I walk?”

“I think it would be preferable for you to use the Floo, just this once.”

The sight that greeted Severus when he stepped out of Dumbledore's fireplace more than explained the battle between tribulation and hilarity currently playing on the old wizard's wrinkled face. It seemed that Mathilda had landed her coup de grace, and Severus had to concede that it was exceedingly funny. Black was looking like a mad biologist’s worst fantasy: instead of hair, his head was covered in feathers, sporting a little tuft on top, like a cockatoo. Through the green beard he had sprouted, an enormous beak was poking, and his hands had turned into pig’s hoofs. Struggling to keep a straight face and his voice from getting squeaky with suppressed mirth, Severus managed to ask, “Am I right in assuming that this is Professor Black?”

The creature fuming in the chair opened its beak and… belched. Dumbledore turned his back towards the two teachers and coughed discreetly. Severus looked out of the window, into the black night, and desperately tried to concentrate on the ongoing attack at McDonald’s house, so as not to lose his composure. “Y-yes,” Dumbledore said, after his ‘coughing fit’ had come to an end. “This is indeed Professor Black. Before he got that… beak, he accused Miss Reynolds of being the culprit. And he… er, suggested that, eventually, you might be the perpetrator of this artful, but essentially inappropriate prank.”

Mustering all his dignity, Severus told him that he had nothing at all to do with Black's various outgrowths. “How did it happen, by the way?” he asked Dumbledore, who was nodding in agreement.

“A couple of school owls delivered Valentine cards to Sirius. It seems that the hexes have been wrapped into them, with a slight delaying effect, so that he would open as many as possible before they took effect.”

“I see,” Severus said. “Really, Headmaster, if I were childish enough to pull this kind of prank, I would use potions.”

Black's cloven hoofs flew up in a gesture of fervent accusation, and another belch escaped his beak. “I think,” Dumbledore said cautiously, voice quavering, “Professor Black means to imply that you would use hexes rather than potions, in order to better cover your traces.”

The situation was definitely beginning to annoy Severus—even for the sake of a cast-iron alibi, he would take only so many insults. By now, the attack had to be over anyway, so he could end this second-class performance. “Here!” he said sharply, tossing his wand into the Headmaster's hands. “Try Priori Incantatem on it, as many as you want, and then kindly let me take my leave.”

Dumbledore gave him a half-sorrowful, half-apologetic look and did as Severus had told him. “Well, Sirius,” he said, turning to his Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor, whose hex-induced features were slowly beginning to fade, “I’m afraid you owe Severus an apology. He certainly has nothing to do with… this.” He indicated Black’s rapidly shrinking animal attributes.

“Do not trouble yourself, Headmaster,” Severus said icily, already turning towards the fireplace, “The last thing I need or desire is an apology by Professor Black. An insincere apology is worse than the original insult. Good night, Sir.”

His first move after returning to his rooms was to call Mathilda. “You didn't use your own wand, did you? You’d be in big trouble, even though you’d have deserved it.”

“Of course I didn't. This morning, I saw McGonagall confiscate the wand of a Ravenclaw second-year, and she put it into her drawer in the staff room. So I borrowed it while I was correcting homework before lunch. It’s safely back in its drawer, and no one will be the wiser.”

Torn between exasperation and laughter, Severus shook his head. “Very well, Mathilda. But remember: this was the last one. Very imaginative, though, if a bit histrionic.”

“A pig, a preening cockatoo and a belching idiot—sums him up pretty well, doesn’t it?” she said. “But I’ll keep to my promise. This was the last one.”

However, the troubles fate had in store for Severus that day were far from being over. He had only just poured himself another glass of wine, to relax a moment before he went up to his laboratory and continued working on the immunity potion, when Dumbledore's head appeared again. This time, no doubt was possible as to the nature of his call: the old wizard was looking sad and angry. “I am sorry to disturb you again, Severus,” he said, but his tone of voice implied that this was merely a polite formula, “But I would like to have another word with you. The password is Treacle Tart.” 

Not without satisfaction, Severus noticed that, on an occasion like this, even the Headmaster seemed to find his passwords a tad incongruous. “Of course, Headmaster,” he said. “I will be with you instantly.”

At least, he thought while striding along the corridors, this was a confrontation he had been expecting, so he was prepared. Although he doubted that Dumbledore's reaction to his handling of the affair was going to be very understanding. Upon seeing the blazing fury in the Headmaster's eyes, when he had entered the office, Severus told himself that ‘not very understanding’ did not even begin to describe it.

The old wizard was standing behind his desk, white-knuckled hands clenching the edge of the tabletop. “Did you know about this?” he asked.

“If you are alluding to the attack on the McDonalds, yes, I did.”

Obviously, Dumbledore had expected him to apologize or justify himself, for he scrutinized him silently for a long while. “Why was I not informed?”

“Because I chose not to inform you,” Severus replied calmly.

Drawing a ragged breath, Dumbledore obviously tried to compose himself. “You chose not to inform me. I see. Are you aware that your choice cost four people their lives?”

“I was aware that they were going to die. Although I expected five deaths, not four.”

“Arthur McDonald had gone out for dinner with his girlfriend. Peter, his wife and the two girls are dead. And all you have to say is that you were expecting one more corpse to be found?”

“No, Headmaster. That is not all I have to say. But somehow you don't seem very willing to listen.”

Dumbledore's shoulders sagged, and he let himself slump into his chair. “These people were my friends, Severus. And Peter would have been a very valuable ally. You can hardly expect me to applaud that valiant deed, can you?”

“Of course not. But you might try to take a more objective point of view. I cannot risk blowing my cover, or endangering Lucius or Owen. This plan had been established with the utmost meticulousness—had it failed, Voldemort would have known for sure that there is a traitor. And one of us would have paid the price. Whether McDonald was your friend or not, none of us would have been willing to pay his life with ours. Heroism has no place in this game, especially not when it's completely useless.”

“I…” Dumbledore was on the verge of retorting, then obviously changed his mind. “We shall discuss this another time. Now go, Severus. Just go.”

Despite all his power and alleged leadership qualities, Severus thought, Dumbledore was nothing but a weak, old fool. A couple of weeks ago, he had flat-out asked Severus whether there was a possibility of killing Lestrange, without even considering the fact that St. John had once been Severus's friend, mentor and guardian. But when it came to his own chums, he evidently thought that the rules had to be changed.

He stepped through the tapestry and slowly ascended the stairs to his rooms. In the end, he thought, it all came down to personal emotions and preferences: ‘every Slytherin is his own best friend’ were the words of an old saying. This was doubtlessly true. What people chose to overlook, though, was that it was not true only for Slytherins. Homo homini lupus—that was the quintessence of it all.

“What's the matter with you, Elias?” he said to his raven, who landed on his shoulder immediately after he had opened the door. The bird gave a sharp croak and pulled at his hair. “Oh, stop it, you tiresome bird! I have enough on my mind without—” Then he heard it. An owl was knocking at the window.

Fearing the worst, he went to open it, and let out a sigh of relief when the bird that sailed into his living room turned out to e a peregrine falcon, not Lucius’s eagle owl. His relief gave way to confusion, though, because none of the people he knew used a peregrine falcon to deliver their mail. Shaking his head in wonderment, he untied a small roll of parchment from the bird's leg. It was not sealed. Severus unrolled it, and read:

She will enter the scene before the end of this year.

Sybil

~~~~*~~~~

The letter he had received on Valentine’s day had been shrunk and had found its place within Severus's medallion. Every time he touched it he felt a hot jolt of anticipation course through his whole body. It was useless to scold himself, to repeat again and again that this was crazy, that Sybil was nothing more than a fraud, and that he had absolutely no reason to believe in that ridiculous prediction. The flame that had been timidly glowing since the death of Clarissa’s father had been gently breathed upon by Fate in one of her unfathomable whims, and Severus was waiting. He knew that he could not help it. From the moment he had read those few, fateful words, the temptation to commit suicide had not resurfaced again. With the prospect of imminent salvation, vague as it was, his everyday life became a lot more bearable, although he had difficulties admitting as much to himself.

Not that life had become easy. His already fragile relationship with Dumbledore had been even more strained since the attack on the McDonalds—the icing on the cake being of course that no successor had been nominated for the Head of the Auror Supervision Committee, so that, at least from Voldemort's point of view, the situation was worse now than it had been before. The Aurors, who had hitherto been a more or less independent unit, were immediately incorporated into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and thus under the command of Bartemius Crouch. This was bad news for both Dumbledore and Voldemort, as Barty’s father—in spite of his unfortunate lapse after the attack on the Aurors’ Academy—still was one of the more influential members of the Ministry, and a fervent enemy of the Dark Lord. He was perfectly aware of the antagonism between Law Enforcers and Aurors, and made it clear right from the beginning that those hostilities had to be stopped immediately. His new-acquired subordinates were placed under close watch, and thus, those who had sympathies for Dumbledore rather than for the Ministry had to use more caution than ever when following his orders. Crouch’s methods of disciplining his inferiors might be questionable, but they were also very effective; hence, McDonald’s death had not weakened the enemy, as had been Voldemort's intention. On the contrary: now that Bartemius Crouch reigned over both Aurors and Law Enforcers, he had become the most powerful figure in the country, whereas the temporary Ministers of Magic had been reduced to mere cardboard figures. For the three phoenixes, it was hard to determine whether they should be glad or annoyed at this new development; on the one hand, the operations they had to plan and put into action were growing more perilous by the day, but on the other, Crouch's iron-handed regime had prevented the anti-Voldemort forces from being fragmentised and thus further weakened.

Severus still had to report to Voldemort on the thirteenth of every month, but seeing as how the Master seemed to be quite satisfied with the effect of the strengthening potions he regularly received by owl, those appointments had lost some of their threat. Moreover, Severus had by now perfected his courtesan manners—he was deeply disgusted with himself but had to concede that it was a very useful skill—and therefore almost never overstepped his boundaries. The chill holding his heart in a numbing grip, and the little value he attributed to his own life helped to maintain an impeccably composed façade when standing before the Dark Lord. Not that he was immune to surprises; the shock he got upon meeting Voldemort on 13 March was enough to remind him how frail his position was.

As usual, Voldemort received him at the Albanian headquarters. But he was not alone this time—Lucius, Owen and the two Lestranges were present as well. After delivering his monthly report, which contained false information about a counter-spell against the Cruciatus Curse the other side was allegedly working on, Severus was not dismissed. A furtive look at Lucius and Owen told him that they, too, were surprised to have been called. Their astonishment did not last long, though.

“Two hours ago,” Voldemort began, “I received a message from young Barty Crouch.”

Five sneers followed this announcement—the contempt of Barty, whose continuous attempts at being readmitted into his Master’s graces were rather pathetic, was one of the few sentiments they all shared. It seemed, however, that those attempts were not entirely fruitless, mostly because the disgraced young Death Eater's father had gained so much importance during the last weeks. Given the constant pressure Barty was living under, constantly and closely surveyed by his father, it was only logical that he desired nothing more than for Voldemort to finally take over, so he could show his true colours. Hence his persistent endeavours to worm vital information out of Crouch Sr., as discreetly as possible. Paradoxically, he was slightly more successful now, simply because the paternal monitoring had grown a little lax, due to the man’s enormous workload. Besides, a faint reflection of the respect every Ministry employee was compelled to feel for the Head of Magical Law enforcement shed its glow on the son, who was using this new advantage more subtly than most had given him credit for. If Barty had sent a message directly to Voldemort, it meant that what he had to tell him was urgent indeed.

Voldemort took a sheet of parchment from the table, unfolded it and read, “My Lord, please forgive my audacity—” Severus and Owen exchanged a glance under half-closed lids “—but I have important news. Tomorrow, the Ministry is going to officially announce that Lionel Chaucer, the current governor of Azkaban, is retiring, and that Dirk Bones, a former instructor at the Aurors’ Academy, will take his place.” Voldemort put down the letter and gave each of them a piercing stare. “Bones, as you might have presumed, is fiercely loyal to the Ministry, maybe even more so than Chaucer. This means that we have to act, and quickly.”

Five heads were lowered in assent. “My Lord,” St. John asked, “do you intend to issue a request that he join us, or do you want him killed right away?”

While Voldemort was pondering this question, Severus observed him unobtrusively. It was plainly obvious that he was still ingesting the potions Lestrange prepared for him. Maybe the subtle changes in his features seemed more pronounced because Severus saw him only once a month. But he was sure that the Dark Lord was treading a very dangerous path indeed, and compromising his health in a most reckless way.

“Everybody deserves a chance,” Voldemort finally answered, giving Lestrange a thin smile. “So we shall invite him politely to reconsider his loyalties. In case he refuses… Severus?”

“Yes, My Lord?” He had a feeling as if he were not going to like what his Master was about to say, and mentally steeled himself for the surprise to come.

“It has been quite a long time since last you commanded an operation.”

“Indeed, My Lord. My current position at Hogwarts certainly forbids me to participate actively more often, but I had already started wondering whether I had dissatisfied you in any way.” Carefully, he added a dose of polite anxiety to the mix of interest and submissiveness he had schooled his face into. And met Voldemort's eyes. A foolhardy thing to do—there was some of the warmth and affection back in those red-black orbs, some of the appreciation that had bound him so irrevocably to the Dark Wizard. Severus suppressed a shiver and managed a mere hint of a smile.

“No, Severus.” Out of the corner of his eye, Severus saw Tabitha’s face fall. That little bitch literally fed off other people's humiliation and was truly disappointed when it failed to happen. A delicate, petite Dementor in most alluring human form. To think that such a creature was going to give birth to a child… “You have not disappointed me,” Voldemort continued, slightly frowning at Tabitha. Obviously her change of expression had not escaped him. “And that is exactly the reason why I am going to confide this most delicate operation to you.”

“M-my Lord… I—I don't know what to say…” Severus stammered, for once telling the truth. This was worse than the McDonald predicament. He would have to choose again, and the decision was clear right from the outset: he could not risk any adversities in carrying out this task. It was a test, and he knew it. A test he had to pass with flying colours.

“You may thank me by successfully planning and carrying out your mission,” Voldemort said. “Due to your somewhat delicate situation, it will have to take place during the Easter holidays. The choice of time and day is up to you, and the decision whom to take with you is yours as well. I merely insist that Fiona Nott be part of the group.”

“Of course, My Lord.” From Voldemort's point of view, this request was only logical. Fiona Nott, née Bones, was Dirk Bones’s elder sister, and being included in the operation was clearly meant as a punishment for her inability to make him join their side. “How many people may I take?”

Anger welled up inside him, when he saw Voldemort throw a questioning glance at Tabitha. Trust the sadistic little Manticore to suggest he do it on his own. “Two?” she said, with a flirtatious smile towards her Lord and Master.

“Tabitha, Tabitha.” Voldemort shook his head and affectionately patted her hand. “Sometimes you really are carrying things to far. The cravings of pregnant women…” Lucius and Owen produced polite smiles, and Severus even managed a small chuckle. It died, however, when Voldemort continued, “Very well, two it is then, and one of them has to be Fiona Nott.”

Throwing Severus an evil sideways glance, Tabitha crooned, “My Lord, shouldn't we reward Barty for having provided such vital information?”

“We would have read it in the papers tomorrow anyway,” Lucius said sharply, “I fail to see the vital importance of it, really.” Ten seconds later, he was writhing on the floor, eagerly watched by Tabitha.

What an idiot, Severus thought, he should know better than to attack Voldemort's pet. But their Master was in a lenient mood—Lucius only had to suffer the Cruciatus Curse for less than half a minute. While he scrambled to his feet, shaking all over and with a small rivulet of blood trickling down his chin, as he had bitten through his lower lip to refrain from screaming, Barty’s participation in the mission was confirmed. Not that Severus had had any doubts as to that.

~~~~*~~~~

The second half of March brought a new onslaught of wet cold. Severus was reminded of his fourth year, when the constant rain and fog enveloping the castle and grounds had plunged everybody’s mood into a historic low. The students, used to spending their breaks outside in the courtyards whenever possible, had to stay inside; there was no possibility for walks before or after dinner, not even short ones; and only the Quidditch players ventured out of the castle for their practice. Most of their peers envied them, but only until they returned, soaking, red-nosed and numb-limbed. Nobody was surprised therefore, when in this climate of low spirits and forced reclusion, Hogwarts was hit by a veritable epidemic of influenza.

Unfortunately, Madam Pomfrey, usually a paragon of circumspect foresight, had not requested sufficient stocks of Pepper-up Potion from Severus, and thus the virus got hold of half the students and staff before the concoction was ready. Glad as he was to have smaller classes to teach, Severus also regretted the inevitable effect the absence of so many students would have on their general progress. With the tight time frame he had to stick to, catching up was going to be difficult for them, if not downright unfeasible for the less gifted ones. On the other hand, there was also a bright side to this situation: with only five students to monitor, he was able to correct homework during the lessons, a privilege he truly valued, as it allowed him to dedicate more of his free time to his own project.

A fourth-year Hufflepuff, quite adept at potions-making and Muggle-born, unsuspectingly provided the Potions Master with a revelation, and hence with another task.

Severus was watching her—quite successful—attempt at producing an antidote to several arsenic-based poisons, when he noticed that the girl’s cheeks and forehead were too flushed to be due merely to the steam emerging from her cauldron. Upon closer inspection, he saw that her eyes were slightly glassy.

“Miss Archer!” he snapped. The girl’s head shot up; she was clearly terrified. “Come here!” he commanded, and she obeyed with visible reluctance. Her terror increased when he reached out to feel her pulse. It was racing. “Go to the infirmary, immediately!”

“I—I’m feeling quite well, Sir,” she squeaked.

“Nonsense. You have a fever and will likely bungle your potion if you have to stand on your feet any longer. Do as I told you, and go to see Madam Pomfrey!” He turned back to the stack of parchments waiting to be examined.

“But… but Sir,” the girl said, “It can’t be the flu. I’ve been vaccinated—”

Severus felt as if his subconscious were nudging him sharply. “Would you repeat what you just said?”

Miss Archer's eyes grew wide with fear, and her voice grew even squeakier. “I’m sorry, Sir, I didn't mean to contradict you—”

“Just repeat what you said, Miss Archer. Without the embellishments, if possible.”

“Y-yes, Sir. I said it couldn’t possibly be the flu, because I’ve been vaccinated, and—”

“That will be enough, Miss Archer. Now go to the infirmary. And five points from Hufflepuff for questioning my decision.”

He barely realized that the girl had left the classroom and had difficulties concentrating on the other students' work. Vaccination—that was the answer to a burning problem. He had already developed an antidote to Veritaserum. It was but a small step to arrive at a somewhat improved formula, one that guaranteed lifelong immunity to it. His lips curled into a grim smile. How ironical, he thought, that a Muggle-born should have given him such an inspiration.