The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 38

By Pigwidgeon37

“And you are sure this will do exactly what you want it to?“ Lucius asked, sceptically eyeing the small vial Severus was holding out to him.

“Of course I’m sure. The principle is easy enough. It doesn't work the way Muggle vaccinations do, creating antibodies to whatever is invading the system. This here,” and he held up a second vessel containing the same silvery fluid, “is based on the principle that magical potions, unlike viruses, merely target the thaumatocytes. Call it a fringe benefit of my research for the Liberatio Potion. So I just had to alter the antidote slightly to make it… well, cling to the thaumatocytes. Which it does.”

“Hmm…” Lucius rolled the vial back and forth in the palm of his hand. “The question is: does it cling permanently? And does the clinging have any side effects?”

“Fearing for your angelic beauty?” Severus asked him with a smirk.

Lucius snorted. “Well, admit it—I have more to lose than you.”

“Vanity, thy name is Lucius. But rest assured, there are no side effects. The only insecurity that remains is whether the effect is really permanent. So I’d suggest you give it a try once a week or so.”

“What a brilliant idea! Won't Narcissa just love that!”

“Regard it as a means of strengthening the bond between you. There’s nothing like the occasional truth spree to revive a more than three-year-old marriage. Besides, you’ll build up a resistance to Veritaserum in the process. Whichever way you look at it, you can only win.”

Lucius gave him a wry half-grin, uncorked the vial and downed the contents. “Gods,” he said, when he had finished struggling against the urge to vomit, “this is worse than anything you’ve ever come up with. You could make that taste better, couldn’t you?”

“Owen's comment was very similar,” Severus observed. “Now take this.”

With a questioning look, Lucius took the second vial. “I thought one dose was sufficient.”

“It is. This one’s for Narcissa. She mustn’t take it while she’s pregnant, though, as I have no idea what it might do to the child. Considering our plan, and hoping the outcome will be as successful as the beginning, however, she should take it as soon as the baby is out. If we succeed, Voldemort is going to be furious, and I daresay he wouldn't be beyond questioning your wife under the influence of Veritaserum. So we'd better be on the safe side.”

“I suppose you are right. How are the preparations for tomorrow’s attack coming along?”

Severus rolled his eyes. “Just don't ask. Since I’ve come to know Cedric’s mother a little more closely, I’m no longer wondering why he's such an idiot. And of course she’s completely beside herself—understandable, in a way. After all, she has to participate in the killing of her own brother.”

“Now don't exaggerate,” Lucius said. “First, she and her brother never were too close—there’s a large age difference. And she doesn't strike me as an exceptionally emotional person, either. And second, it's her own fault. Why didn't she convince him to join us? Now she has to lie in the bed she made for herself. I only hope she’ll be up to the task. What about Barty?”

“Stupid prick,” Severus bit out, frowning. “He just goes on babbling about how important this mission is—as if I didn't know that. And what an honour it is to have been chosen.” He smirked ad Lucius. “I’ve been tempted to tell him how and why he was chosen at least a hundred times. Just to shut him up. But in the end, I decided against it, merely because I can be as good as sure that, somehow, this information will find its way back to St. John, peppered with a few additional details. And I’d rather avoid that.”

“A very wise decision.” Lucius signalled for the barmaid to bring them another drink.

The Easter holidays had started almost a week ago, and many students were staying at Hogwarts, so that it was impossible for Severus to leave, although he would have liked to get away for a few days. It had, as Voldemort had mentioned, indeed been some time since he had conducted his last operation, and he would have badly needed some peace in order to mentally prepare himself. As things were, he had to appear in the Great Hall for lunch and dinner. Besides, the O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. exams were not far away, and thus he was disturbed by anxious students fairly often. But he had finished working on the Veritaserum vaccination the day before, and thus agreed on a meeting with Lucius at the Three Broomsticks.

The drinks arrived, and they raised their glasses. “And how are you going to handle the old man?” Lucius asked, putting down his tumbler. “He's going to be incredibly pissed off.”

Severus shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to see how he reacts and then handle him accordingly. I only hope he isn't going to throw me out.”

“The Board of Governors will be able to prevent him from doing so, should it really come to this.”

“You know how he is. He doesn't give a damn about the governors.”

“Oh, he will, he will,” Lucius grinned. “Just imagine what would happen if Nathalie Pierson threw all her scruples overboard and decided to make known that Black is a Death Eater. Dumbledore can’t afford bad press right now.”

Severus's jaw fell. “Lucius, this is brilliant. Reminds me of how you blackmailed Tabitha into continuing with the Black prank…”

“Politics—the art of the possible,” Lucius remarked dryly. “Speaking of Tabitha: do you think we’ll ever know whose child she's bearing?”

“Hmm…” Severus pondered this. “You know, I don’t think that with the plethora of different concoctions Voldemort is ingesting he’d be capable of fathering a child.”

“Are you implying he’s impotent?”

“That, and you have to consider those anatomical changes we all noticed. I bet they aren't limited to his skin and bones. But with a little patience, we should be able to see whose child it is. If Voldemort were the father, it would have to be black-haired and black-eyed. So if he or she turns out to have different colouring, we can be fairly sure it’s a legitimate child.”

“Probably.” Lucius drained his glass. “I just hope that St. John’s and my child will be of the same sex. Otherwise it's going to be difficult to avoid an arranged marriage, seeing as how Voldemort will choose the second best option if he can’t use my son or daughter as potions ingredient.”

“As you well know, arranged marriages aren't all unhappy,” Severus said pointedly.

“Of course not, if you’re alluding to Narcissa and myself. But then, neither of us has been raised by a pair of maniacs.”

“That's true. Do you think your mother might return when the child is born?”

Lucius sighed. “I wish she would. I wrote to her, but you know she never answers.”

“I didn't even know you were writing to her. Well, maybe the arrival of a grandchild will be able to lure her back.”

“Maybe. If we’re still alive then.”

“How incredibly kind of you to mention that.” Severus looked at his watch. “Which reminds me… I have to go. I’ll need all my strength and wits tomorrow, so an early night is in order.”

~~~~*~~~~

In order not to endanger Severus's cover more than necessary, the attack was to take place at 2.30 in the morning of Easter Sunday. Nobody was likely to come to his quarters at that time, and the Bloody Baron had consented to handle potential difficulties in the Slytherin quarters on his own, of which he was well capable. Not that any trouble had to be expected—there were few Slytherin students staying, as, due to most of their parents’ allegiance, they did not have to fear Death Eater assaults on their homes and consequently were in less need of the protection Hogwarts could offer.

Usually, Severus refrained from taking sleeping draughts, because of the risk of addiction; last night, though, he had deepened his sleep artificially and now felt rested and energetic. Considering that surprise visits to his quarters were improbable but not impossible, even though the risk was infinitesimal, his Death Eater robes were still shrunk and safely stored in a pocket of his normal teaching robes, when he approached the fireplace. A last pat for Elias, a last look around his living room, a deep, invigorating sigh, a last touch of his medallion—she will enter the scene before the end of this year…oh, Merlin, make that sooner rather than later, please!—and he stepped into the flames, calling out “Malfoy Manor!”

Lucius’s study was dark, and the house lay quiet under the chilly spring night. Looking out over the grounds, which were faintly illuminated by the already waning moon that had just barely risen over the surrounding hillside, Severus exchanged his Hogwarts robes for the Death Eater garb and Disapparated to the meeting place.

The Bones were living on the outskirts of Canterbury, where they had moved shortly after the attack on the Aurors’ Academy. Dirk Bones, who had been the Questioning Techniques instructor, had handed in his notice immediately after the disaster, refusing to continue teaching when the school had resumed its activities. Together with his wife, they had moved from Cardiff, which obviously was too full of memories for Bones to recover from his trauma, to Canterbury. For five months—that was the story told by the Ministry files Barty had duplicated—Dirk Bones had not done anything. He had just remained at home, staring mindlessly out of the window, neither talking nor moving. What exactly had brought about a change in his demeanour was unclear, but little more than a year after the attack, Dirk Bones was pretty much alive again, and his wife was expecting a child. That had fortunately spared Severus the trouble of a lengthy inquiry about her working schedule at St. Mungo's, for she was still staying at home, as the birth had taken place at the beginning of March. The infant was only about four weeks old.

Glad as Severus was that he could be sure to find both Dirk and Helen Bones at home, he was also aware that a newborn in the house might keep the parents awake at odd hours. And he had no illusions as to what kind of opponents two people defending their child would be. This mission was definitely not going to be a piece of cake, if little Susan—this was the child’s name—had decided she wanted to be fed at 2.30 in the morning.

Fiona Nott and Barty Crouch were already waiting for him under a small group of trees near their targets’ house. “They are awake,” Fiona Nott whispered frantically, pointing towards the building. “Look, there's light in one of the rooms!”

Just as he had dreaded. Well, there was nothing he could do. “Yes,” Severus retorted sharply, “I can see that for myself. But it doesn’t change our plans. You, Barty, are to deal with him, I’ll take on her, and you, Fiona, are to eliminate the child. Is that clear?”

“Of course!” Barty sounded… well, pompous as ever. Severus had not expected anything else. At least he would do his job, provided he was not too nervous. With Barty, you could never tell.

Mrs. Nott’s silent nod was lacking enthusiasm, though. “Fiona, is there a problem?”

“N-no,” she said, her voice slightly hoarse. “I’m… I’m all right. I’ll kill my…” Her voice trailed off.

That was not what he needed, certainly not. “She’s not your whatever, Fiona, it’s merely a child. A child you don’t even know, if my information is correct.”

“Yes, Severus. I’m sorry.”

“All right,” he said gruffly, not entirely convinced. “Let me have a look at your wands, and we can go ahead.”

They cast the voice-altering spells and marched through the still-short grass towards the house, first Severus, then Fiona Nott, Barty bringing up the rear. The silvery almost-half moon had risen a little higher in a clear, almost-black night sky, and its weak light was reflected on their masks. It was a peaceful scenery, a little too complacently bucolic for Severus's taste. He hated it when things went too smoothly before an attack. He vastly preferred something to go wrong before—a forgotten mask, a dysfunctional wand, a belated arrival, whatever—because it somehow reassured him that everything would work out without a hitch when perfection was really essential.

The entrance opened to a simple “Exaperiemus!” spell—no wards, nothing. For a fleeting moment, Severus thought they might be ambushed, but instantly banished the idea. No, the occupants of this house were merely trusting fools. Probably Dirk Bones had not told his wife about the invitation to join Voldemort he had received and declined, so as not to worry her. Such loving discretion, however, had deprived him of the possibility to put wards or shielding spells on his home. Not that they would have greatly hindered the group of Death Eaters—Rookwood, their contact at the Department of Mysteries, kept them up to date on every new discovery and invention the Ministry and other affiliated research institutions came up with—but entering was certainly easier like this. And, above all, more unobtrusive, for the disabling or neutralizing of wards usually set off some kind of alarm within the house. All the same, Severus would have preferred having to break through heavy magical shields. The easy access to their targets’ home merely served to make the feeling of foreboding weigh more heavily on him.

They stepped into the hallway and immediately heard the furious screams of the newborn, underscored by both parents’ soothing voices. “Wands at the ready,” Severus muttered over his shoulder, and the other two nodded. Another deep breath, and Severus crossed the hallway, directing his paces towards a closed door, where a small sliver of light between the tiled floor and the wood indicated which room the family was assembled in.

Mr. and Mrs. Bones, both in their nightclothes, were occupying a small settee—she reclining against the backrest and breast-feeding the now silent baby, he perching on the armrest, watching her. Dirk Bones was not an experienced Auror for nothing: he instantly drew his wand and started attacking the masked visitors. Severus ducked his first curse, both to get further into the room and give the other two the possibility to enter, and then concentrated on Mrs. Bones, who, still tightly clutching the child to her chest with her left arm, had already grabbed her wand. But the dead weight, even though relatively light, and her fear for her newborn prevented her from moving freely—she fell under Severus's second Killing Curse.

Meanwhile, things were not going too well for Fiona Nott and Barty Crouch. The sight of his wife, slumping lifelessly to the floor, made Bones utter a roar of fury, which caused his sister to freeze for a short moment. Long enough for him to fire an Avada Kedavra at her. It hit her squarely into the chest.

“The child! Take care of the child!” Severus yelled at Barty. He would have needed help against Bones, but his orders were to wipe out all family members, and the Aurors would arrive any second now. There really was no time for them to waste. With an opponent like Dirk Bones, Severus had to fully concentrate on the ongoing duel, which he had no doubt would end deadly for him if he missed a single beat—Bones had absolutely nothing left to lose, and he had already demonstrated his readiness to kill.

While a fight was going on, it was never possible to determine how long it lasted. Too heightened were Severus's senses, too much adrenaline was pumping through his body—it could have continued for ten seconds or half an hour. He was so focused on the duel that he did not even hear Barty’s shouted “Expelliarimus!” and only noticed that, finally, he had managed to bring down Bones.

“What about her?” Barty asked, gesturing towards Fiona Nott’s dead body.

Instead of an answer, Severus pointed his wand at the corpse and muttered a quick “Immolatio!” Within a few seconds he used to cast the Dark Mark, the body had been consumed by flames that seemed to incinerate it from inside out. They could not afford to leave anything that might help the Aurors identify her, especially as both her husband and son were Death Eaters. Those were the rules, and Severus had no intention of breaking them. Carl Nott would have to find a suitable explanation for his wife's demise, and bury an empty coffin. With a last look around the room, Severus nodded and said, “Let’s get out before the—” He was interrupted by a wail, and abruptly jerked his head in Barty’s direction. “The child,” he gasped, “Haven't you—” But it was too late. When the first Auror materialized in front of them, all they could do was Disapparate.

Back in Lucius’s study, Severus quickly shed his Death Eater robes and mask, shrunk them and changed back into his school robes. Two minutes after his departure from the Bones’ house, he was back in his rooms.

“You seem… upset,” the Bloody Baron remarked.

“Good evening, Baron.” Severus poured himself a glass of whisky after he had banished the incriminating robes and wand into their customary hideaway. “Yes, I am indeed upset, because not only will I have to face Dumbledore's fury for not telling him about the attack, I will also get punished by Voldemort. That idiot Crouch messed it up.” He sank into his favourite chair by the fireplace and took a large swig of his drink.

“Messed it up? And how?”

Severus told him about the child. “I would have expected anything from Barty,” he concluded, “He's usually nervous and not the best of duellers. But to let that child live was a big mistake, and one I’ll have to pay the price for.” He slammed his glass down on the table. “First they burden me with two absolutely incompetent idiots, and then they put the blame on me when things go wrong.”

“Hmm…” The Baron floated further away from the fireplace—ghosts were not exactly fond of heat. “And what about the Headmaster? Are you going to tell him that you led the attack?”

Severus shot the spectre an incredulous look. “No, of course not! That would be nothing short of crazy!”

“So how do you think you will be able to explain the fact that you did not inform him? Your participation would at least have been a plausible reason.”

“I know!” Severus snapped impatiently. “But what can I do? If I tell him I didn't know anything about the attack, he’ll begin to doubt my credibility and usefulness. And if I admit my participation, just try to imagine how he’ll react. There’s a limit to his tolerance, and I’m afraid that this would mean overstepping it.”

“I think you underestimate your importance for him,” the Baron objected after a while. “He cannot renounce the information you provide.”

“Maybe he needs the information now, but try to think a little further ahead. If I let him know that I led this mission, there will be no way of denying it later on.”

They discussed the situation for a little longer, and finally Severus excused himself and went to bed. Maybe, he thought, pulling up the covers around him, sleep would bring some inspiration. And he needed his sleep, for tomorrow he would have to face Voldemort's wrath.

~~~~*~~~~

When the students returned to Hogwarts after the Easter break, Severus Snape was still their Potions teacher. Both Lucius and the Bloody Baron had been right—he was indispensable to Dumbledore. The scene between them had been heated, and the confrontation with Voldemort had gone only a little better than Severus had dreaded, but all in all, he had gotten away much more easily than he had expected.

What gave him more trouble was Barty Crouch. For once, Voldemort, whose whims were becoming more unpredictable by the day, had not punished Severus for the other’s failure—the bout of Cruciatus he had to endure was meant as a chastisement for having lost Fiona Nott—but merely admonished him. But he had also made it clear that Barty had to suffer the consequences of his weakness that had led him to let the child live.

“The survival of our enemies’ children,” he had said, frowning at Severus, “is one of the most undesirable adversities. Those children will grow up to hate us, and sooner or later we will have to eliminate them because of their stubbornness.”

So Severus had accepted the inevitable and met Barty. As none of them could risk being seen with the other at their respective homes, Lucius had offered them the use of his ample dungeons, which held, among other rooms, the vaults where Severus's now-considerable fortune was being directed in a small, unobtrusive trickle. Not even this awareness could make his task any more agreeable. The disciplining of unruly or simply less skilled Death Eaters under his command had been quite enjoyable in the beginning, when he still thought that power was something he could obtain. By now, he did not believe in power anymore, and found the whole business merely unpleasant. What made it downright catastrophic was Barty’s attitude.

“All right,” Severus said, closing the door behind him and giving the room a disgusted look-over, “Let's get this over with. I suppose there’s no need to tell you how displeased our Master was with your performance. Not only did you fail to protect Fiona, you also endangered our safety by sparing the child's life. It was a close shave, and that was entirely your fault. Do you have anything to say?”

The room had bare stone walls, a low, slightly vaulted ceiling; the floor consisted of rough, untreated wood. It was completely empty but for two brackets, left and right from the heavy iron door; they held torches casting a flickering, uncertain light that did not reach the corners of the rather large space. Barty, although merely two years Severus's senior, already had deep lines crossing his forehead and running from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. It was a strange face, Severus thought, still boyish, but concealing emotions that were far too strong and impetuous, if not fanatical, for his liking. In the quavering light that came from one side only, the shadows and lines were further emphasized. The other wizard’s mouth, normally a thin, almost lipless line, was curled downwards in a grimace of disdain, and his sand-coloured hair was plastered to his face by a sheen of perspiration.

“No,” he spat out, “I have nothing to say, you self-righteous little bastard.”

Severus dealt him a backhanded slap across the face. It did nothing to wipe away the deprecatory expression. “You will show me respect!” he hissed. “If you have nothing to say in your defence, tell me so. But every insult will increase the duration of your punishment.”

Barty’s chest rose and fell quickly, and for a while he remained silent. “Respect, eh?” he said finally. “If anything, I deserve respect. Not you, disgusting little upstart that you are. What did you do,” and he stepped closer towards Severus, “What did you do,” he repeated, his voice now a mere whisper, “to gain our Master's favours? Did you offer yourself to him, too?”

For a moment, Severus was so puzzled that he overlooked the insult and merely asked, “I beg your—”

“Oh, you understand me very well, don't you Severus? You fucked your way into your rich uncle’s good graces, and I suppose you did the same with Lord Voldemort, you—”

His wand still unused in his left, Severus put all his rage and fury into the blow. His fist hit Barty’s left cheek, and with a groan the young wizard went to the ground. A barked “Expelliarimus!” later, his wand was firmly clutched in Severus's hand, and Severus's right boot, resting heavily on his chest, was immobilizing him. “How dare you imply such a thing?” Severus asked, livid with anger. Barty merely grinned up at him, wincing because the left half of his face was rapidly starting to swell up. “Answer my question!”

He had not felt such helpless, dizzying, blood-red fury in a long time, and only when Crouch lay motionless, curled up to protect his abdomen from the vicious kicks and moaning, did he take a step back. Voldemort had wanted punishment, and punishment was what Barty had got. Under normal circumstances, he would have used his wand; but he could not deny that this physical outlet for long-accumulated frustration and anger had been far more satisfying. Still breathing heavily from the exertion, he sat on his haunches and bent down until his mouth was only an inch from Barty's ear. “Listen to me, you little piece of dirt,” he whispered, his gentle tone belying the threat his words were holding. “If I ever get so much as a strange look or smile from any other Death Eater, I will know only too well who started the rumours. And then, my friend, Lord Voldemort shall hear exactly what you insinuated today. Every word, including the aspersions you cast on him.” An inarticulate gurgle told him that Barty had understood, so he rose and straightened his robes. “Oh,” he said, “I almost forgot.” And tossed his opponent's wand into his face, with enough force to make him wince when the piece of wood hit his injured nose.

Without another look back, Severus strode out of the dungeon room and back upstairs to Lucius’s study.

“Sev,” Lucius exclaimed, rising from behind his desk, “What the hell happened? Where's Barty?”

“Still down in the dungeons.”

Lucius quickly closed the distance between them and grabbed Severus's elbow. “Sev. You look… well, terrible. You can't go back in this state.”

The embers of his rage had not yet stopped smouldering. Severus yanked his arm free and turned towards the other wizard. “Stop telling me what I can or can’t do!”

Lucius’s mouth hardened. “Snape, quit being an idiot and tell me what happened. If you killed Crouch, we have to do something about it. I won’t keep the dead body of the son of Mr. Law Enforcement in my basement, so you better make that quick!”

“No, I didn't kill him. And now kindly leave me be!” Severus shouted, eyes ablaze.

“Fine!” Lucius caught up with him in front of the fireplace. “So what? Can he Apparate? You can't just dump your waste in my house and leave, don't you understand that?” He looked Severus up and down. When his glance fell on the other’s hands, his eyes widened slightly. “Oh, good heavens,” he said with a disgusted sneer, “You didn't beat him up, did you, Sev? That's terribly mauvais gout! Look at your knuckles—they are already beginning to bruise!”

At that display of well-bred revulsion, Severus could not help snorting. “Malfoy, you’re absolutely priceless. Yes, I beat him up, and I assure you that it was an incredibly refreshing experience. You just have to patch him up a bit.”

“My favourite pastime on Easter Sunday,” Lucius snarled. “Patching up Barty. All right, I’ll do it. Just do something about those bruises, and leave. Sweet Merlin…” he muttered, walking towards the door.

Two months had passed since that day, and obviously Barty had understood the threat. Not a single lewd smile, not one strange look from any of the other Death Eaters. Severus still felt slightly disconcerted, but Owen had assured him that Barty had been the only one he had boasted to about his first killing, which had been the boy they had found in Uncle Ettore’s bed. So Severus could at least take his mind off that problem and dedicate himself to school-related problems. Besides the usual meetings every thirteenth, his Death Eater duties were not weighing too heavily on him. Especially since Voldemort had not seen fit to carry out more major attacks for the time being, at least until the situation with the Aurors, the Law Enforcement and Azkaban—which Crouch had somehow managed to have put under his responsibility as well—had become a little clearer. Even Lestrange had been reasonable enough to join in the three phoenixes’ efforts to convince Voldemort that some things were better learned from the papers than from practical experience. The reorganization and cooperation between Aurors and Law Enforcers certainly was such a thing. So Severus could concentrate on the upcoming O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. exams, and prepare everything they needed for the second and final step of their plan, which was to be carried out shortly.

His relationship with Dumbledore had slightly improved during the last weeks, which, in a way, was a great relief. It was enough for him to fight on one front. But the lack of assaults had somehow lightened the Headmaster's mood, and his resistance group had been successful in destroying most of the Devil’s Lilies, so that in two weeks’ time, only one or two were going to blossom. It had been an enormous task, but one well worth the trouble. Considering that Lestrange was still the Chosen One who prepared the Liberatio Potion, liberally using the precious oil, Voldemort could not take more than six doses until next year. It was a small consolation, but still a comforting thought.

What was slightly less satisfying were Severus's attempts at creating an immunity potion that might protect the Potters’ child, and maybe also others, against the Killing Curse. He partly chalked that up to the impossibility of fully dedicating himself to the research. Maybe, he told himself, there would be a major breakthrough during the summer holidays. The summer holidays… When they started, it meant that the first half of the year was over. And if Sybil was right… She will enter the scene before the end of this year. Two-hundred and four days to go, one hundred and sixty-two down.

~~~~*~~~~

From the window of his living room, where he was choosing the books he meant to take with him for the summer holidays, Severus saw the long row of horseless carriages swaying down the path towards the gates. Hard as it was to believe, his first full-length school year at Hogwarts had come to an end. Considering how interminable it had looked to him last September, it had gone quite well. There was to be another meeting with Dumbledore and McGonagall, to make plans for the next two months—this summer, they would have to stay in touch—and then he could gather his luggage and his raven and leave. Peggy had already preceded him two days earlier, to make his house as habitable as possible.

It was a hot day, and he was tired, but Serpens Tower remained relatively cool, even during the summer months. Choosing the books he needed took him longer than he had expected, mostly because he got caught up in reading them while he should have only given them a cursory glance, and so he had already worked for more than two hours, when Dumbledore's voice called him from the fireplace.

“Yes, Headmaster?” Then he remembered that they had an appointment and checked his watch. He should have arrived at Dumbledore's office half an hour ago. “Sorry,” he said, angry at himself because his forgetfulness had gotten him into a situation where he had to apologize, which he hated, “I’m afraid I completely forgot time.”

“Which is only too likely to happen when you are dealing with books,” Dumbledore replied. “Don’t worry, it’s the holidays and we don’t have to stick to a tight schedule. Do you think Minerva and I might come to your quarters? I seem to recall you mentioning that they are agreeably cool. Fawkes doesn't react well to cooling spells, and therefore my rooms are currently a little unpleasant.”

“Of course, Headmaster. Just let me clear away the Dark Artefacts and pictures of naked women.”

Dumbledore chuckled, and a little later he and McGonagall were standing in Severus's living room. “This is really nice,” McGonagall remarked, giving the room an appreciative look-over.

“Just don’t tell Black,” Severus said wryly and promptly earned himself a frown. “I’m afraid I’m in no condition to play host today, as Peggy has already gone home…”

“Never mind,” Dumbledore said, and conjured a pitcher of iced lemonade and three glasses. “This will do for now, and it's only little more than an hour until lunch.”

They sat down and filled their glasses.

“Now,” the Headmaster began, “there are a few issues we need to discuss, and so we should go right into medias res. What about the initiations?”

Severus nodded. “Right. As I thought, they will be taking place on 31 July, due to the Mars-Jupiter conjunction. Two weeks ago, when I had to report to Voldemort, he was fairly displeased with the small number of new recruits, so I presume that our measures have been successful.”

It had been a delicate task to find out which of the seventh-years were willing to join the ranks of the Dark Lord, and an even more difficult one to identify those malleable enough to be dissuaded from their decision. He had handed a list to Dumbledore by the end of May, and the most trustworthy members of his resistance group had immediately embarked on a mission to those parents who were considered lukewarm sympathizers or flat-out opponents of Voldemort—this information had been garnered by Lucius and Owen. A few in-depth discussions and carefully applied memory charms later, the parents were ready to keep their offspring from receiving the Dark Mark at any cost. Given the date of the initiation, chances were that they might even succeed.

“They have indeed been successful,” Dumbledore confirmed. “What about the others?”

Severus sighed. “I’m afraid there isn’t much we can do. I discussed the problem with Lucius and Owen, and we agreed that it would be best if, during the next year or so, some of our missions were ambushed. You know that Voldemort delights in giving us almost impossible tasks. If he continues, and I have no doubt as to that, we will try to carry out attacks in two, taking along some of the newcomers, so the Aurors or your people might catch some of them.”

“As things are,” McGonagall observed, “I think it would be unwise to rely on the Aurors, at least for now. Crouch has broken up the old partnerships, because he trusts nobody. We have few enough allies among them, and those few won’t be able to escape the constant control.”

“Well,” Dumbledore said, “our group is growing, and we will be able to handle this ourselves, I suppose. Knowing Crouch, I wouldn't confide in his generosity anyway. The man is capable of handing those youngsters to the Dementors without giving them a chance to recognize their errors. But I think yours is a feasible strategy, Severus. What about Mr. Malfoy?”

“If everything goes well, the child will be born on 8 July. Three weeks early, maybe only two, so I hope his or her magical abilities will not suffer too much. What worries me more is the problem of the refugees. Voldemort knows that they’re here, on the grounds of Hogwarts, and Lestrange keeps nettling him about them.”

“Lestrange,” Dumbledore said. The glass in his hand was trembling slightly, and he did not look at the other two but outside, at the turrets and pinnacles of the castle. “Lestrange—and I would never have thought I might say this one day about a human being—ought to be eliminated. I know—” Severus had opened his mouth to object “—I know it cannot be done. At least not now. And I admit that part of the grudge should rather be directed against myself, for having been such a fool.” His eyes continued following the few feathery clouds drifting over the summer sky. Then, pulling himself together, he continued, “The refugees, then. I had been expecting this. Do you know Solange Delacour?”

“Er…” Severus said, completely thrown off-balance by the seemingly random question.

Dumbledore smiled at him, eyes twinkling. “She’s  the Charms teacher at Beauxbatons, and if our Gideon Flitwick is a Charms asset, she is… well, almost a goddess.” McGonagall snorted, and Severus gave her a questioning look. “Minerva,” Dumbledore said and chuckled, “is… er, alluding to the fact that Solange is a half-Veela. But trust me, she is also an incredibly powerful witch.”

“And?” Severus prompted.

“And she helped me make an area, which suits our purposes perfectly, unplottable. The refugees will be transferred there, attracting as little attention as possible. When you return at the end of August, they will simply be gone.”

“Well, that's a relief,” Severus said. “Now, what about communication? We will need to stay in touch, because it is possible, if highly improbable, that Voldemort might become impatient. If—and I hope it won’t happen—but if the Potters’ child is born on 31 July, he might want to precipitate events and get its blood right away. Should that be the case, I’ll have to warn you, and quickly.”

McGonagall looked at him in alarm. “But I thought he meant to wait until—”

“Yes, I know. That’s what we all think, and probably that’s what he will do. But he has become increasingly unpredictable, and I don’t want to be unprepared.”

“Hmm…” Dumbledore stroked his beard. “You are, of course, right, Severus. We have to consider this possibility. Well, then, Minerva, I suppose you’ll have to spend a few days at Severus's house.”

“What?” both teachers exclaimed, equally upset.

“Headmaster,” Severus said, “My house might be under surveillance and—”

“Oh, but a stray cat roaming your garden is unlikely to attract anybody’s attention,” Dumbledore said, with a shrewd glance at his deputy.

McGonagall shot him a dark look. “My Animagus form is well-known, Albus.”

“I know, but you intended to spend the summer at home, and one of your relatives could change your colour, couldn't they?”

She nodded. “Yes, I suppose they could,” she said reluctantly. “And it does seem like a good idea. After all, it will only be for a few days.”

Trying to repress thoughts of Esmeralda, Severus gave her a wry smile. “Peggy will be ecstatic,” he offered. “You’ll have to go on a diet once you change back.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “And I,” he said, suddenly serious again, “will do my best to convince the Potters to go into hiding.”

“If he wants to find them, he’ll find them,” Severus objected, shaking his head.

“Not if we use the Fidelius Charm.”

“You can’t be serious!” Severus threw up his hands in exasperation. “Not only is Potter way too pigheaded to go into hiding—I bet he considers it cowardly and ignoble. There's also the question of the Secret Keeper. Who on earth would want to accept that burden in times like these?”

“We’ll see, we’ll see. Now I suggest we go to have lunch. I definitely feel I need some Dover sole with a side dish of horse radish.”

Exchanging exasperated looks, because of both the enormity of their tasks and the disgusting combination of fish and horse radish, Severus and McGonagall followed the Headmaster out of Severus's quarters and down to the Great Hall.

~~~~*~~~~

Almost laughing at their own paranoia, Lucius and Severus had agreed to make the second stage of their plan to save the unborn Malfoy appear as realistic as possible. After all, repeated admonitions by both Voldemort and Lestrange to keep a close watch on each other made the fear of being monitored by a third party appear less unfounded. And so they had decided to diminish the risk as much as possible.

Hence, Severus was not pacing nervously in front of the fireplace—although that was what he would have felt like doing—but working in his laboratory upstairs, when Peggy popped into sight and told him that “Mr. Malfoy is calling by Floo, and I thinks it’s urgent, Master Severus!”

Frowning, Severus rose and went downstairs. Lucius was indeed looking horrible—his pale face now a sickly, yellowish white, hair dishevelled, sweat streaming down his forehead. “Lucius, what on earth—” The knowledge that Lucius was by no means faking it, but in very real and grave danger brought an appropriate tremor to his voice.

“Poison… antidote…” was all Lucius managed to choke out before his head vanished from the grate.

With a grim nod to himself, Severus raced upstairs, rummaged through his cupboards for a basic antidote—they had decided that they could not risk using anything more special, as even a Potions Master was unlikely to have a variety of antidotes stocked at his house—and cantered back into his living room. “Go to St. Mungo's,” he snapped at Peggy, who was watching him, ears a-twitch with worry, “and tell them to prepare for two patients. And probably a birth.” Peggy nodded, and he stepped into the fireplace.

“Where are they?” he shouted at a terrified House Elf that came scuttling towards him when he arrived at Malfoy Manor.

“Master Lucius and Mistress—”

“Don’t talk, show me!”

The elf scampered off, closely followed by Severus.

Narcissa was still sitting at the table, slumped forward so that her head had come to rest in her plate. She had to be treated first. Severus pulled her up by her hair, fishing for the vial in his pocket and uncorking it with his teeth. “Thank Merlin,” he muttered, when she began to mumble after he had given a sharp yank at her blonde locks. He held the vial to her lips and, hands trembling with impatience and excitement, waited until she had downed a third of the contents. The bigger dose was for Lucius, who had—according to their plan—drunk more of the poisoned water, as he was taller and heavier than his wife.

He let Narcissa's head glide back onto the table and strode over to Lucius. Cursing silently, he struggled with the top button of the other wizard’s shirt, which refused to open, finally succeeded and felt for the pulse. It was feeble and fluttering, the movement barely recognizable under the moist skin of his throat. And he was lying face down on the carpet. “Idiot!” Severus growled, for his back felt as if it were going to break when he hauled up Lucius's dead weight. “And now drink, for Merlin’s sake!”

While Lucius gulped down the liquid in small, painfully slow sips, Severus looked round and, finally and to his great relief, detected the corpse of Skimpy the House Elf. So Lucius had managed to kill it before he fainted. The scene had been set to perfection. Severus allowed himself a sigh of relief.

“All right,” he said, more to himself than to Lucius, who was showing the first signs of improvement after having emptied the vial, “And now I’m going to deal with Narcissa.” He put Lucius back down on the hearthrug, returned to the table and, with considerable difficulty, pulled a slowly recovering Narcissa from her chair. He had, of course, expected the labour to set in—after all, this had been the purpose of their plan—but almost dropped her when she doubled over, hit by the pain of the first contraction.

Her eyelids fluttered open, and she looked at him, apparently not quite sure what had happened. “Sev… Severus?” she slurred.

“Yes,” he said, patting her shoulder, “I’m here. Now hold on, I got to Apparate us to St. Mungo's and don’t want to splinch.”

She nodded, eyes closing again. “Lucius…”

“Yes, Lucius is alright.” He clutched her closer to him and Disapparated.

Peggy had obviously succeeded in alarming the whole staff of St. Mungo's, for when Severus Apparated into the lobby with his burden, no less than ten mediwizards were already waiting for them. The name of Malfoy never failed to have its effect, Severus thought. Narcissa was put onto a stretcher, and the mediwizards gratefully listened to his account of the incident. “I don't know which poison has been used,” he said, “but this—” he pulled the empty vial from his pocket “—seemed to counteract the effects, at least partly. Mrs. Malfoy is more than eight months pregnant, so there should be no problems—”

“We’ll do a Caesarean,” one of the mediwizards interrupted him. “The child should be okay.”

“Excellent. I’ll return to Mr. Malfoy then, and see whether I need to take him here, too.”

The assembled staff nodded demurely, and, with a last look at Narcissa whose stretcher was just being floated through the door, he Disapparated.