The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 41

By Pigwidgeon37

Gritting her teeth but defeated, Madam Pomfrey released Severus from the Hospital wing on Tuesday evening. He should have stayed a whole week, which was—according to him—absolutely out of the question. He might abhor teaching, but if he was compelled to teach he would do it well. Besides, he felt that he had fully recovered and began to be intensely bored, as he was not allowed to read for more than half an hour a day.

So he returned to his quarters after dinner, enthusiastically greeted by Elias, and spent two hours with Mathilda, who gave him a meticulous account of the past two days she had taught—or rather tried to teach, he thought with a smirk—his Potions classes. It was more an assessment of damages done than a debriefing, but at least no-one had suffered grave injuries. As he was still feeling slightly dizzy after spending four days in bed, he decided that what he really needed was a bit of fresh air. Not a walk, for he had been strictly forbidden any kind of physical exertion, and even though he had disregarded Pomfrey’s threats in case he left the infirmary, he knew better than to neglect her sensible advice. So he merely moved a chair close to the window and opened it; the night was fragrant with autumn smells and only very slightly chilly, still tepid enough to sit down for a while and deeply inhale the aroma of ripe fruit and humidity.

Air was not the only thing he craved; he also felt the need to be alone with himself after too much time in a semi-public space where he had been screened from the other patients’ view by floor-to-ceiling curtains but felt highly vulnerable and on display, with only a white linen nightshirt and the bed covers to protect him. Probably due to the fact that, theoretically, he might be disturbed any moment, he had not indulged in any deeper reflections during his confinement and spent most of the four days sleeping. Whenever awake, he had been in a strange state of mind because he had continued floating in that odd sensation of peace all the time, but always with the more or less present dread that the former tumble of frustration, anxiety and depression might take over again. He could only compare it to the aftermath of a severe migraine, when the pain was gone, leaving some kind of vacuum that was just absence of pain, not well-being, as the agony was still lurking too near for the threat to have completely vanished.

Whereas there was a clear cause-effect relation where analgesic potions and the absence of pain were concerned, he had no idea what might have been the reason for the sudden change of his all-over emotional situation. Or rather, there was an explanation; only his very rational, down-to-earth intellect made him feel somewhat reluctant to accept it. He had been waiting for Her to appear, and now he felt at peace, almost sated, and a strange calmness had come over him. He was not waiting anymore, and the only possible reason for this altered state of mind was that he had met Her. The blank space in his memory stretched over little more than three hours, and there had been over five hundred guests at the namesgiving, many of whom he had never met before. It was the perfect explanation, if a trifle dissatisfying. For he could, of course, remember neither her face nor her name. So why was he not unhappy? Or at least furious with Destiny who had allowed him a mere tantalising glimpse before letting the veil down again to cover future’s face?

All he could do was state the fact that he was not angry or disappointed. The knowledge that She was there—despite of ‘there’ being a very vague description—was apparently enough to create that irrational sensation of confidence. It was almost physical, a deep, warm feeling; the certainty of having found what he had thought lost forever: an anchoring point, a beacon to guide him through the labyrinth that was his life. Was it love? To even think of himself and love as a possible combination almost made him laugh. No, to call what he felt ‘love’ would not only have been an exaggeration but also an illusion. Above all because love needed a distinct Other, and that was exactly what he did not have; there was no opposite, no concrete You. Although he did not find the concept of himself falling or being in love as ridiculous anymore as he might have done before that strange 26 September. He merely felt that the change he had gone through was significant more for himself than for any relation he might have to the world around him.

Neither he nor his view of the world or of humanity had changed, of that he was quite sure; he had simply found a haven within himself.

~~~~*~~~~

The following weeks brought no sensational events. Severus went about his teaching duties as always, exasperated by his students’ lack of enthusiasm for learning of any kind which did not only extend to Potions; he continued developing a protective potion that, while sufficiently powerful, would not damage a one-year-old child, met with Lucius and Owen every once in a while and concocted bogus information for Voldemort together with the Headmaster.

Upon his return from Albania on 13 October—his monthly reports to the Dark Lord were, of course, still required—he was deeply puzzled by two facts: firstly, that his newfound confidence, difficult as it was to define, had definitely a considerable impact on his relationship with Voldemort. He had gained some distance. He was not naked and helpless anymore, and could look at his former mentor and idol with something akin to superiority, for he knew that he possessed something the other would never obtain, even if he won this war, because this was not something you could buy or command or torture out of people. If regarded from a merely utilitarian point of view, this calm certainty he guarded like a treasure gave him a strategic advantage: there were no regrets anymore, and therefore the risk of acting too submissive or too emotional had drastically diminished. But there was a more personal aspect to it as well: only now was he able to really take a step back and come to his senses without incurring the danger of falling. True, he still shivered when Voldemort called him ‘child’ or touched his hand, but this reaction was now more due to disgust than to a useless longing for what he had thought the Master could give him. There was no constantly open wound anymore.

The second reason for his puzzlement, although it resembled more to anxiety, was a probably consequence of the first. From his safe distance, Severus was now able to gauge Voldemort's behaviour in a more objective way and take in the whole picture rather than a multitude of single impressions he had to puzzle together. What he saw, though, worried him deeply. The Dark Lord was becoming increasingly erratic, driven by a strange disquiet that made him jump from one topic to another during their conversation. Alternating between pacing and flinging himself into a chair or looking out of the window, he talked about massive attacks on selected targets, using all his Death Eaters for a single, spectacular coup; five minutes later, he stated—and Severus knew better than to remind him of his former, diametrically opposed, opinion—that the only winning strategy was to drive the enemy mad by constant needling in the form of small, precise assaults performed by groups of two or three people. Although Severus had first been tempted to trivialize these symptoms, he decided that Voldemort's present state of mind probably made him more dangerous than he had been before, as there seemed to be neither rhyme nor reason to those disjointed bits and pieces. It was bad enough to have an unpredictable leader; an unpredictable enemy, though, was going to be an even tougher opponent for the resistance.

Lucius and Owen, with whom he met on the Saturday afternoon following this encounter, shared his point of view. “I suppose you should be hit over the head more often,” Owen said, “if the effect is so very positive. I thought you’d never come off that juvenile fascination.”

Severus shot him a venomous look. “Be that as it may, I’m seeing it clearly now and it frightens me, to say the truth. He just goes on and on about big attacks and small attacks and which of the two would be preferable—”

“Who are you telling?” Lucius rolled his eyes. “You only get that once a month. We have to endure it about twice a week, laced with doses of Crucio, and those are the better weeks. But you’re right, of course. There's lot of talking but little action. And it makes me nervous, too.”

“Especially,” Owen added, “as I have a feeling as if we were the ones who get the gibbering, and Lestrange the one who is privy to the important information. Months have passed since any action worth mentioning!”

Lucius raised his eyebrows. “Are you missing the fun, or was this meant to be a strategic contribution?” He merely got a sneer from Owen.

“Well, I’m glad we all see it the same way,” Severus said. “For I wouldn't want to make the resistance more jumpy than they already are for nothing. Considering that we all agree, I think I should tell Dumbledore.”

“And what are you going to tell him?” Lucius snarled, “That something is going on but we don't know what? We should wait until we have at least some indication of what he's planning. Or they are planning, in case St. John has his confidence.”

Owen shook his head. “No I don't think that's a viable solution. Because if he and Mr. Crown Prince are planning something really big, you can’t exclude the possibility of being told only five minutes before it starts. And then it's too late, we can’t warn the others anymore. Besides, what indications are you talking about?”

“The usual ones, of course. Concrete orders to plan an attack, and—”

“That's not logical, Lucius,” Severus interrupted him. “If he's really getting paranoid about the three of us, or at least about you and me—”

“Getting paranoid? You must be joking! He is already being paranoid about the two of us!”

“Maybe paranoid isn’t the right expression,” Severus conceded, “Because he does have a reason for his suspicions.”

“Not really. He doesn't know that—”

“Oh, stop it!” Owen barked, slapping the table with his flat palm. “You aren't first-years anymore. He is paranoid—no, he isn’t! We’re not here to give a diagnosis, but to decide what to do!”

Lucius chuckled. “Owen, the voice of reason. That's a first. But I agree, we have to come to a decision. What do you think, Sev?”

“Hmm…” He absentmindedly studied the label of the whisky bottle. “Let's try the logical approach…”

“Surprise, surpri-ise!” Lucius chanted.

“Oh, shut up. Sometimes logic can be very useful. Now listen: if he plans to unsettle the enemy by lots of small attacks, he won't wait forever. There has to be some action very soon. Which means that, if nothing happens until the end of October, we can be fairly sure he's planning a big coup.”

As always when Lucius had to admit that somebody else was right while he was wrong, his mood became rather scratchy. Sometimes, Severus wondered how Narcissa coped with this particular character trait, but she seemed able to handle him very well. “All right,” he said crossly, “if you think that’s the best option…”

“It's the most reasonable one,” Owen said, “So stop sulking.”

As Severus had feared, everything remained quiet until the end of October, and so he decided to have a word with the Headmaster, who invited him to his office for the late afternoon of 2 November. Dumbledore, as Severus had already found out, was extremely fond of afternoon tea and always tried to organize his various appointments around this culinary landmark. As this day was also a Saturday, the elves had obviously prepared the weekend variety which seemed even more lavish than the weekday version.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said pensively, when Severus had finished his account, “I already had the intention to discuss this with you. After the rather spectacular attacks on the McDonalds and the Bones, I was unsure whether Voldemort hadn't maybe returned to his old ways, when he used to carry out one big operation followed by months of silence.”

“That was more due to necessity than planning, I believe, if you’re alluding to the McKinnons. He did not have many followers in those days.”

“True.” Dumbledore poured them another cup of tea and seemed to have a hard time deciding whether he should switch from salty to sweet or take another roast beef sandwich. “So what you are saying is that, basically, he could attack the Ministry tomorrow or have five Muggle families wiped out over the next few weeks.”

“Exactly. You see, in a way his behaviour isn’t that odd.” Dumbledore merely raised his eyebrows. “I know him better than you, don’t forget that,” Severus snapped, a little more sharply than he had intended.

“Of course. And I am very curious indeed to hear your opinion.”

Severus shot him a doubtful look but could not detect any hint of irony in the old wizard’s eyes. “Well then,” he continued, “this is my opinion: All his previous actions were merely a means to destabilize the country and give his followers something to do. You can’t keep up the troupe’s morale unless you keep them occupied. So these operations kept them busy and served to demonstrate his power, both over them and over society.”

“I would lie if I claimed he has not succeeded,” Dumbledore remarked dryly.

“Of course he succeeded. He had very capable helpers. Anyway, to destabilize wasn’t his primary goal, as you well know. Now that the Potters’ son is born, he knows that he just has to wait for the fruit to ripen, take it, use it, and then he can proceed to the last stage. What happens in between seems of lesser consequence now, in a manner of speaking.”

“It would be better,” Dumbledore interjected mildly, “if you told me the whole truth.”

Severus sighed. “Yes, I know.” He stared into his teacup and remembered that, when he had noticed the first signs of… well, weakness, in Voldemort, he had promised to himself to keep it a secret. Now, however, this seemed incompatible with the aim he was pursuing. The resistance needed to know where the enemy’s weaknesses lay, otherwise they would never be able to defeat him. Dumbledore did not prod him, which was quite maddening. He would have preferred him to try and coax it out of him, so he could at least blame somebody else. But evidently this was not going to happen. “I think,” he said slowly, avoiding the Headmaster's eyes, “that he is becoming mentally deranged.”

Dumbledore nodded, apparently unimpressed. “Yes, that is what I suspected. The same happened to Grindelwald, only he was a lot older than Voldemort. Do you have any conjectures as to why his sanity has suffered?”

“Yes, I do, but they really are mere conjectures.” He looked at Fawkes, who was placidly snoozing on his perch. “You are aware that I’m still brewing power-enhancing potions for him. Only Lestrange is doing the same, and Voldemort takes them all, heedless of the side effects. I use unicorn blood, sometimes powdered phoenix claws—” Fawkes’s head came out from under his wing, and he emitted a single, trilling note.

“Sometimes,” Dumbledore said apologetically, “I really think he understands every word.”

“Maybe he does. However, those are the ingredients I use. The potions may be illicit, but the ingredients are perfectly safe. Snake venom, on the other hand, is anything but safe, mostly because we have pretty little information about it. It has been labelled ‘dark’ for over two thousand years, and I doubt that even Urqhart's restricted section contains anything worth mentioning—Yes, please,” he said, tending his cup to the Headmaster, who refilled it. The Hogwarts House Elves certainly knew how to brew tea, and seemed to make a special effort for Dumbledore's sake. “Therefore,” he continued, “I assume that St. John himself isn't too sure about the effect his concoctions might have.”

“And you think that the snake venom is somehow interacting with the ingredients of the potions you prepare for him?”

“I’m absolutely sure it does. Those are extremely powerful ingredients, not to be used lightly or tampered with. What makes me a little uneasy is that Owen, via his contacts in South America, has learned about a rather strange order, which has evidently been placed by Lestrange or Voldemort himself. You know that Owen has a certain soft spot for… er, unusual beasts, so they probably thought it was for him.”

“And what exactly would that be?” Dumbledore inquired.

“It seems that somebody commissioned a crossbreed between a Peruvian Vipertooth and an Anaconda. Yes,” he said, seeing the Headmaster's eyes widen, “I know what that means. The Anaconda is a descendant of the Amazonian Riverdragon, which was as poisonous as they come. I’d rather not imagine the venom that snake produces, provided they succeed in crossing the two species. But they are not too different, so chances are that they will succeed.”

Dumbledore rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Does Voldemort have any idea what he is getting himself into?”

“Yes and no. He knows a lot about alchemy, but on the other hand his knowledge of potions is nowhere near mine or even Lestrange’s.”

“Hmmm… well,” Dumbledore said, visibly pulling himself together, “there is nothing we can do, I’m afraid. To return to our initial topic: what do you think is more likely to happen? Small attacks or a spectacular coup?”

“The latter, I think. Only I have no idea where, when and how. It might be some prominent person—”

“Not that there are many of them left,” Dumbledore interjected, his tone rather venomous.

“—or maybe some public place or institution,” Severus continued, unperturbed.

“Which doesn't make us any wiser,” Dumbledore concluded. He took off his glasses and gazed at the other wizard. “The problem is that I need my people for different tasks. Besides, there are nowhere near enough of them to guard all the major institutions or personalities. And we don't have the elaborate warning system the Ministry possesses.”

“Maybe you should have a word with Crouch, then.”

Dumbledore gave a short, humourless laugh. “I have had many words with Crouch over the past years, Severus. And I really could have spared myself the trouble. All Bartemius wants is to become Minister of Magic, whatever the cost. Which means that he is very dependant on the public opinion. If he thinks—and I have no doubts that this is exactly what he’s thinking—if he is convinced that making the public believe Voldemort is on the decline will serve his purposes, he will not refrain from doing so, whatever I tell him.” He picked the last chocolate éclair from the plate. “Especially as I can’t tell him where my information comes from.”

“Yes, that sounds plausible. Not very comforting, though. Because it practically means we have to wait and see.”

The Headmaster shrugged, but it was a shrug of defeat rather than of indifference. “That seems to be the role Fate has assigned us.”

~~~~*~~~~

December came, and with it the usual invitations to countless pre-Christmas dinner parties. Although Severus had hitherto not been aware of it—after all, this was only his second year as a teacher at Hogwarts—being a Head of House in one of Europe’s most prestigious institutions of magical training was by no means an unimportant position, and thus entailed a certain notoriety. With increasing revulsion, he observed the growing pile of invitation cards, and finally decided to seek Dumbledore's advice as to the best way of coping with this intrusion of society into his life.

“Don’t worry,” the Headmaster said, “They are perfectly aware that you won't be able to attend. On the contrary, I suppose they would be quite appalled if you showed up—it would mean that you left their children to their own devices.”

“Aside from the fact that I have absolutely no desire to accept any of those invitations, they should be more shocked if Professor McGonagall decided to show up. Bill and Charlie Weasley are not in my house, after all.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Yes, they are quite a handful. I am glad you found that dragon’s egg before it hatched.”

So Severus wasted a whole evening—he even had got a dictoquill especially for that purpose—dictating polite refusals he then gave to Peggy, who went to post them at Hogsmeade. One invitation, however, could not be declined: the Lestranges had asked him to a dinner party to be held at Monrepos on Sunday 14 December. It was a small gathering, with only Lucius and Narcissa, Yelena, Owen, and himself, so that it was not difficult to guess its purpose: after dinner, the men would leave the ladies and children—Lucius had told him that they had been explicitly encouraged to bring Draco—and retire to the library to talk business. To judge by the total inactivity that had lasted for months now, it was more than likely that Lestrange wanted to discuss some important mission with them. At least the evening would not be a total waste of time, he hoped.

~~~~*~~~~

Except for Lucius, Severus had not seen any of the Malfoys or Lestranges for almost three months; his last encounter with the Baby Dragon, as the family fondly called him, had taken place before he returned to Hogwarts in late August.

Minnie the House Elf led him to one of the smaller drawing rooms, where the Lestranges were already waiting in the company of Owen, who tried to work up some enthusiasm for little Nimue. Severus had not told anybody about his loss of memory, and thus was slightly taken aback when Tabitha shoved the baby girl into his arms.

“Er… thank you,” he stuttered, trying to get her into a comfortable position, earning himself a sardonic smile from Tabitha.

“As you seem to have grown so fond of babies lately…” she remarked, poison bubbling in her voice.

“I’m afraid I don't quite understand,” he clipped, and sat down with Nimue still in his arms.

“Interesting, considering the urgency you showed to hold her at the namesgiving.”

“Oh, that,” he said, as nonchalantly as possible, although he did not have the faintest idea what she was talking about. Then he glanced down at the small girl in his arms. No, he thought, she was definitely not Voldemort's. Her hair was light brown, still quite short but very curly, and her eyes were turning hazelnut brown. This was doubtlessly St. John’s daughter, although the heart-shaped face and the heavy-lidded eyes were unmistakeably her mother's genetic heritage. She was now almost three months old and, as Tabitha told him, a very peaceful child.

“And yesterday,” St. John added, “the mobile hanging over her cradle was constantly spinning, although she can't reach it. And the room is not draughty, I checked twice.”

“Are you saying she's showing the first signs of accidental magic?” Owen asked incredulously.

“It seems improbable, but it’s certainly possible, especially as she was overdue by a whole week.”

“Such a powerful little witch,” Severus murmured, glancing down at Nimue, who bestowed a toothless smile upon him and snatched his right forefinger. Her hand was not big enough to encircle it completely, but her grip was quite strong.

While the others’ conversation drifted to the topic of magical pre-school education, Severus tried to place the nagging feeling that had overcome him while looking at Nimue Lestrange, and finally decided that it was quite natural for him to feel preoccupied—after all, she was, as Lucius had expressed it, the daughter of a ‘pair of maniacs’. That, combined with powerful magical abilities, was enough to give anybody the creeps.

When the Malfoys made their entrance some minutes later, Severus looked up and at once noticed the expression on Yelena’s face. She was eyeing him with a mix of affection and compassion, and gave him a small wink when their eyes met. Puzzled, he smiled and nodded at her, then got up and handed Nimue back to her mother.

“Good act,” Owen muttered in his ear, “I couldn't have done it. Look, the females’ hackles seem to be rising.”

This was an entirely true, if malicious, observation. Narcissa and Tabitha could not stand each other. In hindsight, Severus sincerely approved of Narcissa's perspicacity that had always caused her to dislike her uncle and call him a ‘slippery bastard’. She had been right, and her opinion on Tabitha's behalf was even less favourable. Not that it showed—both women had had an impeccable upbringing and knew exactly how to wrap insults in saccharine, so that they looked like compliments. Draco was sitting on his father’s left hip and obviously enjoying the scene. His hair, not fuzzy anymore but still as blonde as Lucius’s, gave him a strangely angelic touch, which was belied by the intently curious expression of his eyes. A mischief-maker in nuce, Severus thought. As he had presumed, the boy's eyes had turned a light, almost silvery, grey.

As was to be expected of a household as grand and important as the Lestranges’, dinner was a very enjoyable affair, at least as far as the food was concerned. The atmosphere was slightly strained, and Severus was thoroughly grateful for the two babies’ presence, which provided sufficient distraction for the climate to remain cool without growing downright chilly. Until St. John brought up the topic of a possible reinforcement of the bond between the Malfoy and Lestrange families by an eventual betrothal of the two infants. Narcissa almost dropped her fork, and Severus saw Yelena’s back stiffen slightly.

Lucius, seemingly unperturbed, signalled to the House Elf waiting on them to serve him another helping of artichokes. “I’m afraid,” he said, delicately cutting one of them, “that the matter of Draco's betrothal is already settled.”

There was a moment of total silence, finally broken by Tabitha who said, in a forced tone of voice, “How marvellous. Who is the lucky girl?”

“Pansy Parkinson, Ridley’s daughter,” Lucius replied, casting her a smile before applying his attention to his lamb fillet again.

Exchanging a look with Owen, Severus made a minuscule movement with his left forearm, shoving his wand a little nearer to the edge of his shirt cuff. St. John’s mouth had become a thin, hard line. “I see,” was all he said. Silence fell again, heavy with tension and unspoken words.

“How is your father, St. John?” Yelena asked amiably, “I was looking forward to seeing him tonight…”

Severus suppressed a snort and saw Owen pay very close attention to his pommes dauphine. He doubted whether Yelena knew it, but she had just touched a very sensitive point, a constant thorn in Lestrange’s side. His father, Samuel Lestrange, was still working as kind of a public relations consultant for the Ministry but had moved to France two years ago, to live with St. John’s brother Sinclair and his wife Héloïse, Narcissa's parents. Far from being a fervent Ministry partisan, Samuel Lestrange certainly harboured no friendly feelings towards Voldemort and his followers, and thus had decided that his elder son’s château near Marseille was a far better place for him to stay at than England. Sinclair Lestrange, one of the most influential wizards of the whole continent, had his own private security service, independent from the French Ministry of Magic, and was well able to provide safety for his father. His departure had been a severe blow to St. John, less because it showed him once more which of his sons Samuel preferred, but because he had counted on classified Ministry information his father might have purveyed.

Unsurprisingly, his reaction to Yelena’s question was so reserved that it verged on impoliteness. “He is… abroad,” was the short answer, not followed by any further explanation.

Time crept by; somehow the dinner finally came to an end, and, as soon as possible within the limits of polite etiquette, Lestrange gave the sign for the gentlemen to retreat into the library. None of the three phoenixes said a word on their way across the adjacent salon, but they all knew that they were in for a rough time. The door had barely closed behind them, when Lestrange turned to face Lucius. “How dare you?” he asked, his voice low and deadly. “How dare you make arrangements for your son without consulting our Master?”

“Draco is my son, just as you said. As you well know, nobody's opinion counts but my own when it comes to my family business.”

Blue eyes blazing, Lestrange advanced by a few steps. “I doubt whether you care to repeat that in front of Lord Voldemort.”

“I cannot say that I am extremely fond of telling him,” Lucius replied, looking down at the other wizard, “But I will certainly not hesitate to do so in case he asks me.”

Severus could see that Lestrange's hands were trembling slightly. Probably, he thought, Voldemort had ordered him to arrange the betrothal, and he was now dreading the consequences of his failure. “May I ask your for the reasons?”

“Of course. Nimue and Narcissa are cousins. Although I am the last to deny the importance of keeping wizarding blood pure, inbreeding has never been on my list of favourites. The Malfoys need heirs, St. John, not some weak-blooded excuse for a wizard. Considering that my grandchildren will bear my name and not yours, and inherit my fortune, I think I am entitled to choosing my future daughter-in-law. Doubtlessly Lord Voldemort will understand my reasons.”

“Very well,” Lestrange said after a while, “If this is your last word…”

“I assure you it is.”

They remained in the library for about half an hour, exchanging meaningless trivialities. Finally, Lestrange rose, thus giving the signal for them to return to the ladies, and Severus was already crossing the threshold when Lestrange called him back. “A word, Severus, if you please.”

Fully expecting to be questioned on Lucius’s behalf, he returned. “Of course, St. John. What can I do for you?”

“We need a batch of Falsitaserum by 20 December. Be sure to deliver it to me.”

“Certainly. How much will you need?” He would have liked to ask for the reason but decided it was better to stay silent.

“As much as you can make.”

Severus merely nodded, and they left the library together.

~~~~*~~~~

“Sev? Are you there?” Lucius’s voice sounded anxious, to say the least. To judge by the look on his face, he was more than a little upset. “Ah, here you are. I need to talk to—”

“Good evening, Lucius,” Dumbledore said, stepping towards the fireplace to stand next to Severus. “Severus thought you would probably call and thus asked me to come to his quarters. I heard you are in trouble?”

“Y-yes, to put it mildly.” Lucius bit his lip. This had to cost him a considerable effort, Severus thought. “I think I… I need your assistance. Did Severus tell you—”

“He did. So you are fearing that, this time, Voldemort's wrath might concern not only yourself, but also your family.”

Lucius nodded. “Exactly. My mother will return to Bulgaria within the hour—she’ll be safe, for nobody in their right minds would even dream of getting on the wrong side of a tribe of Veelas. They will protect her. But my wife…”

“Can't she go with Yelena?” Severus asked, for that was what he had expected Lucius to decide.

“No. The Veela will accept my mother, because she is a half-blood. Maybe even Draco, but certainly not Narcissa.”

“You are probably right,” Dumbledore said. “Besides, moving them right into Durmstrang’s sphere of influence doesn't seem like a good idea. But why don't you send them to France?”

Lucius shook his head. “No. I considered the possibility but came to the conclusion that it's too dangerous. Sinclair might be well-protected, but if Voldemort is after Narcissa and Draco's blood, his security won’t stand a chance.” He gave Dumbledore a long, hard stare. “Would you… grant them asylum at Hogwarts?”

“I don't see why I shouldn’t,” the Headmaster said after a short pause of reflection. “Only I think it would be wiser for you to spread the rumour they went to Bulgaria with your mother.”

A smile flickered across Lucius's face. “That was exactly my intention. I still have a grandmother, so we can pretend she has fallen seriously ill and demanded to see her great-grandson before she dies. It’s transparent but will have to do.”

“Well,” Severus said reasonably, “you don't want Voldemort to believe the reason why they’re gone, you just want him to believe they’re in Bulgaria.”

“When—” Lucius cleared his throat “—when can I send them over?”

“Why don't you send them right now?” Dumbledore said, as if hiding Narcissa and her son were no more than buying a pair of socks. “I am sure it would make you feel much better.”

“Yes, I… Thank you. They will arrive in about half an hour.”

“You are most welcome, Lucius.”

Malfoy’s head disappeared from the grate, and both Severus and Dumbledore sat down in front of the fireplace.

“Do you think he will survive this?” the Headmaster asked.

“I’m not sure. Otherwise, he wouldn't send them here. That idiot!” Severus spat, “That goddamned idiot! Why couldn't he just accept Lestrange's offer? He might have broken off the engagement the day all this will be over.”

“I think,” Dumbledore said cautiously, “that these matters of pride and honour are somewhat difficult to understand unless you have a pedigree as long as Lucius Malfoy. But tell me, Severus, did anything transpire tonight?”

“Yes. I cannot tell you why, but I am sure there is going to be a massive attack before the end of the year.” He would rather be damned than tell Dumbledore about the Falsitaserum—too much depended on it. It had to remain a secret.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely sure. And I’m telling you the truth: I have no idea about the details. But I think you’d better try and talk to Crouch.”

~~~~*~~~~

Narcissa agreed to spend the days until the Christmas holidays started in Severus's quarters. It was the most practical solution, for they had all agreed that her presence at Hogwarts must be kept secret. Only Dumbledore and McGonagall knew, and Peggy had been strictly forbidden to mention Severus's guests to the other House Elves. Once most of the students were gone, they would try to find suitable lodgings for her and her child.

This invasion of his privacy was rather hard on Severus, but he tolerated it for Narcissa's sake. The situation certainly was not her fault. And neither was it Draco’s. Besides, his living quarters were large enough, and so, together with Narcissa and intensely watched by Draco, they conjured a few walls, to divide the upper floor into a bedroom, a bathroom and a nursery adjacent to his laboratory. It was past midnight when they had finished. Severus was just about to say good night, when he felt the familiar tug of the Dark Mark.

“I… I have to go,” he said, giving Narcissa's hand a quick squeeze before he turned on his heels to leave the room.

“Wait!”

“Narcissa, I can’t—” but the look in her eyes stopped him.

“He is summoning you, isn’t he?”

There was no point in lying. “Yes.”

“Do you think that Lucius…” Her eyes were filling with tears. “I mean, will he—” Now she was sobbing.

“I can't say. I honestly can't.”

“I wish you could protect him,” she whispered, clutching Draco to her chest.

“I think you just gave me an idea. Good bye, Narcissa! Should I wake you up when I return?”

“Did you really think I can sleep?”

“Probably not,” he called back over his shoulder, already rummaging through one of the shelves in his laboratory.

~~~~*~~~~

Livid and jaw set in determination, Lucius was already waiting for him. “Drink this,” Severus said, handing him a vial before he started un-shrinking his Death Eater robes.

“Poison?” Lucius asked with a weak grin.

“No, you idiot. It's a very powerful protective potion I developed. Drink it, fuck you! It will prevent the worst.”

“All of it?”

“All of it. The effect is immediate and should last twelve hours.” Lucius nodded and downed the concoction. “Just tell me one single thing: why did you do this? Why didn't you simply wait before taking a decision? So you could have accepted St. John’s offer today, and nothing would have happened.”

“Only an ignorant could ask such a question. A betrothal, at least the way we perform it, is a binding magical contract. You can’t just break it. If I were sure that St. John is going to die before Draco is of age, I would have accepted. But I simply couldn’t take the risk.”

Severus had finished putting on his uniform. “Sometimes I wonder why that hat didn’t sort you into Gryffindor, Malfoy. Let’s go, then, and good luck.”

“Who goes first?”

“You go. I’ll follow thirty seconds later.”

He threw the empty vial into the fireplace and counted to thirty. Then he Disapparated.

~~~~*~~~~

“Mr. Malfoy seems to be quite accident-prone these times,” Frank Longbottom remarked, the satisfaction in his voice barely disguised. Severus found that he looked ridiculous in his Auror uniform, but was too tense to feel exhilarated.

“This was hardly an accident.” Owen tried to stare him down but failed. He, too had to be fairly exhausted. “As we already told you, it was a Death Eater attack.”

Without the protective potion, Lucius would probably dead now, Severus thought, or at least irretrievably insane. He had never yet seen Voldemort's cruelty unleashed to such a degree. And the power behind his curses had been terrible. He had played with his victim today, driving him to the point of fainting maybe twenty times, torturing spells alternating with physical abuse, until Malfoy had not reacted to Enervate anymore. In a fit of black humour, Owen had voiced his doubts as to whether they would be able to get him to St. Mungo's in one piece, seeing as how he was almost falling apart. The dragonhide boots had been put to good use tonight.

“I know what you told me, and I know I don't believe a single word of that rubbish. Show me your wands!”

Their Death Eater wands and uniform were stored away safely at the McNairs’ home, where Owen had taken Lucius. Severus had followed, completely exhausted by Apparating first to the gates of Hogwarts, just in case somebody was following him, and then to the McNairs’ manor, not to mention by the dreadful scene at Voldemort's place in Albania. Both he and Owen obediently produced their wands. As was to be expected, Longbottom was less than pleased with the result of his repeatedly performed Priori Incantatem. “Did you recognize them?” he snapped.

“I’m afraid we didn’t,” Severus said. “They were wearing masks.”

“And hooded cloaks,” Owen supplied.

They were both tense and nervous, not because of Longbottom's interrogation taking place in a small room at St. Mungo's, but due to Lucius’s critical state. The Auror, however, seemed quite pleased with the effect he imagined having on them. “All right,” he said, scrutinizing them, “Now repeat your story once again.” It was amazing what a uniform could do to bring out the lurking sadist in a clumsy ex-Gryffindor.

So they repeated how they had gone for a stroll, to sober up after an evening of heavy drinking at Malfoy Manor, how they had been suddenly surrounded by five or six Death Eaters, how they had both been subjected to Petrificus Totalus and forced to watch how Lucius was tortured and beaten almost to death, and how the aggressors had then left as suddenly as they had appeared, and, no, they had no idea whatsoever as to the reasons of this unexpected attack.

Before Longbottom could request another repetition, a young mediwizard came to fetch them. “Mr. Malfoy wishes to see you.”

“Did he actually say that?” Owen asked.

Longbottom snorted. “With friends such as you, who needs enemies? All right, they are yours,” he addressed the mediwizard, “I’m off to write a report. You—” he looked at both Severus and Owen “—will probably be called in for further questioning.”

“He's a real tough guy,” the mediwizard said, sending a look of adoration after the Auror.

“One of the toughest,” Severus agreed, and saw, out of the corner of his eye, that Owen was grinning. They were in dire need of a good laugh. “How is Mr. Malfoy, then?” he inquired.

“Well… considering the circumstances, I’d say he was lucky. He’ll survive, and there won't be much long-term damage. Maybe to his vocal cords—they look really bad, but it’s too early to tell. We’ll have to call in a few specialists from abroad, but I guess that's all right, isn't it? I mean, he can afford—”

“He can afford a specialist from Alpha bloody Centauri,” Owen snapped. “And now kindly take us to him before I lose my patience.”