The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 42

By Pigwidgeon37

The first thing Severus had done upon returning to Hogwarts—despite his enormous fatigue, he had to walk from the gates to the castle, as Floo travel from Lucius’s study seemed too risky—after depositing Lucius at St. Mungo's, had been to close the Floo connection between his chambers and Malfoy Manor. Then, he quickly went upstairs to reassure Narcissa on her husband’s behalf and, as soon as he thought he might safely leave her alone, he paid a visit to Dumbledore. When he finally reached his quarters again, it was almost four o’clock in the morning, and he simply let himself fall onto his bed without bothering to undress. The next day passed in a tired blur; fortunately, he only had to teach a single unit in the morning and one in the afternoon—otherwise, he would probably have fallen asleep in the middle of his own lesson.

Narcissa had been on her own during the whole day and seemed to be very glad to have somebody to talk to when he returned after dinner. She was sitting on the Chesterfield in his living room, reading a book, with the baby sleeping on a blanket beside her. “Are you all right?” she asked worriedly as he let himself fall into the depths of an armchair next to her.

He gave her a tired grin. “That’s how I always look after a day of teaching.”

“You are very tired, aren’t you?”

“Yes, more so than usual. What with only three hours of sleep… It seems I’m getting old.”

She nodded, evidently unsure whether to remove herself. “Well, I… I suppose I’ll leave you then…” But her eyes conveyed the silent plea for him to ask her to stay.

Severus glanced at the dark shadows under her eyes and let his gaze wander further down to her hands. They were trembling. “Have you eaten yet?” he asked her.

“No, I’m not hungry, really, I—”

“Are you still breast-feeding him?” he inquired, gesturing at Draco. She nodded. “Well, in that case you have to eat, my dear. I’ll keep you company.”

“I don't want to eat! I want to know how Lucius is!” she blurted out.

“I really don't see how these two necessities exclude each other. Peggy will bring you a light meal, and while you eat we can discuss Lucius.” He got up to ring for the elf but was stopped by Narcissa's convulsive sobbing. “What's the matter now?” he snapped, rather impatient, because crying women always made him feel uneasy.

“Nothing… I-I just want to be with him, and… and I’m such… such a nuisance…”

Much as he would have liked to agree, because he felt supremely annoyed with her presence in his quarters—not because it was she, of course; he would have been galled by anybody’s presence—he found that he simply could not. “No,” he said, “you’re not a nuisance. And you can’t be with Lucius now, for your own safety. There—” he conjured a handkerchief and threw it to her “—blow your nose and tell me what you want me to order for you.”

“Ri-rice pudding,” she blurted out between two sobs.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Rice pudding. With cinnamon and-and cocoa powder on top. A-and a mug of hot chocolate.” She blew her nose and looked at him out of reddened eyes. “Don't stare at me like this,” she said, half-laughing, half-crying, “It’s my comfort food. Has been since I was a child.”

“Well,” he said doubtfully, “if that really helps…”

Obviously, it did help, for when she had finished half of her rice pudding and taken a few sips of chocolate—he had surreptitiously laced it with two drops of a light calming draught—the colour returned into her cheeks. “Lucius?” she inquired.

Severus went to pour himself a glass of brandy—surprisingly, he did not feel like whisky today—and returned to the table. “Lucius, then. Owen and I saw him only very briefly, two or three minutes maybe. As I already told you, he’ll certainly survive, and he won’t be a cripple. But the doctors also told us that he’ll probably have a few scars—some of the injuries were too bad for the tissue to mend without a trace.”

“I don't mind the scars,” she said, and bravely attempted a smile. “But what did Voldemort do to him? Was he only hurt physically? No magic involved?”

Severus shook his head, both to signal ‘no’ and to chase away the images, which were still much too lively for his taste. “No, he used both. Some minor torturing curses, which wouldn't have hurt him much, especially as I had given him a protective potion. But he got enough Cruciatus to last him a lifetime, and that was the dangerous part. That, and those deep cuts.”

Narcissa's eyes were wide with horror when she asked, “But his—his brain didn't suffer, did it?”

“Fortunately it didn't. However, the after-effects will probably last for quite a long time, and they'll have to re-grow his nerve endings. But it seems that there are two luminaries, one in China and one in Saudi Arabia, who have specialized in that field. They asked our authorization to call them in, and we gave it, of course. So there's no need to worry, not really. He’ll have to stay at St. Mungo's for about two or three weeks, most of the time in artificially induced sleep.”

“That doesn't sound very encouraging,” she said and picked up Draco, who had opened his eyes and was giving unmistakeable signs of dissatisfaction.

“Oh, I think it is encouraging,” Severus retorted. “I mean, look at the bright side of things: firstly, he isn’t dead and will make a splendid recovery. Secondly, I had an opportunity to test that protective potion, and saw that it works. Which means that, thirdly, we have something to feed that Potter child—provided Dumbledore's experts hit on the right kind of pensieve in time. So we can thwart Voldemort's plans of all-encompassing power, and, who knows, maybe everything will be back to normal within a year.”

She sighed, patting the baby’s back. “That sounds too much like a fairy tale to be true, you know?”

“I know. But please note that I didn't mention anything about anybody living happily ever after.”

~~~~*~~~~

On Tuesday 23 December, those students who spent the Christmas holidays at home left Hogwarts. Due to more than half a year of almost-quiet, which Crouch Sr. had exploited to his own advantage—just as Dumbledore had predicted—the parents seemed to have gained some sense of safety and confidence, so that most of them had allowed their children to return home over the break, and the school was almost empty. After a lengthy brainstorming, Severus, McGonagall and the Headmaster agreed that the best possibility for Narcissa and her child to be as comfortable as possible, without any security risks, was to take quarters in a largely unused section of the castle near Ravenclaw Tower. It was as distant as possible from the Slytherin part of the school—given the provenience of most of Voldemort's Death Eaters, this was a necessary safety measure—spacious and airy, and there was a secret passage leading to Serpens Tower.

It took them some time to decorate the rooms, as they could rely neither on Filch nor on the House Elves, with the exception of Peggy, but shortly before lunch on Christmas Eve they could all be proud of a job well done. To Severus's wide-eyed surprise, although he managed to hide it quite well, McGonagall even invited their guest to her quarters for afternoon tea. Then again, he thought, Narcissa's Transfiguration skills were truly outstanding, and professional interest was obviously outweighing whatever personal grudge the Head of Gryffindor might bear Lucius.

Severus had barely risen from the table after finishing his lunch, when he was summoned. Bending down, he muttered into Dumbledore's ear that he had to leave, raced back to his rooms to get his Death Eater attire and wand, grabbed one of the school broomsticks that were always available in a broom cupboard in the Entrance Hall, flew to the part of the boundaries nearest the castle, put on his uniform and touched the Mark. It did not take him to Albania, or to any other of the usual meeting points, but straight to Knockturn Alley. His heart started hammering wildly, because he instinctively knew that this was going to be the big attack they had feared. The one he had had to prepare the Falsitaserum for. What he was less sure about was the target of this mission—as far as he could see, every single Death Eater was there, except for Lucius, whom he began to envy secretly. To judge by their location, none of the public buildings in Politic Alley was about to be attacked, for they were too far away. And probably neither St. Mungo's. Gringott’s maybe?

But it was worse, far worse.

In the afternoon of 24 December, lots of British wizards went to Diagon Alley to do some last-minute Christmas shopping. The street was overflowing with a motley crowd; it almost seemed that the whole magical community had got it into their heads to make some purchase in one of the shops lining the narrow lane. The effect of sixty Death Eaters, Apparating right into the masses—a bigger group at each end of the street, and the rest strategically distributed among the multitude of people—was therefore deleterious. A panic broke out, everybody tried to run for their lives or to Apparate. Many people had taken along their children, though, and some had more than one, so that Apparating was impossible. Because of the ensuing chaos, where everybody fumbled for their wands, trying to get a clear shot without injuring the wrong person, they were easy targets for their aggressors.

The Aurors at the Academy had been enemies, and Severus had harboured a grudge against the Ministry and all its employees since his earliest childhood. He had practically grown up hating the Ministry. Alastor Moody, the Blacks and a few others had left him with little respect for Aurors. The Magical Law Enforcement had wreaked havoc in the suspects’ houses after the Aurors’ Academy had been attacked, they had killed his cat and cut off her head to get at her precious collar. Some of the murders he had perpetrated had been results of pure political necessity. But this… How could anybody think of committing such a carnage? Purebloods, half-bloods, Mudbloods, English and foreign, regardless of their age and gender, were slaughtered. Lestrange was in command of the operation, whereas he and Owen had to join the others like mere common Death Eaters, so that he had no possibility to stay away from the worst under the pretext that he had to survey the others. And he had to fire Killing Curses, and to stun and petrify and cast Dark spells unless he wanted to be killed himself or, worse, captured.

He was certain that the noise was unbearable—surely victims screamed and children wailed and cried… But there was a dull, thrumming noise in his ears, insistent and deafening, which drowned out whatever else there might have been. The only sound he could distinctly hear was the echoing of his own voice in his head, bellowing curse after curse, and another voice that became more and more insistent: what if She is among the victims? What if She went out shopping today? What if I inadvertently kill Her? He knew he could not afford that thought, but he was also well aware that it was impossible not to listen to that voice; even if he had been able to stuff his fingers into his ears, he would have heard it, poisoning his mind with its continuous what if—what if—what if…

Lestrange had told them to Disapparate as soon as the Aurors arrived, and to kill whichever comrade appeared unable to do so. From the Daily Prophet’s special edition that night he learned that the whole nightmare had lasted no more than three minutes. Fourteen Death Eaters had lost their lives, most of them probably by the hands of their peers; two hundred twenty-seven victims, nineteen Aurors among them, had formed a carpet of corpses on the cobbled pavement of Diagon Alley, interspersed with the bodies of one hundred and eighty-six injured. Not a single Death Eater had been captured.

When Severus arrived back at Hogwarts, he barely had the presence of spirit to shed his death eater garb. Maybe, he thought confusedly, he even wanted to be caught red-handed, because he doubted the horrors of Azkaban could be any worse than the agony of hopelessness he was feeling right now. If She had been killed, whether by himself or by another Death Eater… He mounted his broom and returned to the castle, driven by the wish to go back to his rooms and sleep. And, if possible, to never wake up again.

~~~~*~~~~

On 25 December 1980, martial law was declared by Bartemius Crouch, Head of Magical Law Enforcement, and the Daily Prophet and other, minor, wizarding newspapers explained to those who had never heard of it—and few had, because the last time the Ministry had taken such a desperate step had been back in the late 1800’s—what exactly the implications thereof were for the average British wizard. It was a two-edged sword, because from now on, the Aurors were authorized to use Unforgivable Curses. Some of them, like Alastor Moody, had always believed in their own rules more than in the law and used them from time to time, if only in exceptional cases. Now, however—and Severus suspected that this was largely due to the ignorance of people who had never cast an Unforgivable in their whole lives—those powerful incantations would become part of an Auror’s everyday-repertoire. The white-gold Keepers of the Light would soon be in the Dark up to their throats, in spite of being completely untrained for the occasion. Nothing good could come from this decision, for one needed a certain predisposition and natural inclination to handle Dark Magic, whereas the Aurors had been avoiding it like the plague, both because of their spiritual constitution and of their training.

But martial law also meant that trials, which had hitherto been granted to everybody, whatever the crime they were suspected of or charged with, had ceased to be a part of the system, which, by Muggle standards, was primitive enough as it was, and far from democratic. Of course, the methods of procuring sufficient evidence and getting witnesses as well as defendants to say the truth and nothing but the truth were far more efficient, and thus people were almost never condemned for crimes they had not committed. Now, however, the situation was turning into something more akin to the modus operandi of the Holy Inquisition: a mere hint was enough for the suspects to be seized, questioned—without even the use of Veritaserum—and handed to the Dementors for lifelong imprisonment or having their souls sucked from their bodies. No witnesses, no defence, no in dubio pro reo. Justice had thrown off her blindfold and transformed her scales into another sword.

Voldemort was highly pleased. Apart from having lost fourteen of his followers, he had reached his goal. “You will see,” he said to Severus, Owen and Lestrange, whom he had called to Albania in the evening of Christmas Day, “how soon the sheep shall turn against the shepherds. Not only did they fail to protect them, they are also going to become very unpopular. A process we will, of course, do our best to further and accelerate.”

Severus was still too shell-shocked by the events of the previous day to trust himself to speak, and Lestrange probably knew anyway what their Master had in mind. So the task of asking fell to Owen. “My Lord,” he said, “Would you be so kind as to enlighten us about your intentions?”

“Of course, Owen. Of course. The Ministry in general and Mr. Crouch in particular are not overly fond of Dumbledore and his resistance group. He has broken too many rules, and told them too often that they are incompetent blunderers. Our next step will therefore be to try and break apart his merry little band, simply by denouncing them to the Ministry.”

“Forgive my inability to understand, my Lord, but I cannot see how we could do that. We don't know the identity of Dumbledore's followers.”

“That, Owen,” Voldemort responded with a cold smile, “is about to change. Trust Lord Voldemort to find out the enemy’s weaknesses.”

Fully prepared to be questioned on Lucius’s behalf and hence punished for whatever imaginary fault he might have committed, Severus followed Voldemort's order to stay behind when the other two left. But Lucius was not mentioned, and for once he did not have to writhe on the floor in the throes of the Torturing Curse. “Sit down, Severus,” the Master said gently. “I have a task for you, and it is difficult.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” he muttered automatically, inclining his head. “I am eager to hear what I can do to serve you.”

Voldemort nodded, a satisfied smile playing around his thin lips. “I would not have expected otherwise from you, Severus. Now tell me: what do you think will happen after Halloween?”

He had to tread very carefully now, for too much knowledge might prove as fatal as too little of it. “I was under the impression, my Lord, that Harry Potter’s blood is going to serve for the last dose of Liberation Potion, to increase your magical power to an extent nobody has ever reached before.”

“And after that, Severus? Surely you have been thinking about that.” Voldemort's eyes were half-closed but scrutinizing his face attentively.

“Of course I have, My Lord.” Severus allowed himself the hint of a smile.

“And what were your thoughts, child?”

“You have spent more than ten years gradually building power, My Lord. First by gathering followers, then by eliminating certain key figures, whom you knew would be opposed to our cause, and now, finally, you succeed in destabilizing the old system, and will certainly succeed in destroying Dumbledore's resistance. This gradual development has led me to believe that, after having taken the potion on Halloween, you will be able to kill Dumbledore himself, take possession of Hogwarts, put us into the positions you think suit us best, and finally introduce a new order in this country.”

Voldemort threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, child,” he said, cupping Severus's cheek with a cold hand that seemed to be covered in leather, “You are so young… Have you forgotten everything I told you? But—” he removed his hand and leaned back in his chair “—maybe you did not understand it at that time. You will certainly understand it now.” He crossed his arms over his chest and gave Severus another enigmatic smile. “What do you know about alchemy?”

“Alchemy, My Lord? Not much, to say the truth. What do you want me to study?”

“I see.” Voldemort nodded. “But this time, you will not have to study. You just need to understand and obey.” He leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, fingers entwined, and looked intently at Severus. “What I ultimately want is of course not mere power—I could have obtained it years ago, had I really wanted to. Great Britain is just the beginning, just the basis of power. But I want the world, Severus. I want the Old Magic to return, I will revive it and make humanity recognize its benefits. But tell me—” his hand came to rest upon Severus's “—tell me, child: how many years do you think that would take me?”

During the last part of Voldemort's speech, Severus had felt the energy level surrounding the Dark Lord increase dramatically. “I… I truly have no idea, My Lord. Decennials, I would say. And not only two or three of them.”

“Do not delude yourself, Severus. An endeavour like this will most likely take more than a century.”

This was probably the point where he should feign dawning understanding, Severus thought. He hoped he had chosen the right timing. “But… but, My Lord… please do not take offence, but… but you are already over sixty, and… you would need to be… Oh! I think I’m beginning to—”

“Immortality,” Voldemort breathed, and a dreamy note crept into his voice, “Immortality is what I need. Does my question about alchemy make more sense to you now?”

Severus did not need to feign breathlessness when he nodded eagerly. For he knew what the Master was going to ask of him. “You need the Philosopher’s Stone, My Lord.”

“Indeed, Severus. I need the Philosopher’s Stone. After Halloween, I will be strong enough to undertake a ritual nobody has yet attempted. Or rather,” he said with a contemptuous smile, “Some have, but they did not survive it, simply because they lacked strength. Thanks to your and St. John’s tireless efforts, I will have more strength and power than any wizard ever had. And thus, after Halloween, I will be ready to perform the ritual. Do you see how crucial your role is, child?”

He forced himself to fully look Voldemort in the eyes, his look filled with what he hoped was appropriate admiration and candour. “I am… overwhelmed, My Lord. And grateful beyond words for being entrusted with such a task.”

“Fulfil it, Severus, and you will be rewarded beyond even your most ambitious dreams. You have ten months. Use them well.”

~~~~*~~~~

To go and see Lucius at St. Mungo's would provide an excellent opportunity for some strategic discussion—both Severus and Owen had agreed upon that before going to Albania. Therefore they were both sitting at Malfoy’s bedside in the late morning of Boxing Day.

After ten days of drug-induced, healing sleep, Lucius had been woken up by the mediwizards in the late evening of Christmas Day. He was as tall as his father had been, albeit less heavy-set, but of much more solid build than Severus. Now, however, he was almost frail-looking. “I don't know how they managed to make me lose more than twenty pounds,” he groused, “But I’m feeling like a wet rag. Totally boneless and… well, absolutely shitty, just to give you an idea. How’s Narcissa? And Draco?”

“Fine,” Severus said. “As fine as she can be under the circumstances, of course.”

“She’s not staying with you is, she?” Lucius asked, a hint of irascibility gleaming in his eyes.

“No, not anymore. We transferred her to her guest quarters as soon as the students had left. She’ll be safe there, and completely protected from anybody’s eyes. If the worst comes to the worst, she can still pretend to be a ghost, especially if she continues eating so little.”

“Then make her eat,” Lucius snapped angrily, “She’s still breast-feeding Draco and needs her strength!”

“Does that mean I’ve got your permission to force-feed your wife?”

Lucius shot him a rueful glance. “As long as you don't keep your hands off  her…”

“Listen, guys,” Owen said, rolling his eyes, “Touching as this scene doubtlessly is, we have more important things to discuss.”

Lucius listened to their account about Voldemort's plan to crush Dumbledore's resistance group and get his hands on the Philosopher’s Stone with visible anxiety. “He said he has a possibility to destroy the resistance? And to find out their identity? That means…”

“Exactly,” Severus confirmed, “That means there’s a traitor. Only we have no idea who, and if I tell Dumbledore, the effect is going to be devastating.”

“Mmh,” Owen said, “nothing worse than suspicion, especially if directed against some phantom. That’s bound to undermine their unity.”

“Maybe it’s a trap?” Lucius suggested.

“Meaning that Voldemort knows exactly what I’m doing, and uses me to sow suspicion amongst the enemies?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“And it's a lose-lose situation,” Owen added, “because whatever you do, it's bound to erode Dumbledore's group. Whether there is a traitor or not.”

“In that case,” Lucius said slowly—his voice had not yet recovered completely, he could not raise it, and sounded rather hoarse, “I suppose it’s better you tell the old man. I’m sure he can handle it. What about the Philosopher's Stone?”

Severus shrugged. “I have no idea. I’ll have to come up with something to tell Voldemort. Maybe it would be best to keep it safe at Hogwarts.”

“It probably would, in a way,” Owen agreed. “By the way, what effect will that potion have? Any conjectures?”

“The same as always, basically, only the—”

“No, not the Liberation Potion. I meant that love potion thing.”

Lucius snorted and winced—obviously his throat still hurt a lot. “Love potion indeed,” he said, “you make that sound as if Sev intended to feed that Potter brat a potion to make him fall in love with Voldemort.”

“He might become prince consort,” Owen grinned. “No, seriously. What do you think will happen?”

“The problem is that there's no way of testing it beforehand. So I can only guess… Some kind of big energetic clash, I suppose, provided the damned thing works at all.”

“A… clash?” Lucius croaked. “Meaning some kind of explosion of magical energy?”

“Well, yes… I suppose you might describe it that way… but it might just as well be an implosion, for all I know.”

“I was just wondering…” Owen leaned back and crossed his legs. “Would it be strong enough to kill Voldemort?”

“If it kills,” Severus answered after a short pause, “I’m sure it will kill both Voldemort and whoever the Killing Curse is aimed at. Even if it’s only the child. But chances are that the two energies simply cancel each other out, so to speak.”

Lucius raised his eyebrows. “Not if, according to your poetical notions, love is stronger than death. In that case, the effect should be worse on Voldemort. What was your point anyway, Owen?”

“I was thinking about the benefits of keeping the Stone at Hogwarts. If Voldemort dies in the process, we don't have to worry anyway. But if he survives, and is only weakened—”

“We don't know whether he’ll be weakened,” Severus interrupted him, “That’s wishful thinking, not something we can reasonably expect.”

“Nonsense,” Lucius said. “Where love and death are involved, the magic is so powerful that there's bound to be some major effect. So, what if he’s weakened, Owen?”

“Then it would be best if we could lure him to Hogwarts, where Dumbledore can finish him off. And the Stone would be the ideal bait.”

“It’s nothing more than a straw we’re clinging to,” Severus remarked, “But I’m going to tell Dumbledore all the same. Let's see what his thoughts are.”

~~~~*~~~~

Severus was genuinely angry at the Headmaster for having asked him to be present at the discussion with Lily and James Potter, shortly after New Year's day.

The pensieve had been made—rock crystal, engraved with the runes for love, power and strength—and it was now vital to convince the Potters of the necessity to protect themselves and their child. Maybe it had not been one of the Headmaster's wisest moves to invite Black, too, Severus thought upon entering the office. But probably the Gryffindor had insisted on participating, and there was no way of keeping him out of it—after all he was the child’s godfather.

“Ah, Severus,” the Headmaster greeted him. By now, Severus knew the old man well enough to immediately detect the strained note beneath the cheerfulness. So the Gryffindors were being their usual obnoxious, stubborn selves. “Come and sit down with us. Severus has been the one who proposed this means of protecting you and Harry,” he told the others—less by way of an explanation, Severus presumed, than to try and create something similar to a genial atmosphere.

Severus examined the Potter couple. James had not changed much since he had last seen him, about one and a half years ago. Lily, who had always been an exceptionally handsome girl, seemed to have reached new heights of beauty. And from the way she was holding and looking at her baby, Severus drew some hope as to the efficiency of the potion.

Upon Dumbledore's request, he gave a brief outline of how the final product was going to work, conscious all the time of Black’s derisive expression and Potter's less than welcoming attitude. “To extract the emotion and put it into the pensieve,” he finished his lecture, “will take a certain amount of practice, but I’m sure you’ll manage.”

Lily was about to say something, but was rudely cut off by her husband. “All this sounds very interesting,” he said, obviously mincing his words for Dumbledore's sake, “but I really can’t see the necessity. Especially as far as going into hiding is concerned. We are perfectly happy living in my parents’ house—”

“James, don’t you understand?” The impatience in Dumbledore's voice was now tangible. “This is not about being more or less happy. It is about your life, yours, Lily’s and Harry’s, and about the future of this world, if that is of any concern to you.”

“Look, Albus,” Black said, in a vain attempt to appear diplomatic, “if only we could be sure that this is really as dramatic as—”

“In other words,” Severus interrupted him coolly, “you are implying that the Headmaster is becoming senile and afraid of his own shadow? Otherwise, why would you ignore a warning by Albus Dumbledore?”

Lily’s mouth twitched slightly, and she shot Severus a quick glance. Black merely glared at him. “I was implying nothing of the sort. And since when have you become an ardent defender of Dumbledore?”

“Jealous?” Severus muttered under his breath.

Before Black could jump at his throat, Dumbledore spoke again. “I wish you understood, all of you, that personal issues are of absolutely no importance here. Severus is not defending me, but the side of reason. I know that Harry is in danger, and that he will be instrumental for the future. We must prevent Voldemort from finding you, and, just in case the worst happens, we must take the necessary precautions for him to fail if he succeeds in finding you.”

Half an hour later, the Potters were gone, together with Black. Dumbledore reclined in his chair, took off his glasses and wearily rubbed his eyes.

“Not really what I’d call a success,” Severus remarked dryly.

The Headmaster shook his head. “No, definitely not. And it starts worrying me, very much so. We cannot afford to take this risk.”

“Use Imperius on Potter,” Severus suggested.

“If he continues with his insane stubbornness, I might even do it,” Dumbledore said with a wry smile. “For the time being, however, I would prefer less… drastic methods.”

“If you ask me,” Severus said after a short silence, “you should talk to Lily alone. I watched her—she’s none too happy with her husband’s decisions. Granted, she seems to accept them, but she can easily be brought to the point where she'll rebel. Maybe she’ll even make him choose between her and the child, and his stupid stubbornness.”

Dumbledore stroked his beard, evidently considering this. “Do you think you might talk to her?”

“I? Why should I talk to her? You are the omniscient mentor! If anything, she’ll listen to you, not to me!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Take your time to think about it—after all, we have still got some months.”

“Unless the traitor, whoever he or she might be, thwarts all our plans. Have you given the matter some thought yet?”

The Headmaster gave a short laugh, causing Fawkes to flutter on his perch. “I have done nothing but think about it,” he replied, looking more weary than ever. “But there is nothing I could do. If I start suspecting my own people, it means the end of the resistance.”

~~~~*~~~~

It turned out very soon that Voldemort's hint had indeed not been a trap. After successfully shocking Great Britain’s wizarding society in a state of perpetual fear by the attack on Diagon Alley, the Death Eaters kept perfectly quiet for the next months. What seemed like peace was in reality the silence of a churchyard. The newspapers only gave voice to what the majority of the population was thinking: it seemed highly improbable for Voldemort to have thrown all his Death Eaters into the battle, and so speculation was ripe as to the real number of his followers. This had, of course, been a calculated effect—estimates ran from one hundred to one thousand, and the general insecurity was steadily increasing.

Into this climate of fright and anxiety, Voldemort dropped a few bombshells in the form of anonymous letters to the Ministry. Desperate as the Law Enforcement was to get hold of whoever might be blamed for the attack, they felt that their salvation had finally come, when, one by one, about twice or thrice a month, missives written in different hands fluttered onto their desks and denounced key members of Dumbledore's resistance group. Considering the highly classified nature of their activities, some of them had evoked their neighbours’ suspicion more than once by inexplicable comings and goings, and thus were readily accepted as scapegoats by Mr. Crouch and his henchmen.

Dumbledore, who was well aware of the irreparable damage this strategy of slow erosion was causing his movement, was completely trapped: although he tried to intervene once or twice in the apprehended wizards’ favour, he was politely but unambiguously informed that this was none of his business, that the culprits had to be treated according to martial law, and that he ought to stay at Hogwarts, minding his own affairs, unless he wanted to attract more attention than he had bargained for. The only means of protecting his people was to make them seek shelter at Hogwarts; the flaw of this essentially useful idea being, of course, that whoever the traitor was would run straight to Voldemort and tell him the news. And that was bound to have repercussions on Severus, who would have difficulties explaining how a bunch of unknown wizards skulking around the castle grounds might have escaped his notice.

The refugee camp the Headmaster had established and made unplottable with the help of Solange Delacour was too small to hold another hundred-plus persons, and thus Dumbledore was nearing desperation. The only hope he and his group had left was for Severus's potion to work, and hopefully work in a way that would put Voldemort out of action for a sufficient amount of time to reconsolidate their forces.

After a particularly discouraging meeting with the Headmaster towards the end of March, Severus was brooding in his chambers, trying to find a solution to the myriad of problems, when suddenly Dumbledore's head appeared in his fireplace. “Severus? Could I speak to you for a moment?”

Wearily, he got up and stepped in front of the fireplace. “Of course, Headmaster. Another catastrophe? Tell me, I’m just in the right mood.”

To his surprise, Dumbledore smiled—even his eyes were twinkling faintly, something he had not seen in a long time. “No, on the contrary. I have a visitor for you.”

“A visitor?” Severus rolled his eyes. “Just what I need tonight, to climb the highest peak of personal comfort. Who is it? Aurors?”

“In a way… It’s Lily Potter, and she wants to speak with you. Would you be so kind—”

Maybe this was indeed good news. “Of course, Headmaster. You can take the Floo.”

“She wanted to speak with you in private—unless you count little Harry, of course.”

“I certainly don’t,” he spit back and took a few steps back wards, so as to leave enough room for Lily to emerge from the hearth.

Little Harry did not seem to like Floo travel, for he was howling indignantly. Severus shook Lily’s hand and, with a sigh of exasperation, looked at the toddler in her arms. “His teeth are coming through,” she said apologetically, “I know it has to hurt like hell, but he drives me crazy all the same.”

“Let me have a look.” Severus took the child from his mother’s arms, placed him on his left hip—disgusting, really, he thought, how used he had grown to handling small children, due to his rather frequent contact with Draco—waited until the boy started another round of furious roaring and pulled down his lower lip. “Ah, yes,” he said, “I see. It’s the premolars. Hold on for a second, I’ll be right back.”

When he returned from his laboratory with a pain-numbing salve he had prepared when Draco had started teething, Lily threw him a curious look. “You seem to be very… knowledgeable,” she said, “You don’t have children, do you?”

“No. Having to teach a bunch of dunderheaded adolescents five days a week more than fulfils any need I might have for juvenile company. But this salve—” he lifted the small pot “—is very useful anyway. Sometimes, when the teeth of wisdom push through, even the older ones are in pain, very similar to what this fellow is going through right now.” It was a lie, but a plausible one. Besides, he might really give Madam Pomfrey some of the salve for exactly that purpose.

After they had applied it—Severus got bitten twice and Lily once, for not only did little Harry already possess two pairs of impressive incisors, he also seemed to get some inexplicable kick out of digging them into other people’s forefingers—Severus invited his guest to sit down. His offer of a drink was gratefully accepted. “I stopped breast-feeding him when he grew those fangs,” Lily said, laughing, “and now I can finally have a drink when I want one.”

“So,” Severus said, “I suppose you changed your mind about the potions?”

Her forehead wrinkled in a dark frown. “That’s not exactly true. I always wanted to accept Albus's proposal, but James…” She fell silent and bit her lip.

“That’s what you get when you marry an overbearing Gryffindor macho,” Severus observed casually.

“James has many qualities—”

“If you say so. However, foresight is not one of them. It beats me how he can have the gall to ignore Dumbledore's advice.”

“You know,” she said with a sigh, ruffling her son’s mop of black hair, “it’s difficult for him. His father was… well, I guess you could say patronizing, even though that would be an understatement. So he’s rather allergic to well-meant advice, even when he should heed it.”

“Even when your life is at stake? And that of his son?”

“It’s all a question of priorities,” she said. The smile she gave him was wry at best.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Well, that seems rather obvious. I’m going to prepare that potion—”

“You don’t have to prepare anything,” he interrupted her. “The basic protective potion is a piece of cake for me to prepare, and I’ll send it to you as soon as possible. Extracting the love is the tricky bit.”

“I know.” She looked down at Harry. “I presume you’re not overly interested in my emotional state, but…” She hesitated. “You know, I really didn’t want a child. I’m merely twenty-three, I could have waited another twenty years. But now that he’s here, I’m happy to have him. And I truly love him. More than… anything.”

Certainly more than James Potter, he thought. Aloud, he said, “Well, that’s good to hear. It’s the basic requirement for the potion to work. So you’re not going to hide somewhere safe?”

“I don't think that ‘safe’ has any meaning when it comes to Voldemort and his followers.”

“True,” he admitted, “But you could use the Fidelius Charm. It worked for your wedding, why shouldn't it work now?”

Lily nodded. “It occurred to me, of course. And I don’t know how many times I tried to persuade James. But he simply won’t do it.”

“You could do it,” Severus remarked. “For yourself and Harry.”

“No, no. I can’t leave James.”

“I wasn’t implying you should leave James!” he retorted angrily. “I meant that you’re home alone so often that it would probably pay off to perform the charm merely for you and the child.”

She gave a short, dry laugh. “And who do you think would agree to play Secret Keeper? I’m Muggle-born, don’t forget that. I don’t have many friends in the wizarding world, and I’d never endanger my family.”

“What about one of your husband’s little friends?” he asked and drained his glass.

“Well…” She wagged her head. “That’s difficult, you know? Sirius is out of the question—he’s too close to James. Remus… maybe, but he's having enough problems with his lycanthropy. Which leaves Peter…”

“He'd certainly do it for you,” Severus said, his tone slightly acerbic. He had by no means forgotten the looks Pettigrew had shot the beautiful redhead.

She stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on, Lily!” He rose. “Another one for you as well?” She nodded and handed him her glass. “You can’t be that blind,” he said, returning and giving her the drink. “Pettigrew is completely besotted with you, no way you can deny that!”

Lily waved a careless hand. “Oh, that! That was a mere schoolboy crush. He’s gotten over it by now, believe me.”

“I wouldn't be so sure. My only advice for you is to go into hiding and use the Fidelius charm, whoever the Secret Keeper. And whatever the cost.”

Peering over the rim of her tumbler, Lily scrutinized him, long and intensely. “You’re one of them, aren't you?” she finally said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re one of them, and you’re playing the mole for Albus, aren’t you? I was already wondering where he got the informa—”

It had taken Severus a few moments to recompose himself. “Stop, Lily. Stop. Even if that preposterous assumption were true, I’d hardly tell you. You’re an Auror, and married to an Auror. Gryffindors…” he said, putting all his contempt into the three syllables. “Pettigrew asked me the same question—”

“Peter?” she interrupted him, green eyes wide with surprise.

“Yes, who else? You Gryffindors seem to believe that every Slytherin has to be a Death Eater, don't you?”

“If you had really turned spy, things would be different anyway. And, just to tell you a guilty little secret of mine, the hat nearly put me into Slytherin. But I was so taken with Sirius that I implored it to sort me into the same house.”

“You might have been better off. And now let's discuss the logistics. When should I send you the potion?”

It was already after midnight when he called the Headmaster to tell him that Lily had left, and that one of their most burning problems had been resolved.