The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 43

By Pigwidgeon37

After having lost fourteen Death Eaters in the massacre at Diagon Alley, Voldemort was eager to refill his ranks. Most of those whose dead bodies had remained there together with their victims’ had been initiated the previous summer; the lack of attacks until Christmas, and hence the lack of experience, had led to their demise.

All three phoenixes tried to persuade the Master that, for many reasons, it would be better to carry out some small operations from time to time, but Voldemort had seemingly lost interest. It was difficult for Severus to decide whether he felt frustration or relief at this new development: on the one hand, the absence of any action did not allow them to realize their plan of taking newcomers along for their operations and have them captured by Dumbledore's people; on the other, spring and summer term passed without any noticeable problem, so that even the hated teaching became a lot easier for him, as he did not have any pressing Death-Eater obligations.

Not that it was a carefree time. The situation outside Hogwarts was gradually deteriorating—Dumbledore had to watch in impotent fury as some of his best people were thrown into Azkaban, James Potter was still proudly parading his Gryffindor courage and had no intention to go into hiding. At least Lily had completed the potion and kept dosing her son with it regularly. Small consolation, given the gloomy outlook of the anti-Voldemort front. An outlook the gloominess of which was increased by the constant insecurity about the spy’s identity. Although Dumbledore had at first seemed reluctant to accept the possibility of being betrayed, in the end he had to admit that certain information could never have reached the Dark Lord without active help from his own ranks. And even though Severus had felt slightly piqued, at the beginning of his spying career, because the old man so evidently did not trust him enough to give him the name of a single member of the resistance, apart from McGonagall, he was now more than grateful for his ignorance, for it was the irrefutable proof that he was not playing the double agent. Reassuring as this might be for himself, Severus was nonetheless in constant fear of the moment when they spy was going to disclose something really important Voldemort would have expected to hear from Severus. And he and Dumbledore had to be a lot more circumspect when making up fake information for the Dark Lord.

And there was, of course, the problem of the Philosopher’s Stone: all things considered, there were two institutions deserving the description of ‘absolutely safe’, namely Gringott’s and Hogwarts. However, there was a very sound reason not to put the Stone into one of the bank’s high security vaults, or rather two reasons. Voldemort had proved, by the Christmas massacre, that he had no qualms at all about major attacks involving a high death toll for his own ranks. And he seemed to be brooding over another plan for an attack on a similar scale. Therefore, it was unthinkable to store the Stone away in a Gringott’s vault, as an attack on the bank was bound not only to destroy wizard-goblin relations, but also to cost the lives of hundreds of innocent people and goblins. Therefore, Severus and the Headmaster came to the conclusion that it was better to leave the Stone at Hogwarts, where it would at least be possible to evacuate the students in case of an attack. The wards protecting the school were so powerful as to prevent the Dark Lord’s army from breaking through them for a good half-hour—enough time for the children to slip into one of the tunnels leading to Hogsmeade, where the necessary safety measures were already being taken.

Apart from his obvious satisfaction at learning about the Stone’s location, the Dark Lord himself seemed very distant these days—Severus witnessed this strange withdrawal every time he had to report to him. On 13 June, he thought his last minute had come when he opened the door to their customary meeting room and was greeted by the sight of an enormous snake coiled up near the entrance, whose head rose from the loops of its scaly body as soon as he stepped over the threshold, fangs bared and poised to strike. Shocked as he was—he had understood immediately that this had to be the crossbreed Voldemort had ordered, and thus did not dare to draw his wand in self-defence—he did the only sensible thing and froze in mid-movement. The Master took his time and left him standing there, petrified, for a good two minutes, so Severus could examine the beast at leisure, trying to keep his fear and resulting pheromone levels within reasonable limits.

Curled up as it was, the animal’s length was difficult to judge, but Severus estimated it had to be somewhere between twelve and fifteen feet. Its skin was diamond-patterned, off-white and dark brown on a shiny, coppery underground that betrayed the Peruvian Vipertooth. And the head, which was bigger than an Anaconda’s, was more that of a dragon than that of a snake. So whichever magizoologist had produced this nightmarish creature had obviously succeeded in re-awakening the dormant genetic heritage of the Anaconda—the fangs, slimmer, longer and more pointed than those of the Vipertooth, confirmed it.

“How do you like Nagini?” Voldemort's voice was vibrating with amusement.

Unsure whether the movement of his jaw and facial muscles would be enough for the snake to strike, he answered through clenched teeth, “She is very impressive, My Lord.”

Instead of the answer he had been awaiting, he heard the Dark Lord emit a series of hissing noises, whereupon the snake’s face took on an almost placid expression. The mouth closed, the head wavered back and forth for a few moments and then came to rest on the coils of Nagini’s giant body. “You may move now, Severus,” Voldemort said, clearly mocking him.

“Thank you, My Lord. I—I had no idea you were a Parselmouth.”

“One of the many perks of being Salazar Slytherin’s heir,” Voldemort replied nonchalantly. “Otherwise it might be less than advisable to have such a pet. St. John is quite taken with her.”

“My Lord, may I ask whether he has already used her venom?”

“Not yet. She has only arrived last week, and I believe that he is currently distilling the venom we have collected so far. You are aware, I hope, that the summer solstice is next week?”

“Of course, My Lord. And of the fact that the new moon is on 26 June. I have already asked the Headmaster for a leave of absence that evening.”

“Good,” Voldemort said, “Very good indeed. The day is drawing near, Severus.”

~~~~*~~~~

Once again, the castle was empty. That first day after all the students had left was strange: the echo of their voices, of the sound their footsteps made on the stone floor of the corridors, of laughter and angry yells, still seemed to cling to the walls, a faint trace that would vanish within a few hours. Only then would Hogwarts fall completely silent, sleeping through the summer, quietly waiting for its inmates to return.

Three of its inmates were still lingering at the High Table in the Great Hall for a last cup of coffee after breakfast before returning to their quarters.

“And when is he going to take the first dose?” McGonagall asked.

“As soon as St. John has completed the potion. Maybe next week,” Severus said, helping himself to another refill of his cup.

“Hmmm…” Dumbledore added three lumps of sugar to his coffee and stirred pensively. “I don’t know much about snake venom…”

“Well, I do,” Severus said. “I’ve been dedicating quite a lot of time to it, these last weeks. And I sincerely doubt whether either Voldemort or Lestrange have done any research—what I found out rather points to the contrary.”

McGonagall frowned. “Are the effects of the poison so dramatic?”

“Dramatic? You must be joking. By the way, was there ever a teacher from Spain or Latin America at Hogwarts?”

“Oh, yes,” Dumbledore said, “back in my times, Consuelo Martinez was Head of Ravenclaw. She was Mexican, I think, and with more than just a drop of Indian blood. One of your pre-pre-predecessors, she taught Potions.”

“Ah, that explains it. It seems that she brought a lot of books with her.”

Dumbledore nodded and, after careful reflection, dropped another piece of sugar into his cup. “Yes, she did. Her father—I think he was a Muggle, but I’m not quite sure—was a supporter of the French during the Mexican civil war, and after the French had left and the emperor had been tried and shot, it seems that Mr. Gonzalez became a victim of the ensuing cleaning operations. His daughter managed to leave the country and to take some of her most prized possessions with her.”

“Prized indeed—they’re invaluable,” Severus said. “However, aside from potions, she seems to have had a vivid interest in magical palaeontology, as I found several very noteworthy tomes from that field. That’s where I got my knowledge about the Amazonian Waterdragon from.”

“And?” McGonagall prodded.

“It was poisonous, but native Indians—the wizards among them, of course—managed to extract the venom and, with a few modifications and additions, to turn it into a highly addictive, hallucinogenic substance. Their seers used to ingest it, to induce trance. But most of them went mad, for it seems that, besides being addictive, the venom was also rather aggressive, even in its purified form. The description of the symptoms is quite inaccurate, but I would say that they resemble those of cerebral syphilis—the venom literally ate away at the brain cells.”

Both the Headmaster and McGonagall stared at him. “And… how long does it take for the substance to reach this effect?” Dumbledore finally asked.

“More time than we have, actually. And that was not my point. I’m much more worried about the hallucinogenic properties. I already told you that Voldemort is becoming unpredictable. And I’d rather not imagine what he’ll be like if he becomes addicted to that stuff.”

“Do you think there might be another attack like… like…” McGonagall did not finish her question—she had lost a niece and her grandnephew at Christmas.

“I suppose there will, yes.” He saw the hate flaring up in her eyes and stared back, long and hard. “And if it happens like it did at Christmas, there will be no way of warning you. Much as I regret it,” he added.

Leaden silence descended upon the three people. Finally, Dumbledore broke it. “Mrs. Malfoy will be quite lonely over the summer.”

Severus and McGonagall drew audible sighs of relief at the change of topic. “Yes,” Severus agreed, “It has been hard enough on her during the past months. But I simply can’t stay here all the time. It would be too difficult to explain.”

“She is a most remarkable young woman,” McGonagall said, and Severus looked at her in utter surprise. “Don’t give me that look, Professor,” she snapped, “Or did you think I was unable to overcome whatever sentiments I might have on her husband’s behalf?”

“I might have had a suspicion,” Severus purred.

“I wish we could do something…” said Dumbledore, gazing up towards the ceiling, where heavy clouds were drifting lazily across a pale-blue sky that was already hazy with summer heat.

“So do I,” Severus said with feeling, “Lucius is becoming increasingly jumpy and irritable. Small wonder—he hasn’t seen her or his son for half a year. But I really don't see how we could allow him to come to Hogwarts, if only for a day, without raising suspicions.”

“Hmm… Didn't you say that Voldemort encourages you to watch each other?” Dumbledore asked after a while. Severus nodded. “Well, in that case he might want to have a word with me, just to make sure you are doing your duty—in whichever sense. After all, he is a school governor of Hogwarts. And if he decided to make a donation… the school is in dire need of new broomsticks, you know?” He shot Severus a shrewd look.

“Combining the useful with the pleasant, Headmaster? Very ingenious indeed. I’m sure he’ll be enthusiastic about your suggestion.”

~~~~*~~~~

Among many other amenities, the Malfoy estate also possessed a lake. It was nowhere as large as the lake at Hogwarts, but quite deep, and cool even during the hottest summer days. When Severus had spent his first summer holiday at Malfoy Manor, eight years ago, neither he nor the other children had been allowed near the water, probably because Lucius’s parents had thought them too young, reckless and accident-prone. Now, however, they were a little less young, maybe also a little less accident-prone, at least as far as accidental drowning was concerned. The recklessness, Severus thought, was still a prominent feature of both Lucius and Owen.

As McNair was the only of the three with a high tolerance for sunlight—Lucius and Severus immediately turned lobster-red, but whereas Severus at least developed something like a tan afterwards, Lucius went simply back to white—they had agreed to stay in the shadow. Currently, Severus was watching the other two who, stripped down to their underwear, had mounted their brooms and were vying for who could dive straight into the lake from greater height. If there were any fish in the water, they were probably going to be inedible for the next three weeks, merely because of the shock.

He had refused to join them, for, although he was a decent swimmer, to have his head underwater for more than a second made him panicky. So he remained lying there in the grass on his blanket, from time to time taking a sip of deliciously cool white wine, and thinking. His musings had been triggered by what he deemed rather childish behaviour on Lucius and Owen’s part. But then, he had reminded himself that they were only twenty-three, so very young both by wizarding and Muggle standards. True, you came of age much earlier, and you were consequently allowed to do magic and Apparate… Under different circumstances, though, they might not even have finished their studies yet, he and Lucius, because they would maybe have taken a year or two off learning, to simply do whatever their whim dictated to them, to travel, to… yes, to be young. Certainly, Lucius would have married early, but if his father had not been killed, he would not have had to shoulder the triple responsibility of fatherhood, Death Eater duties and being the head of an important family. Severus himself would probably have obtained a scholarship for university, maybe he would have applied for apprenticeship with a few different Masters, he might even have gotten together with Clarissa… Owen, at least, still had his father, and thus was able to live in his shadow, which did not seem to annoy him. But he, too, might have turned out differently. And so it did not really come as a surprise when, in the middle of all those obligations, duties and responsibilities, boyishness suddenly erupted and made them engage in childish playing.

Finally, Lucius and Owen seemed to have enough and landed near Severus, dripping wet and laughing. After drying themselves off with a quick spell, both threw on their shirts and trousers and let themselves fall onto their blankets.

“I think we just invented Underwater Quidditch,” Lucius said.

“How interesting. The two of you against the Giant Squid?”

“Mmh. Hell, I’m starving!” Owen said and fished for a sandwich in the picnic basket the House Elves had prepared for them. “Hey, didn’t you go to Hogwarts?” he asked Lucius, “How was it? You didn’t tell me anything.”

The visit had taken place at the beginning of August, and the school was now in possession of twenty brand-new Cleansweep 4, the latest model on the market.

Lucius smiled and nodded. “Yes, I was there, two days ago. Killed two birds with one stone—I could see Narcissa, and I also scored big time when I told Voldemort about my cunning plan to have a word with Dumbledore.”

“What did you tell him?” Severus asked, grabbing a chicken drumstick and a piece of bread.

“Nothing much—what could I tell him? Just that Dumbledore seems to be at his wits’ end—”

“Which is unfortunately true,” Severus observed dryly.

“Indeed. And that there aren’t any additional wards or other security devices. And I told him, of course, about the broomsticks. Oh, and that the great Albus Dumbledore doesn’t seem to harbour any suspicions against myself, so that I might be of use in case something goes wrong.”

“Thank you so much,” Severus said acidly, throwing the chicken bone at Lucius, “It’s so good to know Voldemort thinks I’m easily replaceable. What about Narcissa and Draco?”

“And what did you do with the child during your shagfeast?” Owen inquired with genuine interest.

Lucius shot him a withering look. “You’re disgusting, McNair. Really. But to answer Severus’s question, she’s quite well. Of course, she’s gradually developing cabin fever, but I have to say that Dumbledore tries to make the stay as agreeable as possible for both her and Draco. And I brought her an Invisibility Cloak, so she can take walks outside.”

“Well,” Owen said, lying down on his left side after he had finished eating, head propped up in his hand, “less than three months to go…”

Severus, who was sitting on Lucius’s other side, threw him an astonished look. “I wish I knew where you get that optimism from! We don’t know what’s going to happen! Maybe he won’t go himself—”

“Leaving his chef d’oeuvre to somebody else? You must be joking,” Lucius interrupted him.

“That, or he might order somebody else to cast the Killing Curse. One of us, for example. The potion might not work. Or maybe it simply neutralizes the curse, without doing any further harm.”

“Oh, please!” Owen rolled over on his back. “I believe we discussed this already. More than once. Why can’t you just assume for a moment that it will work, and that Voldemort will be killed or weakened? Huh? Spoilsport!”

Severus shrugged. “Don’t know. Probably because I’m a more realistic type than you are.”

“You’re not being realistic, you’re a bloody pessimist,” Lucius said. “But supposing it works. What would you do?”

“Wait for the Aurors to come and get me, I suppose.”

Lucius’s brows shot up. “The Aurors? Why should they want to capture you?”

“For the same reason they’ll want to get their claws on you and Owen. Or do you honestly believe that the Ministry isn’t going to start a major cleaning operation once they’re sure Voldemort is dead or harmless?”

“Well,” Owen said, “They’d have to prove it in the first place.”

“Maybe they can’t prove it, but I bet whatever I possess that many of our esteemed fellow Death Eaters will be only too eager to barter a few names for a mitigation of their punishment or downright impunity.”

“You certainly have a point there,” Lucius agreed. “But what can we do? I mean, of course you can give them a dose of Falsitaserum before the big coup. But either the effect wouldn’t last long enough, or, if it does, they’re all going to be free, and so the whole business might start all over again, sooner or later.”

“Obliviate them?” Owen suggested.

“That’s a possibility. But it depends on the time frame,” Severus said. “There are forty-seven of us, minus ourselves are forty-four, that’s fourteen or fifteen for each of us.”

Lucius wagged his head. “Don’t forget that Voldemort seems to be planning another huge attack. That might decimate our ranks.”

“Yes,” Owen growled, “Only who guarantees that one or more of us aren’t among the victims? We’re good, but we’re neither immortal nor invulnerable.”

“I think we should all take the protective potion regularly from now on,” Severus said. “It doesn’t help against Avada Kedavra unless mixed with love, but it provides sufficient defence against most of the minor curses.”

Lucius snorted. “And when I die, they’ll have to dump me with the poisonous waste. I don’t know how many potions—”

“Oh, shut it, Malfoy. Stop that whining. Do you want to be safe or don’t you?”

“Yes, okay. Yes, I want to be safe, and yes, I ask you on my knees to give me that bloody potion. That better?”

“Of course, Malfoy. Lots better.” Severus gave him an insolent grin. “However,” he continued, serious again, “it seems that Obliviate is our only option. If we have enough time, that is. I reckon that they’ll take us in for questioning anyway, but only because we’re on their list of suspects. If nobody confirms their suspicions, we’ll probably be set free after a short time.”

“And then we’ll have to behave like really good boys,” Lucius said, eyes gleaming with unholy glee. “I’m going to be the jewel of the magical society—charity events, lots of honorary presidencies… you know, like the Society for the Protection of Underage Witches…”

Now even Severus laughed. “The fox keeping the geese… yes, I can definitely see that. You’ll introduce new school uniforms for Hogwarts—”

“Without knickers,” Owen supplied.

“Yes, well, to each their own,” Lucius said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “What about you, Owen?”

“Hmmm…” Owen muttered a spell to uncork another bottle of wine, and refilled their glasses. “I’m not sure, you know?” Reaching over Lucius, he handed Severus his glass. “The problem is that our enterprise doesn’t exactly have a good reputation. And if—” the three men raised their glasses to each other “—Your health. If things go really well, meaning that Voldemort dies or disappears or whatever… Severus is right. There’s going to be a major cleaning operation. Just imagine the stories the Daily Prophet will come up with! And you can be sure that anything Slytherin won’t be looked at very favourably for the next few years.”

“Your point being?” Lucius drawled.

“My point being that our now-thriving business might go down the drain. You know how it is after wars—yes, Sev, I saw that idiotic grin. I’ve been reading a bit of Muggle history now and then. So bow to my wisdom. After wars, or revolutions, when everything is rebuilt, people are usually obsessed with morals. So I suppose that nobody will want our bribes anymore, people will be less easily intimidated… And a large part of our success is based on bribing and intimidating. Hence, my suspicion that we won’t do much business. There’s enough money to last me a few lifetimes, but I’ll have to do something… well, respectable, stupid as that may sound.”

“You could work for the Ministry,” Severus suggested, struggling to remain serious.

“You know, that’s exactly what I had in mind. Maybe they have some job I might like…”

In a rare show of not-too-well-bred behaviour, Lucius snorted into his glass and managed to spill it all over his shirt and trousers. “What on earth could that be?” he asked, still laughing. “They don’t employ fulltime killers.”

“The Magical Creatures Department does,” Severus objected.

“Yes, right! How couldn’t I have thought of that? And the job even comes with an axe—I remember I saw that when my father allowed me to accompany him to the Ministry, back when I was little…”

“There you go,” Owen said. “I knew they’d have my dream job. I mean, the combination…”

He had definitely had too much wine, Severus thought. He felt heavy-headed and so, leaving the other two to their banter, he rolled onto his back and stared up into the golden-green canopy of leaves, almost immobile in the heat of the early afternoon. Yes, maybe it was possible to think about the future. Maybe they ought to make plans. Lucius, the honorary president of many charitable societies, Owen, the respectable Ministry employee… slaughtering dangerous beasts with a sharp, double-edged axe… he was on the verge of dozing off, when Sybil’s words came back to him, “I see an axe, nothing else. So maybe it’s death by beheading.” And, while he was already falling into the depths of sleep, his own comment, “Knowing Owen, I’d say that he’s the one who beheads the others.”

They were sitting in the grass, looking down at the lake, enjoying the sunset that tinged everything pink, even the Giant Squid’s tentacles, which rose out of the water from time to time, stretching lazily and plunging in again. The ground around them was littered with waste, half-rotten and emitting a nauseating stench. It was difficult to discern single objects, but the longer he looked, the clearer some of them became. Glass shards, a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez, a broken wand… Farther away, the body of a black cat, its belly already tumescent with decay, the head severed and probably thrown away. He rose, leaving his companions behind, and wandered through the grass that had turned dry and brown. It had also grown, for now it came already up to his hip. For a while, he just strode on aimlessly, letting his hands glide over the points of the long blades. Blood started dripping from his fingers, and he tried to wipe it off on his robes, but the fabric had to be charmed—his hands did not become cleaner, but now there were small red pearls strewn all over his clothes. It was beautiful, this red-on-black pattern, and he looked himself up and down, giggling at the feeling of the pearls under his hands. The grass continued to grow—now it had arrived at shoulder-height, so that he had difficulties seeing where he was. The sun had set, and soon he found himself in darkness. It did not frighten him, but he was feeling uneasy. What he found most appalling was the absence of noise. There was a silence and stillness that made him doubt whether he might have gone deaf. He tried and cleared his throat, but he could definitely hear the sound, so he was not deaf. Relieved and curious where his companions might have gone, he walked and walked… there was no grass anymore now, and the darkness had become complete—a velvety, gentle absence of light, enveloping him like a soft cloak. And it was a cloak, for now he could distinctly feel the folds of fabric. A pair of arms encircled him, and a soft voice said, “Child!” but he knew he did not want to be embraced, he wanted out, away from this unwelcome contact that was not warm and soothing anymore. And those were not arms—it was a snake, coiling around him, gripping and squeezing until breathing was almost impossible. He began to feel the lack of oxygen; strange lights were dancing before his eyes, flickering and fleeting. Gradually, their movements grew slower, and they drifted together, forming two spots, round spots that looked like eyes… He struggled against the snake, because he wanted to get to those eyes, which were smiling at him, beckoning for him to join them, sending him promises of love and comfort. Big, dark eyes, heavy-lidded, with hazelnut-coloured irises. His desire to reach them was excruciating, but he could not move anymore, tangled as he was into the snake’s scaly body. He tried to say something, but had no breath left. When he was sure that he was about to die, suffocated by the snake’s inexorable grip, he heard a soft voice calling his name, “Severus…”

“Sev! Sleepyhead! You’ve been sleeping for almost an hour!” Lucius shook his shoulder. “Time to wake up!”

“Yes…” Severus muttered, trying to grab the last shreds of his dream that were already retiring into the darkness of his subconscious. “Yes, I… I had too much wine…” He looked at Owen’s grinning face, and suddenly he remembered: the axe. So Sybil had been right again.

~~~~*~~~~

Severus was loathe to admit it, but Hogwarts was beginning to feel more and more like ‘home’. For Narcissa's sake, he had returned a little earlier than necessary, shortly after his August-appointment with Voldemort, which had yielded absolutely no results, and settled back into his quarters with astonishing ease.

Narcissa was well and healthy, as was Draco. The boy was now thirteen months old and proud owner of an almost complete set of teeth he used for the strangest purposes. He had made his first attempts at walking shortly before the summer holidays had started. Much to Narcissa’s distress, for once he had got the hang of it, he moved along with astonishing speed, mostly to chase after McGonagall in her cat form, as Narcissa told Severus. Given Draco’s obvious fondness of animals, Severus had gotten him a cat as a belated birthday present. The boy had baptised her Mina, which was how he pronounced ‘Minerva’. Dumbledore, at whose office little Draco was a welcome guest, was called Duddo, which he did not seem to mind. Severus was a little less flattered at the mutilation of his own name, which sounded like ‘Evvus’, but wisely decided that sooner or later the child would learn how to pronounce it correctly, so that he might just as well accept being called Evvus for the time being.

Considering that Elias seemed to have a thing for cats—he had immediately become friends with Mina, who was so tiny when Draco got her that the raven could have easily had her for a snack—and that he hated leaving Severus’s quarters except for delivering mail, the secret tunnel connecting Narcissa’s rooms to Serpens Tower was often used by Draco, to visit Evvus and linger in his proximity. Much as Narcissa loved her child, Severus had soon become aware that, despite her loneliness, she was neither an overprotective nor an overindulgent mother. For a one-year-old, Draco’s manners were impeccable, and thus Severus did not mind his presence too much, above all as he was a rather quiet child, content with sitting and watching the Potions Master out of wide-open silvery eyes. His hair colour had remained unchanged: he was still as platinum blonde as Lucius and would probably remain thus. The angelic look, however, had somehow vanished.

In order to duly celebrate the end of the holidays—although Severus did not exactly see the point in celebrating something he had been dreading since the beginning of July—Dumbledore, McGonagall, Narcissa and the child had come to have breakfast at Severus’s quarters on 1 September. The day promised to be pleasantly tepid, all the windows were open, and Draco was rolling on the floor, playing with Mina and Elias. Despite the superficially cheerful mood, all four adults were far from relaxed, for their conversation circled once more around the current situation; they were all worried, because Severus, who had had to deliver another batch of Falsitaserum some time ago, had warned that there might be another attack soon. So far, everything had remained calm, but the constantly lingering expectation of dire things to come was wearing their nerves and composure thin.

“Sirius came to see me yesterday,” Dumbledore said casually, picking breadcrumbs off his beard. “He had bad news—”

“Just what we needed,” was McGonagall’s sour comment, “As if that… what’s it called again?”

“Motorbike,” Severus supplied gruffly.

“Ah, yes. As if that motorbike of his wasn’t already disturbing enough. I told him to lock it away safely—just imagine if one of the students—”

“Professor,” Severus interrupted her, “I believe the Headmaster meant to tell us something about bad news.”

Narcissa frowned. “You look far to cheerful for bad news, Headmaster.”

“Exactly, my dear girl,” Dumbledore beamed at her, “What I meant to say was that Sirius thought of it as bad news. And in a way it is, only if you look at it from the right—”

“Oh, please, Albus!” McGonagall sounded downright annoyed.

“Yes, Minerva, of course. It seems that things are not going too well between Lily and James, and that she threatened to leave him unless he consents to going into hiding and performing the Fidelius Charm.”

“Ah.” Severus raised his eyebrows. “Any details as to what His Stubbornness will decide to do?”

“If the man has got any sense,” McGonagall said sharply, “he’ll choose his wife and the path of reason. I’m certainly a Gryffindor to the core—” she overheard Severus's muttered comment, while Narcissa kicked him under the table “—but what differentiates courage from recklessness is the ability to know which risks you can or can’t take.”

“Hear, hear!” Severus commented, honey-sweet. “What we don’t know, however, is whether Potter has got any sense. Headmaster?”

“We will see,” Dumbledore said philosophically. “But I am sure he will see reason, hopefully before—what is it, Severus?”

“I am being summoned,” he said tonelessly. “At this time of day—it’s…” His voice failed him, and his hands started trembling.

“Half past ten, really, what an unus—” McGonagall stopped in mid-word and looked at Severus, horrified. “Not the…” Without finishing her sentence, she stared at the Headmaster, as if a ‘no’ from him could wipe out the terrible suspicion.

“The train?” Narcissa whispered, “But he can’t… the children…” Her eyes were filling with tears.

“Is there anybody you can alert?” Severus asked the Headmaster, while summoning and putting on his Death Eater garb, ignoring McGonagall’s terrified expression. To be seen by her in full regalia was the least of his worries right now.

“No…” Dumbledore was shaking his head, eyes empty, his bony hands, flecked with age marks, balled into fists. “There is nothing I can do… Nothing, unless I want to give away your secret…”

“Then give it away, damn you!” Severus yelled at him. Draco, who had already sensed the mounting tension, started wailing, and his mother picked him up to soothe him.

“I cannot pay you back like this, dear boy.” The Headmasters voice, albeit trembling, was clear and determined. “You would die a most painful death. And even if it buys the lives of some of my… of the children, the resistance would lose its last chance.”

“You don’t know that, fuck you!” Severus shouted, “And I’d rather die myself than kill Her!”

“Kill whom?” McGonagall asked. He did not answer. “Kill whom, Severus?”

“I… oh, never mind. It’s… unimportant anyway,” he said, suddenly devoid of any emotion. “Wish me luck, Headmaster, paradoxical as it is. The Aurors curse to kill now.”

~~~~*~~~~

The Cruciatus Curse one of the Aurors had hit him with had had little effect, thanks to the potion. This time, they had been told to stay and fight, instead of Disapparating instantly upon the arrival of the Forces of Order. This time, the children had been a clear majority. This time, the victims had been even more helpless than at Diagon Alley, for what could a first- or second-year do to protect himself against a powerful Dark Curse? This time, Severus had deliberately missed, at least as far as the children were concerned, limiting his well-aimed shots to parents and, later on, Aurors. This time, his confusion, increased by the pain, had been so great that he had not Disapparated as soon as the Dark Mark had risen towards the sky, but run for his life, for he was afraid he might splinch himself. This time, a pair of brown eyes had been watching him while he killed boys and girls he knew, or would have gotten to know within the next week, children who might have been sorted into his House, children he would have had to protect. This time had been the worst of all.

Trusting that Dumbledore would find a solution, any solution, in case the Aurors came to interrogate him at Hogwarts, he had slipped into one of the public toilets, shed his uniform and shrunk it, barely able to hold his wand. He had remained there for a long time before returning into the safety of the castle, where everything seemed so peaceful and undisturbed that he was overtaken by a frenzy of anger and fury that caused him to blast five trees into smithereens before he could trust himself not to attack whoever might cross his path. He arrived while lunch was served in the Great Hall, caught a glimpse of the faculty sitting at the High Table, caught shreds of conversation, broken voices and sobbing, and sneaked away, upstairs into the Headmaster’s office. Half an hour later, the old wizard joined him, every inch a broken man.

“How many?” Severus asked tonelessly.

Raising his hands in a slow gesture that betrayed his weariness, Dumbledore took off his glasses. “Sixty-one students, eighty-three parents, nineteen younger siblings. Twenty-two Death Eaters, seventeen Aurors. Two-hundred and two dead, Severus. Seventy-five wounded. So many dead…” Fawkes rose from his perch and sailed across the room. “No, Fawkes,” the Headmaster said, when the bird had alighted on his knees, “No. This is nothing you could possibly heal, and if you cried for hundred years.” He stroked the bird’s head. “What about you, Severus? I was fearing the worst…”

“I’m sorry, Headmaster. I just couldn’t… I needed some time. Did the Aurors come?”

“Yes. But I told them that you had an accident this morning at your laboratory and were in no state to be interrogated. They will, of course, return…”

“Of course. But so I can at least go to the Hospital Wing, lie down and sleep for a few hours. Tonight—what about the other students, Headmaster? Are they coming?”

“Yes.” Dumbledore nodded, slowly and still wearily, but with an air of determination. “Yes, they are coming, and we will have a welcome feast and a Sorting Ceremony. I will not submit to Voldemort, and if he leaves me only one student to care for. Those who were wounded will arrive in the course of next week. So it will have to be a slow start, but it will be a new start nevertheless.”

This was probably the right way to handle the situation, Severus thought and said so. “Did you hear anything about the dead Death Eaters?” he asked, feeling almost ashamed of his question. But Dumbledore did not seem to mind.

“As I already told Narcissa, neither Mr. Malfoy nor Mr. McNair are among them. And, unfortunately, neither is St. John Lestrange. I take it that he was in command?”

“Yes. Neither Lucius nor Owen had any idea of what was going to happen. Until they were called, that is. When we arrived at the meeting place, we were more or less sure. There was nothing we could…” He fell silent. Apologies or justifications were definitely out of place now. He was not even sure what he should apologize for. What he felt was not regret—he had done what there was to be done. It was disgust, and fear. Immense exhaustion, and a desire to vomit. Or at least, sleep.

~~~~*~~~~

The Aurors returned in the afternoon, four of them, reluctantly admitted into the infirmary by Madam Pomfrey, who had been told that Severus had had an accident in the morning, while experimenting with a new potion, but been reluctant to seek her help until the Headmaster had ordered him to.

The arrangement was luckier than he had thought, for when Severus woke up, he saw that he was not alone anymore. There had been a few children with only very slight injuries, and those whose parents had consented had been taken to Hogwarts instead of St. Mungo's. So the Aurors had to behave themselves for the children's sake, and left the premises shortly after their arrival, furious but empty-handed. Severus got up and dressed, feeling marginally better, told the matron that he was leaving, as he did not need her assistance anymore, and returned to his quarters.

His sleep had been deep but troubled, haunted by nightmares that made him sweat and entangle his limbs in the sheets. Fortunately—if anything could be called fortunate in these circumstances—Narcissa had the good sense to leave him alone; probably she understood that all he needed now was peace. Peace and a hot bath.

When the tub was full, he stepped in and tried to relax under the caress of the warm water. The sky outside was almost identical to the one painted on his ceiling, and he gradually unfolded himself from the tight ball he had curled into, stretched, and finally gave himself over to the water. Floating on his back, from time to time touching the edge of the tub with his hands, he glanced upwards, into the slowly-moving clouds, and thought how easy it would be to just fall asleep again and drown. Not the easiest of deaths, certainly, for there had to be a few seconds of struggle when the primordial instinct to survive gained the upper hand and tried to make him gape for air and squeeze the water from his lungs. Only a few seconds, though, and then peace. Probably. The immortal part of him—if there was such a thing—dissolving and mingling with cosmic energy. Maybe reconsolidating itself and returning into another human body. Or maybe not. Sleep was already singing its soft lullaby, and Severus's head sank back into the warm embrace of the water, so gentle, so yielding, so undemanding… Thought became unclear became images became dreams, just snippets of dreams for he was not yet fully asleep, fleeting shreds of dreams blown across his mind like dead leaves over a gravel path… memories merging together into new shapes, calling him… a pair of brown eyes, hazel sparkling with gold, long lashes brushing over porcelain skin, a lilting voice that made his name sound like a kiss “Severus…”

Momentarily forgetting that he was merely in a bath tub and not in deep water, he panicked, inhaled water, struggled and finally found ground under his feet. Desperately, he pushed his head up through the surface that seemed to have turned strangely solid, inhaled but could not, coughed out water and the rest of the air he wanted and needed so badly… finally, a deep breath, another coughing fit, another delicious intake of oxygen, and he opened his eyes. As always when he was sure he had dreamed of Her, there was only a faint afterglow of what he thought he might have seen. He knew there had been eyes, and he was sure he had heard a voice. But nothing was left for his mind to grab and pull in, slowly slowly out of the swamp that was the part of his subconscious where dreams dwelt, just the knowledge that the eyes he had seen had a distinct form, and the voice a distinct sound.

The voice inside his head, so insistent during the Christmas massacre, had been silent today at King’s Cross, too weak to speak up against the turmoil of desperate panic. But now its time had come. Severus pressed his hands to his ears, half-tempted to go underwater again, to try and put and end to it all. But he knew that the voice would accompany him beyond his grave and never grant him peace. What if… what if… what if…

Last Christmas, the temptation had been almost irresistible but he had fought it. Now, he admitted to himself that he had to give in unless he wanted to go mad. The first letter had been a risk, the second would be sheer lunacy. All Sybil had to do was forward it to the Ministry, and he would be kissed by a Dementor before the end of this month. He had no right to do this. Dumbledore had refused to sacrifice him this morning, and now he actually meant to send another letter? But he had to know.

And so he got out of the tub, towelled himself dry, put on a bathrobe and walked into the living room to sit down at his desk and try to find a way how to write down the unthinkable. The words ‘She’ and ‘dead’ in the same sentence. The question mark that followed was not likely to make looking at it more bearable.