The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 44

By Pigwidgeon37

Maybe, Severus thought while he walked back to his quarters, the Sorting had been the worst part of this evening. Only ten first-years. They had been expecting twenty-nine. Ten eleven-year-old children, frightened—oh, they were always frightened, he had been frightened, too… But today had been different, so very different. Today had probably been the first day in the whole, thousand-year-old history of Hogwarts without laughter resounding through the corridors and in the Great Hall. The black of the students’ robes had been oddly appropriate, all the teachers had been wearing black as well, even Dumbledore. Dumbledore in black robes… that, too, was a first.

Two new Slytherins for him, both girls. He had descended to the dungeons after dinner, to have a look whether they were all right, and had found them huddled together in an armchair in the Common Room where the others had left them. They were afraid of going down the stairs into their dormitory. They wanted to go home, fearing that their fellow Slytherins might be Death Eaters and kill them in their sleep, because they had survived the attack. So he had called the Bloody Baron and introduced the two girls to him—funny, he thought, that the spectre, whose aspect usually terrified the first-years, had inspired almost no fear in the newcomers—and asked him to stay with them for the night.

He ought to go to sleep now. But the aftertaste of the nightmares that had haunted him in the afternoon was still lingering in his body, making it restless and reluctant to remain seated for even two minutes. He constantly got up and paced, only to sit down again—but nothing he could do would chase the images from his mind or answer his question. He had asked Malfoy to lend him one of his eagle owls, as they were strong and fast, but even so it would be days, if not weeks, until Sybil’s answer arrived. If Sybil’s answer arrived. Because this was just a possibility, not a certainty.

And he needed to sleep… This was going to be one hell of a term. Once the initial shock was gone—and children being children, he was absolutely sure that tomorrow or the day after, there would again be laughter echoing in the Great Hall—the various reactions would start. There would be those who claimed special treatment because they had lost loved ones, and run to their Head of House if the evil Potions Master reminded them that there were rules for them, too. During dinner, both he and McGonagall, in a rare moment of unanimity due to the worries about their own students, had suggested that Dumbledore abandon the policy of pairing Slytherin with Gryffindor and Hufflepuff with Ravenclaw. Not that putting together Slytherin and Ravenclaw would have been a guarantee for elysian peace in the classroom, but there was less natural antagonism between the two houses. Dumbledore, however, had flat-out refused, pointing out that, unless the children were forced to coexist, and to struggle their way through it, the wizarding society would never stand a chance after this war had ended. In a way, Severus agreed, but that did not make his or McGonagall’s task any easier. Maybe he would have accepted the situation more readily if he were teaching another subject. Potions was accident-prone at the best of times, but with half the class being at war with the other half…

He sighed and got up to pour himself another whisky. The last for tonight. At least he hoped so.

~~~~*~~~~

Young as the Head of Slytherin was, the reputation of adamant sternness he had forged himself had instilled respect and fear of Professor Snape in almost all students, and therefore those who were hurrying back to their quarters after the last afternoon class stood aside, pressed against the corridor walls, when Severus strode past them, his left hand firmly clamped around Bill Weasley's upper arm. “Strawberry drops,” he ground out when they were finally standing in front of the gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office, and noted with grim satisfaction that the creature shot him a slightly alarmed look. “After you, Mr. Weasley.” And he pushed the redhead onto the staircase.

“Professor, I… I apologize, really, I—”

“I am not interested in your apologies, Mr. Weasley. Especially as they are insincere and caused by the fear of being expelled, not by regret. Now hold your tongue. You may explain all this to the Headmaster.”

Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, writing, the door to his office half open. At the sound of their footsteps, he raised his head. “Severus, is there a problem?”

“I daresay there is, Headmaster,” he answered through clenched teeth. “Mr. Weasley, explain.” Another push, and Bill Weasley came to a stumbling halt behind the visitors’ chairs.

“Mr. Weasley,” Dumbledore said and sighed, “I think I made it clear that this is no time for pranks. Tell me, what have you done this time?”

“It…” The boy swallowed. “It wasn't a prank, Sir. I really don’t feel like pranks now. It’s only been three days…” He hung his head.

Dumbledore frowned and looked at Severus, with an infinitesimal shake of his head. Tilting his chin in the boy’s direction, Severus beckoned for him to question the notorious troublemaker. “Well, Mr. Weasley, in that case maybe you could explain what exactly you did?”

“It wasn’t something I did, it was something I said. To… to Professor Snape.”

“Mr. Weasley, I haven't got all day. So please try to be a little more fluent.”

“He… well, he took points from Gryffindor because Malcolm Graham was being inattentive and had botched his potion, and Malcolm said that he was unable to concentrate because his mother was killed at King’s Cross. And then Snape—”

“Professor Snape, Mr. Weasley, you will kindly address him as Professor Snape.”

“Sorry, Sir. And then Professor Snape said that he understood his grief, but that this wasn't a hospital but a school, and that Malcolm had to pay attention all the same, or excuse himself from his class. And I got so angry, because it was simply unjust, I mean, Malcolm has been crying himself to sleep every night and—”

“Mr. Weasley, you and every student here at Hogwarts know perfectly well that whoever feels they are unable to attend classes may excuse themselves from participating until the end of September. If Mr. Graham chose to attend, he had to be aware that he wouldn't be treated differently because of his recent loss. Therefore, Professor Snape’s reprimand was fully justified.”

Weasley shot the Headmaster a mutinous look. “But, Sir—”

“No ‘but’s. Continue, if you please.”

“Well, I was angry, and so I said to Professor Snape that he had no right to say such a thing, because… because he was an unfeeling bastard who had locked his own mother away in a mental institution.”

If Dumbledore's sternness had hitherto been rather forced, more to keep up appearances than because he was truly angry, it was now very real, an almost tangible wall between him and the boy who was throwing him pleading looks. “Where did you get this information from?” he asked, his voice cold and flat.

“Really, Sir, I’d rather not—”

“Mr. Weasley, you will tell me this instant, or your parents may come and fetch you tomorrow.”

“Pro-Professor Black mentioned it…”

Severus drew a sharp breath. He had thought that maybe the boy's father had been talking shop during the summer holidays—theoretically, there was such a thing as an obligation to maintain confidentiality for Ministry employees, but everybody knew that it was a mere matter of form. Voldemort had used this fact to his own advantage more than once.

Dumbledore, whose face betrayed nothing, merely nodded. “Very well. Mr. Weasley, I must say I am disappointed, very disappointed in you. The details of teachers’ or students’ private lives are never to be used against them, I am sure your father and mother taught you as much?” He gave the boy a piercing stare.

“Yes, Sir, of course. It was just… I was so angry, and somehow my self-control just snapped.”

“This is no excuse. You are fourteen years old, and should be able to control yourself by now. Especially in a situation like this, when everybody is tense. Did Professor Black mention this in class?”

“No. No, he… I went to his office after lunch, because I was worried about Malcolm—you know that Professor Black is helping Professor McGonagall with her Head-of-House duties, don’t you?” Dumbledore nodded. “And I told him I was afraid Malcolm would screw up royally at Potions, because he was so absentminded. And… and Professor Black said… he said…” He feel silent and ventured a sideways glance towards Severus.

“You already insulted me, Mr. Weasley. Now you are merely referring what my colleague had to say on my behalf. Please continue.”

“He said, ‘I’m sure that creep would even deduct points for inattention. Not that it would surprise me in a man who’s locked his own mother in a madhouse.’ Those were his words. I don't know where he’s got that information from… honestly, I don’t even know whether it’s true… is it, Professor?”

Severus sent him a hard stare. “Are you really interested or do you simply want to glean information for gossip?”

“No,” Bill Weasley said, shaking his head so vehemently that his ponytail slapped his cheeks, “No, Sir, I thought I might explain to my housemates…”

Severus was loath to divulge details of his private life, especially of an episode that had caused him nothing but pain and desperation, but on the other hand, he clearly saw the advantage of driving a wedge between Black and the Gryffindors, who hero-worshipped the ex-Auror, son of two star Aurors. “If that is really your intention, so be it,” he said finally. “Due to an offence, which I do not wish to disclose to you, the Ministry sentenced my mother to lifelong internment at the Inverness Institute for the Incurably Ill, at the beginning of my fifth year at Hogwarts. Which is proof enough that I was not the one who had her locked away.”

Bill’s eyes had grown wide. “Sir, I’m sorry, really, I didn’t know—”

“Ignorance, Mr. Weasley, is one of the worst enemies of mankind. Try to remember that and act accordingly.”

The boy nodded. “Of course, Sir. May I tell my housemates?”

“You may, but try and stick to the facts. I have no desire to be turned into a tragic hero.”

Dumbledore, who had been listening with apparent satisfaction, spoke again. “Considering that you obviously regret your rash outburst, Mr. Weasley, I would say that it is up to Professor Snape to decide your punishment, and whether your parents will be notified.”

Bill gasped in alarm. “Oh, please Sir, please not my parents! Mum would kill me!”

This was a difficult choice. Of course, the boy deserved a severe reprimand, but on the other hand, Severus had heard Molly Weasley’s voice already twice, shrill with fury, making the windows of the Great Hall shake in their frames. Considering, however, that Bill Weasley had obviously recognized his error, and that he himself had no wish to see this incident blown up more than necessary, it was probably wiser to refrain from writing to the parents. He scrutinized the student out of narrowed eyes. “The choice is yours, Mr. Weasley. Either one week of detention, to be served with myself and Mr. Filch, or two detentions and a letter to your parents.”

“I’d rather have detention for a month than a howler from mum,” the boy muttered. “So I’ll take the former, Sir. And… well, thank you.”

“Be at my office tonight, at 7.30 sharp. You may leave now.”

Bill stuttered his thanks and raced out of the office as fast as he could.

“That was a very wise decision, Severus. Sit down for a moment, if you have five minutes to spare.”

Severus let himself fall into one of the chairs, suddenly feeling very tired. He passed a hand over his forehead. “Wise… I don't know. But I don’t want this to be gossiped about more than necessary. And knowing Molly Weasley’s Howlers…” He briefly returned Dumbledore's smile and continued, “What about Black, though? I suppose he got that information from his parents, but he had absolutely no right to divulge it to a student.”

“Especially not in mutilated form, I agree. I will speak to him tonight, although I’d prefer to do so privately. Unless, of course, you insist on being present…”

“Not really. I trust you will handle the matter correctly, and if I were present, he’d merely become more stubborn. But if you want to do me a favour, you can put the memory into a pensieve and give it to me…”

~~~~*~~~~

Aside from all the stress and tribulations, the first week of school, or rather its end, also brought a big surprise for Severus.

He was late for the staff meeting on Saturday morning, because he had had to complete some special healing potions for Madam Pomfrey, to whose care the last students to leave St. Mungo's for the Hogwarts infirmary had been entrusted. Cursing silently, because he hated being late, he picked up the notes he had made last night and hurried through the corridors to the staff room. Everybody was already seated at the large, rectangular table.

“Good mo—” He broke off in mid-word, and stared. For next to McGonagall, adorned with beads and pearls, large earrings dangling almost down to her shoulders, sat none other than Sybil Trelawney. She gave him a smile and a small wave.

“Severus! Come in, come in!” Dumbledore, who somehow still managed to look cheerful amidst the general gloom, gestured to an empty chair next to Professor Kettleburn. Slowly, and not without having pinched his arm to make sure he was awake, he closed the door and walked to his chair.

“As I was just explaining,” Dumbledore continued, “Cassandra Coleridge told me that she wants to retire. She might have waited for another few years, but recent events have led her to resign immediately. This is a great loss to the faculty. However, we are very fortunate, because Sybil Trelawney, who has finished her training in Baton Rouge only a month ago, has consented to take over.” The faculty clapped politely. “I trust that you will receive her well and make her feel at home here at Hogwarts.” This last phrase was acknowledged by nodding and murmured “Yes, of course, Headmaster.”

Severus had difficulties concentrating for the rest of the meeting, because his mind kept returning to Sybil, to his letter, to a possible answer—how was she going to react to him? At least this question was answered immediately after the meeting had ended. Sybil threaded her way through the other teachers, held out her hand and said, “Hi Severus! Long time no see.”

He took the proffered hand. “Sybil. I had no idea…”

“Nor did I. It was quite a surprise. Then again, I thought teaching might be fun for a while—”

“Careful what you wish for,” he remarked sardonically.

“Well, Divination is a little different. More training than teaching. And I only get volunteers, that's already a big advantage. But I think you expected an answer, didn't you?”

“Y-yes.” He looked around the room rather uneasily. “Only I don't really want to discuss it in the presence of the whole faculty. Are you already staying at Hogwarts, or—”

“Yes, I already brought my possessions. I don't have much, you know. We didn't exactly go on shopping sprees in Baton Rouge.”

She, too, had changed, Severus thought. Not her exterior—the enormous glasses, the whole jingle-jangle of blue and green, the light-brown hair which had by now reached her waist, all this was more or less as it had been before. But she seemed more self-assured and no-nonsense now. Less easy to bait… If Black tried anything with her, he might be in for the surprise of his life. Mathilda, too, seemed glad to have her back. Unsurprisingly, because the two girls had always gotten on well. Lost in his thoughts, he watched their retreating backs before heading off to his own quarters for a bit of work before lunch.

~~~~*~~~~

“Nice rooms,” Sybil said. She had followed Severus's invitation for a nightcap at his quarters and was thoroughly impressed by their beauty. “And so wonderfully secluded, too!”

“Well, it isn’t as if you could complain. The North Tower isn't exactly a public space, is it?”

Sybil laughed. “Not really. That would be very unbecoming for a Seer and Divination teacher. By the way, Dumbledore told me I’d have to be less matter-of-fact, in order to create a suitable impression for the students.”

“Meaning?” Severus asked, returning to her with two glasses and handing her one.

“Well,” she said and sat down in the chair he indicated, “I suppose I should be a little more mysterious. Mostly because he doesn’t want any rumours about my predictions usually being quite reliable—you know how students are. They’d tell their parents, understandably so, because a new teacher is always something of a sensation. And neither the Ministry nor Voldemort should know of my abilities.”

“So you’re saying that, substantially, you’ll have to pretend you’re a fraud?”

“More or less. It’s going to be fun, I think. In a way, at least,” she added thoughtfully. “Listen, Severus, before we continue with the niceties and small talk, I think I should give you your answer. You have ‘I want to know’ written all over your face. So you met her? And how—sorry for being indiscreet—was it wiped off your mind?”

Severus told her about the duel in the Slytherin Common Room. “It’s exactly as it said in your prediction. The trace is there. I somehow know exactly that I met her, and that it can only have been at the namesgiving. Other than that, I have nothing. Dreams, sometimes… But they elude me. As soon as I wake up, everything’s gone.”

Sybil nodded. “Yes, that fits well with what I saw. However, to answer your more urgent request: I still see exactly the same, which implicitly proves that she’s still alive. You have been lucky.”

“I suppose so,” he said, his voice strangled by emotions.

“Severus,” she began after a prolonged silence, “Is there any chance you might tell me why—or how—you got involved in all this mess?”

“I’m not sure I can explain. It… seemed right, back then.”

“I see.” She stared into her glass pensively. “You know, in a way I understand. The need to belong can be overwhelming. If you and the others hadn’t been such bastards, who knows…”

Severus chuckled. “That’s an interesting way of putting it. However, you’re probably right. The same goes for Mathilda.”

“Poor Mathilda. She isn’t very happy, is she?”

“No.” He drained his glass. “No, I suppose she isn’t. Then again, Mathilda doesn't strike me as a person particularly talented for being happy.”

“She might have been, with Barty.”

“Now try to be reasonable! Barty is a patronizing, anal retentive prick. Subdued as she is, all that would have come from that marriage would have been a repetition of his parents’ life. Not something to wish on anybody, is it?”

“Hmm… Maybe you’re right. What about a refill?” she said, holding out her glass to him. “And how are the others? If you can tell me, that is.”

“I think it would be better for your own safety if I didn't. Maybe later, when all this is over. Say, didn’t you see the attack on the Hogwarts Express coming?”

A shadow crossed her face. “I’m not sure. I’ve been asking myself the same question, or rather—thank you—” she took the glass he handed her “—or rather I’ve been asking myself why I didn’t see it. Or why I didn't see more, anyway.”

“More?” He raised his eyebrows, curious to hear what exactly was the effect of the manipulation Voldemort had performed almost ten years ago.

“You see,” Sybil said, leaning back and crossing her legs, tugging impatiently at the folds of her robes which had gotten entangled between her legs, “what I perceive is always a mix of sensations, images, sometimes voices. While you’re being trained as a Seer, you learn to interpret them correctly, and to put them into words as well as possible. In this case, however, it was merely a feeling. Dread and revulsion and panic. But no image, nothing clear. So what could I have done?”

“Nothing much, I guess. Then again, you already did more than enough by sending Dumbledore the letter about the child being born on 31 July.”

“Do you think it’s going to be of any help?” Her eyes went wide behind the glasses, and magnified as they were by the lenses, they seemed to expand beyond the contours of her face.

“My dear Sybil, you are the seer here, not I. So don't ask me.” He took another sip. “But you could do me a favour: I’ll give you a list of students whom you might tell that you see a violent death and a cauldron. Maybe that might motivate them to finally pay attention during my classes.”

~~~~*~~~~

The weeks that followed were crammed with activity. Meetings with Dumbledore and McGonagall. Meetings with the other two Phoenixes. Two private meetings with Voldemort, as per usual on the thirteenth. Another meeting in Albania, this time with Lucius, Owen and Lestrange, to plan the attack on the Potters. They had finally gone into hiding—Severus had dutifully reported it on 13 October, but Voldemort seemed strangely unconcerned. Even the Fidelius Charm, carefully alluded to as a mere rumour, did not seem to impress him.

“We will find them,” he said, eyes straying towards the autumnal panorama outside, fragrant and rich with red and gold. “Do not worry, my faithful servants. We will find them.”

Not a single look had passed between Severus, Lucius and Owen; that would, however, have been unnecessary. Each of them had understood that the faceless traitor had already given the news to their Master. And probably he or she knew who the Potters’ Secret Keeper was.

As time passed, the days and nights became more hectic still; neither Severus nor Dumbledore or McGonagall were able to get any decent sleep anymore. Too great was the anxiety that kept them alert and bursting with nervous tension—the final confrontation was due very soon, and somehow none of them was able to think beyond that day. Optimism seemed sheer lunacy, pessimism meant that all the preparations and plans might be in vain. Severus was beginning to feel exhausted, and this physical as well as mental fatigue was only emphasized by the lingering frustration at the thought that maybe he would outlive his twenty-third birthday by little more than two weeks. So many ‘if’s and ‘maybe’s, so much speculation, so much desperation that had to be forcefully kept at a minimum, because otherwise none of them would have been able to carry on with their daily duties. To live in the constant expectation of almost-certain doom, with the knowledge that their lives depended on the effect of a potion that had never been tested, made normal, everyday activities appear strangely futile, a childish pastime that dictated that house points had to be awarded or deducted, that students had to learn how to brew shrinking solutions, that homework had to be handed in and corrected. Sometimes, Severus thought of himself as of a small child, sitting amidst a nest of vipers but blissfully ignoring their hissing and poisonous fangs, intent on building a tower of blocks of painted wood, because this was what counted, and nothing else. Sometimes, he appeared to himself like that in his dreams. But those were not the worst dreams he had.

More and more frequently, he woke up in the middle of the night, because he seemed to have forgotten something important, something that would decide over their destiny, and stayed sitting in his bed for hours, trying to catch the elusive thought.

There were emergency meetings in the dead of night, and hurried Floo conversations, with Dumbledore, with Lucius.

“Headmaster, it has to be somebody who’s very close to the Potters. Voldemort doesn’t seem to doubt he can get to them, in spite of the Fidelius Charm.”

“I know, Severus, I know. There aren’t too many people I can reasonably suspect.”

“You know who the Secret Keeper is, don’t you?”

“I am pretty sure of his identity. And I’m afraid…”

“He might be the traitor?”

“Yes.”

“Headmaster… I know I shouldn’t ask, but… it isn’t Black, is it?”

“I… he has been acting very strange lately. I thought it was only because of the reprimand I had given him after his indiscretion…”

“Honestly, Headmaster, you know I hate Black’s guts, but I can’t believe…”

“We never can, Severus. We never can, until it is too late.”

 ~~~~*~~~~

“Professor, the Headmaster and I need your help tonight.”

“Of course, Professor McGonagall. May I ask—”

“We have to put up wards around a clearing in the Forbidden Forest. Our allies are going to arrive one by one, and we can’t afford to accommodate them where they might be seen. It’s only a few weeks now, and they have to stay there in tents.”

 ~~~~*~~~~ 

“Happy birthday, Severus.”

“Thank you, Headmaster. You just won an award for bad timing.”

“I know, but I somehow doubted that Voldemort would congratulate you. Are you all right?”

“If you mean to ask whether he harmed me—no, he didn’t. Probably I should regard that as my birthday present. But you won’t believe it: there’s some good news.”

“I am glad to hear it. We are all in dire need of a bit of good news. What is it?”

“We’re down to twenty-four by now. Only last month, Voldemort was eager to get new recruits. But he seems to have lost interest. Besides, what with the repression on the families of those who died, the interest to join our ranks has considerably diminished.”

“Hmm…yes, that’s good news indeed. Although I wish he were a little less optimistic—I suppose he thinks that he won’t need many people for his attack on Hogwarts, because his power will have increased so much.”

“That, too. But Nagini’s venom seems to take effect as well.”

“We’ll have to build an altar for that snake and worship it, when all this is over.”

 ~~~~*~~~~

“What about the traitor, Headmaster? If he tells Voldemort about the resistance camp, I’m dead. Or worse.”

“That’s what the wards are for, Severus. Once they are in, they can’t get out, except if I let them.”

“But word might get around—”

“You’re not the only cunning planner, my dear boy. Each of them receives a portkey, transporting them here as soon as they touch it. If they want out, they will be obliviated by myself.”

 ~~~~*~~~~

“Sev, you won’t believe what Barty just told me. It’s going to be in the papers tomorrow. The Ministry has created a new department.”

“I wonder whether they know they’re playing into Voldemort’s hands by increasing the bureaucracy. Don’t they have anything useful to do?”

“Of course not. It’s a Ministry. But you haven’t yet heard the name!”

“Well, then, tell me. I’m prepared for the worst.”

“Department for Magical Catastrophes.”

“You are joking, aren’t you?”

“By no means. Guess who’s Head?”

“Just tell me, Lucius. I don’t have all night.”

“Cornelius Fudge.”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware that the department was meant to create the catastrophes!”

~~~~*~~~~

“What about the Aurors, Headmaster—sorry, I know it’s late, but I couldn’t sleep.”

“Don’t worry. Neither could I. Those few we have will arrive at the last moment. Between eleven and midnight on Halloween.”

“I see. What if—”

“Azkaban, Severus. A lifelong sentence for desertion. Not nice, I know.” 

“I guess not. Maybe not even for Moody.”

~~~~*~~~~

“Albus, Severus—I mean Profess—”

“Stop it. Just call me Severus. It’s only going to be for a few days anyway.”

“Don’t be such a pessimist. However, I demand that, if you come to haunt me as a ghost, you switch back to ‘Professor McGonagall’. Is that understood.”

“Of course, Minerva. What was so urgent that you insisted on a meeting at five in the morning?”

“The children. I know the wards are strong, and that our allies at Hogsmeade are prepared to receive them, but I don’t want to keep them here.”

“But we cannot send them home, Minerva! We have already had this discussion many times—”

“Albus. Just listen. The Big Day will be Halloween. I know we planned to forego the feast, out of piety, but what if we had a feast and spiked their drinks with a potent, slow-acting sleeping draught? You could brew such a potion, couldn’t you, Severus?”

“Of course I could. But what are we going to do with three hundred unconscious students?”

“After dinner, we have enough time to transfer them to the clearing where the resistance group is staying now. If the worst comes to the worst, and Voldemort really attacks, at least we’ll have our hands free for fighting, without having to guide a hoard of panicking adolescents to the secret passage.”

~~~~*~~~~

“Are you prepared, Severus?”

“Including my last will and testament, yes. Are the Aurors coming?”

“Yes. The few courageous ones, on whose loyalty I was counting. And a few Law Enforcers. Except for Peter Pettigrew.”

“That coward! Unwilling to risk his flabby arse!”

“Sirius has volunteered to go and persuade him.”

“You let Black leave Hogwarts? Are you out of your mind?”

“If he is the one and I hold him back, you’ll be killed on arrival. Let us hope your potion works.”

“Merlin! How could you? How—oh, well. Just leave it be. Good bye, Headmaster. I have to leave in ten minutes.”

“Good bye, dear boy. Good luck. And till tomorrow.”

“You’re a bloody lunatic, Headmaster. Good luck to you, too.”

~~~~*~~~~

“Sev? Are they with you?”

“Of course, Lucius. But make that short.”

“Narcissa?”

“Lucius, oh gods, I…”

“I love you too, Narcissa. And you, Draco… Sweet Merlin, he has grown…”

“Wave good bye to daddy, Draco… yes, like that…”

~~~~*~~~~

Voldemort and Lestrange were already waiting; Nagini was coiled up at the Dark Lord’s feet, dragon-head erect and alert, tongue darting in and out. Owen arrived, and then Lucius. The room, usually well-lit for their meetings, was dark today, and only the flames in the fireplace, now back to their natural colour, cast long shadows over the walls. The giant snake’s form, projected on the whitewashed background, looked like some absurd parody of shadow pictures cast for their amusement by an evil deity. In the flickering, red-golden shine, the room seemed larger and more mysterious, with dark corners and uncertain outlines.

None of the four Death Eaters said a word; they were all waiting for Voldemort to give the signal for their departure. But he remained silent and scrutinized them one by one, his red pupils holding on to their eyes, probing, demanding entrance. “Why,” he said at last, “Why is the Law Enforcement being called to Hogwarts?”

They had little time, for the conjunction would reach its greatest power within the next fifteen minutes, and so Severus decided to play it all on one card. “My Lord,” he said and fell to his knees, poignantly aware of the snake’s sleek body next to him, “please forgive me! I would have told you afterwards—I just did not want to burden you with insignificant details until the mission was accomplished…” Fighting his revulsion, he took the hem of Voldemort's robes with trembling fingers and kissed it.

“You call the presence of Aurors at Hogwarts insignificant?”

“Only its reason, My Lord. I am afraid Dumbledore is suspecting my true loyalties… it is the only explanation. Please, Master, do not send me back…”

Voldemort chuckled. “Afraid of Azkaban? We will see, Severus, we will see. Now stop crawling at my feet—we have work to do.” Obediently, Severus rose and stepped back. “Our faithful informant—” an impatient gesture towards the darkest corner of the room “—has told me where the Potters are hiding.”

Out of the shadows stepped a figure shrouded in a black cloak, the hood pulled into his face. It was impossible to make out who was hidden under the fabric—maybe he was wearing a mask. So here was the traitor. Maybe Black, maybe… well, who? Severus found that his mind was reeling too much for him to be able to do much logical thinking. It could be Black, or Pettigrew. Or anybody to whom the Secret Keeper had spilled out his secret. He had trouble refraining himself from searching out the other’s face under its disguise. Traitor facing traitor. What kind of game was this? But whatever the game and whatever its rules, the stakes were high. And Severus had just saved his life by the skin of his teeth, if maybe only for a few more hours.

“St. John, do you have the equipment?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Severus, the oil?”

“Yes, My Lord. But—” There was no sunlight now. How was he supposed to destroy the vampire blood, in case it became necessary?

Voldemort did not even pay heed to his attempt at an objection. “Masks on!” The obediently covered their faces. “We—” he indicated himself and the cloaked figure “—are going first. You follow. The Mark will guide you.”

Severus saw the traitor shiver as Voldemort’s left hand, white and claw-like, dug into his shoulder. Probably he was afraid he would be killed as soon as he was not necessary anymore, Severus thought grimly. Served the coward right. If things went better than he feared they might, it would be his pleasure to wipe the bastard’s existence out once and for all.

The four men nodded at each other and touched their Marks simultaneously.

~~~~*~~~~

The night was overcast and stormy, and the moon had hidden behind the clouds. There was short, dry grass under their feet, and at a distance of about hundred yards from their Apparition point, Severus could distinguish the outline of black trees against the dark sky. He turned to examine the surroundings—no houses nearby, except for the cottage they were facing. The landscape seemed to be quite flat.

It was almost half past eleven, but the occupants of the cottage had not gone to sleep yet, for one of the ground floor windows was lit.

“Wands ready.” Voldemort’s voice was a mere hiss, almost inaudible through the whistling and moaning of the wind. “Cast the wards.”

After putting up a temporary shield, so that the Ministry would not detect the traces of Dark Magic, they followed their Master, who was quickly striding towards the entrance. “Lucius, open!”

Lucius stepped forward, wand held in his all-too-visibly-trembling right hand, and cast a Reducto spell. A flash of red light soared towards the wooden door and disintegrated it into cinders. They advanced, swiftly and silently, ready to defend themselves, because they were now clearly visible in the light coming from the hallway.

“Wormtail? What—” James Potter’s silhouette became visible for the fraction of a second, only to vanish immediately. The reflexes of a well-trained Auror, Severus thought. “Lily!” Potter shouted, “Lily, take Harry and run! I’ll try to—”

But they had already stepped over the threshold; six against one they advanced, effortlessly blocking James Potter’s curses. Upstairs, there was the noise of running, then a dull thud, a scream of pain.

“Severus, upstairs!”

He nodded, trying to swallow the knot that had formed in his throat, and ascended the stairs. The long, narrow carpet covering the corridor of the upper floor was in disorder, its edge describing a sharp bend towards the right, so that the polished parquet underneath lay bare, illuminated by a sliver of light from a half-open door. Over the muted exclamations downstairs, Severus heard Lily Potter’s frantic voice, half-crying, half-persuasive, “Please, Harry, come on… my arm… come on, for God’s sake, come, I can’t…” Then he saw her, limping out of the nursery with the small boy in tow. Her left arm was dangling uselessly at her side, her face twisted in fright and pain. When the child noticed the tall, masked figure, he started screaming and tried to free his hand from his mother’s grip, desperate to return into the light and illusionary safety of his room.

Lily froze. Her green eyes wide with terror, she clutched her son’s wrist and looked back and forth between Severus’s wand and the window at the end of the hallway. She was clearly in no state to Apparate, at least not without leaving her child behind. Severus took a few steps towards her. “Not the window, Lily,” he said softly, “You would only kill the child and thus give him what he wants.”

“Severus?” A mere whisper. “Did you… is James…” The deep green ponds overflowed, and tears spilled down her cheeks.

Severus shook his head. “He won’t stand a chance. Maybe they’ll—” Maybe they’ll make it quick, he had wanted to say, so as to offer her some comfort. But he was interrupted by a scream from below.

Lily tried to speak, but only her lips moved. Her voice had deserted her, as had their Secret Keeper, as would her husband, very soon. And life, too, unless a miracle happened. She could not even defend herself, for she was unable to use her left arm and desperately holding on to her child with her right hand.

The screams stopped abruptly, and they heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. “Lily,” Severus hissed, “who was the Secret Keeper? Tell m—” He was shoved aside by Lestrange.

When James Potter had started screaming, the child’s wails had ceased abruptly, as if cut off by the instinctive awareness that the other’s suffering was greater than his, that he had no right to complain about a bruised wrist and a tall black man when his father was being tortured. But now Voldemort stepped forward, his gait graceful and almost dancing, face unmasked and deathly pale, red eyes aflame and wand held high; the boy uttered a high-pitched howl, wrenched free from his mother’s grip and ran back into the nursery. And Lily, although injured and half-mad with terror, drew her wand and backed away from the aggressors, eyes riveted on the Dark Lord, stumbling over the carpet, regaining her balance, until she reached the door. The tip of her wand, albeit trembling, was pointing at Voldemort’s chest. “Have mercy… please!” The words were scarcely audible.

Smiling, radiating power, Voldemort advanced upon her. “Stand aside, you silly girl!” Impatient, mocking the lioness defending her cub.

Lily shook her head. “Not Harry,” she croaked, “Not Harry! Kill me instead, but please, not Harry!”

The smile left the Dark Lord’s face. “Stand aside. Now!” She did not budge. A bolt of green lightning hit her throat, and Lily Potter was sprawled across the threshold of Harry’s room. A soft, mewling noise escaped the traitor, whose face was still hidden in the depths of his hood.

They entered the room. “My Lord—” St. John’s voice was trembling with excitement “—shall I…” He gestured towards the boy who tried to hide behind the curtains.

“No, St. John. He is mine.” Voldemort waved his wand with a flourish, leaving a sparkling green trace in the air. “He will give me power… he deserves the honour of being killed by Lord Voldemort himself.” An imperious gesture made them all step back; Severus collided with Lucius—he could feel the other shiver under the layers of fabric covering him.

The Dark Lord pointed his wand at the child and drew a deep breath. “Avada Kedavra!” Another flash of green—this time Severus could hear the rush of death, huge black wings spanned wide—the boy stared, wide-eyed, almost curious, as the light seared towards him, and hit… Severus closed his eyes. A thud, something like a strong gust of wind, a feeling as if his very soul were being squeezed, or shaken… So this was it, he thought, it didn’t work, the child is dead, and in a few hours I’ll be following him to wherever—

The piercing shriek that cut through the silence made him reopen his eyes, for this was definitely a child’s scream… The boy was standing on the same spot as before, crying and pressing his hands to his forehead. Blood trickled from between his fingers and over the chubby hands. Lestrange was kneeling on the floor, staring at a bundle of black robes, running his fingers over the empty folds like a blind man, searching a body where his hands encountered only fabric. “My Lord,” he stammered, “My Lord…” He lifted the clothes, shook them and cringed when Voldemort’s wand clattered to the floor. “My Lord…”

They were all standing motionlessly, staring at Lestrange who opened and closed his fingers buried deeply in the black cloth and ceaselessly repeated, “My Lord… My Lord…” Only the traitor bent down swiftly and snatched Voldemort’s wand. Severus saw it and whirled round, but too late. He had already Disapparated. The movement jerked Lucius and Owen out of their stupor, and Lucius quickly cast a stunning spell on Lestrange. Another thud, and he, too, was lying motionlessly, face-down, on Voldemort’s garments, mirroring Lily’s position on the threshold. Severus could almost physically feel the child’s wails tugging at his nerves; he needed quiet, just a moment of quiet to recompose himself and think… “Stupefy!” Harry Potter glided to the floor, half-covered by the curtain.

The three men barely breathed; their masked faces did not look at each other but somewhere else, while their ears tried to catch a sound, a movement, some sign of the Master who seemed to have vanished. But nothing happened. The candles continued to burn, with slightly flickering flames, moved by the cold draught from downstairs. Aside from that gentle luminous dance, nothing moved. Impossible as it seemed, the potion had worked. The mother’s love had been strong enough to fight Death, to turn him against the one who had called him.

After what seemed an eternity of breathless listening, they slowly raised their wands and pronounced a whispered “Demasquera!”

“I can’t believe it,” Owen said, shaking his head, “It worked!”

The sound of his voice, strangely, almost obscenely alive, caused the other two to jump slightly. They merely nodded, still too dazed to speak.

“And… what now?” Lucius said after a while. “Should we…” He looked down at Lestrange. “What about him? And the child?”

Severus cleared his throat. “Maybe we should contact Dumbledore…”

“Are you mad?” Owen hissed, “No, first we have to obliviate the others, remember?”

“Yes…” Much as he wanted to move, Severus was unable to tear his eyes from the pile of clothes on which Lestrange’s blonde head was resting. Unsure why and how his mind was able to produce this information, he continued, “There are twenty-four left, minus the four of us… twenty. Seven plus seven plus six…”

“Exactly.” Lucius seemed to have found his wits and his voice again. “But I don’t think we can obliviate St. John or Tabitha. We’d have to wipe the last ten years from their minds, and I’m not sure…”

“No need to obliviate St. John,” Severus said, “He’s not on the Ministry’s list, and neither is Tabitha. They won’t go after him. Let’s just sort out who obliviates whom, and then…”

“What about the boy?” Lucius said, “We can’t just leave him here like that…”

“It won’t take us more than two hours to wipe the memories of us off everybody’s minds,” Owen said, “Let’s just put a sleeping spell on him, and one on St. John, and off we go. When we’re finished we meet here again and think about the next step. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”

~~~~*~~~~

It was almost two in the morning when the last of the three Phoenixes arrived back at the Potters’ house. “Damn Barty,” Owen panted, collapsing onto the grassy ground beside the other two. “That moron almost killed me. But I think I got the spell all right. You?” He gave Severus and Lucius an inquisitive look.

They nodded. “Mission accomplished,” Lucius said. “So, what should we do now?”

Severus raked his fingers through his hair. “I suppose you two should return home. And I’ll go back to Hogwarts.” The other two nodded, apparently not quite convinced. “Come on, I’m tired too, but we can’t stay here all night, wondering what happened.” He glared at them. “Well?”

“I…” Lucius raised his hands in a gesture of exasperation. “All right. We have to make up a story for Dumbledore to account for the loss of time. And we must decide what happens with St. John.”

“The story is easy,” Owen said, straightening his shoulders and wincing, “Severus can simply say that there was a burst of energy that knocked us out cold. The shields were up, so the Ministry couldn’t detect anything. And when we woke up, Voldemort was gone. Without a trace. Although I wonder…”

“Yes,” Severus snapped impatiently, “that’s what we are all wondering about. But we don’t have time for philosophic ponderings now. As for St. John, I’d love to kill him, but I don’t have the energy anymore. Up to the Killing Curse, anybody?” The other two shook their heads. “Then we can either leave him here, but I’m afraid he’d harm the Potter brat—”

“Big loss!” Owen muttered.

“You know about the oath Dumbledore made me swear. Now that the father is dead, I have to protect the son, whether I want to or not. So the only remaining possibility is that the two of you Apparate him somewhere near Urqhart and dump him there. I, for one, don’t want the Aurors to find him here. It might land him in Azkaban, but we’d get the cells next to his.”

Lucius looked up and gave him a strange smile. He looked as if he were totally drunk. “This is so surreal…” he said.

Owen snorted. “Malfoy in the throes of an existential crisis. What has the world come to?” He scrambled to his feet. “Come on, Lucius, we have to take care of Lestrange. Then you can go home and drink yourself into a coma. I’ll come with you, so we’ll give each other an alibi. Dumbledore’s covering for you, I suppose?” he asked Severus.

“Yes. Considering the state we’re all in, can you make it to Urqhart and back to Malfoy Manor in half an hour? I don’t know how long I can keep Dumbledore from waking up Crouch to tell him the happy news.”

“That’s more than enough. Don’t worry.” Owen grinned at him. “And tomorrow we’ll celebrate.”

“Yes…” Severus’s eyes followed the two figures who were rapidly walking towards the house. Tomorrow—no, today, he thought, today, in a few hours, they would celebrate. If all went well.