The Sybil's Oracle: Book Three

Chapter 1

By Pigwidgeon37

Labyrinthus appellatur quia labor intus. It is called a labyrinth, because there is labour in it. Some zealous medieval encyclopaedist had come up with this explanation, which, ridiculously wrong though was, fitted the occasion perfectly, Severus thought. As it had for Theseus, of whom the pious monk had probably been thinking when he searched for the etymology. Everything else about the maze that had grown to impressive dimensions down on the Quidditch pitch was different, though. The four champions wanted to get inside, the monsters were lurking on their way and not in the centre. On the contrary. What was waiting for them in the centre, shimmering and resplendent instead of dark and dangerous, was their prize, the reward for their courage and skills. Or was it?

For a moment, Severus felt chilled in spite of the balmy air. What if this was only a benign illusion, created for the public and competitors’ sake? What if everything was as it should be, as it had been in ancient days—mock danger outside, real danger inside? He reclined in his seat, eyes sweeping over colleagues, students and spectators from outside, and then looked up towards the magical replica of the labyrinth, hovering a hundred feet above ground, tilted by ninety degrees, so that, from whichever point of the stadium it was being looked upon, it presented the beholder with a complete bird's-eye view of the four champions and all the obstacles, thus enabling the spectators to follow the competitors’ progress without difficulties. The Triwizard Cup was glimmering faintly —it did look innocuous enough, didn’t it? No man-eating Minotaur, but a precious goblet of heavy gold that would bring the first to touch it honour and praise and riches… A cup—just like the Quidditch World Cup… a goblet. All the trouble had started with a Cup and a goblet. Although this one was not a magical artefact, it would serve Voldemort’s very own brand of poetic evil all too well.

Severus tried to pull himself together. The evening was so calm and serene…But the Mark on his left forearm was growing more and more distinct. Every night he had been looking at it, scrutinizing it, trying to establish whether the colour was really intensifying, or whether it was a figment of his imagination. Reality was irrefutable, however. For himself, for Lucius and for Owen. And for some others, too—most of them eager to see the Dark Lord’s return. Those had been the times of their fame and glory. No instinct could be too vile, no craving too perverse, no desire too despicable.

Yes, the evening was perfect. And all the same, there was something in the air. A tension that owed nothing to the Triwizard Tournament. Severus looked over to Karkaroff—the man was clearly nervous, and he kept touching his left forearm. Severus nodded grimly to himself. Karkaroff had indeed every reason to be nervous.

~~~~*~~~~

Fleur Delacour’s scream was the first signal of alert. She had done well enough before, but then, suddenly, she gave a piercing shriek and fell forward, first onto her knees, hovering for a moment as if praying and then, slowly and heavily, her body tumbled down sideward, remained there, immobile. Moody was nearby, fortunately; a quick movement of his wand parted the twenty-feet-high hedge, so he could enter, levitate the unconscious girl and transport her out of the maze. Not a second too early, for the blast-ended Skrewt had already been on its way. The spectators let out a collective sigh of relief.

Lucius was sitting in Severus’s close vicinity, and the two men exchanged glances.  Yes, it definitely seemed that something was amiss, both felt it. Owen, a little further down at Sybil’s side, turned his head and looked up. Evidently he, too, was feeling… it. Whatever ‘it’ was.

Potter was advancing—Severus had no doubt that Granger had been working with the boy. Some of the spells he was using were definitely not to be found on the fourth-year syllabus. He got through the Terravertere Jinx all right. The Skrewt was a piece of cake in comparison, provided one did not panic. Severus saw Lucius’s smirk when the boy tried hitting it with an Impedimenta Spell, which proved completely useless, as was to be expected. Obviously, the Granger girl had not come across the Contusio Spell, to be used against more resilient beasts such as werewolves. By sheer dumb luck, Potter managed to aim Stupefy at the creature’s vulnerable underbelly, and passed.

Then, another scream; everybody jumped.

Severus had seen the Cruciatus curse being cast too often to not recognize the signs immediately. Diggory writhing in the grass… the sight was more alarming for the lack of sound. But there could not be any doubt. It was Cruciatus, and Krum was the one who had used it. Very much against his will, Severus acknowledged Potter’s presence of mind, and his discipline—the boy just stunned Krum and marked his position for the teachers to find him. But why Krum? Could he have been the one? Severus found that his mind did not obey him properly; there was too much anxiety, bewilderment and insecurity—it reared up like a panicking horse.

No, he thought. No, there was no way Krum could have done it. He had seen the boy do magic on the few occasions when he had visited the Durmstrang ship, and nothing had betrayed a more than average magical ability. Fifteen years of teaching experience had honed his instincts for detecting magical power—whether trained or untrained—almost to infallibility. Krum was an extraordinarily gifted flyer, but not a highly skilled wizard. He could never have come up with a Confundus Charm powerful enough to completely befuddle the Goblet of Fire. Severus doubted whether his Cruciatus Curse would have done much harm to Diggory, even if it had lasted longer. He had used it, though. That piece of vermin had used an Unforgivable to eliminate a competitor. How blunt, and how stupid. Well, the boy would get what was coming to him. However, there did not seem to be a reason to worry too much—Diggory appeared all right, and Potter had saved the day. Again.

Severus crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back, grimly watching as Potter and Diggory took separate paths towards the centre of the maze, while Moody made his way towards Krum’s immobile form.

~~~~*~~~~

Further and further into the maze… the two champions advanced, sometimes only separated by a green wall. Then Potter met the sphinx, while Diggory had another run-in with the reawakened Skrewt.

The spectators started whispering and pointing—yes, Diggory was definitely at an advantage now, running towards the cup, unimpeded by any more obstacles, unless… The spider stalking along the hedges was moving clumsily, its body almost as wide as the maze’s corridors. But it was quick all the same, and, above all, it would emerge into the main path leading towards the cup behind Diggory. Now Potter had reached the corridor as well…

Severus briefly detached his eyes from the magical replica to scan the public. The sight was slightly exhilarating, as most of the younger students and quite a lot of the older spectators had covered their eyes with their hands or sleeves. True, the scene might be a trifle straining for feeble nerves, he thought, for the spider was rapidly catching up with Diggory. So much for the Hufflepuff’s hopes of arriving first—there would be no long-time damage, but he was going to be unconscious for some time. Not to mention that the beast’s venom hurt like hell. A very useful lesson, all in all. Always watch your back…

Lucius groaned and shook his head, a gesture of exasperation that made Severus chuckle. Gryffindor generosity—or dumbness, at least from a true Slytherin’s point of view—had apparently gotten the upper hand again, and Potter warned his fellow champion at the very last moment. Now both were struggling with the giant spider, both getting hurt in the process. Potter’s leg had been bitten, and Diggory seemed to have hurt his wrist when he fell. Interesting, really… now they two boys were obviously debating. Lucius shot him a long-suffering look, and Severus shrugged. They would have to sort it out, one way or another; after all they could not have it bo—

Well, it seemed he had been mistaken. They could have it both. Their hands were hovering over the Cup, one last glance of  understanding, and…

And all hell broke loose.

~~~~*~~~~

He had been expecting it. Lucius had been expecting it. And Owen, too. All the same, the sudden roar of wanting, of desire to be there, following the Master’s call, was overwhelming. His face a mask of terror and incomprehension, Lucius slowly turned round, all the time fighting to remain upright against the waves of living, running, panicking bodies around him.

“Go!” Severus mouthed, accompanying the word with an impatient gesture of his hand. Owen had already disappeared, leaving a stunned-looking Sybil behind, who was clutching both hands over her mouth. She had seen it coming… Somehow, they had all seen it coming but been all-too-ready to ignore the painfully obvious.

Lucius gave a short nod, turned and hurried after Owen.

Severus briefly closed his eyes, to summon all the strength and concentration he needed to fight the urge to touch his Dark Mark and let himself be transported to Voldemort, in spite of the hate and revulsion he felt. It took him a few minutes to fully regain his composure; then he carefully made his way down the steps, in the wake of the masses, to try and speak to Dumbledore. For that much was sure: he would have to follow his Master’s call, maybe not immediately but very soon. Too much was at stake, for himself and… well, yes, for everybody. The weight of responsibility was resting heavily upon him, and he tried to drown out thoughts of what would be.

~~~~*~~~~

Viktor Krum, the Quidditch hero, was sitting in the grass, hugging his shins, head bent so that his forehead was resting on his knees, and sobbing quietly. Out of the corner of his eye, Severus saw Hermione Granger approach him. Her face was ravaged by terror—no trace anymore of the glamorous butterfly she had been at the Yule Ball. Severus could imagine her distress, but was glad to see that she took care of Krum, so at least they boy would not escape. He had more important things to do, seeing as how Karkaroff had left the premises. The Mark tugged at him again, impatient and demanding; resisting its call was becoming more difficult by the second. But this was out of the question. There was no way for him to get back to his quarters, dig out his Death Eater regalia, Floo to Malfoy Manor and go to meet the Dark Lord without being noticed by the watchful eyes of Alastor Moody. Besides, Severus did not believe, not for a single second, that Karkaroff might have followed Voldemort’s summons. No, the man was clearly fleeing, running away to where he hoped he would not be found. There was not much time to spare, but Dumbledore had clearly understood what Severus meant to do, and given nodded his permission for him to go and search for the would-be renegade. To get hold of him might be an invaluable asset up Severus’s sleeve.

With a last look at the Granger girl, who had crouched down beside Krum, he turned his back to the maze and walked towards the lake. But when he had climbed the small grassy slope that had been blocking his view, his shoulders sagged in disappointment. He was too late. The Durmstrang ship was already gone. And so was his prize.

Severus slowly returned to the stadium.

“He’s gone.”

Dumbledore turned towards him. “Just as I thought.” He nodded slowly, apparently carried away by his thoughts; then the expression of alertness returned to his face. “We must dispel the masses.”

Severus acknowledged the words with a grim smile. “Indeed. I suppose they won’t waste a perfectly good portkey on a one-way journey…”

“Lucius?” The ancient wizard’s face was set in grim determination.

“Has followed the summons, as has Owen. If they come back with Him…” The sentence remained unfinished, heavy between them. They would have to be sacrificed. And Severus himself, on whichever side he decided to fight, would share their fate.

Blinking out of his reverie, Severus scanned the crowds. McGonagall and Moody were doing a fine job keeping them in check. Slowly and viscous as honey, the masses flowed back, leaving an empty space around the plinth that had been holding the Triwizard Cup. Most of them had their wands out and ready.

Severus exchanged a quick look with Dumbledore—both seemed to think along the same lines. If… no, when the Death Eaters came back, this was going to be a massacre. Ex-Death Eaters and sympathizers were standing side by side with their opponents. Fortunately, McGonagall was herding the students off to the safety of the castle.

They could do nothing but wait…

~~~~*~~~~

If you are ready… if you are prepared… he had had a whole ten months to let the awareness slowly seep into him, to savour the pre-taste of being mocked by destiny that had decided to go a few hundred pages backwards in the book of his life, just like that, on a whim… Ready. Yes, in a sense, he was ready. Because he had become used to the thought that it might happen. Prepared? No. Neither for the Grangers nor for Voldemort. The latter, if he had been reborn with his memory intact, would not expect him until later, when it was safe for him to leave the castle without being noticed. The former… well, that was an altogether different business. They were going to be shocked…

On his way to the castle gates, Severus tried to come to grips with his own shock he had hitherto neglected. Black. Black was back, Black was free and, albeit looking worse for wear, Black was apparently alive and healthy. So maybe Pettigrew…

His mind stalled, refusing to think any further. All it did was bring back the humiliation of one year ago, when he had made a fool of himself in front of Fudge. Cornelius Fudge, the pompous idiot, who half an hour ago had recoiled at the sight of his Dark Mark. Fudge, who would leave no string unpulled, no stone unturned, to get him to Azkaban post haste. Would Dumbledore fail him—again? Like he had done one year ago, when Black had mysteriously disappeared from a room that had been magically locked by Flitwick himself? So he had been right. Potter had had a hand in the man’s escape, and maybe Granger too?

And Black was an Animagus. He almost stumbled when his mind, unbidden and entirely on its own, drifted back to that evening during his fifth year, when he had seen the ghostly outlines of a stag and a dog, cantering through the almost impenetrable fog. A stag… That Patronus Potter had cast in his third year, during the Quidditch match when Draco and those two idiots had played Dementors… A Patronus was fully recognizable only to the one who cast it, but there had been a hint of mighty antlers and slim legs… Slowly, the mystery began to unravel itself, the many still-unclear details notwithstanding. But there was no time left for bothering with trivialities now. First, the Grangers. Then, Voldemort. And then, if he was still alive…

He had arrived at the boundaries, and shed his teaching robes to carefully shrink and fold them, before he put them into a pocket of his jacket. The Death Eater robes, mask and wand were in the other. He had been shocked at the ease all those movements had come back to him with, after so many years. How many? Fourteen, dear Gods, almost fourteen…Fourteen also for the Grangers.

He did not look forward to this meeting. He had seen them only fleetingly, just once, and they had not left any particularly good or bad impression. Severus mechanically ran his hands over the front of his jacket and grimaced when he felt his heart beat underneath the smooth black fabric. He had withstood the temptation to swathe himself in layers over layers of cloth for quite some time. In the end—one or two years before Draco had arrived at Hogwarts—he had given in. It was an armour, sort of. More to deter the others than to protect himself. Its starched sternness certainly created a suitable impression of inapproachability.

And he was going to need that. He Apparated.

~~~~*~~~~

When he saw the three ordinary Muggles in their ordinary Muggle living room, Severus found it easier to explain to himself how the daughter of two paradigmatic Slytherins could have been sorted into Gryffindor.

To judge by their looks and attitudes, nothing could be farther from the Grangers than any sort of cunning, plotting, scheming or pretending. They appeared exactly as they were—no acting, no careful dissimulating, no testing or gauging their opposite’s reactions, just plain being themselves. Severus thought it slightly unnerving, especially in his current frame of mind.

If the behaviour of Hermione’s parents and aunt was any indication, the girl had probably told them a lot about him, and certainly not to his advantage.

“Professor Snape, I presume?” said Carol-Anne Granger, rising from her chair, when her husband led him into the room.

“Indeed.” At least, she extended her hand, which he shook.

“This is my sister Cecily.” She indicated a woman with short, mousy hair, whose age Severus was unable to judge. Probably in her late forties or early fifties.

He inclined his head towards Cecily. “I am afraid that what I have to tell you and your husband is strictly confident, though—”

“Cecily knows everything we know,” Mr Granger interrupted him, “So she may hear whatever you have come to tell us.” His brown eyes met Severus’s, and for some seconds they engaged in a kind of staring contest. At least now he knew where the girl had got that mannerism from, Severus thought.

When Mrs. Granger started chewing her bottom lip, yet another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. “Very well,” he said, without breaking the eye contact. “The Headmaster already informed me that Mrs…” His look darted over to Cecily.

“Miss Forrester.”

“That Miss Forrester is very close to the family. So she will have to be included into the safety measures in any case.” Now he definitely had their attention.

“We were just going to have coffee.” Apparently, Carol-Anne Granger had remembered her manners. “Would you like some too, Professor?”

There was silence in the living room, while she could be heard bustling around in the kitchen. Silence and open scrutiny, which reminded Severus eerily of three animals measuring each other’s strength before engaging in open combat. There would not be any fighting, though, of that he was fairly sure.

Mrs. Granger returned with the coffee pot and four cups on a tray, which she set down on the low table. Cream, sugar and four glasses of water completed the picture. “Well?” she said, handing him his cup, “I suppose there’s something important you have to tell us, or otherwise you wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of coming here.”

At this no-nonsense approach, Severus permitted himself the smallest of smiles. “Yes, there is indeed something vitally important. Does the name of Voldemort mean anything to you?” As it turned out, the Grangers were well informed about the goings-on in the wizarding world. Their daughter had obviously not deemed it necessary to keep any secrets. All the better for him, so he had to do less explaining. “He has returned.”

Peter Granger looked him calmly up and down. “And why exactly are you telling us that? What implications does it hold for us?”

“More than one,” Severus replied grimly. “Firstly, your daughter is one of Harry Potter’s best friends, and that alone would be enough for Voldemort to go after her and whoever is dear to her. Unfortunately, there is something else, though.”

“And obviously worse,” Cecily Forrester remarked dryly.

“I daresay it is. I am not too well acquainted with the procedure of adopting a child, so would you mind telling me exactly what the authorities had to say about her provenance?”

“Nothing much,” said Mrs. Granger. “I remember they told us that the two couples in line before us renounced her, because the circumstances of her birth were unclear.”

“Mmmhh…” Severus gave her a pensive look. “And you were ready to take that risk?”

“Of course.”

“What exactly are you ready to take now?”

Carole-Anne Granger shrugged. “Pretty much everything, I’d say. When it comes to nature versus nurture, I believe in the latter. Are you saying she’s Voldemort’s daughter?” Her voice was full of mockery—evidently she thought he was over-dramatizing the situation.

“No, but your guess was a close miss. She’s the daughter of his two most fervent followers.”

Silence fell again. Finally, Peter Granger put down his cup with a sharp ‘clink’. “Does that mean her biological parents will want her back?”

“I don’t think they’re in any condition to want or claim anything.” Severus looked from one to the other. “Considering how well-informed you seem, I suppose you know what Azkaban is?” The three nodded. “Her parents have been spending the last fourteen years there—one can safely assume that they are now little more than vegetables in human form.”

“But Sirius Black—”

“Sirius Black, Miss Forrester, is an Animagus—” How could he state that fact so naturally, without feeling any more emotions than if he had been pointing out that the sky was blue? Maybe the shock, he thought. Maybe the full impact of everything he had seen tonight would hit later on, when he was alone in his chambers…

“And?” Peter Granger’s voice put an end to his straying thoughts.

“And… I suppose that he is less susceptible to the Dementors’ influence when in his animal form. An advantage the Lestranges do most certainly not have.”

“That’s their name? Lestrange?” Now Mrs. Granger’s voice sounded a little strained.

“Yes. And your daughter’s name is Nimue Hermione Lestrange.”

“Nimue…” Cecily Forrester gave him a long, intense stare. “How fitting…”

“Fitting or not, that’s not our main concern now. Voldemort knows that she exists, and sooner or later he will claim her. The girl is a very powerful witch, and he will certainly not forego the chance of counting her among his followers, especially once he finds out that her parents have become completely useless.”

Mrs. Granger slowly shook her head. “Whoever her parents, and however powerful Voldemort, he certainly won’t get my girl.”

Severus sighed. This was going exactly as he had feared. Not that he had expected any other reaction, but it was tedious nonetheless. “I can understand your point of view. But listen to me all the same.” The three eyed him, their expressions somewhere between hostile and resigned. “You may have a better idea of the wizarding world than most Muggles, but do not believe, not even for a second, that you are able to imagine what magic—and I mean powerful magic, not the pretty little charms and spells your daughter has learned so far—you cannot possibly imagine what magic can do. Even if you were prepared to hide on the other side of the globe, or to protect yourselves and your daughter by shooting whoever comes to claim her… I advise you to abandon ideas of that kind as quickly as you can.” Unconsciously, he had adopted his classroom tone of voice, which obviously had its effect on Muggles as well.

“I suppose…” Peter Granger cleared his throat. “I suppose you have a plan?”

“Yes. We will give him what he wants.”

The three Muggles stared at him in horror.

~~~~*~~~~

Flesh, blood and bone. Like blue, red and yellow—every single colour of the spectrum could be produced by mixing those simple ingredients. Flesh, blood and bone could be the basic components of beauty as well as monstrosity.

“Severus…”

Where had the voice gone? That enticing, mellifluous voice… Severus fell to his knees. “My Lord!”

“It seems that I underestimated you…” The voice of a being somewhere between male and female, genderless and almost faceless, never dead but not quite alive… “I thought you were too cowardly to return, too afraid of slipping away under Dumbledore’s nose…”

So many years had passed, and he had learned the art of diplomacy, of carefully calculated adulation. “As always, you were right, My Lord. I did not have the courage to leave immediately, although the urge was difficult to resist.” He heard the sharp intake of breath through slit nostrils, and half expected a cloven tongue to dart out and probe him. “But I thought you might forgive me, My Lord, although I do not deserve it.”

Voldemort slid from his chair and began pacing slowly. “Forgive?” He stopped briefly, as if pondering the question, and then continued. “Yes, I am in a quite lenient mood tonight, Severus. So I might even forgive you, provided your explanation is satisfactory.”

His posture unvaryingly humble, his tone of voice unctuous, Severus replied, “I truly hope it is, My Lord. May I speak?”

“Yes.” Voldemort returned to his seat. “Yes, child, you may speak. Rise.”

Ignoring his aching joints, Severus got up, careful not to straighten his shoulders too much or lift his chin—defiance was not the impression he wanted to create. “Thank you, My Lord. I…” A careful pause, the grappling for words of a man apparently overwhelmed by his emotions. Just what Voldemort would like—if he was still as vain as in the old times, that was. Apparently, he was, for a thin smile curled his almost-nonexistent lips. “I have been feeling your presence throughout this school year. And from the moment Potter’s name came out of the goblet, I was convinced that you had found a way…” Slowly, never breaking the eye contact with those disturbingly red irises, he fell to his knees again. “I was… after so many years, I had almost lost my faith…” Now he closed his eyes and bowed his head. A penitent, awaiting his punishment.

“Yesss…” The giant snake, coiled up beside the Dark Lord, lifted its head. “You were not the only one, Severus.” The lash-less lids closed briefly. “Not the only one… But what choice do I have? So few of my Death Eaters are left… Punishment—” his face twisted into the parody of a smile “—punishment will have to wait. We all will have to be patient. The Potter boy escaped, and, knowing Dumbledore, we will have to bide our time. For the time being, I am sure the boy will be too well-protected for us to try anything. Not that it matters… And there are more urgent affairs in need of our attention. Azkaban…”

Severus raised his head. “Indeed, My Lord. Black managed to escape, but—”

“Black!” Severus flinched. This was dangerous ground indeed. “Who do you think you are fooling, Severus?”

“My Lord, I was so sure—”

“Nonsense!” One bony, white hand was waved in a gesture of utter impatience. “Black was not the traitor. Pettigrew was, as you well know!”

“My Lord, I swear… How could I have known? He was hooded, and masked, and after you… after you were gone, he Disapparated. With your wand…”

Eyes narrowed to slits, Voldemort looked him up and down. “With my wand, indeed. And last year, Severus? Pettigrew has told me everything—”

“Pettigrew told… but, My Lord, Peter Pettigrew is dead!” No need to feign surprise at that; this piece of news had truly caught him unawares. If Pettigrew was alive, that meant he had feigned his death, which meant… so Black, that bastard, was innocent after all.

Voldemort cackled. “I am perfectly aware that you would prefer him dead. However, he has some merit, if in a purely technical sense. He gave his right hand tonight, so I could perform the spell—not that he had much of a choice. His only other option would have been to serve as Nagini’s dinner.”

So Potter had not been delirious. Voldemort had used his blood and Pettigrew’s flesh… But what did all this information add up to? Would the Dark Lord be better or worse protected, now that the essence of Lily’s love was coursing through his veins? And the flesh of a traitor—double traitor, rather, because evidently he had not told Voldemort that Black was an Animagus. Only why? Was it remorse, or did that vile piece of vermin want to keep an asset up his sleeve? But it was time for him to speak now, to resume the conversation, so as to gather as much information as possible. “Forgive me again, My Lord. But I was overwhelmed.”

“Understandably so.” Voldemort gave him an inscrutable smile. “How is Alastor Moody?”

Another abyss he had to cross, using a bridge that might crumble any moment. “Moody, My Lord? I’m afraid I don’t—”

“Just answer my question, Severus. How is Alastor Moody?”

Was he to play the card or keep it for later use? Could anyone possibly have told Voldemort already? No, not very likely. Now that he could be sure Black was not the traitor… And Karkaroff had escaped before anything transpired. Three weeks to brew another batch of Polyjuice… eight days till the holidays started…they would have to play for two weeks. And then, they might bring ‘Barty’ back… it would be a terrible risk. If they deemed it too great, though, they could still let the truth leak out… “Last time I saw him, My Lord, he seemed well. Should I… Do you want me to eliminate him?”

“Not yet, no. Maybe later, when he has returned home.”

Ah, so he was not to be told be Big Secret. How very interesting. The meaning of this was only too clear: Barty Crouch was probably expected to spy on him during the last days of school, disguised as Alastor Moody, waiting for Severus to drop a hint, reveal his loyalties. Very cunning indeed. With any luck, this weapon might be turned against Voldemort. “As you wish, My Lord.” The non-sequitur was deliberate, of course. Either he was going to be dismissed, or he might hear more interesting news.

“You may leave now, Severus. I—” was there a trace of exhaustion in his voice? “—need to be alone. The first step has failed, so it is essential that the second be well prepared. I will call you in a few days’ time.”

“Allow me one more question, My Lord…” Severus squinted up to gauge Voldemort's reaction. A slight, impatient tilt of the head, nothing more. He continued. “Will you need me to brew potions for you, My Lord? I would have to take the necessary precautions…” For the first time since almost fourteen years, he met the other’s gaze directly. Those eyes, which in times long past had been enthralling, had lost their depth, seemed two-dimensional, flat and lifeless. A reptile’s eyes.

“No, that will not be necessary. Pettigrew—”

“Pettigrew, My Lord?” This was so absurd that only after having voiced his doubt did he become aware of having interrupted Voldemort. He seemed more amused than irritated, though.

“The very same. Nagini seems to have taken a… fancy to him. And he merely needs to mix her venom with a few other ingredients. Even Pettigrew is capable of performing such an easy task.”

Pure, undistilled snake venom… Potter’s blood… Pettigrew’s flesh… a Muggle’s bones… Severus's mind was reeling. He would have to think about this, long and carefully. But the sensation welling up inside him when he thought of that mix was one of sinister foreboding. He did not like this combination at all. “I am glad to hear it, My Lord. Is there anything I, or others, should do about Karkaroff?”

Wearily, Voldemort shook his head. “No…” He let out a breath, slow and wheezing, somewhere between a sigh and a hiss. “No. He cannot escape me, and he knows it. Let him be eaten by fear and uncertainty for a while—the last days of his life shall be bitter… he shall not enjoy his freedom…” The snake-like eyelids briefly flickered down. “Leave now, child. Leave me to my ponderings.”

Fighting his revulsion, Severus kissed first the hem of the Dark Lord’s robes and then his skeletal hand, before he rose and Disapparated.

~~~~*~~~~

They were all bone tired—Dumbledore, McGonagall and Severus—when they met at the Headmaster’s office at dawn.

“Azkaban…” Dumbledore muttered, after Severus had finished his report. “Just as I told Fudge.”

“He wants St. John and Tabitha free. And a few others as well.”

McGonagall, who had difficulties keeping her eyes open, nodded. “Yes. And as far as I can judge it, there is nothing we can do to prevent this.”

“I’m not so sure.” The other two sharply turned their heads to look at Severus. “We’d have to act very soon. And very quickly.”

“What exactly do you mean?” McGonagall’s voice was slightly hoarse—she never screamed, and the scene with Fudge at the infirmary had evidently strained her vocal chords.

“I mean,” Severus scooted back in his chair and straightened his shoulders “that it is difficult, but not impossible, to get the Dementors to kiss whomever is imprisoned there at the moment.”

“But that would solve only part of the problem,” Dumbledore objected. “And not the most important one. I agree that it would be most helpful to get rid of the Lestranges and other Death Eaters, but what about the Dementors themselves?”

“Hmm…” Severus pondered this. “Yes, that’s of course right. I—” he felt himself being flooded by a wave of despair and frustration “—I don’t know,” he finished lamely, raking a hand through his hair.

“None of us knows, Severus. This is a seemingly impossible task for every single of us, and I do not expect anybody to find the almighty panacea for everything tonight. Or any other day, at that.” Dumbledore gave him a tired smile. “I think it would be better to imagine a worst case scenario and try to find feasible ways of dealing with it. If the unexpected happens, and things go better than we think—well, we certainly won’t complain. Coffee, anyone?”

Both Severus and McGonagall nodded.

They sat in silence until Kitty, the indefatigable House Elf, had left. Then, Dumbledore took quill and parchment. “I suggest that we simply make a list of… well, of worst cases, and then try to work out solutions, step by step. Hogwarts, I’d say.” He wrote the first point down and glanced at them enquiringly.

“Azkaban,” McGonagall clipped. Dumbledore nodded and wrote.

“New recruits,” Severus supplied. “And Miss… er, Granger.”

McGonagall frowned. “What's the problem with Miss Granger?”

Baring his teeth in an attempt at a smile, which was not quite successful, Severus turned towards her. “Time for an adrenaline boost, isn’t it?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dumbledore shake his head. “Well,” he said, addressing the Headmaster, “I already had enough of them tonight.” Then, again to McGonagall, “She’s St. John and Tabitha Lestrange’s daughter.”

“That—” McGonagall swallowed convulsively and paled. With trembling hands, she took off her glasses. “That explains… oh Gods,” she muttered weakly, “they will want her back, won’t they?”

“That’s not my main concern. What really worries me is that Voldemort will be most interested in her.”

“Of course…” McGonagall took a deep breath. “But what can we—”

“I think it would be better if first we completed the list,” Dumbledore interrupted her. “Then we will try to think of possible measures, point by point.”

The list grew longer and longer. More coffee was ordered, and by six o’clock the first horizontal rays of the morning sun illuminated three drawn, ashen faces.

“Well then,” Dumbledore began, “What about Hogwarts?”

“Fudge will have you removed,” Severus stated simply.

“Yes, probably he will. The Governors—”

There was an edge of irritation to Severus's voice when he interrupted, “Seeing as how Lucius was chucked out two years ago, there’s nothing we can do to influence them.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Indeed. Would he consent if I asked him to be my successor?”

Both Severus and McGonagall gaped at him. “Malfoy?” McGonagall leaned forward, elbows resting on the Headmaster’s desk. “Albus, you must have lost your mind! After everything he’s done—”

“I think the Headmaster and Lucius have cleared the air some time ago,” Severus interrupted her smoothly, earning himself an incredulous stare from his colleague. “Fudge would be happy, of course,” he muttered, more to himself than to the other two, “And Narcissa and Selene could live here, in the safety of Hogwarts. But what about Potter? There’s no way Voldemort won't demand that he be taken to him immediately.”

“Harry will remain here until the holidays start. As you said, there is no immediate danger for him. I have to contact some friends these days, and I think we can then take him to a safe place where he will be able to continue his training.”

Severus nodded. “That seems reasonable, yes. What about yourself?”

“Hmm…” Dumbledore looked at the two professors out of half-closed eyes. “Considering how well Hogwarts is going to be protected…”

Indeed, Severus thought. Trust the cunning old fox to find the most unorthodox but also most efficient way out of a dilemma. With Narcissa and two-and-a-half-year-old Selene living here at the castle, he could be sure that Lucius would do anything in his not inconsiderable power to ensure their, and thus the students and staff’s, safety. Well-planned indeed. McGonagall, too, seemed to have understood. “Very impressive reasoning,” Severus said, “but—” he tilted his head towards his colleague “—what about the two of us?”

The Headmaster raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I am sure Lucius will find a way to convince Fudge to keep you.” He took off his spectacles, his eyes now blazing power. “I have learned from my mistakes, Severus. During Voldemort's first rise, I was hesitant to resort to more desperate measures. I will certainly not repeat that error. If Fudge has to be put under Imperius, so as not to stray from the right path, Imperius it will be. We have to protect this school, and we have to be united against the Dark. That is what counts, and nothing else.”

“Especially if there are others to do the dirty work for you.”

“I never said that Lucius will have to cast the curse.”

For a while, there was silence, as each of them struggled to come to terms with a new situation that was probably going to turn their world upside down. “Very well,” Severus said slowly, “Then I suggest we discuss the next point. Miss Granger.”