The Sybil's Oracle: Book Three

Chapter 2

By Pigwidgeon37

He would have bartered ten years of his life for twelve hours of sleep, but Severus was well aware that he was not likely to get any. Not for at least another sixteen hours. He would have to take some wakefulness potion, he mused on his way back to his quarters. Maybe a shower and a change of clothes, combined with lots of coffee and some light breakfast would suffice to restore his dwindling energy.

He walked along twisting corridors and ascended staircases, his mind both too numb and too over-alert for him to pursue so much as one clear thought. Had he known the Muggle expression, he would have admitted that he was moving on autopilot. Finally, he arrived at the intersection where he had to turn right, in order to reach the dead end where a tapestry was hiding the entrance to his rooms in Serpens Tower. Not for the first time, he wished he were able to not only walk through but enter that tapestry, lie down in the succulent grass and look up into the canopy of fantastically hypertrophic leaves, lulled to sleep by the song of the dryads.

Song of the… He stopped dead and listened.

Either he was delirious with fatigue, he thought, shaking his head in an attempt to sober his mind, or the dryads were really singing. His eyes, which had lost some of their sharpness with the years, narrowed as he squinted down the torch-lit corridor. Yes, there was something—somebody? it was difficult to recognize from the distance—on the floor. Due to the sound-muffling charm he always applied to his shoes, his footsteps did not make any noise even when he accelerated his pace, and so he could hear the song grow more distinct as he approached. The dryads were singing, a melody without words, so different from any tune human composers had ever created. It resembled the sound of thick, shiny droplets of summer rain softly tapping lush green foliage, and the noise the evening breeze made when it sneaked through high grass. Soothing and gentle, inviting sleep and sweet oblivion…

He stumbled and caught himself just in time. Nobody ever came here, or they would have been surprised to see him smile at the irresistible lure of the lullaby.

The dryads saw him come and stopped singing. The heap of black fabric at their feet started moving, uncurled itself and groaned. A blonde head emerged.

“Draco?” The boy had the password to his chambers, why had he not entered? “Draco? What are you doing out here in the corridor?”

The boy got up clumsily—probably he was hurting all over from his prolonged stay on the cold stone floor, Severus thought—and rubbed his eyes. “Uncle Severus… sorry, I… I wasn’t sure whether you wanted me to go inside—” A huge yawn cut off whatever he had wanted to add.

Severus shook his head in disapproval. “You’ll catch your death, silly boy. Come on—” at a wave of his hand, the dryads made the path appear, and the two wizards made their way through the tapestry and into the tower “—I don’t have much time, but we can have breakfast and talk.”

“Thank you.” Draco shot him a timid sideways glance. “Are you… all right?”

“Yes, and please don’t tell me I’m looking horrible, because I know I do.” He opened the entrance to his chambers. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have a quick shower. You may call Peggy and order breakfast in the meantime.” Draco nodded. “I’ll just have some toast and fresh fruit, strawberries and peaches preferably.”

With a brief smile and a clap on the shoulder, he left the boy in the living room and proceeded towards the bathroom. Ah, the pleasure of getting rid of those clothes…

He was not usually prone to sweating—heat, whether produced by the sun or a boiling cauldron did not affect him much. But today, his shirt was clinging to his body, drenched with perspiration. Severus wrinkled his nose. Stress was not conducive to pleasant smells, certainly not. A flick of his wand banished the offending objects, everything from underwear to frock coat, into the laundry basket, and he stepped into the large tub. A muttered “Tempesta Frigida!” made the clouds that drifted across the animated ceiling gather and turn a light grey. A second later, he gasped and cringed under the assault of cold water, but at least it made him feel slightly more awake. He then changed the temperature to scalding hot and once more to icy cold, before leaving the tub and towelling himself dry. After putting on fresh clothes, from which emanated a faint aroma of cedar and lavender, courtesy of Peggy, he felt almost well.

Draco was already deep into bacon and eggs when Severus emerged from the bedroom door. “Sorry,” he said and blushed lightly, “but I couldn’t resist anymore.”

“Entirely understandable.” Severus poured himself a coffee and, while he put a small quantity of butter on a slice of toast, scrutinized the boy’s face. “So, to what do I owe the honour of your visit?”

Draco looked at him out of large, silvery eyes. “That should be obvious, shouldn’t it?” It was hard not to smile at the sight—the boy was so much like his father at the same age. “What happened? Nobody knows anything, which means, of course, that rumours are running wild.”

“I see.” Severus took a first, careful bite. No need to overtax his already queasy stomach. “And what, pray, do these rumours say?”

Draco’s knife performed something like a figure eight in the air, a gesture of nonchalant dismissal. “Oh, the usual harebrained assumptions. No need to go into that.” He frowned. “Or can’t you tell me?”

“I cannot tell you everything, no.” He let his glance sweep over the assorted fruit, piled up in a silver basket. “But—provided you promise to keep it a secret…” Black eyes linked with silver-grey.

“Of course. You know that I will if you ask me to.”

“Very well.” A peach, rather small but aromatic and succulent, made its way to his plate. Severus picked up the cutlery. “Voldemort is back.”

Yes, he thought, monitoring the boy’s reaction, Draco had learned a great deal about keeping his countenance, especially during this school year. He was certainly surprised, but managed to maintain his composure, only the brief narrowing of his pupils betraying his emotion. “So that was where father went.”

“Yes, and Owen too. And myself, if a little later.”

“What about Potter? Is he—” a muscle twitched in the snowy temple “—dead?”

“No. No, he is not even gravely injured. Physically, at least. Diggory died.”

“Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs and their stupid, stupid magnanimity!” Draco hissed. “If our brilliant plan with Skeeter had worked…”

“Well, it did not work. The chances for Potter to be denied participation at the third task were minimal in any case. Even though that awful woman did quite a good job…”

Draco grinned. “Indeed. But where did he go after touching that cup? It was a portkey, wasn't it?”

He gave Draco a brief account of what had happened.

“You haven’t talked to father yet, have you?”

Severus shook his head. “No, but I’m sure Voldemort would have told me if anything serious had happened to him.” Now the boy’s hands were trembling, he noticed. It was always easier to keep control under tension than after it had gone away.

After a little while, Draco continued his questioning. “Any ideas as to what is going to happen now?”

“Ideas, yes, but nothing I would care to disclose just now. Besides, I have to meet the Headmaster—” he glanced at his watch “—in half an hour. Before that, I should speak to your housemates.” As if on cue, the Bloody Baron floated through the wall at their left. “Ah, Baron. Good morning.”

The spectre inclined his head. “Good morning to you, Professor Snape. Mr. Malfoy.”

“Baron, would you be so kind as to tell the Slytherins to assemble in the Common Room in ten minutes? I need all of them, so maybe you will have to catch them in the corridors and at breakfast.”

“Of course, Professor. I trust that we shall talk later on?”

“We certainly will.”

The ghost disappeared, and Draco rose from his seat. “Then I won’t keep you any longer. Besides, my Charms final starts at nine-thirty.”

“Good luck, Draco. Oh, and—” Draco, already at the door, turned round. “—try not to worry too much. If I have time, I’ll send the Baron to call you here tonight.”

Draco nodded and left the room. Frowning at nothing in particular, Severus poured himself a last cup of coffee. They had discussed the strategy they were going to use with Fudge; everybody knew which part they had to play. If the Minister was his usual predictable self, everything should go smoothly.

~~~~*~~~~

Today’s password was “Strawberry Sundae”, and Severus pronounced it with  so much venom that the gargoyle shot him a slightly alarmed look.

Contrary to his expectations, McGonagall had not yet arrived.

“She’ll be here in time,” said Dumbledore, who was looking remarkably chipper, considering his age, lack of sleep and the stress he had to be under. “I just wanted to have a word with you in private. Have a seat, please.”

Severus’s eyebrows shot up, but he did not comment. When Dumbledore held up the teapot in a silent question, he nodded and proffered his cup.

“I am sure,” Dumbledore began, “that you remember the events of almost exactly one year ago?”

“I hope this question is rhetorical,” Severus snarled.

“Well, yes, it is. We… never really talked about that deplorable misunderstanding, though.”

“Misunderstanding? Headmaster, your choice of words does not seem to be very fortunate this morning, I must say. However—” he took a sip of his tea and kept his eyes riveted on the other wizard over the rim of his cup “—I am now convinced that Black was innocent. As for the rest…” He let the thread dangle between them. Dumbledore had to take it up and say whatever there was to be said. He certainly would not start whining or complaining.

“The rest, yes. That is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. I owe you an apology, Severus.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I do, and I am well aware that it comes late—hopefully not too late.”

Well, he was definitely not going to absolve the old man before he had even confessed. “I am very curious to hear it, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore inclined his head and gave him a small smile. “In order to enable Miss Granger to take all the additional subjects during her third year, she was given a time turner.”

“Excuse me, but—” He stopped in mid-sentence. Granger. She, too had been at the Hospital Wing together with that infernal Potter. “Are you implying the girl used it to—”

“At my explicit order, yes. She and Harry went back in time, three hours if I remember correctly, saved the hippogriff and used it to fly up to the West Tower and get Sirius out of that room. It was the only thing I could do at the time—Fudge would never—”

“You sent two children out to help Black escape? After all they had been through?”

Dumbledore shrugged. He looked… defeated, Severus thought. “Whom else could I have sent? Remus was out of the question, seeing as how he was roaming the Forbidden Forest as a werewolf. And nobody else believed that Sirius was innocent. The time turner provided a perfect alibi…”

Severus snorted. “Yes, certainly. A perfect alibi, and another opportunity for Potter and Granger to have their egos blown up. As if they needed it!”

“Not even you can deny that they were brave—”

“Nonsense, Headmaster!” It was a rude interruption, but Severus did not really care. “At that age, and especially when you’re a Gryffindor, you are not brave! You don’t know the risks, that’s all. However, I accept your apology.”

The ensuing silence was broken by a knock on the office door, and Minerva McGonagall stepped in. “Fudge just emerged from his carriage,” she announced, “I saw him from the corridor window.” The two men nodded. “Is… er, anything the matter?”

“Not really, Minerva,” Severus replied, rather grimly. “I just had the honour of being let in on the secret of Black’s escape last year.” McGonagall’s lips grew even more pinched than usual, and she looked definitely embarrassed. “How you could give that overachieving little nerd a time turner is beyond me, frankly,” he continued. “I mean, you must have known she would overexert herself. By the end of last year, she was halfway out of her mind with fatigue. Only I had no idea as to why.”

“Well, I certainly,” McGonagall started what would probably have turned into a tirade of self-defence, had not a loud knocking at the entrance interrupted her.

The three exchanged a last glance of understanding before Dumbledore went to open the door.

~~~~*~~~~

Cornelius Fudge was sweating profusely, and Severus saw it with satisfaction.

“Now look here, Albus,” he said, mopping his forehead and glancing uncomfortably from one to the other, “I really don’t ask that much. All you need to do is stop protecting Harry Potter—after all, the boy seems to have a serious problem and would be better cared for at St. Mungo’s…” He paused, obviously waiting for a comment, which did not come. The three remained silent, listening in icy politeness. “As I was saying,” Fudge resumed his speech, “ there’s Potter and… well, I suppose you should grant the Daily Prophet an interview, just to answer a few questions… people will, of course, want to know…” Now he was looking quite desperate.

“Cornelius…” Dumbledore took off his glasses and leaned slightly forward. The Minister evidently tried to avoid his look, failed, cringed, and started fidgeting with his bowler hat. Severus and McGonagall exchanged a look of silent sadism. “How long have we known each other, Cornelius?”

“I… well, that’s not… for quite a long time, I suppose.”

“A long time, indeed. And you should know by now that I will never give you, or whomever, a hand at obfuscating the truth, if ignorance is bound to be detrimental.”

The Minister’s face went from flushed to pale. “How dare you…”

He did not get any further, because Dumbledore rose. “How dare I? My dear Cornelius, this is completely beside the point. There is only one question, and you can only answer it with yes or no: do you believe me?”

From his sitting position, Fudge had to look upwards unless he wanted to give the impression of being a subdued first-year. Slowly his head rose, until his eyes met the Headmaster’s. “Believe… there’s no need to put it that bluntly, really Albus, I—”

“Do you believe me, Cornelius?”

“No!” The Minister’s chubby fist hit the armrest of his chair. “No, I don’t believe you!” He rose, so brusquely that his chair toppled over and clattered to the floor. “And if this is your last word, I don’t have another choice but to remove you from this position! Do you understand?”

“You were hardly being ambiguous.”

“Very well.” Fudge grabbed his hat and cloak. “There is nothing left to say, then.”

With a small wink at the two teachers, Dumbledore prepared the last blow. “Just one word, Cornelius. Don’t entrust this school to the wrong hands. Not in times like these…”

“That there is such a thing as ‘times like these’,” Fudge snapped, “is nothing but a product of your paranoid imagination. If you will excuse me now,” he nodded shortly at the others “I have pressing obligations. Good day to you!” And he swept out of the room.

“Well,” Dumbledore said, stroking his beard, “I think that went rather well, didn’t it?”

~~~~*~~~~

After last night’s glorious, blood-red sunset, today’s weather was as fine as it had promised to be, and thus Severus decided to do his thinking outside, on the grounds. On his way through the entrance hall he met Sybil.

“Did you already talk to Owen?”

“Yes,” she said, trying to disentangle her hair from a particularly garish earring. “He told me about last night’s meeting—thank you.” Severus, albeit rolling his eyes, had swatted away her hand and was doing a much better job at de-knotting. “Are you busy, or could we talk for a moment?” Instead of an answer, he offered her his arm.

They made their way through the knee-high grass, down the slope and past the greenhouses, until they arrived at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. It was much cooler here, and after Severus had conjured a blanket, they sat down in the shadow. He cast a careful glance around and, seeing no students anywhere near, shed his teaching robes. On second thought, he unbuttoned his frock coat as well. The Charms finals were going to last at least another hour, so there was no danger of being spied upon by curious students.

“Any news?” he asked Sybil, who gave him a puzzled look. “In terms of Divination, I mean.”

She shook her head, thus again catching her hair within the metal filigree of her earring. “Oh, bugger…”

“Well, why don’t you—” he bent over to help her again “—pull that mop back? Or sweep it up?”

Sybil grinned at him. “I’ll make you my hair consultant d’honneur.” A flick of her wand took care of the problem, and her expression became again serious. “To answer your question, no I didn’t see anything clear. Maybe I was too tense and excited.”

“Hmm…” Severus reclined on the blanket and stared up into the gently dancing leaves. “If you had a little more information, do you think that might help?”

“It certainly wouldn’t do any harm.” She mimicked his movement and stretched out next to him. “What kind of information were you thinking of?”

He stifled a yawn. “About Voldemort, of course. You see, I do have some bits and pieces, only I can’t see how they fit together.”

“Then you’d better tell me.”

“All right.” He reached for his robes and folded them to form a cushion he put under his head. “It seems that Voldemort performed the Mortuus Redivivus ritual last night.”

“The—” She propped herself up on her right elbow. “That’s the darkest of Dark magic, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, it is. I remember reading about it years ago, and what Potter told Dumbledore yesterday confirmed my memories. Usually, it’s performed immediately after the person in question dies, so as to catch the spirit before it leaves. Anyway,” he adjusted the makeshift pillow “you need the following ingredients: the bones of a blood relative, a piece of flesh from a servant—that’s of course meant in a very vague sense, as a loyal friend will do just as well.”

“Of which Voldemort has quite a lot,” Sybil remarked sardonically.

“It seems that he took it more literally. And then, you need the blood of an enemy.”

“Ah,” she said, “That’s where Potter comes in.”

“Exactly. But it’s a riddle—pardon the pun. Because he had to use his father’s bones, and the man was a Muggle. Plus, a piece of Peter Pettigrew, and Potter’s blood. Which means that the ingredients are basically the right ones, but somehow they don’t fit together.”

Forehead crinkled in deep thought, Sybil pulled out her wand and conjured two glasses of lemonade. “Let me get this straight,” she said. “Potter was given that potion by his mother, right?” He nodded. “Uh-huh. And you think that there might be residues of it in his blood?”

“I’m pretty sure of that, yes.”

“Anything special about Pettigrew?”

Severus sat up and grabbed the glass, which was hovering in mid-air in front of him. “Well… yes, I think so. You see, Pettigrew seems to be something of a wild card. It’s perfectly clear that he betrayed the Potters. Did I already tell you that Black is an Animagus?”

“Oh,” Sybil said, “Well, that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Why I saw animals when I read their future.”

“You read their future? For those morons?”

She shrugged. “Well, yes, they paid for it, after all.”

Severus snorted. “I see. Non olet—old Tiberius was a very wise man. What animals did you see, then?”

“A stag for Potter, a Grim—you know, that was probably what sidetracked me. I thought what I saw for Black was a Grim, whereas it was obviously his Animagus form.”

“Yes, it is. I saw him myself last night. A big, shaggy black dog. Easy to confound it with a Grim.”

“Indeed. And for Pettigrew I saw a rat.”

“Well, if that isn’t…” He flicked his wand at the empty glass, which disappeared. “Do you think that means he, too, is an Animagus?”

“He probably is. Anyway, you wanted to tell me something else.”

“Yes, of course. What I wanted to say was: Pettigrew is certainly a traitor and a coward, but he didn’t tell Voldemort that Black is an Animagus.”

“Remorse? Bad conscience?” Sybil ventured.

Severus sneered down at her. “Not bloody likely, I’d say. Anyway, he’s not exactly being loyal. And all that makes me wonder…” He stared off into space, feeling his eyelids become heavier and heavier.

“Interesting… So the question is whether those somehow faulty components might have influenced the effect of the ritual, and if they did, whether it was to Voldemort’s advantage or disadvantage.”

Not that he would have told her, but Severus was grateful for the concise formulation. “Yes. That’s the burning question. Will his flesh betray him, his bone be too weak and his blood slowly destroy him? Or will he be able to turn the element of antagonism into something even stronger, which works to his favour?”

She wagged her head. “I suppose this is difficult to determine. More my field of expertise, I’d say, than a purely scientific question. But it won’t be easy, considering he isn’t exactly what you could call a person. I wonder whether I can establish a connection. Potter would be highly useful…”

“Three guesses as to whether he would consent. I’m afraid you’ll have to do without him.”

Nothing was clear, or well-defined anymore. They would have to rely on a seer to obtain something resembling an indication. Too many questions unanswered, too many uncertainties ahead… And they had not even tackled the problem with Crouch yet.

~~~~*~~~~

Meetings at Dumbledore’s office were becoming something of a bad habit by now. A mere seven hours after the encounter with Fudge, Severus was there again, drinking more coffee and trying to remain awake. Lucius and Owen had joined as well, both looking anything but happy.

Lucius appeared to be especially miffed—unsurprisingly so, for Fudge had already approached him concerning Dumbledore’s position. Right now, he was angrily eyeing the Headmaster, who had taken possession of a plateful of strawberry éclairs. “Supposing I accepted this preposterous offer,” he said slowly, “What’s in it for you?”

“Well, I believe that is fairly obvious, isn’t it?” Dumbledore replied, giving him an outrageously merry smile. “I would be free to act as I see fit, without any political constraints and without having to fear any repercussions for Hogwarts.”

“I see.” Lucius levitated one of the éclairs, transformed the strawberry cream into chocolate mousse and directed it to his own plate. “What worries me is that Voldemort might want me to implement some drastic changes, mostly concerning half-bloods and Mud—er, Muggle-borns.”

“Of course, that is only to be expected. But I’m sure you will be more than able to handle that.”

Lucius’s fork came to a standstill an inch above his éclair. “Handle it? He’ll order me to kill them, and you don’t have anything else to say?”

“You might convince him that to remove them is the better solution to the problem.”

“You mean shove them off to another school?”

“Exactly. I would, of course, prepare the ground for such a manoeuvre, speak to their parents and try to convince them that to leave the country would be best for them.”

“You would have to do more preliminary work, Headmaster,” Owen chimed in. “Don’t forget the Ministers of Magic of those countries where they might seek asylum.”

“Of course, Owen, of course. Incidentally, many of them went through my hands here at Hogwarts. And most of them are fare more intelligent than Fudge.”

“My right boot is more intelligent than Fudge,” Lucius muttered. “I thought he was out of his mind when he called me this morning. Fortunately, I was still too bedazzled from last night to simply tell him to leave me alone.” He repeated the éclair manoeuvre—some things truly never changed, Severus thought, Lucius’s predilection for chocolate, especially in times of stress, being one of them. “I need to be sure, though,” he continued, “that McGonagall is ready to remain my deputy. She’ll have to do most of the administrative work. I can take over some of her Transfiguration classes, to alleviate her burden.”

“Oh, won’t she just love that!” Severus commented.

Lucius gave him a vicious stare. “You better shut up, or I’ll make you Head of Gryffindor!”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Well, gentlemen, this seems to be settled, at least for the time being. Now to the less exhilarating, but equally pressing, subject of young Barty Crouch: what are your thoughts on the matter?”

“Replacing him is damned risky,” Owen said and smoothed his narrow moustache with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. “Not because of the Polyjuice—after all, Severus’s improved formula lasts long enough. But we have to consider that Barty is officially dead, and that Voldemort thinks of him as his most loyal servant. Put these two facts together, and you get the near-certainty that whoever impersonates him will have to stay with Voldemort almost twenty-four hours a day. In Pettigrew’s company, no less.”

“And it can’t be any of us,” Severus added. “I don’t know many people—in fact, I can’t think of anybody who could do it convincingly.”

“Yes, you are right, all of you,” Dumbledore agreed. “However, it would be a pity to let such an occasion slip through our fingers.” He looked at each of them in turn, long and intensely. “We all agree, don’t we, that in these times nothing is as important as getting rid of Voldemort, for good this time?” The three wizards nodded. “I’m glad you see it the same way. And I want you to seriously consider what I am going to suggest now.” Severus raised his head and stared at the Headmaster, incredulous but pretty sure what he was going to say. “Sirius Black could do it.”

The silence was leaden. Fawkes the phoenix, who obviously sensed the sudden tension, began to shift nervously on his perch, ruffling his feathers. The rustling noise reawakened his three namesakes from their stupor.

“Well,” Lucius said slowly, “Apart from the fact that this idea is sheer lunacy, I see one major problem. If Voldemort succeeds in making the Dementors his allies, he’d be kissed faster than he could say Patronus. Whether they take him for Crouch or for himself.”

“He could change into his dog form,” Dumbledore suggested.

“Yes, but then Pettigrew would know who he is,” Severus said. “Anyway, this doesn’t seem to be a stringent argument. Voldemort knows that the Dementors would have a go at Barty, so he’d keep them away from him, of course. I’m more concerned about Black’s lack of knowledge. We could give him a crash course in Crouch-ness, but…”

Owen cleared his throat. “Don’t forget that he hasn’t seen Barty up close and personal for more than fifteen years. And the guy has spent some of them in Azkaban. Not to mention that he was half-crazy, according to what you told us. Black would need to memorize a lot of details, but it would be feasible.”

“I will contact him then,” Dumbledore said, “and see whether he is willing to take that risk. Severus, would you prepare—”

“I already started the Polyjuice, Headmaster. We’ll have to stave off Voldemort for about two weeks after the holidays start, until it’s ready. Maybe—wouldn’t it be possible for you to keep Moody here under some pretext? To reinforce the wards, or something like that? So he could report to Voldemort that he’d prefer not to make you suspicious and would rather stay?”

“Excellent idea.” Dumbledore smiled at him, and Severus scowled in return. “So we can tackle the next point: Azkaban.”

~~~~*~~~~

Even the Bloody Baron smiled at the thought of Lucius becoming the next Headmaster of Hogwarts. “It is truly fortunate that he should be married,” he remarked. “Escapades like those he used to indulge in together with Mr. McNair would be a trifle embarrassing and highly inappropriate.”

“Indeed,” Severus said, raising his glass. “Your health, Baron. You don’t happen to have an idea concerning Dementors? It seems that none of us was able to come up with a solution to the problem.”

“Concerning Dementors in which sense?” the ghost enquired. He lowered himself a little, until he seemed to sit in the chair facing Severus’s.

“Defence against them. Besides casting a Patronus, of course. It is too complicated, and only very few wizards master that spell. If Voldemort gets them to his side—which he doubtlessly will—and sets them free, a catastrophe is bound to happen.” He took a swig of his whiskey and stared moodily into the fireplace. He was tired, and frustrated. They had spent hours at Dumbledore’s office, but none of them had found an answer to this burning question.

For a long while, the Baron did not reply, and Severus nodded off twice, only to reawaken with a start when his head lolled sideward.

“There were few Dementors in my time,” the ghost said finally. “And what I am about to say is a mere assumption. Correct me if I am wrong, but essentially Dementors are a materialization of negative energy, as far as I can judge it.”

“You are absolutely right, Baron. Whereas demons, zombies or ghosts were once human, Dementors are artificial beings, so to speak. They have assumed a vaguely human form, but basically they are an agglomerate of destructive energy, yes.”

“Just as I thought.” Another silence followed, during which Severus intently scrutinized the spectre. “What I fail to understand, though,” the Baron continued, “is that the intake of positive energy, like happiness and happy memories, does not damage but feed them.”

“I suppose they… well, transform it somehow,” Severus offered, conscious of the weakness of his argument.

“Maybe. What I find very intriguing is the question whether they can transform only a finite amount.” Severus frowned at him, not quite understanding. “You might compare it to eating,” the Baron explained. “A certain amount of food is necessary, a little more will make you ill, and even more will make you seriously ill. What happens if a Dementor overeats?”

“I… I really have no idea,” Severus admitted. “It sounds tempting, only I am not quite sure where we might get all that positive energy from. After all, we cannot feed them an inordinate quantity of souls. And even then, it would be very unwise to do so unless we knew exactly what effect it would have.”

“True.” The Baron absentmindedly flicked a pearly finger over one of the bloodstains on his left sleeve. “I shall have a word with the other ghosts, then. They are younger than I am and might have interesting suggestions. For now—” he gave Severus, who was close to dozing off again, a stern look “—you should go to sleep, Professor. You will think and work more efficiently if you are well-rested.”

~~~~*~~~~

The next days went by without any more sensational events. Voldemort evidently needed more time to recover his strength than anybody had expected, and thus Severus was not called to his side. Nor did ‘Moody’ receive any communications from the Dark Lord. The real Alastor Moody was still confined to his bed at the Hospital Wing—not that Severus would have wished him elsewhere. The less he saw his archenemy, the better. He certainly had more important things to do, among them correcting the written part of the finals.

Owls went to and fro between Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor, and Lucius visited the Headmaster once more to discuss details of his future position. It was evident that, for more than one reason, there would be no holidays in France this year. One of those reasons, brown-eyed and bushy-haired, was just climbing into a horseless carriage as Severus looked out of the window.

“Well,” he told Elias who was perching on his shoulder, “Miss Granger is in for a surprise tonight.”

He returned to his workbench, where the cauldron containing the soon-to-be Polyjuice Potion was simmering peacefully. Dumbledore had volunteered to finish it, without any objections on Severus’s part, as the concoction was already past the critical stage. All it needed now was to be stirred regularly, and shortly before its completion, the Lacewings had to be added.

The packing procedure—something Severus found immensely tedious, in spite of using magic—was practically concluded, and when his master came downstairs, Elias was perching on top of the still-open lid of the trunk, looking excited. It was almost noon now. Time to go, Severus thought. He would have lunch at Malfoy Manor, unpack his luggage and hopefully spend a pleasurable afternoon before tonight’s visit, which promised to be anything but pleasant.

With a sharp croak, the raven took off from the lid and came to land on Severus’s shoulder, from where he watched intently as Severus began to select tomes from his bookshelf. He was going to need some Dark Arts volumes, in addition to the material he usually took along. Then again, the Malfoy library certainly did not lack books on forbidden potions and curses, so maybe he might just leave them here. Paying less attention to his choice of books than was his habit, Severus lost himself in his thoughts. Somehow, Voldemort’s silence was less reassuring than he would have expected it to be. With only Pettigrew for company, what on earth might the Dark Lord be up to? There was a lot of planning to be done, loyalties to gauge, followers to be recruited…

Not a single student, regardless of which house they belonged to, had received an invitation to join Voldemort’s ranks, of that Severus was sure. In spite of Potter’s somewhat exaggerated account—not that one could blame the boy, counting Death Eaters had probably been last on his list of priorities—there were few of them left. If their Master intended to use the same strategy as twenty years ago, he was in dire need of followers. But maybe he had other plans… And if he had the Dementors, human allies would be less important, that much was clear.

The Bloody Baron had not been able to give him any more satisfying answers concerning a possible method of fighting them. However, the problem of positive versus negative energy kept nettling him. Maybe there was more to this idea… maybe the Granger girl’s amazing mind would produce an equally amazing solution… Severus rolled his eyes, exasperated at his own train of thought. The Granger girl was doubtlessly a tough piece of work, but she wasn’t a genius. Maybe a genius in the making. Maybe.

Books stacked high, he returned to his trunk and, one by one, carefully put them inside. Once he had closed the lid, he shrunk the piece of luggage until it was small enough for his pocket. A last glance around—no, he had forgotten nothing.

“Off you go, Elias,” he said to the raven, after briefly leaning his cheek against the black feathers, “See you at Malfoy Manor.”

~~~~*~~~~

When the Grangers arrived home, Severus, Lucius and Owen were already waiting for them. On Lucius’s face, the ghost of an evil grin was still lingering, for they had tried to guess which spell the girl was going to use, in order to defend her parents against three powerful wizards. None of them had a single doubt as to her reaction.

They had been right. And, surprisingly, Owen had been right. When she saw the three men, who for her were the Unholy Trinity of Evil Incarnate, sitting in her parents’ living room, she had her wand out in less than a second—the training sessions with Potter had done her some good, too, Severus thought—and cast “Soporificus Multiplex”, one of the few spells that allowed for a greater number of targets to be hit at the same time. It was easily parried. Only then did the girl lose her self-control, and with it her presence of mind.

Peter Granger, who, since Severus’s first encounter with him and his wife, seemed to have aged by ten years, caught Hermione when she frantically turned round, trying to push them out of the room, away from the diabolic triad. “Shush, darling. Don’t… They aren’t our enemies, and they don’t want to harm either you or us. Not physically, at least,” he added, with a smile that was more like a grimace.

Still encircled by her father’s arms, she slowly turned her head towards the three wizards, who were eyeing the scene with apparent calmness. Her face had gone white. “Imperius?” she croaked, “You cast the Imperius Curse on my parents, you—”

Lucius, whose temper had become noticeably more irritable during the last week, got up. “No, Miss… Granger.” He pointed his wand at Mr. Granger. “Finite Incantatum! Would you please repeat what you said?”

Mr. Granger repeated what he had said. “Should we… maybe leave you alone?”

“Yes,” Severus agreed, “I think that would be best.”

The hands that had been resting on Hermione’s back retreated and, with visible effort, Mr.Granger grabbed her shoulders, turned her round to face the three men and gave her a gentle shove in their direction. “Go on, darling. Sit down and listen. Call us if you need us.” In a gesture of utter defeat, he took his wife’s hand and pulled her out of the room.

“Sit down, Miss Granger.” Severus tried to sound as friendly as possible. It did not have the desired effect.

“Death Eaters,” she whispered, “All three of you… Death Eaters… and Dumbledore… and my parents…”

Lucius got up. Like the needle of a compass, her wand followed his movement, as he walked towards her. In the quiet room, her ragged breathing, irregular and shallow, formed a bizarre counter-rhythm to his footsteps. When he had arrived at a four-feet distance from her, she chocked out, “Ava—”

“A little quick with the Killing Curse, aren’t we?” Lucius said, grabbing her wand. “And now sit down, young lady, we don’t have all night.”