The Sybil's Oracle: Book Three

Chapter 4

By Pigwidgeon37

The fireplace in Lucius’s study had been silent witness to many life-changing events in both Severus and Lucius’s lives. When this sanctum sanctissimum, never to be entered by any member of the household without special permission, had still belonged to Julius Malfoy, the two young wizards, then barely eighteen, had slept here the night after Lucius’s wedding, both twitching and groaning under the after-effects of Voldemort’s Crucio.

How many times had he travelled here by Floo, Severus thought, when he had already been teaching at Hogwarts and summoned by the Dark Lord? The place held many memories, maybe too many of them. Few pleasant ones, the rest was fear and guilt and oppression. Feelings he had not known in a long time. Toned-down versions of them, yes. Sometimes. Very rarely indeed. During the last fifteen years, the emotion dominating his inner landscape, the colour of his inner sky, had been a lingering hopelessness that tinged his horizon a desolate grey. Even bitterness.  For he had met Her, so long ago, had known who she was for a few precious hours, and then lost it all. And he had made sure to take that frustration out on his students, every bit of it. Irrational? Oh, yes, it was certainly irrational, and petty, even stupid. It was, above all, completely and utterly useless, for the feeling persisted and even grew stronger. It was also childish—he, Severus Snape, who had never acted like a child, least of all while he had still been one, was fully aware of behaving like an immature little brat. Destiny, or whatever the name of the force that had played this cruel trick on him, had deprived him of what he craved. And so he, too, relished in his power to take away what- and whenever he chose. Hope, dignity, house points. It did not really matter. And it was never enough, could never outweigh his loss.

He must have been muttering the last words to himself, for Lucius shot him a curious look before turning his back to him, pouring them their second round of after-dinner brandy. For a brief moment, Severus closed his eyes, the better to savour the warmth of the flames and their gently crackling noise, accompanied by the soft gurgling of the brandy splashing into the tumblers. Yes, he thought, it was truly the most absurd of paradoxes: his hope had been rekindled the very evening of Voldemort’s rebirth. Sybil’s verses clearly alluded to this event: Then Darkness claims its toll again… There was no other possibility: the woman—for even if she had been a girl when first he met her, she would now be a woman—would be his, as soon as they accomplished their task. She’s yours if you leave it behind. A promise, and a clear one at that. So clear that it made him shudder.

His. It was hard to imagine that.

He had been leading a life of solitude. Of course, there was the rest of the faculty, there were a handful of people others would not hesitate to call his friends. But he did not belong. Only to himself; and that, he had found out over the years, sometimes painfully, did not suffice. It is not good for the man to be alone. A wise saying, as old as the world. In a way, he liked being alone, even cherished his solitude. But to belong…

Lucius returned and sat down next to him. The glass jar containing Rita Skeeter was resting on a low table beside his chair, destined to hold books and glasses in case the chair’s occupant chose to just look into the flames, his hands idle and his eyes drifting shut.

Not so tonight. Tonight there was no idleness and no peaceful dozing in front of the hearth.

Lucius, too, was looking weary. They were both still fairly young, even by Muggle standards and more so by wizarding—thirty-seven could hardly be considered old. But their youth had been turbulent, and now they were both worn-down with worry. “So,” Lucius began, passing a hand over his eyes, as if to wipe off the thoughts that tired him, “what are we going to do with her?”

“As far as I can judge it, we have two possibilities: kill her or obliviate her. But in reality…” He locked eyes with Lucius, who nodded.

“Exactly my thoughts. I’m convinced we could obliviate her successfully, but what if somebody notices?”

That was, indeed, the problem. Skeeter’s absence must already have been noticed. Everybody knew that she had been at Hogwarts shortly before the Third Task. If her memory was dotted with blank spots, somebody might draw the obvious conclusion—whether that somebody was on their own or on the other side was almost inconsequential. If they broke the memory spell, the information bound to resurface was detrimental in any case.

“Well…” Severus said slowly, “there might be another option.” Lucius tilted his head slightly but said nothing. “What if we keep her in beetle form? There are restraining charms so strong that—”

“Yes, I know,” Lucius cut him off impatiently. “But we have to think of the future! We might get away with it if Dumbledore’s side wins. But what if they don’t? Can you imagine what would happen if she spilled out our secrets to a victorious Voldemort?” He sighed. “What I mean to say is: we can either keep her imprisoned forever, or kill her. None of us knows what exactly goes on in the brain of somebody who’s been petrified and entrapped. Maybe killing her would be… preferable? Even from her perspective…”

Severus looked into the amber depths of his glass. “Probably,” he conceded. “Besides, there’s always the possibility of a not-quite-perfect memory spell. And that’s a risk we cannot take.”

“Very well,” Lucius said, rising and drawing his wand. “Sober enough to do it now?”

“No moment like the present.” Severus gave him a weak grin. “You break, I stun?”

“On the count of three.”

It was a masterpiece of precision. Lucius took aim, shattered the glass, and while he was still pronouncing “Disfractio!” Severus already started enunciating “Stupefy!” so that his spell hit maybe a tenth of a second after Lucius’s. Too soon for the beetle to retransform into human shape. It lay amidst the shards, perfectly still, the firelight playing on its metallic, shell-like outer wings. An elegant turn of the wrist, a muttered banishing charm, and glass and grass and beetle landed in the fireplace, where the flames briefly changed to violet and then back to their habitual orange-yellow.

“Better safe than sorry,” Lucius remarked, and cast an Incinero charm before extinguishing the fire.

Both men stepped closer to the hearth and examined the remainders—there were merely ashes, and among them a few pieces of glass.

~~~~*~~~~

Last night, he and Lucius had agreed that the girl had to be given the Veritaserum antidote as soon as possible. Of course, she was not to be told what she was ingesting—even if the substance protected her from the influence of the truth serum, it did not prevent her from telling the truth whenever she chose to do so. She was highly intelligent, and would never just take things at face value. She would probably start thinking and dissecting facts with that sharp intellect, maybe even come to the final conclusion that the men she should learn to consider her protectors were untrustworthy. Which, Severus thought, was true from a purely Gryffindor point of view. If one perceived the world through that simplistic black-and-white filter, the three Phoenixes would necessarily fall into the ‘bad’ category. They had played the game by their own rules, which meant that they had not heroically attempted to save the wizarding world, but made a political decision at a certain point. Their choice, however, had never included ridiculous notions like ‘noble sacrifice’ or ‘selflessness’. They had played a potentially lethal game of chess, equally wary of both the black and the white kings. That the kings had nurtured the illusion of being players instead of figures was an altogether different story, and entirely due to the three men’s skills. Permanent immunity to Veritaserum had been a consequential part of their strategy and was likely to become vitally important again, now that the tables had once more been turned.

Not that the girl would ever understand that.

Well, maybe one day, Severus thought. He was on his way back from the workroom he used as Potions laboratory during his stays at the Manor, and rather looking forward to breakfast. He had needed to get up at an ungodly hour, in order to monitor the Polyjuice Potion and start with the Falsitaserum, but it was still early, no more than two hours past dawn, and he expected to be the only one at the table.

But when he approached the salon—breakfast was not served in the dining room, but in a smallish and rather cosy parlour facing East—voices were drifting towards him. Were the children already up and bickering? He sighed and opened the door, only to be greeted by the sight of a very desperate House Elf trying to serve the girl some breakfast.

She was obviously not about to accept the elf’s services. “You don’t have to do that!”

Severus shook his head and rolled his eyes.

The elf, who had caught the movement, jumped with fright. “Master Severus, Sir,” it squealed, evidently terrified, “Please not tells Master Lucius, please not tells! I tries to serve Miss Nimue, I really tries, but she tells me… things…” It whimpered, lowering its head and raising its shoulders, as if to avoid being hit.

“It’s all right. Nimue,” he sternly addressed the girl, “Let the elf do its job. Save these ridiculous ideas for elsewhere—I assure you they are not welcome here.”

She gave him a scorching look, but reclined in her chair, so that the elf could finally transfer a series of dishes and a coffee pot onto the table. “The same as always, Master Severus?” it squeaked, eyes gleaming with obsequious zeal.

He nodded and sat down at the narrow side of the table. The girl was sitting to his right, at the longer side—she did, of course, not look at him, but stared moodily at the portrait of Domitian Malfoy, who frowned back at her. Given his lack of interest in sulking teenagers, Severus decided to just leave her be, so he could enjoy his breakfast in silence. The Malfoy hothouses always produced an impressive array of fruit both autochthon and exotic, and today’s arrangement of strawberries, bananas and mangos looked particularly alluring. So he poured himself his first cup of coffee, and, as if on cue, Peggy appeared with the Daily Prophet.

“Thank you, Peggy,” he said, smiling down at her. “Everything all right? Or did Elias steal the silver again?”

“No,” she replied, “He is being good. He and Mina goes to visit the new cat.”

The girl who, during his genial exchange with Peggy, had already been looking at him as if he had sprouted at least one extra head, let out a squeak of pure terror. “They are… they’ll harm him! Oh, Crooks…”

She was already out of her chair and on her way towards the door, when Severus called her back. “Peggy,” he said, “kindly tell Miss Nimue what the three were doing.”

“They is playing,” Peggy said, her words accompanied by vigorous nodding. “Elias is very fond of cats, Miss, and Mina is really nice.”

The girl shot her a doubtful look. “Are you sure?” The elf nodded again. “Well,” she sighed, “I suppose…” She cast a longing look at her breakfast. “You would tell me if there were problems, wouldn't you?” Peggy gave her a toothy grin and did a very strange, elfish version of a curtsy before disappearing.

Sitting down again, she asked, “How come you are treating your elf so… well, different?”

Severus looked up from his newspaper. “We go a long way back,” he responded curtly, speared a strawberry and re-dedicated himself to reading.

For a while, they sat in silence. “Anything of interest?” she finally ventured.

Severus shot her an irritated look. “No!”

“Anything about Rita Skeeter?”

“Not yet.”

Silence again, then a timid, “What… I mean, do you have a plan?”

Severus sighed and put down the newspaper. “We have many plans, Nimue. Do you think you might try and formulate your questions with a tad more exactitude?”

“Concerning Skeeter. I wanted to know whether you had any plans concerning her.”

She was eyeing him anxiously, and Severus felt slightly unnerved. “We have indeed made a decision.”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“No.” He selected a mango and started peeling and then carefully dissecting it, an occupation that required his full attention and thus provided the perfect pretext for not looking at her. It was one of the secrets of his success—if you avoided eye contact, people were less likely to bother you. He was not reacting this way out of pure malice, although to have successfully silenced her was a satisfaction in itself. But he also needed to think. It turned out to be more difficult than he had assumed, though, for after maybe thirty seconds of silence, the sound of her breathing changed. Considering that she could not have developed a head cold within the last half-minute, the girl was probably crying. Reluctantly, he looked up from his plate. Just as he had thought—she tried to make as little noise as possible, but tears were streaming down her cheeks.

Severus sighed. “What is the matter now?” he asked, without even attempting to make the question sound encouraging or soothing.

She looked at him, valiantly trying to control her sobs. “Y-you wouldn’t unders-stand!” It sounded half-accusatory, half-desperate.

“Probably not,” he agreed. “But seeing as how I am the only available person right now, you might as well try.”

More tears now, and her shoulders started shaking. Severus mentally steeled himself. “Ev-everybody hates me!” she choked out, before succumbing completely to her grief.

“That,” he remarked, “seems a trifle exaggerated. Believe me, if any of us hated you, you would not be alive and sitting at this table.”

She made a queer little sound, somewhere between harrumphing and sobbing. “I… probably that was the wrong choice of words.”

“It certainly seems so.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Well? Try again?”

And suddenly, her expression changed from inconsolable to furious. “You enjoy this, don’t you? You… you—”

“No name-calling, Nimue!” he interrupted her, putting down his coffee cup with a sharp ‘clink’.

Gryffindors… they were all the same. They were angry, or offended, and all it took to push them over the edge was indifference to their sufferings, laced with a bit of supercilious sarcasm.

“How can you be so… so odious?” Her voice was completely flat now, and trembling. She was hell-bent on controlling herself. “How can you enjoy torturing those who are weaker than you? Would it really be so difficult to extend a hand, at least sometimes? What do you get out of landing another blow on somebody who’s already down on the ground? This is sadism, and it’s despicable! Why are you doing this to me? Can’t you imagine how I’m feeling?”

“My dear girl—” he leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms “—pity is not likely to—”

“Pity?” she interrupted him, “Pity? It’s called compassion, Sir! It’s called respect for your fellow humans’ dignity! Not that you’d ever understand what I’m talking about. For you—” both her fists were resting on the table now, right and left of her plate, tight and white-knuckled “—the concept of human dignity doesn’t even exist, because there’s nothing human left in you! You’re just arrogant, and cold, and selfish, not to mention cruel—”

He dealt her a backhanded slap across the face, without putting much strength or emotion into it. But it silenced her effectively. Her right hand—he could see the marks of her nails on her palm—went slowly upwards to cover the burning red spot on her cheek.

“Before you go up to your room, where you will stay until further notice,” he said coldly, “I want you to consider this—or rather, regard it as your assignment to consider the following question: will Voldemort show you compassion?” He held out his hand. “Give me your wand.” Still too shocked to speak, she merely shook her head. “I said give me your wand, and I will not repeat the invitation.” Like an automaton, she reached into her left sleeve and handed him the wand. “Thank you. Now go up to your rooms and think about my question. You will not leave your rooms until you have come up with an adequate answer.”

So lifeless and wooden did she look that he half expected her joints to creak when, still wide-eyed and silent, she got up from her chair and stalked towards the exit. Her fingers were on their way towards the handle, when the door opened of its own accord, and she was almost run over by Lucius. With a muffled squeak, she stepped backwards, shot Severus a haunted look over her shoulder, and then raced past the slightly astonished Lord of the Manor, along the corridor and up the stairs.

Lucius merely raised an eyebrow, sat down and helped himself to coffee.

“Delayed reaction,” Severus remarked, by way of an explanation, folded the newspaper and levitated the toast rack toward himself. “What brings you down here so early?”

“Dumbledore called.”

“Ah.” Severus looked up from his toast. “Any important news?”

“Not really. It seems that Nathalie Pierson paid him a visit to inquire after Skeeter’s whereabouts.” He poured himself another cup of coffee, which he eyed pensively. “No need to mention that she left empty-handed. And we’ll have to meet with Black.”

“Yes, that seems inevitable.” Severus felt his stomach contract. The game they were about to play now was even more dangerous than fifteen years ago, in more than one way. With Black impersonating Barty—unless something got in the way of that particular plan, of course—they would have another spy, so that their own hides were much safer, since communication with Dumbledore was going to be his problem, not theirs. This, however, was only a superficial impression, and the feeling of safety it conveyed was fallacious at best, pernicious at worst. First and foremost, there was the risk of Black simply bungling it, by behaving uncharacteristically, by lack of knowledge or even by showing reluctance to follow some of the Dark Lord’s more unpleasant orders. Then there was, of course, the fact that Black might choose to inform not only Dumbledore but some of his former Auror buddies about the goings-on at Voldemort’s hideaway, conveniently forgetting to mention which role exactly the three Phoenixes were playing. Although the danger was unlikely to diminish drastically in case he did mention it.

“Knut for your thoughts?” Lucius, already halfway through his mushroom omelette, was scrutinizing his face.

“Hmm… I doubt they’d be worth that much. I merely did a mental tour d’horizon of all the possible ways for our strategy to backfire.”

“That,” Lucius said, a little too lightly to be entirely natural, “took you surprisingly little time.” He carefully selected another piece of white bread and broke off a chunk. “You know, I’m getting increasingly uneasy about Voldemort’s prolonged silence. Especially as he is sharing it with Pettigrew.”

“Difficult to determine whether it’s to our advantage or disadvantage,” Severus agreed. “And I have to admit that the idea of Dumbledore, roaming the country instead of staying right under my nose at Hogwarts, is slightly disquieting.”

“A very elegant understatement. Have you given the Dementor question any thoughts lately?”

Severus snorted. “Not really. What with having to brew Polyjuice and Falsitaserum, and to rescue reluctant teenagers in between, I cannot say I had much time for in-depth ponderings of negative versus positive energy.”

“I think,” Lucius observed, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin, “that this might be a suitable means of occupying our teenagers’ minds. Both of them, of course. What Muggles call team building, you know?”

“Welcome to the Land of Illusions. But it might be worth a try. By the way, did Dumbledore have anything to say about contacting Voldemort?”

“Yes, he did. They simply dug out some of Barty’s N.E.W.T. papers and enchanted a quill to imitate his handwriting. The problem is that nobody has the faintest idea whether Barty used to encode his letters or whether he signed them. So they simply sent an unsigned note, without encrypting it.”

They continued their meal in silence, which was only broken when, about half an hour later, little Selene joined them and rather effectively chased away their pressing worries, if only temporarily.

~~~~*~~~~

Two days later, Owen returned.

He was looking tired but quite smug, when he entered the ballroom, which had been completely emptied, except for soft, thick carpets covering the marble floor, so as to convert the space into a makeshift gymnasium for duelling lessons. Severus acknowledged his presence with a curt nod before refocusing his attention on the two youths. Owen conjured a chair, moved it against the wall and sat down, though not without drawing his wand. Not that the curses the two were using might have caused any real damage—the first lessons served to sharpen their reflexes rather than to hurl dangerous hexes—but even a stray Tarantallegra jinx was better deflected than taken.

Severus, too, was holding his wand in alert position, though more to intervene than for self-protection. The girl was doing far better than he had given her credit for, although he assumed that this might largely be due to four years of silently-suffered insults from her opponent. There had to be quite a lot of frustration and thirst for revenge pent up within her—the jerky eagerness of her firing-and-parrying spoke a very clear language.

Owen snorted softly. “Draco should have practised with more valuable opponents than just his two trolls,” he remarked.

Severus threw him a quick smirk over his shoulder. “Oh, yes. But we have to see what remains once her fury is—Impedimenta!” he shouted, thus rescuing Draco’s head from painful and possibly fatal contact with the wall behind him. “Nimue, come here!”

It was time, he thought wryly, for Owen to spend another summer of unbridled lust with Sybil—Severus did not like the feral gleam lighting the other wizard’s eyes, as the girl advanced towards them, displaying a mix of stubbornness, pride, reluctance and curiosity. She was no beauty; in fact, she was a far cry from anything that might deserve that epithet. Then again, she was clearly not a child anymore, and the simple but practical attire she was wearing for practice did not conceal that fact. Despite the cooling charms he and Lucius had cast on the room, she was sweating—the awareness that her personal smell was by no means unpleasant scraped along the edge of his consciousness, fleeting but unwelcome—and thus her plain white t-shirt was clinging to her skin. Thank Merlin she was wearing a bra. Severus inwardly rolled his eyes, when he glimpsed the expression on Draco’s face. The boy was goggling. Maybe, Severus thought with a mental snort, maybe being beaten up was turning him on. You never knew…

Now she was standing before him, and the curiosity had clearly won the struggle for predominance on her face. There was a visible trace of venom, though, betrayed by the slightly down-turned corners of her mouth. No surprises there—Owen was the almost-slaughterer of that ridiculous Hippogriff. For a teenage girl, whom the temporary desertion of her cat had thrown into black despair, the attempted annihilation of a Hippogriff probably ranged right up there on top of her list of Unforgivable Crimes, together with Calling Dumbledore A Barmy Old Codger and Stepping On Potter’s Toes.

She was glancing from him to Owen and back again, worrying her lower lip with her much-better-looking front teeth, clearly dying to ask all her burning questions but contemporaneously trying to stick to her Gryffindor pride. He decided to keep her like that a little longer. It was far too amusing to watch her.

At least, her concern for her parents won the battle. “Mr. McNair, how—”

“Owen.” He smirked up at her, orange-brown eyes a-glint.

She stared defiantly back. “You’re not a family member.”

“Speaking of family members…”

Severus saw her wand twitch in her right hand. Now that would be an interesting duel to watch. “My parents and aunt, Mr… Owen.” He could almost hear her teeth gnash. “How are they?”

“Safe, alive and healthy.” Owen got up and looked down at her. She took a step back. “That’s all I’m going to tell you, and it’s already more than you should know.”

She quickly glanced at Severus, who shook his head. “No more information. As Owen said, this is already more than you should know. Concerning your duelling technique—” her eyes narrowed, and her chin shot up “—try not to put so much emotion behind your hexes. They tend to cloud your judgement. You must learn to stay calm and composed, whomever you are facing. One day, you might have to defend yourself against somebody you used to consider a friend.”

At that, she was obviously unable to hold her tongue any longer. “This is ridiculous! Are you implying Harry or Ron—”

“Pettigrew,” was all he said before dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “You have half an hour left, off you go. Back to your training.”

“But I—”

“I said back to your training.” He watched her stomp back to her previous position, anger seeping from every pore. It was now directed at him, though, and part of it also at Owen. He wondered whether she would be able to focus on hitting Draco under the circumstances.

“I’ll be off to the Manor then,” Owen said. “Sybil should already have arrived. See you tomorrow at—” He stopped and turned to look back at Severus, who nodded.

They both felt their Marks stir.

~~~~*~~~~

It was… a little like a dream. One of those realistic dreams, which take place in landscapes one almost identifies, those dreams that allow the mind to hold on to a tiny ridge of recognition, slipping, slipping and finally falling… The scenery seems so well-known, and the dreamer has the impression of having been there already—but something is not quite right. A tree in the wrong place, a meadow the wrong shade of green, a gently-sloping hillside not quite following the curve imprinted onto the dreamer’s mind…

The house was as simple as the one in Albania—now Severus knew that it was the former home of Voldemort’s Muggle father and grandparents, despised, hated and finally killed. There was a certain air of familiarity, but it was also a slightly crooked and twisted image, too well-known to be rejected, too inherently uncanny for him to feel even a shade of comfort. Probably it was the same with the surroundings, he thought. No wood and dry lavender smell and jagged mountaintops as in Albania, but lush, green English landscape. Darkness had already encroached the world outside, so that he could not be absolutely certain of what he might see through the windows. Maybe it was better that way. The interior was unsettling enough.

Only the three of them tonight; a furtive exchange of glances, even though impeded by the masks they were wearing, confirmed that behind their eyes—whether black or grey or orange-brown—the same question was pulsating through uneasy minds: where was Pettigrew, and why had the others not been called?

This was not the moment for making inquiries, though; the three men prostrated themselves at their Master’s feet, probing with all their senses, albeit in vain, whether his strength and power was increasing or diminishing.

“Rise, my faithful followers.”

They stood as one and gazed at him, watched intently by Nagini, the giant venomous dragonsnake. The Dark Lord’s wet-nurse, preposterous but dangerous parody of the she-wolf that had nurtured Romulus and Remus, of the goat Amaltheia whose milk Zeus, future ruler over the gods, had drunk… He was too prone to drifting off these days, Severus chastised himself, when Voldemort spoke again, so suddenly that he almost jumped.

“Tell me about Hogwarts, Severus.” The voice. It was the voice that pushed this absurd dream over the invisible line separating irrational anguish from oppressive nightmare.

“Of course, My Lord. I… tried to find a pretext, so I might convince Dumbledore I had to stay, but failed. Forgive me, Master.” He fell to his knees again—why did it come to him so easily, this farce of deception and illusionary adulation?—and steeled himself for the pain. It did not come.

“It is of no importance.”

Of no… The icy-cold fear uncoiling in his stomach was worse than the agony he had expected. If the intelligence he was able to provide was of no importance anymore, he might very well meet his death tonight.

The wheezing voice continued speaking. “What about Dumbledore himself? Do you know about his plans?”

The old, familiar feeling was back now, reasserting its firm grip on his mind and body. That sensation of teetering on the edge of an abyss—give information away or hold it back? Play the card now or keep it, as talisman and last hope for another, maybe more desperate, situation? “In part, My Lord. I am sure that he has plans for Harry Potter, maybe even won’t let him come back to Hogwarts.”

“Our valiant Gryffindors…” Voldemort chuckled, and Severus’s face contracted into a polite smile under his mask, although he knew it remained invisible—it was easier to produce the right state of mind by reacting appropriately. “We will find him when the time has come.” At the edges of Severus’s field of vision, steely blue glinted briefly. Lucius and Owen, falsely obsequious courtesans like himself, had bowed their heads in dutiful assent. “It seems that Barty might be detained longer than I expected.”

Lucius, instilling just the right note of humility into his silken drawl. “My Lord, do you want me to persuade Fudge—”

“No, no. Let him stay. He might be able to give us useful information.” Voldemort shifted on his chair. “Speaking of Fudge…”

A rustle of fabric and a barely audible thud to his left told Severus that Lucius, too, had fallen to his knees. “My Lord, I have news which I hope will please you.”

The Master’s dragonhide boots moved backwards and closer to each other by a fraction of an inch. Was it curiosity or anger that made him move? As stealthily as possible, Severus took a deep breath, while Lucius continued, “Fudge contacted me the day after you… returned to us, My Lord. It seems that nothing can prevent him anymore from removing Dumbledore from his position. He… asked me whether I would be willing—”

“Ah,” Voldemort breathed, “Good news indeed, my slippery friend, good news indeed. You will, of course, keep Barty and Severus on staff. And once we have eliminated Hagrid, Owen can take his place. It seems that everything is proceeding smoothly.” He paused shortly, then, with a distinct note of impatience, “Pettigrew is late.”

Owen, the only of the three who had not yet uttered a single word, asked cautiously, “Did you send him on a mission, My Lord?”

The answer did not follow immediately—maybe Voldemort was pondering the respective merits of punishing or enlightening his follower? But then, he gave another chuckle, high-pitched and hissing. Severus was not sure he liked this new side of him, as it made reactions more difficult to foresee. “Yes, faithful Pettigrew has indeed been sent out to follow a trail…”

A trail? What trail? Severus felt his thoughts dart here and there, almost painfully bumping into walls of bleak ignorance. Could it be Karkaroff? Would Voldemort really dispatch that bumbling idiot Pettigrew to catch a man desperate enough to take not only the rat—he still hasn’t told us Pettigrew is a rat Animagus. Why? Too much secrecy. We will have to be more careful, more careful…—but whomever happened to be present along on his journey to death? But who, if not Karkaroff? Was this a trap? Would twenty Death Eaters suddenly materialize around them, torture them, kill—

Nagini lifted her head and hissed.

“Ah!” Voldemort stood up. “Raise!” he hissed impatiently, “Raise and behold…” He made a sweeping, almost theatrical gesture with his right hand, as if to brush aside a curtain.

~~~~*~~~~

Even Narcissa shrieked when the three men popped into sight in the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor. “Lucius…” Her right forefinger pointed at his clothes.

“Demasquera!” They pronounced it almost simultaneously, all three of them longing to breathe freely, to feel the air cool their lips and nostrils when it streamed into their mouths, down into their lungs and out again, warmer and moister, hopefully purging them of the stench that seemed to cling to their insides.

The library door flew open, and Yelena appeared, closely followed by Draco and the girl. Sybil, barely holding herself upright, leaned against the doorframe.

For a brief moment, Severus mentally distanced himself from the group—he seemed to be doing that a lot, but somehow it helped—and saw himself, Lucius and Owen, the three black knights, returning from the battlefield, eagerly expected by the women and children they had left behind. A tableau worthy of being depicted by Sir Walter Scott, he thought wryly, although the impression was somewhat marred by the two youngsters in their shirts and trousers. Only he himself had left nobody behind…

“Shush, my dear,” Lucius said, holding out his hand, palm facing Narcissa, to stop her in mid-run, “This is not my blood. No need for you to worry. Give us five minutes, and we will join you. Although…” He let his gaze travel to his two companions. “I believe that none of us will show much of an appetite…”

Owen shrugged. “Speak for yourself. I could eat something, really. Considering your fragile constitutions—” he sneered at Severus “—maybe I’ll stick to cucumber sandwiches. Clichéd but not without merits. Not that I wouldn’t have preferred roast beef…”

Severus felt his stomach heave and briskly turned to climb the stairs. He desperately craved a shower and a double whisky. Certainly it was not going to be tonight’s last drink.

While standing under the hot downpour with the enchanted sponge rhythmically brushing over his skin, he tried to deny the images of the past hours entrance to his mind. He would have to recount them soon enough, first downstairs, then to Dumbledore, maybe even to Black… it would be easier with words, as he knew from experiences past. Words and sound might carry images, but being vessels they could also be closed and sealed. It became easier with each repetition, until only faint traces remained that could be buried deep down. And there was always Dreamless Sleep potion… It would fend off the sound of a slowly-cracking skull, it might help to dam the crimson bursting from eyes, nose and ears, maybe it would even disperse the reek of hot damp flesh torn to shreds and lumps… He just barely managed to support himself against the shower wall. In and out, slowly and regularly, to provide his body with oxygen and life…

After stepping out of the shower, he cleaned his teeth and rinsed his mouth, thrice, letting the sharp minty mouthwash go as far down into his throat as possible, gargling for as long as there was air left in his lungs. Then, the clean lavender-cedar scent of fresh shirt and underwear, the pristine white fabric—silk with linen, crisp purity blended with sensual softness—for a brief instant cool against his skin; trousers and frock coat—the cuisses, poleyns, jambers and breastplate of his armour that enabled him to face the world again.

He cleared his throat and winced. The tang of blood was still clinging.

Owen was already downstairs when he arrived in the library, and visibly enjoying the girl’s slack-jawed surprise at discovering that not only Severus, but also the much-despised Professor Trelawney led a human existence outside the classroom. Draco, too, seemed to find it quite amusing, and even snorted when, at Severus’s un-robed appearance in the doorframe, the girl’s eyes threatened to pop out of their sockets. However, Severus perceived the fear under the thin layer of glee. Not that it came as a surprise—the boy had never yet been waiting for his father to return from a meeting with Voldemort.

Lucius’s wife and mother had already recovered from their shock, he noticed with relief. For them, the scenario was by no means new, and maybe more of a déjà-vu than for the three men. After all, they had been reliving it in the same surroundings as many years ago.

A nervous House Elf brought a tray for Owen, holding a plate on which cucumber sandwiches were piled up in an appealing pastel pyramid, and a teapot, which he merely waved away. A whisky decanter was already sitting on the table in front of him, and Severus summoned a glass to pour himself another generous measure.

After the first sip, he looked over at Sybil who was sitting next to Owen on the sofa, still pale but a little more composed than at their arrival. “No offence, Sybil, but you look like hell.”

She nodded and, maintaining her death grip on her own glass, said faintly, “None taken. I… I nearly splinched myself. It… I mean the vision was suddenly there, just when I was about to Apparate…” She gulped down half of her whiskey, and Owen patted her knee—if possible, the girl’s eyes grew even rounder.

“Vision?” Lucius, apparently his usual nonchalant self again, stepped into the room. “What vision, Sybil?”

“Full coverage of the meeting you just returned from, concentrated into maybe one second,” she replied dryly. “Quite mind-boggling, I assure you.”

“Well, it certainly boggled ours,” Lucius commented, sitting down beside Narcissa. “He might not yet have fully recovered his strength—thank you, my dear,” he said to Narcissa, who handed him a drink, “but he has certainly lost none of his… er, creativity.”

“What… what happened?”

Evidently, nothing was able to squash that girl’s curiosity for more than thirty seconds. Severus leaned back in his chair and glared at her until she averted her eyes. “It seems that Pettigrew was successful, once in his life. He captured Karkaroff and dragged him back to Voldemort’s lair. Where we had the dubious pleasure of seeing to his… punishment.”

“Punish—” She swallowed convulsively, eyes wide and face suddenly a few shades paler. “Is he… I mean…” She made a valiant effort to pronounce the word. “He’s not alive anymore, is he?”

Lucius smirked at her and downed the last of his drink. “No, he’s as dead as can be. And I wish he’d had the courage to do it himself, as it was one of the most unpleasant experiences of my whole life.”

“You lost your touch, that’s all,” Owen observed. “Twenty years ago—”

“Let’s move to the present,” Severus interrupted him—just in time, for the sudden hardening of Lucius’s stare had not escaped his attention. “Or rather to the future. Voldemort has great plans.”

“Not…” The girl covered her mouth with a tightly-balled fist. “Not Harry, please, not Harry…”

Green seeped into brown eyes, brown frizz morphed into luscious red strands… A night of déjà-vu, indeed. “No,” he snarled, “not Potter the wonder-pup, around whom your puny, inconsequential universe seems to gravitate. Open your eyes, girl, for Merlin’s sake! He wants Azkaban, tomorrow if possible.”

Sybil gave a muffled sound. Her whole body was tense, her eyes clenched shut, and she was shaking her head, obstinately and ceaselessly, like a puppet moved by a madman.

“What the hell,” Owen muttered, trying to steady her, but her movements grew more erratic instead of calming down.

“He will succeed…” Sybil’s voice sounded raucous and squeaky at the same time, as she repeated, over and over again, “He will succeed!” Finally, she slumped against Owen’s chest, breathing heavily.

“I…” Owen cleared his throat and looked around, clearly lost for words. “I’ll take her home. We all need our sleep and…” He shrugged.

“Yes, go on.” Lucius passed a weary hand over his eyes. “It seems highly unlikely that any of us might have a major inspiration within the next few hours. Come back tomorrow, both of you, and then we’ll see…” He did not finish his sentence but got up and took Narcissa’s hand to pull her to her feet.

The youngsters, on whose faces tiredness and anxiety were now clearly visible, trudged towards the door when the couple had Disapparated, and Severus nodded a perfunctory good-night to Lucius and Narcissa and left the library. His limbs felt as if they were made of lead, making it difficult for him to move with his customary fluency and ease. It was hopelessness and fear that rendered him so heavy and weary, a numb sensation of despondency, gloomy and final and suffocating him with its reality. What was it with Sybil, he mused while entering his rooms and lighting the candles, what was it that suddenly caused her those violent bouts of clairvoyance? So shortly after one another, too…

Pensively, he started undressing, all the time trying to determine what exactly was disturbing him so much about Sybil’s suddenly-erupting powers. He had already given up on this particular investigation and decided to get as much sleep as he could, when he heard a timid knock at the door, and a voice asking, in a near-whisper, “Professor, are you awake?”