The Sybil's Oracle: Book Three

Chapter 5

By Pigwidgeon37

Although Severus knew perfectly well that his students had lives and thoughts—certainly insignificant ones, but lives and thoughts all the same—outside the classroom, he was not overjoyed by the idea that the girl was going to see him in his pyjamas and dressing gown. However, he would have felt utterly ridiculous, had he made her wait outside until he was again dressed properly. Pyjamas, then. He sighed and went to open the door.

Clearly, she had not been prepared for the sight that greeted her, for she blushed violently. The deep shade of purple her face had taken on clashed rather ridiculously with her pale pink pyjamas and dressing gown. “I’m sorry, Professor, I…”

He waited for a few seconds, eyebrows high and hand resting on the doorknob, but that had evidently been all she was able to produce. “Did you just want to admire my nightwear, or was there something else, Nimue?”

“I… of course, I mean, of course there was something else… are you very tired?”

“Yes, I am very tired. Anything else?”

At that, she bristled. “Will you stop that? Come to think of it, this game of yours is so… so utterly stupid, I really don't know why it still makes me angry.”

“Congratulations,” he said and gave her a round of solo mock-applause, “It took you quite some time to figure that out, though.”

“It’s much easier here than in the classroom, you know…” She stared down at her sock-clad feet. “Anyway… do you think we might talk a bit?”

“If you promise not to quiz me about Hogwarts—A History…”

Now she grinned. “That isn’t a bad idea at all, you know? But actually, I just wanted to talk… Ask a few questions, maybe?”

“You,” he said, stepping back so as to give her access to his drawing room, “are the bane of my existence. I have just—” He interrupted himself, waving a careless hand at the images that were crowding at his mind’s horizon.

“You have just what?”

Somehow, those intensely curious eyes were a tad less annoying here than in the classroom. He had to grant her this: however irritating or ill-timed, her thirst for knowledge was always completely genuine. And she had chosen the ideal moment for badgering him—from her point of view, of course. He was tired, his mind was nothing more than a boiling turmoil of emotions and sensations, interspersed with a few errant thoughts and that overwhelming feeling of emptiness, the now-familiar companion of his lonely days and nights. He was exhausted, and using his last energy reserves to hold up his defences, although he felt he was not making a very good job of it. This suspicion was stringently proven by the fact that she was now standing in his very own private space.

“I have just participated in an act of violence that… well, suffice it to say that the mere thought would drive you insane.”

“Mr. McNair seemed a little less shaken.”

The dryness of her remark almost coaxed a laugh from him. “Well, he…” The bone-deep exhaustion made it difficult for him to choose his words as he was wont to do. “We are human beings, Nimue, and thus do not react in the same way to the same situations.”

“You’re right, yes. But it wouldn’t have hurt if he had been a little more upset. Mr. Mal—I mean, Lucius didn't look too well…”

Severus sneered at her. “Succumbing to the four pints of Veela blood running through his veins? You wouldn't be the first one,” he added, maliciously, at her indignant yelp. “And now—” he successfully switched back to full classroom mode “—you better ask your questions, Nimue, or else you’ll find yourself outside in the corridor in less time than it takes Longbottom to melt a cauldron.”

She shot him a half-uncertain, half-quizzical look, for once not obstructed by that unmanageable mop of hair, which she had braided for the night. “I don’t know…” At his long-suffering sigh, she continued hastily, “You see, I was sure I could do this, back in my room. I was absolutely convinced that all I needed was a little courage and determination, so I would overcome the first obstacle. The baiting,” she added, when he gave her a questioning glance.

“It seems you have successfully braved it.” He beckoned for her to sit down and relit the fireplace. “So what is the problem now?”

“Well… You have to admit that your classroom persona—and that’s the only side of you I’ve known so far, at least until a few days ago… You don’t make it easy for people to show their weaknesses. When you hit me—”

“Maybe,” he interrupted her, surprised at his own uneasiness with the memory, “that was not entirely justified.”

“Your anger was certainly justified. Although I don’t think that slapping people across the face is a valid argument. If anything, it’s a sign of weakness. An admission of impotency. Helplessness,” she corrected herself, blushing furiously.

He snorted. “If seeing it that way helps you…”

“It certainly makes you more human.”

“And you think I might actually like that?”

“Honestly!” She crossed her arms and glared at him. She was getting quite good at it. “I don’t care whether you like it or not, but it certainly makes things easier for me. Do you think I could get a mug of hot chocolate?”

Severus felt laughter stirring deep within him. She was highly irritating, true, and he really felt no inclination towards night-time talks with her. But all the same… He could not deny that this situation was kind of… refreshing. With a glare he had intended to be blistering but was afraid might have less than the desired effect, he grabbed the silver bell and rang for Peggy. Only seconds after her, Elias came sailing into the room, lured from his perch in Severus’s bedchamber by the lilting sound. When he had almost reached Severus’s shoulder, he seemed to change his mind, swerved sharply and instead landed on the girl’s knees.

“Does he like being touched?” she asked, a little doubtfully and eyeing the enormous black beak with apprehension.

“If he comes to you of his own volition, he expects nothing less than a cuddling session,” he replied, unable to keep the venom entirely out of his tone. The chocolate arrived, and he poured himself another whiskey before sitting down on the chair opposite hers. “Well, then, what was it you wanted to talk about?”

“Quite a lot, actually. You see, when you mentioned Azkaban tonight…” She pursed her lips and blew on the hot liquid, then took a tentative sip.

He nodded. “Your parents?”

“Yes. My parents, the Dementors…” Her eyes encountered his, and he held her gaze for a while. She was very easy to read, much too easy… “I probably shouldn’t mention him, because you’ll get angry. But I remember how Sirius was looking after he had escaped from that dreadful place. Maybe it’s wrong to draw the analogy, but…” Her voice faded again, and he could see her lower lip quiver slightly.

“The analogy,” he began cautiously, “is certainly permitted. Your parents have been suffering under the Dementors’ influence for fourteen years, without the protection Black was able to provide for himself. And although…” He made a short pause, unsure whether to continue the way he had planned. Then again, why and, above all, how should he keep the truth from her? His feelings towards St. John and Tabitha were what they were, and he had excellent reasons for his dislike and distrust. “Although we were not on the best of terms during the last years preceding Voldemort’s downfall…” He paused again. “Let me reformulate: I have little reason to attribute anything positive to St. John and Tabitha Lestrange. However, from an objective point of view, I suppose they did have happy memories, for I am fairly sure that they loved you in their own way, and thus they probably were highly susceptible to the destructive effect of the Dementors.”

She nodded, and silently sipped her chocolate. “Would you tell me how they were?”

Severus sighed. “Yes, of course I will. St. John—your father—was… a friend. At least I thought he was, and maybe I was even right… There was a time…” No. This was all wrong. And he found himself facing a dilemma he did not like in the least. If he told her about Lestrange, it meant disclosing a lot about himself. Things he had long ago decided to bury, because they were painful, or simply useless. On the other hand, she had a right to know.

“Talking about him involves too much talking about yourself, doesn’t it?”

Damnable girl. Too clever by half, and even trying to be tactful. In an appallingly Gryffindor way, of course. “Yes. Yes, it does.”

The end of her plait—even that was frizzy—glided through her fingers, while her other hand was gently stroking Elias’s feathers. “And… I imagine you’re not really into digging up the past… it must be difficult to handle…”

“Enough!” He got up briskly and strode over to the whiskey bottle. It did not contain as much as it should, after only four days of sojourn. Without looking at her, he continued, “You have come here to ask questions, I believe, not to pry into my life—displaying as much subtlety as might be expected of a Gryffindor.” He heard her sharp intake of breath, and Elias’s brief croak, underscored by fluttering. “So kindly—” he turned round, ready to hurl another scathing comment at her, and almost bumped into her. The be-socked feet had not made any noise on the carpet when she approached him.

“The left cheek this time, if you please.” She turned her head to the right, offering him  her flushed face. “As you seem to have run out of arguments again…”

“Get out of my way!”

“Wouldn’t you like to hit me first? It’s such a relief, isn’t it?”

Pure teenager rebellion—nothing he was not thoroughly acquainted with. It was infuriating, and he felt sorely tempted to slap her. Again. But that would have meant physical contact, and she was standing too near him for his comfort anyway. So he merely glowered down at her—ridiculous how short she was, not much more than five feet, the top of her head level with his breastbone—and waited for her to step aside. She did not budge. He shifted his glass from his left to his right hand and, with his left elbow, gave her a rather rude shove, so that she stumbled and barely managed to keep her balance. “Out!” he barked, “Immediately! Leave my rooms!”

The girl was looking at him out of narrowed eyes. “It takes little to unsettle you, really.”

“Out!” he repeated, taking a threatening step towards her.

She threw him another Look—shrewd? Contemptuous? Hurt? Not that he cared—and made her way towards the door. When it clicked shut, he downed his drink in one go. It takes little to unsettle you—the words kept ringing in his ears, mocking him. In a sudden fit of rage, he hurled the now-empty tumbler into the fireplace. Of course he was unsettled. Who would not be unsettled after the evening he had had? His nerves were frayed, his temper was on edge; his reaction—overreaction?—was entirely justified. But somehow, the justification sounded wrong.

~~~~*~~~~

The next morning, after only four hours of sleep, he awoke grumpy and bad-tempered. Nightmares had troubled his slumber, and Severus felt sweaty and tired, more exhausted by the images that had haunted him than he would have, had he not slept at all. He had to get up, though, for the Polyjuice Potion needed to be stirred, and there was just one final ingredient to be added to the Falsitaserum for the concoction to be ready. To judge by the quality of the morning light, he was running late in any case. While heaving his still-leaden legs over the edge of the bed, he mused that he would probably meet the girl downstairs at breakfast. She seemed to be an early riser. However, remaining in his rooms and having Peggy bring up his meal was not a viable option, for he also needed to talk to Lucius. They had allowed themselves a few days of relative idleness, but now it was really time to get moving. Not a particularly pleasant thought, given the enormity of their tasks.

A prolonged shower and a cup of delicious, rosehip-flavoured tea Peggy had deposed on his dresser while he was in the bathroom—somehow, the elf always knew exactly what he needed—rendered his mood a tad less gloomy. Downstairs in the workroom, he ascertained that the potions were proceeding satisfactorily; the task forced him to concentrate just enough to banish thoughts of the obnoxious girl to some half-lit storeroom of his mind, so as to slowly regain some vaguely acceptable frame of mind.

He had almost forgotten about her when he entered the breakfast room.

The picture that greeted him was of such pedestrian domesticity, of such revolting harmony, that he almost turned on his heel to leave the room again. She was already sitting at the table, with Selene on her knees, babbling to the child in some disgustingly would-be-motherly, incoherent half-language… He caught himself just in time before she looked up, and carefully schooled his face into a mask of polite indifference. After all, that was how girls were, going all crazy and fussy about unicorn foals and toddlers and kitsch Valentines… He mentally raised his brows at himself—was he really thinking about the girl as if he were a fifteen-year-old boy? Or was he just trying to find some fault, any fault, with that annoying Gryffindor perfection?

Selene, golden-haired and green-eyed, struggled to get off the girl’s lap, landed on her hands and knees, scrambled to her feet again with the stubbornness typical of toddlers, and ran around the table. Arms stretched up towards Severus, she came to a halt and demanded, “Up!”

He was genuinely fond of the little girl, just as he was of Draco. Loath as he was to let anybody touch him, or even come too near him—it takes little to unsettle you, damnable, damnable girl!—he had no difficulties enduring physical contact with small children, even welcomed it, if administered in small doses. To put himself on display, though, holding Selene and playing with her, under the girl’s curious eyes—did they hold a hint of irony?—was… well, unpleasant, to say the least. Last night’s clumsy attempt at worming her way into his privacy had been quite enough to deter him from any repetition, and he felt that, in a way, letting her observe his interaction with the child was another step in that direction.

His scruples notwithstanding, and despite his usual readiness to take out his own frustration on others—and where was Longbottom when you really needed him, he thought wryly—it would not do to disappoint Selene, whose eyes were already brimming with tears. Partly, this was a show, and Severus knew it. One hurt look from those jade-green eyes, combined with the dimple in her chin that showed when she half-pinched, half-pouted her lips—and her father was putty in her hands. She was terribly difficult to resist, and even Narcissa had to admit that, were it not for her gentle temper, she would by now have become the family tyrant.

So he bent down to pick her up, and, unsurprisingly, her eyes became bright immediately. Without any trace of tears. “Vixen,” he said, pulling one of her locks. “What are you doing down here anyway? It’s still very early, you should be asleep.”

“Nimue.” She pointed at the girl and nodded vigorously. “Papa tell ‘Lene go and bilger her.”

“Beleaguer, Selene, beleaguer.”

“Yes!” She nodded again, and caught a strand of his hair. With a look of intense concentration, the tip of her tongue protruding from between her lips, she started plaiting it.

“I see. And have you spent your time beleaguering, or did you already eat breakfast?”

“’Lene wait for you!”

“Oh, that’s very nice.” He shot the girl a malicious look over Selene’s shoulder. “Didn’t you trust Nimue to help you do it properly?”

A beatific smile and more dimples. “’Lene just arrive. And Nimue explain liggering.”

“Beleaguering, Selene.”

“Yes! Look, Uncle Sev, you have a plait!”

“Indeed. And Nimue got a coughing fit.” He watched the girl, who had evidently choked on her coffee in a vain effort to suppress a fit of laughter. Then he sat down at his customary place and, entirely unperturbed by the coughing-and-giggling at his right side, handed Selene her cup of tepid milk. “Are you quite done suffocating yet?” he asked, waspishly, when she had finally caught her breath.

“Uh, yes…” She threw him a sideways look. “Sorry, I… it’s just so strange to see you like this… I keep pinching my arm, just to convince myself I’m not dreaming.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “I suppose it would have been immensely reassuring if I had eaten her alive, wouldn’t it?”

“N-no.” She blushed and started tearing small pieces off her slice of toast. “It’s just… well, out of character, I suppose.”

“Whatever makes you think you might have so much as an idea of my character?” He summoned a piece of teacake and pressed a spoon into Selene’s outstretched hand.

“I know the part you choose to show your students,” she snapped. “And even you have to admit that it’s totally opposed to your behaviour here.”

“Are you implying that you are the same insufferable know-it-all with Potter and his red-haired sidekick as you are in the classroom?”

“No.” She took a sip of coffee and started giggling—again! “But my hairdo is pretty much the same!”

Was he actually bickering with a student? Severus found it hard to believe the evidence conveyed by his own eyes and ears. He wanted to dislike it, meant to end this once and for all with a comment of such coldness and cruelty that she would run from the room and never again dare… He gave an inward sigh of frustration, because this was just what he could not afford—they needed her to cooperate, it was imperative that she trust them, at least to a certain degree. Once Lucius was Headmaster of Hogwarts, they needed every ally they could get to keep control of the situation. And, probably in an even nearer future but blurry and uncertain, there was the whole business with her parents, the plans Voldemort might have for her… No. Much as it irked him, intimidating her beyond the point of return was highly unadvisable.

He was still trying to come up with an appropriate retort, when the door opened, and Draco sauntered in, followed by Lucius. Interesting, Severus thought, very interesting—as soon as the two Malfoys had entered the room, the girl grew subdued and sullen. This had to be remedied, as soon as possible. He had no intention of becoming something like her sole confidant.

Selene brandished her spoon and crowed, “Papa, ‘Lene ligger Nimue!”

“How utterly delightful, my darling. But now—” despite her protests, he lifted her from Severus’s lap and, after putting her down, gave her a gentle shove towards the door “—you will have to leave us. No,” he pointed towards the hallway, where Narcissa was waiting for her, “do as I told you. Now!”

She gave him a tearful look, but to no avail. Lucius shook his head impatiently and repeated, “Now!” She sniffed, and finally trudged towards the door, every step expressing reluctance. “Well,” Lucius said, when the door had closed behind her, “it seems that we have to change our holiday plans a little.”

He and Draco sat down opposite the girl, who, despite her apparent unease in the presence of the two blonde males, was already showing first signs of curiosity. “Because of last night?” she finally asked, her voice just a little squeaky. Severus noticed that she studiously avoided eye contact with any of the two, her gaze riveted on Domitian Malfoy’s portrait.

Lucius did not seem to mind. “Exactly. For now, Voldemort merely wants the Dementors to abandon their posts at Azkaban, and to free the prisoners. Most of all the Lestranges, of course, but I daresay he won’t be displeased if a lot of criminals roam the country.”

“Doing the dirty work for him,” the girl chimed in.

Draco, who up to this point had been silently downing three cups of tea, nodded. “Most of them will have huge grudges against those who put them there. Are—” he grabbed the teapot again and addressed his father “—are all of them always under close surveillance? By the Dementors, I mean.”

Lucius opened his mouth to answer, but the girl, apparently back to full nerd-mode, had already launched a monologue of her own. “Of course not. Only those who have committed crimes classified as unforgivable by the Magic Regulation Act of 1878—”

“Oh, shut it!” Draco interrupted her, “You’re sounding like Binns!”

“At least I know exactly what I’m talking about!”

“So does Binns, but that doesn’t make him or you less boring!”

Even Severus jumped when Lucius’s fist came crashing down on the table, making the cups dance in their saucers. “Stop this! Instantly.” The girl’s face went as white as the tablecloth, and she nodded. Draco said nothing, but Severus saw that his lips were slightly pinched. Although Lucius was certainly not the most indulgent of fathers, an outburst like this was indeed a rarity. And his son knew better than to provoke him any further.

For a few endless seconds, the silence in the room was absolute. Then Lucius cleared his throat. “It is time for you—” his gaze swerved first over the girl and then towards his right, to Draco “—to recognize the seriousness of our situation. None of this bears joking or bickering about. And don’t—” his right forefinger pointed at the girl, forestalling her indignant protestation “—don’t give me any of your We-Are-Young-And-Have-A-Right-To-Take-Matters-Lightly nonsense! Both of you will have to grow up faster than you want to. You are the children of those whom Voldemort considers his most loyal followers. And believe me, he has lost his sense of humour long ago!”

Although he was almost as surprised at this outburst as the two youngsters, who were still sitting motionlessly, staring at Lucius’s face that was pale with emotion, Severus understood him quite well. True, they had all been far from serious, even about the most consequential matters, when they had been Draco and Nimue’s age. But there was no denying it: the situation, at least as it appeared at the moment, was far more complex and hence dangerous than it had been twenty years ago. Besides, he had by no means forgotten that summer evening in 1972, when Julius Malfoy had slapped his son across the face, because Lucius had dared question Voldemort's choices. Lucius was in an almost identical position now, with a family to protect, only with the added aggravation that he was playing a highly perilous double game. The adults might be free to make a joke now and then—although Severus was pretty sure that they, too, would lose their sense of humour sooner rather than later—but only because they knew the full extent of the danger. For those who did not, it was wiser to take things serious.

“Now,” Lucius continued his speech, on a somewhat calmer tone, “you will have to take your share of the work we’ll have to do. Considering the latest developments, and Voldemort's urgency to see Azkaban fall, we have to make that our first priority.”

The girl was still shell-shocked and silent, but Draco had obviously regained his wits. “But what can we, I mean—” he tilted his chin towards the opposite side of the table “—she and I do about that?”

“Paradoxical as it may sound,” Severus chimed in, “the two of you will have to work against us, in a way.” He poured himself another coffee, took a sip, grimaced, and sent the House Elf for a fresh pot. When a new cup had been brought and filled with hot coffee, he continued, “Lucius, Owen and I will have to—” He was interrupted by the entrance of Owen and Sybil. She still looked a little shaken, but much better than last night. “Speak of the devil,” he said, and rose to greet the newcomers.

“Are we too early?” Owen asked, shaking Lucius’s hand.

“No, no. We were just beginning to discuss our tasks. Your timing is perfect.”

They sat down—Sybil at the girl’s left, provoking a wide-eyed and somewhat subdued stare—and Severus resumed his thread. “As I was saying, Lucius, Owen and I will have to develop a strategy for Azkaban to be taken. Whereas you—” the youngsters’ heads shot up simultaneously “—will have to comb the library for texts about the Dementors, read your way through them, and try to get as much information as possible. Seeing as how—” he smirked at the girl “—you have a certain propensity towards sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, maybe Sybil would be so kind as to survey your activities and maybe also give you a hand.”

“Of course.” Then, she turned towards the girl, who had been darting her sideways glances all the time. “Miss Granger—”

“Nimue,” Lucius corrected.

“Ah, of course. That will take some getting used to. Well then, Nimue, I suggest that you take a good, long look at me, just as your deplorable Gryffindor bluntness tells you to. Then, may I ask you to express your opinion, or ask any questions that might come to your mind. So you might finally be able to redirect your attention to matters of vital importance.”

The girl nodded, and swallowed. “I… sorry, Professor, I—”

“I suppose,” Sybil said, not at all unfriendly, “that you might as well call me Sybil. Especially as—” she gave the girl a sardonic grin “—you are not a student of mine.”

“Yes, I… it’s just that… I mean, I thought I knew you!” Her eyes stared accusingly from one to the other. “I mean, please try to understand, I… some days ago, everything was… well, not really fine, but at least I knew where I was in the middle of all this. Draco was an arsehole and future Death Eater, Lucius was evil incarnate, you—” she made a helpless little gesture towards Sybil “—were just a barmy old fraud… I didn’t even know you were Slytherin,” she said indignantly and took a sip of coffee. “And Narcissa and Mr. Mc—I mean Owen, I admit that my ideas of most of you were pretty two-dimensional. But now you’ve suddenly turned from cardboard figures into people, and that’s… well, terribly confusing,” she ended.

Lucius heaved a deep sigh. “Very well. Now that my esteemed cousin has elucidated us about being people instead of cardboard figures, could we please return to our discussion?”

~~~~*~~~~

“To think,” Owen said, “That I was sure I’d never have to do that again…” He put down his glass and shot the parchment in front of him a dark look.

“Indeed.” Lucius refilled their tumblers. “Not to mention that all this scheming and planning has somehow lost its appeal. I suppose we’re getting old…”

Severus raised his glass. “Cheers! To old age!”

“May we all reach it,” Lucius added with a smirk. “Although, considering the sheer foolhardiness of this endeavour, I’m not so sure.”

“Hmmm…” Owen smoothed his moustache. “Counting ourselves and Pettigrew—” Severus snorted. “Well, yes. But you can always count him as cannon fodder, as the Muggles call it. Anyway, we are sixteen. Not exactly a reassuring thought.”

It was late afternoon by now. The three wizards had retired into Lucius’s study immediately after lunch, to start their strategic planning, and Sybil had shepherded the two youngsters towards the library. The girl had looked considerably more cheerful than Draco.

“Not really,” Severus agreed. “But I think that this is the only way. We just have to decide who’s going to eliminate the Governor, and who’s going to Azkaban to deal with the guards.”

“You say ‘going to Azkaban’ as if you could just Apparate there,” Lucius said, frowning at him. “It’s unplottable, just in case you forgot.”

“Of course not. But you seem to have forgotten that we still do have some contacts at the Ministry. Although it’s a pity that the Head of MLE (A/N: Magical Law Enforcement) isn’t automatically the Governor of Azkaban anymore.”

“Fuck the separation of powers!” Lucius said and emptied his glass in one go.

“Bugger Montesquieu!” Severus raised his glass in a mock-toast and followed suit. “And Bulstrode,” he added. “How that self-righteous prick ever ended up with a Slytherin daughter is a mystery to me.”

“Maybe Maribel found him as boring as you do,” Owen suggested. “I, for one, remember her reputation quite well. She was in her sixth year when we started at Hogwarts, and—”

“What’s that?” Lucius interrupted him, raising his hand for silence.

They listened. There seemed to be some commotion downstairs in the entrance hall, and it was apparently moving towards the first floor, as the voices—both high-pitched—were growing louder. The three men rose and drew their wands. When House Elves got nervous, it was usually because of an intruder, and in times like these it was advisable to be prepared for nasty surprises. Then, the words and voices—one of them clearly not a House Elf's—became distinguishable, and the three wizards grinned at each other and re-pocketed their wands.

“No, Miss Selene, you cans not take it inside!”

“But Lene find it! It’s nice!”

“No, Miss Selene, it’s not nice! It’s dirty, and it’s dangerous!”

They clearly heard the sound of the little girl stamping her foot. “It’s not! It’s not! It likes Lene! Lene take it in to show papa!”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, what’s she dragging in now?” Lucius muttered and strode towards the door, followed by the other two.

In the corridor, a very dishevelled House Elf was trying—though it was much inhibited by the respect that had been hammered into its brain from the day it was born—to prevent Selene from taking a large black dog any further into the house. When the animal saw the three wizards emerge from the study, it took a few steps backwards and gave an ominous growl. Lucius looked back at Severus over his shoulder. “Black?” he asked.

Severus nodded. “The very one. Selene, go to your father.”

The little girl, who evidently sensed that something was not quite all right, let herself be picked up by Lucius without a sound of protest. From the safety of his arms, she stared down at the huge beast out of wide green eyes. “Lene keep dog?” she asked.

“Not really, my darling. Most of all, he’s not a real dog. Mr. Black, you can show yourself.”

The dog gave a short bark, and, in less than a second, Sirius Black was standing before them. Selene was ecstatic. “Again!” she shouted, and clapped. “Again!” Black winked at her and retransformed, only to go back to his human shape immediately afterwards. “Like that, eh, little one?” he said. Then he turned to Lucius. “Malfoy,” he said, in a voice that held no more trace of friendliness or warmth. “Snape. McNair. Dumbledore told me to come here.”

“In that case,” Lucius replied icily, “I suppose we will have to put up with your presence. What exactly are Dumbledore's instructions?”

“To stay here for a few days, so you can prepare me for the role I’ll have to play.”

“Lovely,” Severus said through clenched teeth. His eyes swept over his archenemy’s form. Then he turned to Lucius. “Maybe your… guest might consider freshening up a bit?”

Lucius, whose nostrils were flaring—whether in olfactory disgust or indignation at having to play host to Sirius Black was hard to determine—nodded. “Of course.” With an impatient tilt of his head, he beckoned to the House Elf that had retired behind a huge flowerpot. “Show Mr. Black to the guest rooms on the third floor. We shall be waiting for you downstairs in the salon,” he addressed Black before turning his back on him in an impressive swirl of robes. “Oh, and,” he remarked, speaking over his shoulder, “do change into something decent. Without fleas, if possible.”

Black snarled something unintelligible and went off after the House Elf.

“I guess,” Owen said, while they were descending the stairs, “we shouldn’t provoke him too much, you know, Lucius? After all, he’s got that abominable temper, and there are children in the house…”

Lucius stopped dead and turned to look upwards. “He wouldn't dare,” he hissed, reflexively tightening his grip on his daughter.

“Don’t forget that he spent twelve years in Azkaban,” Severus said. “Not that I pity him, but the man must be completely ravaged. And, unless Voldemort falls and Pettigrew is caught, he has practically nothing to lose. Put those two factors together, and the mix you get is quite explosive. So I agree with Owen. We should at least try and treat him civilly. Everything else can wait until all this is over. Then—” he exchanged a savage grin with Lucius “—we shall be free to indulge all our desires for revenge.”

They continued their way downstairs and entered the salon to wait for Black. Selene was dispatched to her mother, who, together with Yelena, was already starting the preparations for their departure to Hogwarts towards the end of July.

Black joined them half an hour later, clean-shaven; apparently, he had also taken a shower. “Magnificent hospitality, Malfoy,” he said, irony dripping from each word. He pointed at his robes. “Are these leftovers from the last season, or did they belong to one of your countless victims?”

Lucius flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. “One of the advantages of having money. You can even afford to give new clothes to homeless strays.”

“The question is where that money comes from.”

“Not from being bribed, at least, like some Aurors I know” Lucius replied, eyes narrowing. “No Malfoy ever needed to be on anybody’s payroll.”

Time to intervene, Severus thought. Although, to own the truth, he would have liked nothing better than to watch Lucius break the other’s nose. He could only imagine the pent-up rage Lucius was feeling—after all, Black’s parents had, if not killed, so at least accidentally caused the death of his father. Having to collaborate with the insufferable Gryffindor was bad enough; having to shelter him in the very house where Julius Malfoy had died was obviously too much even for Lucius's self-control. “I think,” he said, breaking the sizzling tension, “that we ought to get started with our work. Remember: the sooner we begin, the sooner it will be over.”

Lucius, hands still balled into tight fists, gave a curt nod. “Words of wisdom indeed. Be seated, everybody.” The four men sat down in silence. “And now, let the most difficult Transfiguration lesson of our lives begin: how to turn a Gryffindor into a Slytherin.”

~~~~*~~~~

The following hour and a half—they did not have more time for their first ‘lesson’, as dinnertime was drawing near—were among the strangest Severus had ever lived; he supposed that the others felt more or less the same.

They were all thirty-seven now, and had known each other since they were eleven. And somehow, those first impressions, accumulated during their earliest school days, were still prevailing. It was difficult to see the man behind the boy—not with Lucius or Owen, of course, for they had more experiences in common than just school. But with Black… The person Sirius Black had doubtlessly changed, although whether for the better or the worse was an entirely different question. But the emotions and memories connected to him had remained the same. Unless you counted the unfortunate episode in the Shrieking Shack, Severus had last met him almost fourteen years ago, only a few days before his imprisonment. For Lucius and Owen, the last encounter was even more remote. They had not seen either hide or hair of Black since their graduation. Their lives had taken so very different paths, and Fate had left her fingerprints on all of them. Not that any of them had changed essentially, if such a change was even possible. But there were lines on their faces, there was grey in their hair, and their souls were covered with scars.

And all the same, they had to talk about those days, so far away from the present that they seemed to belong to other people’s memories; they needed to re-evoke their Hogwarts years in order to give Black a better idea of what kind of person Barty Crouch had been. This process involved telling many things hitherto kept secret, but the three Slytherins were not the only ones who had to give away pieces of their past. Black's comments and, more than the comments, his questions revealed a lot.

Apparently, that first brief session had plunged all four of them into a somewhat pensive mood. Quite fortunately so, Severus thought while returning to his rooms to wash his hands and change for dinner. For they had all calmed down during their journey into the past. And things seemed to shift into place. By recounting those old stories, a kind of hierarchy of priorities began to emerge: petty grudges and schoolboy resentments gradually separated themselves from more adult feelings, shrunk to the right size and might eventually be forgotten. What remained was the hatred. The true, cold hatred which would never diminish. But it had become a well-defined entity one was able to deal with. It could be put aside for some time, until the right moment arrived. For now, they would be able to work together. People like Dumbledore would probably call it a truce, and even go as far as hoping it might someday develop into peace. Severus smirked to himself. It was anything but. If there had to be a label, it should read ‘Patience’. The patience of a cat guarding a mouse hole. But for the time being, it would do just fine.

When he entered the salon adjacent to the dining room, where pre-dinner drinks were being served, Owen, Sybil and Black were already there. The atmosphere was chilly rather than tense, he noticed. Not that that came as a big surprise, for neither Sybil nor Owen had ever had any personal conflicts involving Black. Their animosity—if animosity there was—owed more to the traditional Slytherin-versus-Gryffindor enmity, which seemed to always have existed and could, at least theoretically, assume any concrete expression on the wide range between furious hatred and cautious avoidance.

The real surprise of this evening, however, came from an entirely different direction, one he would never have suspected.

Considering the close friendship tying together Potter, Weasley and the girl, Severus would have expected the girl to literally throw herself into Black’s arms, grateful to find some Gryffindor decency within this diabolic pit of Slytherin amorality. After all, she had saved the man from a fate worse than death together with Potter. Hell, she had risked expulsion by disarming Severus in the Shrieking Shack. Thus, he was expecting nothing less than a moving scene of exuberant Gryffindor sentimentality. Things, however, went a little differently.

The girl stepped through the door, and, at the sight of Black, Severus saw her stiffen, if imperceptibly. Then she strode towards him—he was talking to Sybil and standing with his back to her—waited until he turned to see who had joined them, and simply said, “Good evening, Sirius,” extending her hand for him to shake.

Black seemed at least as bewildered as Severus, although he was less skilled at masking his emotions. His arms, already half-raised to pull her into a crushing hug, fell to his sides, and it took him a moment to get his bearings and take her hand. “Good evening, Hermione.”

“Nimue,” she said. “That’s my name, you know.”

He let go of her hand, visibly embarrassed. “Yes, I… that's what Dumbledore told me. To think that you are…” He paused, evidently unsure how to proceed. Behind his back, Sybil winked at Severus. “I won’t think any worse of you for being the Lestranges’ daughter,” he finally managed.

That, Severus thought, seeing the girl's lips become a thin line, was certainly the worst he could have said. Then again, this was Black, so what else was there to be expected.

“I do hope you won’t,” she replied, her voice quivering slightly.

Had it been possible for Severus to feel anything like pity or compassion for the man, he would surely have felt it now. Black was conscious of the gaffe he had just committed, but at least had the good sense to simply let things be as they were, without adding any more awkwardness to the situation by stammering explanations or apologies. But the rift was there, and had not the rest of the Malfoy family chosen that very moment for entering the room, the silence would certainly not have been broken. At least not by the girl, who remained sulky and withdrawn for the whole duration of dinner.

~~~~*~~~~

They had all gotten little sleep last night and risen early, so the guests had taken their leave rather early, and everybody retired to their rooms soon after dinner. Black, too, looked bone tired, and the wine, of which he had consumed a rather large quantity, seemed to have enhanced his fatigue. Severus, however, did not feel like going to bed immediately—there was too much for him to wonder and ponder. So, once he had returned to his rooms, he ordered another coffee and a brandy, and sat down at the fireplace. Maybe he had been expecting it, maybe even anticipating—in any case, he was not overly surprised when, after maybe half an hour had passed, somebody knocked on his door. More or less sure who it was, he did not bother to get up, but merely called “Come in!”

She had not yet changed into her nightwear and merely discarded her robes, so that she was standing before him in jeans and a white shirt with blue pinstripes. “Am I disturbing you?”

“Not really,” he said, surprised that he truly meant it. Although he preferred his solitude, he was curious to find out what exactly had passed tonight between her and Black. “Chocolate?”

“Hmm…” She shot him an uncertain look. “Do you think I might have something stronger?”

“Meaning concentrated chocolate?”

She rolled her eyes. “I thought we had agreed that you’re to stop that taunting.”

“That,” he replied, “was merely an impression. You said it was stupid, or useless. I, however, am enjoying it a lot.”

“Why am I not surprised?” She gestured to the other chair. “May I sit down?”

“Of course.”

“And may I have a whiskey?”

He eyed her pensively. “Your first?”

“There’s a first time for everything,” she said tartly. “And I’m fifteen, you know.”

“Ah.” He raised his eyebrows. “Which entitles you to drinking?”

“I think so, yes. Besides, people say it's relaxing.”

He went over to the table holding the bottle and glasses and poured her a small quantity. “Are you implying you feel tense?”

“A little,” she muttered, pulling up her feet and folding her legs underneath her body. He handed her the tumbler and she looked up at him. “You were remarkably civil with Sirius.”

“Is that so?” He sat down, feeling rather amused by her attempt at subtlety.

“If I say so myself… What's going on between him and Lucius?”

“Black's parents caused his father’s death.”

Her eyes went wide. “They… killed him?”

“I suppose it would be called involuntary manslaughter by the Muggles, but yes, they did. Black’s father did, to be exact. And got away with it.”

“Oh,” she said, when he had finished telling her the story. “Well, I guess that explains a lot. How long is he going to stay?”

“A couple of days.” He could not resist razzing her. “Enough for the two of you to have lots of enthusiastic conversations about Potter.”

“I don’t—” she began heatedly, but then fell silent. “Are you deliberately provoking me?” she finally asked.

He chuckled. “Of course. Whatever it is you have to get rid of, it seems to need some provoking.”

She had not yet braided her hair for the night. Staring into her glass, she caught a frizzy strand and started twisting it around her right forefinger. Then she took a sip of whiskey. “I’m just not sure whether I should tell you.”

“Because you don't want to pour oil into the fire?”

“More or less, yes.”

He snorted softly. “In that case, let me assure you that my feelings concerning Mr. Black won’t change by a single iota, whatever you have to say on his behalf.”

“No, but…” She took another sip and looked up, this time without avoiding his eyes. “It’s like telling somebody who hates cats that your own cat is giving you trouble. You’re not very likely to get any objective feedback.”

“Well, I’m afraid you’re not going to find any in this house,” he observed dryly.

“I know…” Another lock of hair was singled out and twisted into a tick, shiny rope. “But I can't talk to myself all the time. Not about important things, anyway.”

“Do you fancy yourself in love with him?”

“No!” came the indignant reply. “Of course not!”

To hide his amusement, he got up and poured himself another glass. “You wouldn't be the first,” he said, returning to his chair, “nor the last, I imagine. However, I can’t say I’m not relieved that your problems are of other than amorous nature.”

She shot him a curious look. “Why?”

The image of Mathilda Reynolds drifted through his mind. Mathilda, pale and almost lifeless, sprawled across her bed after an overdose of sleeping potion. No, the girl certainly did not deserve to be treated like Black had treated his then-paramour. And knowing Black, there was little chance of a relationship going any better than his past escapades. “Because I have known him long enough to warn any woman off him. And believe me, this has nothing to do with my sentiments towards him.”

“He’s handsome, though, isn’t he?” she said, but he had the impression that she wanted him to contradict her, rather than agree.

“I suppose he is. So why are your feelings so obviously ambiguous?”

She sighed. “You weren’t there… I mean, you were there, but…” From under her lashes, she gave him a questioning look.

“If you’re alluding to the Shrieking Shack, I’ve gotten over it. At least as far as your and your friends’ behaviour is concerned.”

“Oh.” She sounded relieved. “That's… well, reassuring.” A brief silence ensued, and then she blurted out, “I’m afraid of him!”

“You should be,” he replied calmly.

“But he hasn’t done anything to me! He's always been kind, and—”

“Nimue,” he interrupted her, “Why don't you acknowledge the simple truth that, although he has never shown you anything but kindness—not that he would have had many occasions to do otherwise—he's a very dangerous man all the same?”

“It seems so…”

“Slytherin?” he asked, unable to suppress a grin. She merely harrumphed. He took a sip of whiskey and scrutinized her for a while. “Do you remember the obstacles protecting the Philosopher’s Stone?” he finally asked.

“Honestly! How could I have forgotten?”

“It was merely a rhetorical question. Now tell me the truth: which were the tasks you solved?”

She let go of her hair and instead started turning her glass round and round between her fingers. “The Devil’s Snare, and yours. Why?”

“Because—even though the Devil’s Snare was chosen for another reason—both tasks required a good deal of Slytherin-ness, you know?”

“Ambition?” she asked, frowning.

“Not at all. Distancing yourself from emotions, keeping a clear mind in the face of danger. That's an essential trait of almost every Slytherin.”

“Hmm…” She tilted her head. “I never thought of it that way.”

“No, of course you didn’t. Almost nobody does, because people’s judgment, provided they have any, is usually clouded by clichés and prejudice. This is maybe even more true where Gryffindors are concerned. Because we are at opposite ends of the spectrum, there's no point in denying that. You, however, possess enough intelligence to at least look behind the surface.” That compliment, or rather acknowledgement of her intellect had clearly caught her by surprise, for she merely stared at him, wide-eyed. He raised his eyebrows, and she averted her gaze. “In a way, I suppose you should consider yourself very fortunate: Gryffindor by upbringing, Slytherin by nature. You’re a lucky girl indeed.”