The Sybil's Oracle: Book Three

Chapter 9

By Pigwidgeon37

Severus had often been at Hogwarts during the summer holidays—every year, to be exact, because the staff always had to return by 20 August, at the very latest—but never in July, when the castle was really and truly deserted. After the discussion he had just had with Dumbledore, it now seemed to him that he was walking into a gigantic mousetrap, when he opened the entrance door with a resounding creak. A trap that had been set for him, many, many years ago, and been waiting patiently until he finally dropped his precautions, lulled into a false sense of security by having stepped across the threshold hundreds, even thousands of times, without ever being attacked or endangered in any way. Those stone walls had been resting on their spot, on that powerful knot wrought and tied by lines of terrestrial energy so potent that Voldemort’s magic shrunk to a mere nothing in comparison, on that chunk of rock simmering and humming with barely-contained power, for a whole millennium. Their patience was never-ending. Nobody could possibly outwait it, for human patience was a sharp knife the blade of which dulled by constantly gliding across the smiling, hard surface of routine carved in stone.

Trying to shake off that feeling, Severus quickly made his way to his chambers. There was no special reason for him to go there, except for the desire to look at them while they were not expecting him; like a husband who did not trust his wife entirely and decided to return home a day early, unannounced, half-awaiting, half-dreading to find her in the arms of a lover. Would his own chambers betray him? Severus hoped not. He needed to have something that was his and his only, if only a few hundred square feet of space enclosed between walls nobody but himself could walk through.

He was not the only one, though. He had barely sat down in an armchair near the window, which he had opened to drive away the stagnant air, when the Bloody Baron floated through the door. Usually, during the school year, he entered through the walls—seemingly at random, although Severus was sure there was a pattern to not only this but all ghosts’ comings and goings; but as both the Baron’s and the Head of Slytherin’s presence here was clearly out of the ordinary, the ghost obviously deemed this gesture of politeness appropriate.

Albeit surprising, the Baron’s arrival was by no means annoying Severus. On the contrary, he felt intense relief when the misty form floated towards him to greet him. “Baron,” he said, rising to show his respect—a habit he had never given up since his first, meaningful talk with the spectre, “Baron, I am truly glad to see you. Thank you for coming.” He waited until the Baron had drifted into a sitting position in a chair summoned for him, and then sat down himself.

“The pleasure,” the ghost replied, inclining his head, “is all mine. How very unusual for you to come here so early in the holidays.”

“Indeed. But I had business with the Headmaster.”

“I saw your owl arrive. Your conversation with Dumbledore was satisfying, I hope?”

The somewhat frightened respect Severus had felt for the ghost during his days as a student here had turned into something like genuine fondness. Maybe because they were very similar, in a way. Slytherins to the core. The quality Severus appreciated perhaps most was the Baron’s unwavering discretion. No prodding and probing, never a question he might have answered out of politeness but without wanting to respond. Instead of asking, the ghost built bridges, unobtrusive little things that might be used or not. Today, Severus felt the need to cross them. “I would rather call it enlightening. Which, as you well know, is not necessarily the same as satisfying.”

“Only very rarely,” came the terse reply. “I suppose this was not the case today?”

“Quite the contrary. I… am beginning to have certain doubts on the Headmaster’s behalf.”

“Ah.” The Baron leaned forward, his attention even more focused than before.

“Yes. I… there seem to be certain… well, character traits I might have suspected but never paid any heed to. Now that the tables have been turned, they might become more important. Not to mention more dangerous.” He sighed. “I’m not being very coherent, am I?”

“You explained your point well enough, Professor. Power is…” He paused and looked up at the ceiling, a dreamy half-smile on his face. “I have always thought power, and the craving for it, to be the one thing that truly distinguishes human from animal. Have you ever heard about a lion who wanted to rule over the entire continent of Africa? A shark who desired to become king of all the oceans? True, they fight for territories, but that is only to ensure the survival of the fittest. Whereas humans…” His fingers glided over the silvery bloodstains on his clothes. “We always want more. And whatever we want—money, women, worldly possessions—scratch the surface of those desires and you will discover the underlying thirst for power.” He gave Severus a wry smile.

“And Dumbledore is certainly human…”

“Yes. Yes, Dumbledore is human, but I think you should attempt to see him as something more. He is wise beyond his years—”

“That sounds strange, considering he’s almost one hundred and fifty…”

“I have known Albus Dumbledore for almost all his life. And although I do not approve of the fawning and worshipping most people seem to think they owe him, I consider him far above most of his fellow human beings. He is wise and, more importantly, he knows his own weaknesses. Power surely holds a certain appeal for him, but he is able—and this ability is truly outstanding—to control his striving for power and subordinate it to other, more humane goals. I am almost sure that you, and Messieurs Malfoy and McNair, do not need to harbour any fears on his behalf.”

Severus sighed. “I have to admit I was fearing the worst after the talk I just had with him. But maybe I merely succumbed to the same temptation as many others: throughout the years I’ve spent here as a teacher, I viewed him more as the benign grandfather figure than as the powerful wizard he is. And I have my fair share of experience with powerful wizards…”

“And you are so very Slytherin. As am I. Only I have the… well, let us call it advantage, of having been in this world for so many hundreds of years. Even though it cannot be called a life in the true sense of the word, gathering some wisdom is inevitable.”

Severus nodded. “Baron, I…” He fell silent, unsure whether to broach this subject, although it was weighing so heavily on his mind. In the end, he decided to continue. The ghost was bound to the Head and the House of Slytherin. His secret was safe with the Baron. “Do you remember our first conversation? In the Slytherin Common Room?”

“Of course, Professor. A ghost’s memory is not subjected to the deficiencies of the human mind.”

“Then…” Severus took a deep breath. He had not expected this to be easy, but it was more difficult than he had thought. “Then you will certainly recall what you told me about love.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I do. And I also remember that you did not take it very seriously back then. You were a boy…”

“I was, indeed, a boy.” Severus leaned back and studied his hands, clasped together tightly, knuckles protruding. “Which doesn't mean that all of my views have changed drastically over the time. I—” He uncrossed his thumbs and aligned them. The right one was slightly longer than the left. “The concept of love, and especially of the love somebody might have for me, doesn’t make me laugh anymore. But… to say the truth, I find it rather frightening.”

“Then I would say you have made some progress, after all.”

“Do you think so? I have to admit that I know nothing of love. Somehow, the… problem just never arose.”

“That,” the Baron said, accompanying his words with a sinuous gesture of his right hand, “explains why you are afraid. We fear what we do not know, whether it is commonly regarded as good or bad. Love is as powerful as death and should therefore be treated with respect. I think that fear is a far more appropriate reaction than the kind of mindless enthusiasm people usually show.”

Severus smiled. “Maybe. But what I feel isn't respect. It’s just fear, and I cannot see how that might help.”

“As I said, we fear what we do not know. And when it comes to emotions as strong and potentially dangerous as love… is she worthy of your affection?”

That question took Severus totally by surprise. “I… well…” He shook his head and started anew. “I have not yet considered the problem in these terms. You see…” And he told the Baron about Sybil’s prediction and his recent discovery, though without mentioning Nimue’s name. “I think I have a lot of reasons to be frightened,” he concluded, “Don’t you agree, Baron?”

For a while, the spectre stayed silent. “Yes and no, Professor. In many ways, you are more fortunate than you are aware of. Because you know where you are heading, and very few people indeed do have that privilege. To find one’s true soul mate is a rare and beautiful thing. Dangerous, too. If you… how do the students call it? Mess up?” Severus nodded, smiling because the expression seemed rather incongruous, coming from the stern ghost. “If you mess up, the consequences might be grave. Let myself be an example to you.”

Eyes widening in surprise, Severus stared at him. “You mean that the woman you accidentally killed… I see,” he said, when the Baron nodded gravely. “Well, then I’d better be careful. I just never—” he shook his head and looked out of the window “—I never thought that this… girl might be the one. True, she is powerful, and possesses a sharp intellect…”

“And she must be capable of loving very deeply,” the Baron added. “To save a soul such as yours…”

“Hopeless, isn’t it?” Severus said wryly.

“If it was hopeless, there would be no prophecy, and you would not have met her. There must be hope. There must be a spark that can be ignited. Is she very young?”

“She's fifteen.”

“A student, I presume?” Severus nodded. “I thought so. You see, Professor, relationships between teachers and students do have a certain tradition in Slytherin House. More so than in the other houses. It seems that we are the only ones capable of treading this fine line. Maybe because we are so well-acquainted with power. True, some of us abuse it. But those who have recognized its very nature wield it carefully. They respect it in others. Even Lestrange, who had many flaws, never even dreamed of treating his then-mistress other than as an equal. In that respect, you should be as wise as he was. Let her grow, and do not try to form her. Challenge her, and offer her whatever you can. But let her choose for herself. If only to reap the benefits,” he finished, floating upwards from his chair. “And you will see that Miss Lestrange makes a very fine companion indeed.”

Too taken aback to say anything, Severus merely watched as the ghost hovered towards the door and seemed to merge into the wood.

~~~~*~~~~

A few days later, Black returned to Malfoy Manor, to take his first dose of Polyjuice Potion. This improved version, developed by Severus for Arabella Figg, who had refused to dose herself once every hour—claiming that having to inhabit the body of an old Muggle was bad enough without having to down the foul concoction twenty-four times a day—lasted six months. Unlike the original recipe, though, it could not be bottled and stored. How exactly Black would be able to renew his altered appearance after half a year had passed was a question everybody had on their minds. But none of them had brought it out into the open, probably because the three Phoenixes did not expect the false Barty to last long enough for the problem to even arise. Why Black had not asked this rather obvious question remained a mystery—Severus strongly suspected the Animagus of being superstitious. Attracting bad luck by mentioning what might become a problem, or some such nonsense.

All things considered, Severus found his mind too occupied by Gryffindors during those days. Dumbledore, Black, Nimue. Those were the protagonists of his thoughts. Given his relations with the three, it was hardly surprising that those musings were mostly unpleasant. And the occasional Slytherin crossing his mind did not much to improve his gloomy mood. Sybil had acted completely normal when she and Owen had come to Malfoy Manor to discuss the results of his visit at Hogwarts. The letter she had written to Lucius had not been mentioned. This fact, however, was more disturbing than reassuring, and neither Severus nor Lucius knew what to make of it. They had not mentioned it to Owen, though.

Besides, those three days that had passed between Severus's return from Hogwarts and Black’s return to Malfoy Manor were a period of anxious expectation. It was clear that Voldemort would not summon them again until the man he deemed his most faithful servant had returned to his side. But once ‘Barty’ was back with his Master, the situation was likely to escalate. Deteriorate. Precipitate. They would have to go to Azkaban—all three of them, although officially, so to speak, there would be only one of them, accompanied and surveyed by Barty—and subject the Pensieve they had created and filled to the reality test.

The Pensieve—this had been one of the most irksome episodes of these days, at least in Severus's opinion. Lucius had brought the object home, masterfully crafted by some wizard of his confidence and adorned with the appropriate runes. Nimue’s expertise, acquired in two years of studying the subject, but much more by reading what must have amounted to tons of extracurricular texts, had been invaluable. Once more, Severus had admired—albeit without saying so aloud—her creative intelligence and cunning. She certainly possessed a lot of knowledge absorbed through her tenacious studying. But she did not stop there. She had a certain innate feeling for subtleties, for the sense that lay hidden beneath the obvious, and this penetrating grasp of almost every matter she dedicated herself to led to the most astonishing results. She had spent hours buried in the library, working on different combinations of runes, working them into arithmantic equations, ploughing her way through tomes and tomes of ancient Norse mythology and magic. When Lucius and Severus, who had concentrated their own efforts on finding the right material for the vessel, proposed that it be made of moonstone, she had waved a polite but unmistakably and most naturally superior hand, and proceeded to demonstrate that lead was the material they needed.

“The error most people commit,” she had stated, fixing both men with a stern look, “is that they fail to see both sides. Of course the moonstone would enhance the strength of the memories inside the pensieve, but it’s far too ethereal. It’s milky and unclear and almost diaphanous. But what we want is a kind of severe heaviness and sinister power.” Seeing Lucius’s eyebrows rise in an unspoken question, she continued, somewhat impatiently, “Call it a gut feeling, but I simply know that lead is our material.”

They had left it at that.

The sermon delivered by Nimue had not been the most annoying part of the whole procedure, though. What had truly perplexed him—so much so that, for a few but decisive seconds, he had been unable to voice his objection and thus been overridden by the others’ assent—was Lucius’s demand that each of them take a plunge into all the memories once they had been collected in the basin, so as to verify their intensity and hence their usefulness. Although the upcoming confrontation with the Dementors, hopefully only one or two of them, was merely a preliminary experiment, it was likely they would not get another chance to test Nimue’s theory. Therefore, Lucius’s request was certainly justified, which did not mean, though, that Severus had to like it. Mortified, he had watched the girl touch the mercury-like surface, had observed the rapid succession of emotions on her face while she visited the happiest moments in the lives of those around her. He had felt awkward, and the feeling had yet to leave him. Especially after the warm smile she had given him after her journey had ended.

He did not possess many memories that qualified as happy—almost all of the events that had caused him happiness back when they had occurred had been tainted afterwards, in one way or another. So he had contributed his recollection of the day when he had found Esmeralda in the woods surrounding his uncle’s villa. Although the cat had been taken from him in such a cruel way, the joy and… yes, the love he had felt for his familiar had remained unadulterated over the years. Of course she could relate to that, he thought surly, probably for the hundredth time. You just had to look at that mangy excuse for a cat she had gotten herself. In Severus's opinion, that said it all.

He had been a little surprised by her choice of memories, having expected that the day she received her Hogwarts letter, and some exam results as well, would count among the happiest moments of her life. Instead, he had seen her stand in front of a perfectly conserved mosaic at Pompeii, weeping in admiration of that timeless beauty. And he had been silent observer of what must have been one of the first days in her third year at Hogwarts, seeing her nestled atop her four poster, with the curtains drawn and her new cat curled against her. Try as he might, he could not work up the necessary arrogance to despise her, when he heard her mutter, again and again, “You’re my big boy, Crookshanks. My cat. My own cat. All mine, aren't you?”

She and Draco had given each other strange looks, none of them ready to throw the first stone. In the end, they had wisely renounced. For where Nimue might be accused of excessive sentimentality, Draco was not much better off: there was Narcissa, his mother, drawn and pale, but radiant, after Selene’s birth. Despite the best mediwizards and midwitches Malfoy money could buy, it had been a long and complicated labour; Draco had not been the only one at the Manor with his fingernails bitten down to the skin long before his sister had uttered her first piercing cry. 

However, the Pensieve was now sitting on a side table in Lucius’s study, protected by a series of rather nasty wards. Draco and Nimue had cast them as a kind of practical examination of their skills and abilities acquired during their lessons. They had both done exceedingly well, much to the satisfaction of their teachers.

“You sure this is going to work?” asked Black, with a doubtful glance at the leaden basin.

“Theoretically, yes.” Lucius eyed the Gryffindor from head to toe. “Although we probably won’t have a chance to try it out unless you succeed in convincing Voldemort that you’re really Barty.”

Black had not been here more than five minutes, and already the two men’s hackles were beginning to rise. With an inward sigh, Severus decided to nip the oncoming fight—at Lucius’s last words, the Animagus’s eyes were narrowing and his back was going stiff—in the bud. “Maybe it would be a good idea to take the potion now,” he said, holding the vial out for Black to take. “So we can make a few adjustments, if necessary. How much time do we have?”

Reluctantly ending his staring contest with Lucius, Black replied, “He wants me to be there at five.”

“That leaves us only two hours,” Owen observed. “Couldn't you have come a little earlier?”

“Dumbledore thought it would be wiser not to,” was the gruff reply.

“Well,” Severus said, trying to suppress a smirk, “maybe it's all for the best. Too much rehearsing can ruin the best performance. Put in the hair, then, and drink it.”

Black nodded and took a small linen pouch out of his pocket. “Should I leave the rest with you?” he asked while inserting his thumb and forefinger into the bag and producing a pinch of sandy-blonde hair.

“I think that would be best.” Like the others, Severus watched, entranced, as the hair was dropped into the vial, making the muddy liquid it contained bubble briefly and then change from its original beige-brown into a dirty yellow that reminded of rancid butter.

“Cheers, then,” Black said, raising the vessel in a mock-toast. He threw the pouch at Lucius, who caught it and went to lock it in his desk, and then swallowed the potion in one go. Immediately, his face went white. “Damn you, Snape,” he croaked, pressing his fisted right hand to his stomach, “Is it supposed to hurt that much?”

“It is. More so than the original recipe, because of the added chameleon blood, which is highly acidic.”

“Thanks for the—” Black’s sarcastic comment broke off in mid-sentence, as he doubled over.

Severus, who was intently watching him, saw Owen’s grin out of the corner of his eye.

To witness a Polyjuice-induced transformation was always interesting, and certainly more so the more different the subject's own physical attributes were from the ones he was to assume. In this case, the difference could hardly have been greater. Black was tall, his height topped by Severus's by a mere inch or so, with curly black hair and blue eyes, a strong-jawed rectangular face and straight but prominent nose. Barty, on the other hand, had been of little more than average height and, all in all, of very unobtrusive appearance: his sandy hair somewhere between blonde and grey, the eyes an uncertain shade of greyish blue, his face oval and the nose small and slightly upturned. It had always been easy for him to remain unobserved, a trait which he had taken advantage of in a very Slytherin way. While he was Head Boy, it had been he—unsurprisingly so—who caught most students out of bounds, merely because his presence was too subdued to be noticed. So it was fascinating to see Black morph into his new persona, and the fact that Barty was now a soulless husk stored away in the depths of Hogwarts under a conserving charm added a certain morbid appeal to his transformation.

A few minutes later, a perfect replica of Barty Crouch was sitting in Black’s chair, with sweat pouring down his face but otherwise unharmed. “Did Crouch drink alcohol?” he asked, “I could use a drink now, you know?”

“Only very rarely, but yes, he did.” Lucius gestured towards the bottle. “Help yourself.”

“And now,” Owen said after Black had gulped down more than was probably good for him, “let’s get you dressed, so we can assess your appearance for good.”

The task of retrieving Barty’s Death Eater garb from the Crouchs’ house had fallen to Severus and Owen. Fortunately, the Aurors who had searched the place—although the two intruders had agreed that ‘ransacked’ would be a far more appropriate way of describing the chaos the forces of Law and Order had produced—had finished their investigation some time ago. The legal procedure that was going to determine who was the legal heir of both Crouch’s house and fortune had not yet been completed, so that entering the building had not been much trouble. Given the lack of evidence, the Aurors had not even bothered to ward it. Finding Barty’s robes, cloak, mask and Death Eater wand, however, had been more arduous than they had expected. As they had foreseen, a simple ‘Accio’ yielded no result—no Death Eater, however stupid, would ever have failed to protect those incriminating objects against all kinds of summoning spells. After more than three hours of fruitless search, Owen had finally decided to switch from more subtle methods to simply casting random Ripristino spells around the house. That meant that they would leave traces, something they had initially intended to avoid, but on the other hand finding Barty’s Death Eater uniform was their top priority. In the end, the black cataract of fabric had tumbled from a shelf in Barty’s room. He had transformed the clothes into innocuous-looking Exploding Snap cards and hidden them in plain sight among the real ones.

Black eyed the neatly folded heap, topped by the wand and the faintly glinting mask, with obvious revulsion. The three saw it with gleeful satisfaction.

“Let me have a look at the Mark,” Severus said, when Black had discarded his robes and was standing before them in a pair of shabby black jeans and a white t-shirt in dire need of a wash. His ragged appearance was enhanced by the clothes being at least three sizes too large for Barty’s frame.

“Looks like the real thing,” Black muttered, casting a quick glance at his left forearm.

With an impatient nod, Severus motioned for him to come closer, inspected the mark and then, overcoming his repugnance to touch the other wizard with so much as the tip of a nail, briefly covered it with his fingers. “Yes,” he said, looking at Lucius and Owen, “it’s perfect. And it seems to have retained its properties.” The throb of magic was faint but definitely there—not that he had expected anything else, after all Voldemort had not activated it.

“Excellent,” Lucius said. “And now move and talk.”

During the two hours that followed Black’s transformation, Severus mentally thanked Dumbledore for not having given them more time. Their optimism as to the outcome of this deadly charade was fading quickly enough as it was; had they had more time at their disposal, they would probably have been overcome by desperation.

“Don’t swear, for Merlin’s sake!” Lucius bellowed, hitting the armrest of his chair with his left fist. “Barty never swore, so kindly stop that annoying habit of yours! Your choice of vocabulary is truly appalling!”

“It won’t look fucking natural if I struggle for words!”

“On the contrary,” said Owen. “Barty was a rather slow speaker. He always seemed to choose his words very carefully, even back at school and when only in the company of other students. He always tried to come over as highly dignified, so you’ll be closer to the real Barty if you do the same. And try to control that temper.”

“That is most important,” Severus agreed. “I don’t think Barty even had a temper, and if he did, he never showed it.”

“Goddamned fucking Slytherin!” Black mumbled.

“If you possessed an even minuscule amount of that goddamned fucking Slytherin-ness, dear Black,” was Lucius’s sharp retort, “our chances of actually succeeding wouldn’t resemble those of the Wimbledon Wankers of winning the Quidditch World Cup!”

When the hands of the ornate Art Déco clock in the far corner of Lucius’s study pointed to five minutes to five, Severus got up with a sigh. “Time for us to go, Black.” He drew his wand and pointed it at himself, to cast the Invisibility spell.

“I’m not going to touch you, slimeball!” Black growled, backing away from him.

“Fine,” Lucius clipped. “Considering events past, although they belong to a very remote past indeed, I’m certainly not allowing you to cling to me.”

Three heads turned towards Owen. “All right, all right, I’m going,” he said and gave them a lopsided grin. “But Severus has to cast the spell—I’ve never been good at it.”

Black and his invisible companion disappeared, right on time, and the other two exchanged a look of mingled anxiety and relief. “Tonight, I suppose,” Lucius said.

There was no need for him to elaborate. Both knew that Voldemort was going to summon them as soon as he had gone over their plan together with Barty.

“So do I,” Severus replied.

~~~~*~~~~

Nimue, in light cotton pyjamas, the dressing gown unbelted and merely draped over her shoulders, was curled up in the chair that by now seemed to have become her favourite. His feet propped up on the windowsill, Severus was sitting beside her. Their chairs were slightly turned towards each other, but not enough for them to be face to face. It was quite a comfortable position, Severus thought, and certainly one that made it easier to talk.

Her visits to his room had turned into a habit, although she did not come every night. Severus was sorely tempted to ask her why she sought his company in the first place, but was held back by a strange reluctance—whether he did not want this routine to end, or had no wish to learn her motives was impossible for him to determine. However, the question remained unspoken.

She had opted for whiskey again tonight. Severus, who had been sensing the tension building up within her all day long, had expected this and therefore told Peggy to provide him with ice and water. He certainly did not want the girl to get into the habit of seeking relief on the bottom of a glass of high-proof spirits. The watered-down version she was sipping now was not likely to cause her any harm or inebriation.

The subject of her parents had remained untouched since her first, rather unfortunate attempt. Tonight, though, she had broached it again, and the conversation was going much better than last time. Severus grudgingly admitted to himself that this might be due to the Bloody Baron’s advice.

“And he actually seduced her when she was only fifteen?”

Severus could almost feel her blush; maybe the blood rising to her cheeks had increased her body temperature. “That,” he said, uncrossing and re-crossing his legs, “would certainly be the wrong way of putting it. Tabitha knew exactly what kind of power she had over him. And she was well aware that it could only increase once she had become his mistress. Therefore, I would say the seduction was mutual, if anything.”

Silence. “But…” Severus could hear the almost inaudible squeaking sound as she turned her glass between her fingers. “But how could she… I mean, do you think she merely wanted the power?”

“If you are implying that what she wanted was power, and that the sex was a necessary but essentially revolting means to her end, the answer is no. She wanted both, the sex and the power. And I daresay she enjoyed both to an equal degree.”

Her hair rustled softly over the fabric of her pyjamas, as she shook her head. “If you say so… I just can’t imagine…”

“What? Having sex with your Head of House?”

Now she giggled. “No, that was not what I meant.”

“Ah, so you can imagine it?”

“That’s disgusting!”

“Of course it is. Once again, I am glad we see it the same way. So what is it you can’t imagine? You’re fifteen, after all. The thought of having sex must surely have crossed your mind.” He was almost succeeding in persuading himself that he merely let the conversation drift into this direction because it might be vital for him and the others to know whether she was still a virgin. But that was not the reason. The truth was that he was secretly enjoying this verbal flirting. It surprised him, for he had never been, in all honesty, a flirtatious kind of person. The very notion was ridiculous. And all the same… There was a strangely erotic quality to their exchange; it was like an artfully stylised mating dance that had nothing in common anymore with the archaic ritual.

“Well…” She cleared her throat. “If you mean whether I know about the flowers and the bees… of course I do. My parents aren’t bigots or puritans, you know?”

“Even if they were, my dear Nimue, you would certainly have read all about it.”

“Yes,” she conceded, laughing, “I probably would. Anyway, I haven’t really given it any thought. Not with somebody in particular, at least.”

“Really?” he drawled. “That sounds hardly credible, considering that you spend most of your time with two hormone-crazed boys. Not to mention Krum,” he added, unable to resist the temptation to sting her.

If he had expected her to burst into indignant fury, he had miscalculated. “No,” was her calm reply. “Harry and Ron are my friends, but I certainly don’t view them as potential sex partners. I mean, honestly—” she shifted in her chair “—have you ever watched them eat?”

“This particular pleasure has been denied me, I’m afraid.”

She snorted. “Well, pleasure isn’t exactly the word I’d use. I won’t go into details—”

“I would be very much obliged if you didn’t,” he interrupted her.

“Of course you would. All I wanted to say was: if you have seen them eat, you certainly don’t want to kiss them. Besides…” She fell silent.

“Ye-es?”

“It’s just… boys that age seem to be hydrophobic.”

“In the sense that they froth at the mouth and bite unsuspecting passers-by?”

“Not that I know of. No, I meant they really seem to be afraid of water.”

“No need to tell me,” he said with feeling. “Or do you think it is a source of never-ending joy for me to have to teach that smelly bunch? Especially when they are nervous?”

“That’s entirely your fault,” she countered. “But believe me, they’re bad enough after Quidditch practice. Or Care of Magical Creatures. Personally, I don’t understand how any girl can be so stupid as to touch them while they’re still that age.”

“Neither can I,” he admitted. “Then again, Krum certainly didn’t fall into that category. He is well out of the showerless age.”

“Maybe. But he had bad breath.”

Now it was Severus’s turn to chuckle. “Really? Now that’s… off-putting.”

“Yes, it is.” He heard her move again. “You’re laughing, at my expense, aren’t you?”

“You cannot deny that it is funny.”

She harrumphed. “Maybe a little. Anyway, I merely kissed him for practice’s sake.”

“Always the scientist,” he mocked.

“No, not really. I just didn’t want to be the only fourth-year without kissing experience, that’s why. But I would never…” She made a small, disgusted sound in her throat. “Besides, he was hairy. That’s such a turn-off, really, I—” She clapped a hand over her mouth, he could tell by the tiny plopping sound. “Oh, sorry, that was incredibly tactless, Professor! Of course I didn’t mean—”

“Kindly stop that display of contrition,” he snarled, although he was secretly amused. “Just don’t mention your preference in front of Owen. He’s as hairy as they come.” He stood up to refill his tumbler, casting her a perfunctory glance as he went past her chair. Her face was still scarlet.

This forced break in their conversation was very welcome, at least to Severus. He had learned what he needed to know; the information, though, did nothing to alleviate his worries. On the contrary, he was now sure that the girl—and once her parents were free, it was impossible to keep her from Voldemort’s attention any longer—would be valuable to the Dark Lord in more than one way. If they were lucky, and if the Lestranges’ spirits proved to be as deranged by fourteen years at Azkaban as could be expected, Nimue might at least remain in the relative safety of the Malfoys’ care. And his own. But they would have to do something about her virginity, to put it mildly. History repeating itself… Severus smirked and returned to his seat.

“May I ask you a question?” her voice came drifting out of the near-darkness behind him. “Okay, okay,” she said, hearing his impatient sigh. “I’m just going to ask, then. Who do I resemble more? My mother or father?”

It was a natural question to ask, and he did not resent it as such. But it forced him to turn towards her, scrutinize her features, recall St. John and Tabitha’s faces, ferret them out of the complex burrow of his memory. He slowly heaved his legs of the windowsill and turned to face her. The moon was full tonight, pregnant and heavy with summer heat. It was the only source of light, and thus her face was all uncertain, milky contrasts. He knew it well enough; after all he had seen it twice a week during the last four years. But he had deliberately ignored its individual traits, sometimes even by defocusing his eyes a little, so that the features lost their distinct outlines. Until a couple of weeks ago, she had been Miss Granger to him, and had Voldemort not returned, she might have remained Hermione Granger forever. The knowledge of her being Nimue Lestrange had faded back into oblivion; sometimes it had become a little more pronounced, a perilous undertow dragging him towards dangerous and forbidden thoughts; they might have jeopardized her safety. Any comparison he might have tried to make between her and her parents’ faces had been out of the question, and, he now admitted to himself, not of any particular interest to him. But now he had to look at her face, really look, trying to decipher the secret messages of eyes and lips and jaw line.

He found it an extremely disturbing experience.

“Let me see…” He scooted forward in his chair, closer to her. “Your hair is… well…” He noticed her deepening frown even in the moonlight. “Definitely Lestrange, though more your grandmother’s than your father’s. And your uncle, paternal uncle, has hair much like yours.” He tried to remember the family pictures at Monrepos, silently grateful for his near-photographic memory. “The shape of your face…” Something was insistently tugging at the fringes of his consciousness. Something important, he could feel it. It made him uneasy, almost too uncomfortable to stay seated, but he fought the urge to get up and pace. “Your face is shaped much like your mother’s,” he finally said. “Less narrow, but definitely inherited from her. As are your…” There it was again, that sensation of his mind being covered by a glutinous layer of… something, like three days’ worth of cream on a jugful of milk. Something was trying to push through, and the stratum was already thinning and bulging under the assault. Severus tried to pull himself together. “Your eyes,” he continued.

The layer broke. And in the same instant, Nimue’s face seemed to be undergoing a strange process of reversal, of rapid rejuvenating; hair shortening, cheeks plumping out, lips contracting into a tiny rosebud, nose shrinking… He grabbed the armrests of his chair to support himself, because he was feeling vertiginous, falling off the randomly established point called ‘today’ and plummeting into time, although time did not exist. It was a mere figment that helped the human mind not to lose itself in eternity. But he was losing himself, faster than lightning speed, until his mind finally gave up resistance and spat out the image of a newborn’s face, surrounded by multiple flounces and frills of sunflower-yellow silk. Jasper, he thought—or had he said it aloud? And then the memory was back, as fresh as if he had lived through that moment only yesterday. One-week-old Nimue, cradled in his arms, smiling as his tear of… desperation? Exaltation? Joy, maybe? rolled down her chin and into the yellow silk, where it left a dark stain.

“Professor?” A hesitant hand touched his knee for the briefest of moments. “Professor, please! Say something! Are you alright? What happened? Are you being summoned?”

He merely shook his head at the flood of questions. “No. No, I… I am fine, really. It’s just the—”

He never finished his explanation, for Voldemort had chosen this very moment to rally his faithful servants around his throne.

~~~~*~~~~

Black was still alive. Severus heard Lucius and Owen’s soft sighs of relief from behind their masks, contemporaneously with his own. It seemed that they had won the first round. To win the second one, they would need their acting skills.

Barty/Black was standing at Voldemort’s right, without his mask. Pettigrew, his face equally uncovered, was hovering on the Master’s other side, a little behind him. Apparently, the new hierarchy had already been established. The three froze on the very spot they had Apparated on, eyes widening behind their masks. At least there was no need for them to feign tension or breathlessness. They all had enough of both, as things were.

Lucius was the first to break the silence. “My Lord, this…” He pointed at Barty/Black. “This cannot be!” Severus and Owen merely shook their heads in silent surprise.

“Down on your knees!” came Pettigrew’s squeaky voice, “You will greet our Master with all due reverence!”

Gritting his teeth at Barty/Black’s triumphant leer, Severus sank to his knees, as did the other two. “My Lord, I apologize. But I would never—”

“Not all your enemies can do you the favour of vanishing in the depths of Azkaban, dear Severus.” Black/Barty’s tone was cold and cutting. In spite of himself, Severus was impressed.

“You were never my enemy, Barty,” he replied calmly. “Besides, those who are do seem to have a nasty habit of leaving those depths behind. Did you help Black escape? Quite a shock, wasn’t it, to learn that he wasn’t—”

Voldemort clucked his tongue. “Refreshing as this bantering undoubtedly is, since it reminds me of old days, I must nevertheless ask you to stop it. Instantly,” he added in a sharp hiss.

“Sorry, My Lord,” Severus muttered, “I will try to control myself better.”

“I hope so,” Voldemort replied. His tone of voice implied both amusement—for he, like all megalomaniacs, seemed to enjoy cockfights among his courtesans—and impatience. “You may rise, all of you.”

While standing up very slowly, Severus thought that Barty/Black appeared to be strangely at ease in his new surroundings. Suddenly and out of the blue, an idea hit his mind. It was most unpleasant. What if they had all miscalculated? What if Dumbledore's suggestion that Black replace Barty had been the biggest mistake since Jesus Christ had kissed Judas? What if… the possible implications made his mind reel. Because the Dark Mark was active—Severus had ascertained as much. They had even been relieved… But Black had never been trained for being in contact with, much less for using, Dark Magic. He was a blank slate, as far as the more illegal wizarding skills were concerned. And Severus was not so sure what material that slate was made of. Then, still within the few seconds it took him to straighten out his robes and get to his feet, the image of Black doubling up under the effect of the Polyjuice Potion forced its way into his consciousness. He remembered his initiation, almost twenty years ago; he recalled, almost word by word, the conversation Lucius and Owen had had afterwards, at his bedside, while he was delirious and unable to speak. For the fraction of a second, the initiatee felt as if his innermost desire had come true. Lucius had experienced a sensation of absolute power, Owen of absolute lust. Severus himself, guilty as he had felt at that time, had got what he wanted: punishment and pain, pure and distilled.

In some inexplicable way—it was more a feeling than conscious thought—Severus sensed that perhaps Black had had his very own initiation earlier in the afternoon. And if that was more than just a hypothesis, born from his anxiety… What did Black crave? What had been the ultimate fantasy he had had a mystical union with, if only for an instant?

He incited himself to stand upright and tried to force his mind into the cage of attentive adulation. These thoughts could wait until later. For now, he had to play along in this comedy, and play well.

“This is but a short meeting,” said Voldemort. “To choose the one who will accompany Barty to the Isle of Azkaban tomorrow night. Any volunteers?” He smirked at the three.

“My Lord,” they began in unison, then fell silent.

“Well, well, well. Such obsequious servants. It seems that the choice will be mine, after all.” His unblinking gaze wandered from Severus to Owen to Lucius, the movement of his head paralleled by the curve his forefinger described. Like the hands of a watch, Severus thought, mesmerized against his will. A deathwatch. Measuring the time that remained before their fall. What if…

The seconds passed, and still Voldemort was assessing the three wizards standing in front of him. Time for the Master to choose carefully; time for his subjects to pursue their own thoughts. He truly had become a horrendous parody of himself, Severus mused. Where there had been silky-soft watchfulness, now there was merely sticky, affected superiority. Like some third-class province thespian trying to fit into the part of Julius Caesar. It filled him with disgust, and a mix of pity and nausea. A beautiful, dangerous snake had turned into a hideous spider, which still tried to act like the ensnaring creature he had once been.

“Lucius.” The three syllables fell into the silence like sharp icicles. “Tomorrow, at midnight. You may leave.”

Wordlessly, the three kissed the hem of Voldemort's robes and left the room. They descended the stairs in single file, and Severus wondered if he was the only one who perceived this silent defile as a funeral procession. The question being, of course, whose corpse was being buried.