The Sybil's Oracle: Book Three

Chapter 11

By Pigwidgeon37

The blurry white oval at his right had to be a face. Severus groaned and tried to get his eyes into focus. The result was not really worth mentioning, at least as far as his visual abilities were concerned. But his moan had somehow caused the white patch to move. It shot upwards so quickly that following its trajectory made his stomach heave with sudden nausea, and then slowly lowered itself until it was hovering close to his face.

“Professor?” When his first stereo had died, the sounds had been similarly altered; tinny, with a screechy undertone.

He tried to identify the voice, but arrived at the result that it had to be Nimue’s by logical deduction, not because it sounded familiar. He attempted a smile and made the—foolish—effort to sit upright.

“No, don’t!” The hands pinning him to what he supposed were pillows did not meet much resistance. He was as weak as a newborn. But at least he could see and hear. Taste, too, he realized, when something was pressed against his lips. Maybe, he thought, he could have done without this particular sense for a little longer. Whatever was running down his throat tasted awful, of stale blood and sewer. He wrinkled his nose.

“More water, Professor?” The cool object returned to his lips.

Water? Either she was trying to poison him with dirty water from a puddle, or this was… He tentatively rubbed his tongue against his palate. Sweet Merlin! Had his taste buds been given hair growth potion and elongated into sea-anemone-like tentacles? Had his tongue sprouted fur? None of these assumptions seemed very likely. It was far more probable that his tongue was swollen and that the awful taste was produced by his own mouth. He winced. His breath had to be absolutely horrible! “Teeth…” he croaked, frightened at the sound of his own voice, “Clean… teeth…”

At that, she laughed. “No, Professor. I know you’ll take five hundred points from Gryffindor for this insubordination, once we’re back at school, but you can’t clean your teeth now. Here—” the white oval wobbled out of his field of vision and then back again “—take this. You need to sleep some more.”

He tried to protest, but found that he had wasted his strength by asking for dental hygiene. He simply could not say anything, let alone move. So he resigned himself to his fate and conceded his muscles the relax they were screaming for, swallowed obediently and let darkness take over once again.

Next time he woke up, he was feeling much better. Aside from a slight headache, his body seemed to have regained its strength, and his eyes and ears did not produce any treacherous images or sounds. Staying prone on his back, he lifted his right hand. He still needed to put some conscious effort into the movement, but at least the limb followed the command of his brain. So he decided to be reckless and turn his head. Sprawled in an armchair at his bedside, sleeping with his mouth slightly open, was Lucius. At the sight of his ruffled hair and somewhat crumpled appearance, Severus snorted; the small sound was enough to wake up the other wizard.

“Sev,” he said and yawned, “How long have you been awake?”

“Only a minute. What on earth happened?”

Lucius got up, stretched and shook his head. “First things first, Potions Master. Stay where you are, I have to get Narcissa.”

“As if I could move, even if I wanted to,” Severus grumbled after his retreating form.

It was difficult for him to stay awake the few minutes it took Lucius to come back with Narcissa, but, despite his weariness, he was eager to learn how he had gotten out of the icy floods of the Atlantic and into his bed at Malfoy Manor. His thoughts of what might have happened in the meantime made his heart beat faster and kept his brain in state of alert.

Narcissa must have been sleeping, too, he thought when she entered the room together with her husband, for she was clad in a dressing gown, and her hair was braided. But she was smiling. “Severus!” she said, “Finally!” He had not noticed that she had her wand; now she pointed it at him and performed some diagnosis spells. “Well,” she said when she had finished, “It seems that you are back in the land of the living for good. But now you must eat. Aren't you hungry?”

“Not really. Besides—” he moved his tongue behind his teeth “—I’d like to clean my teeth first, if possible.”

“Sure you do,” Lucius said, “Your mouth must still be full of blood. After three days, I suppose it does taste awful. Dentipurifica! That better?”

Severus scowled at him. “For once, I’d have preferred the Muggle method. But yes, it’s definitely an improve—Did you say three days?”

“Oh, yes.” Lucius helped him sit up, piling pillows behind his back, while Narcissa called Peggy who almost fainted with pleasure at seeing her master awake and well. “Three days, almost to the minute. It’s half past three in the morning, which accounts for my less than impeccable appearance.”

“Never mind your looks. Just tell me what happened,” Severus snapped.

“Ever the amiable patient, Snape! You don't change, do you?” Lucius stepped back, so Narcissa could sit down on the edge of the bed with the tray she was levitating. “But—” he sat down on the chair he had been sleeping in “—of course I’ll tell you.”

There was a bowl of beef tea on the tray, and two glasses containing water and a small amount of red wine. The beef tea smelled heavenly, and Severus felt his stomach begin to emit the first signs of absolutely ravenous hunger. “Narcissa, I can eat on my—”

“Yaddadee, yaddada,” Lucius intoned with a smirk. “Always the same old tune. You can’t, and you won’t. Now let Narcissa feed you, or I won’t satisfy your curiosity.” Severus shot him what he hoped was a glare of pure venom—he was not quite sure whether it worked, since he still felt so feeble. Apparently it did not, for Lucius merely laughed. “All right, what do you remember?”

“Everything, up to the point—mmmh, Narcissa, that tastes incredibly good—up to the point where we all were catapulted off that raft.”

“That’s a relief. I was afraid you might have some memory blanks.”

“Memory…” Severus groaned. “Don’t tell me I received another blow to the head?”

Lucius raised his brows. “Another? I wasn't aware—”

“Never mind. On with the story.” He and Narcissa exchanged a small wink.

“The story. Well, we were all propelled off the raft, or rather, the raft was blown up into the air—rather high up, I think—but it remained in one piece. When it, and we, returned to Mother Earth, you had the bad luck of being exactly where the raft meant to land. And although balsa is relatively lightweight, it caused considerable damage.”

“Oh…” Severus closed his eyes for a moment, trying to digest the news. “What about you and the others?”

“If Nimue’s little trick hadn’t worked, and better than we had been expecting, we would have been in bad trouble.” Lucius’s eyes darkened. “Because we had been scattered all over the place, very far from each other. Fortunately, we still had our wands. So we could shoot up red sparks while treading water, and locate each other without having to fear the Dementors.” He shuddered slightly. “Anyway, there were only three signals, and we feared the worst. Besides, we were all getting a little cold. Then, Owen had the brilliant idea to first summon the raft, and then you, me and Black. And—” he scrunched up his nose in a perfect imitation of his daughter “—much as it pains me to say so, Black’s life belts probably saved us all. Without them, and given the water temperature, we’d have gone down like stones. Although…” He rolled his eyes and snorted.

“What?”

“Well, Black being Black, he’d made them pink, with duck-heads.”

Narcissa almost dropped the soup bowl. “You left out that charming detail when you told me the story!”

“I thought it rather undignified, my dear. However, now you heard it.” Lucius turned serious again. “When you landed on that raft, we all thought you were dead. You didn’t seem to breathe, because that stupid life belt had somehow slipped down, so it was around your knees and your head had been underwater. And there was a lot of blood—everywhere, on your head, in your mouth… and the position of your right arm seemed somewhat unnatural. Considering that the elbow of a normal human being doesn't have a ball-and-socket joint.”

“Thank you for the lovely description,” Severus said dryly. Lucius performed a mock-bow. “And please tell me that Black didn't do mouth-to-mouth.”

“No, I did. And Owen did the cardiac massage, although maybe a trifle too forceful…”

Narcissa frowned and shook her head. “He had five broken ribs, oh Master of Elegant Understatement.”

“Er, yes. So, once you had started breathing, after spitting out an obscene amount of water and blood, Owen and Black offered to remain there, go back to the island and reset the wards. And I simply Apparated back here with you in my strong, manly arms.”

Severus chuckled. “You’re making me blush. What about Voldemort?”

“Nothing much. After they had finished with the wards, Owen and Black joined us here to report everything was… well, fine, and I went to him, together with Black. We told him the story—practically the whole truth. We just had to leave out the bit about the Dementors. And about actually cracking the wards and the raft getting airborne. So it was a credible story—especially as we were both soaked and shivering and looking like hell, he must have enjoyed that a lot. Anyway, he seemed happy enough, and the big attack is scheduled for the day after tomorrow. That was the truly lucky bit, because I don’t know how we could have explained your being gravely injured, had he wanted us to go back the next day and set free the prisoners and Dementors.”

“Gravely injured?” He sent Narcissa a searching look. “What exactly does that mean?”

She smiled at him. “Quite a lot, as a matter of fact. A splinter of wood went right through your scalp, so you had two inches of balsa stuck between the skin and bone. And a slight concussion.” She ticked his injuries off her fingers. “Then, you had bitten right through your tongue. I suppose that maybe you saw the raft coming down and instinctively tried to protect your head with your right arm, which would account for your elbow being bent the wrong way. And, of course, the broken ribs, courtesy of Owen’s enthusiastic live-saving. The hypothermia was merely the icing on the cake.”

“Two inches of—sounds gory,” Severus remarked and lifted his hand to touch his head. His eyes went wide. “What—” His fingers groped around his skull. “What have you—give me a mirror!”

Narcissa shot him a pleading look. “It’s not that bad, Severus! As a matter of fact, it isn’t bad at all, quite the contrary. We had to—”

“The mirror, Narcissa!” he growled. “Don’t you dare laugh!” he snapped at Lucius, who had trouble keeping his face under control.

With a long-suffering sigh, Narcissa summoned a hand-mirror. Severus snatched it away from her, briefly closed his eyes and then, scraping together all the courage he could muster, which was pretty little at the moment, looked at his reflection.

He had worn his hair shoulder-length as long as he could remember. When he was a child, his mother used to claim it softened his face, which was sharp and narrow and not at all childlike. He had become used to it, and never even dreamed of having it trimmed. There was no such thing as fashionable haircuts in the wizarding world; everybody, whether man or woman, chose what they thought suited them best. Severus could not imagine himself with short hair, just as it was impossible for him to think of Lucius or Owen with a shoulder-length mane. But there he was, glaring at himself out of the mirror, his face so… naked, exposed and vulnerable without its habitual black frame. All the same, he had to admit that it was not as bad as he had feared. He was looking—difficult to put his finger on what exactly had changed. Not younger, no. Maybe less sinister. And without the lanky black parenthesis enclosing it, his face appeared less pale, but also a little broader. He sent a brief thank-you to whichever force of nature had made his ears rather small and flat against his skull, put down the mirror and sighed. “To whom do I owe my… er,  improved looks?”

Lucius snorted but said nothing, merely beckoning for Narcissa to speak with a flourish of his right hand.

“Nimue,” she said. He rolled his eyes. “Don't blame her, though. She was most helpful. While I was tending to your other injuries, she cut your hair—if you turn your head a little, you’ll see the bald patch behind your left ear. We had to shave it completely there, and make a cut to get the splinter out. Because we couldn’t simply pull it out, some small fibres might have remained in the wound and caused an infection. I think,” she added pensively, while Severus examined the bald spot where a bluish shade already announced the re-growth of his hair, “she would make a good mediwitch. Not many girls her age would have kept their calm in a situation like this. Usually they run or faint when they see blood.”

Embarrassed at the mere thought of Nimue having seen him in that state—he could well imagine how he had been looking—and immediately angry with himself for what he deemed a reaction worthy of Black but certainly beneath himself, he growled, “Why didn’t you ask Draco to help you?”

“Because Draco had to deal with his father,” she replied calmly. “Lucius wasn't exactly well, as you might imagine. He needed warming charms, and some Pepper—”

“May I come in?”

None of them had noticed Nimue standing on the threshold, wild-haired, sleepy-eyed and obviously unsure whether she was trespassing or not.

“Of course,” Narcissa said, turning round to smile at her. “Severus won’t mind, will you, Severus?”

“As if you had left me a choice,” he muttered.

“She has had more than her share of sitting with you,” Narcissa explained.

The distant memory of having been given some water and a sleeping potion drifted through his mind. “I… think I remember,” he said, somewhat stiffly. “Well, er… thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied. “How—” she proceeded to his other side, so that he was now flanked by her and Narcissa “—how are you feeling?”

“You ought to ask me how I like my new haircut, you insolent brat!”

She seemed completely unfazed by his rebuke, and replied, “I’m glad you’re back to your old self, Professor. Do you like your new haircut?” she added, putting a hefty dose of fake sweetness into her voice.

He snorted. “You could have done worse. Congratulations, by the way. It seems that your idea worked to perfection. Although, next time we try it, I would suggest that we choose an open space and provide sufficient cover.”

“Yes,” she said, plopping down on the edge of the bed. “That’s true. You know, I wasn’t aware that the discharge of energy was going to be that strong. I’m glad you all returned in one piece.”

“Believe me, so am I,” Lucius said. Glancing at his watch, he continued, “I’ll go wake up Draco. His shift starts in half an hour, so I might just as well—”

“I’ll stay,” Nimue interrupted him, this time without even apologizing. “I mean, I’m awake anyway, and probably won't be able to go back to sleep. So…” She looked at Severus. “Unless you mind terribly…”

He ought to be bothered, Severus thought. He ought to be bothered, and push her away, and never again allow her to see him in a state of weakness… But there was something like hope in her eyes. What was the girl hoping for? That he might express his undying gratitude? Well, she could wait for that until she was blue in the face. He had thanked her once, and that was more than enough. Although, he mused, she probably knew that. So what? What was she hoping for? What would he have hoped for in a similar situation? Acknowledgement, probably. Acceptance. For if what Narcissa had told him was true—and he rather believed it was, since Narcissa was not the type who glossed things over or embellished them—Nimue had acted in a very mature and efficient fashion. He really must not hurt her… This last thought brought back a shred of his dream. Her eyes… or rather, those barely scarred, purulent wounds she had had in lieu of eyes… In his dream, he had known, with absolute certainty, that he had been the one who gouged them out of their sockets, blinded her. Why had he done that, and why had he been so sure? And why—this was what rendered the dream more ominous than frightening—why had she not hated him for it? Maybe because—

“Sev, do you think you might answer Nimue’s question anytime soon?” Lucius’s ironic drawl made his eyes swivel away from the girl and towards the other side of his bed, where Narcissa was still sitting, with a very strange smile on her face. Lucius was standing behind her, massaging his neck—evidently sleeping in the chair had not been the best of treatments for his muscles.

“Yes, I… sorry, I was woolgathering. And, no, I don't mind. Although—” his gaze travelled back to the girl, meeting hers and holding it “—you probably need your sleep, too.”

“Don’t worry,” she said lightly. “I can take a nap in the afternoon.”

“All right then,” Lucius said, taking Narcissa's hand. “See you later, Sev. Nimue.” He gave them a brief nod and left the room, his left arm resting lightly around Narcissa's shoulders.

“They really are… very much in love with each other, aren’t they?” Nimue said quietly.

“Very much so, yes. Does that astonish you?”

“In a way, yes. They seemed so cold, the few times I saw them before coming here. Then again…” She paused, and her eyes met his for a moment.

“What?” he asked, feeling a jolt of something indefinable in the pit of his stomach.

“Nothing. Just a teenager’s idle musings on the nature of love,” she replied lightly, a little too nonchalant to sound entirely truthful. “Now go back to sleep.”

He would have liked to prod her, to ask what she had really thought. But the food and wine had made him tired again, and so he followed her command. Already on the verge of slumber, he thought fleetingly that her presence made him feel safe. Paradoxical, but true nonetheless.

~~~~*~~~~

Precisely at five minutes to eleven p.m., Lucius and Severus Apparated to the Riddle house. Owen was already there, impatiently tapping his foot on the grass.

“Look,” he said, without even bothering to greet them.

With a puzzled look at each other, from behind their masks, they did as he had told them. When their glance returned to Owen, they were even more puzzled. “But why?” Lucius asked. “Why would he take down everything, including the Muggle-repelling charms? All the wards…”

“I suppose he means to change residence,” Owen replied. “And, considering what we’re setting out to do tonight, I don't think we have to guess more than once where his new home is going to be.”

“You think…” Severus looked from one to the other. “You think he wants to live in Azkaban?”

“Well, yes. Think about it, and you’ll se it’s not such a bad idea, all things considered. It’s unplottable. Once we put the wards etcetera back into place—and you bet that those will be a lot stronger—the thing is practically impregnable. He can keep the Dementors around, he can use the prison for his enemies…”

“And once the Dementors are bound to him, they’ll leave Bla—er, Barty in peace,” Lucius added. “That makes sense.” He glanced at his watch. “Time to join the others, gentlemen.”

Weighed down by worries, as much about himself and the other Phoenixes as on Black’s behalf, Severus followed in their wake, as they made their way towards the house. Probably, he thought, Barty/Black had been the first to learn about Voldemort's intentions—if they had guessed right, that was. So he had had enough time to get used to the idea. This thought was small comfort, though, for the real test was going to begin once they were actually there. Black might think he was up to sharing a space with Dementors, provided they did not attack him, but whether he was really able to withstand their influence was an entirely different kettle of fish. And whereas the energy vibrating through the fortress might have a very beneficial influence on Voldemort, Severus had his reasons to doubt whether it would do Black any good. Unless… well, he was not going to allow himself to follow that line of thought. If, within Black’s spirit, a door had been opened for Dark Magic, everything was lost. No use indulging such gloomy fantasies before an attack. It was bad for the concentration.

But he could not help noticing that, indeed, the house had been brought back to its original state of disrepair and abandon. Even Voldemort's armchair, he noticed upon entering the sitting room upstairs, looked once again shabby and threadbare.

The room was filled with Death Eaters. Not that there were so many of them left, but the space was relatively small for such a gathering. Severus sternly forbade himself to gloat at the thought that this was probably why Voldemort had made them assemble here and not outside. He wanted to see himself as the Master of Many. Even at the price of having to create an illusion. His eyes wandered around the room, and for a moment he really was in danger of laughing out loud. Next to the Dark Lord's chair, in a huge wicker basket not unlike the one Nimue used for her cat, was Nagini. Had the situation not been so serious, the incongruous domestic flair of the scene would have amused him. As things were, he kept himself in check and tried to blend in with the others.

Voldemort's presence prohibited any exchange of opinions, even if whispered, among the Death Eaters, but Severus could sense their curiosity—too much had changed for anybody to remain calm. Barty Crouch, alive and unmasked, was positioned next to the Master’s chair, and the shock of seeing Pettigrew, former Gryffindor and Law Enforcer, among their ranks had yet to fade. This, together with the ominous words Voldemort had uttered on the night of his rebirth, was enough to titillate everybody’s interest, if not to downright frighten them. Especially since word had gotten around about Karkaroff’s demise. Nothing had been in the papers, of course, Fudge had seen to that. But the body had been found, and the state it was in left little room for the imagination.

He counted the cloaked figures; two were still missing. It was eleven o’clock now—Voldemort was not going to take this offence lightly. The glint in his eyes and the impatient rhythm his scaly fingers tapped on the armrest of his chair were telling as much. Punishment would be meted out, and if Pettigrew was the one to administer it, they might be two men short for tonight’s mission. Severus was wondering which group he was going to belong to. Those who had to kill the governor of Azkaban? Or those who had to repeat more or less what he and the other three had already successfully accomplished five days ago? He had absolutely no wish to repeat that watery experience—the sight of the raft, magically enlarged and propped up against the side wall of the house, had been sufficient to make his stomach churn with anxiety, thank you very much. So he certainly preferred the dryer half of the mission. He had killed so many times already…

At that very moment, the image of newborn Nimue, glancing up at him from the centre of the sunflower-like creation she was wrapped in, forced its way into his mind. Unbidden. Unwelcome. But it had a force of its own he simply could not withstand. So much innocence… Grateful for the mask he was wearing, he struggled against the vision, for it did not stop there; unwaveringly, like an elephant bull shouldering his way through the undergrowth, it broke a path through his mind, but at the same time it changed. Nimue, as she was now, was looking at him steadfastly, out of those irritatingly frank eyes. “Go away!” his mind screamed at her, “Go away, this is no place for you! I have to keep my wits together, because I’ll have to…” Kill. And when he thought ‘kill’, her face morphed into the horrendous form it had taken on in his dream. He breathed in, deeply and as surreptitiously as possible, to calm his galloping heartbeat. Since when did the opinion some slip of a girl might have of him influence his thoughts and actions?

Oh, but she is your soul mate, whispered the well-known small voice. It’s understandable that what she thinks about you should matter to you.

But she knows that I’m a murderer, he replied. She knows that I’m a Death Eater, and she’s perfectly aware what the term implies. What could it matter to her whether I kill one more person? What if I had committed this murder before—

Before what? the voice asked. Before what exactly, dear Severus?

Before… before finding out that she is the woman mentioned in the prediction. Where’s the difference? It’s of absolutely no importance!

Or so it seems, the voice countered smugly. But then, how would you explain that you’re so upset?

The appearance—three minutes late, as Severus saw on his watch—of the last two Death Eaters interrupted this inner dialogue, which had greatly unsettled him. Maybe this was the first time he felt anything like gratitude towards Grabbe and Goyle, for those were the two latecomers. A small movement of Voldemort's right hand was the sign for Pettigrew to step forward. “Lord Voldemort does not tolerate lateness,” he declared, and pointed his wand first at Goyle and then at Crabbe.

Severus's mouth suddenly felt parched and dry. He had seen the troll-like pair being hit with the torturing curse twice, by Voldemort himself. True, fifteen years had gone by, but neither Crabbe nor Goyle were yet old men, they were not even forty-five. Age-induced weakness could not be the reason why they were now howling and writhing in pain. It had to be Pettigrew’s silvery prosthesis that enhanced the power of his curses. He swallowed, although there was no saliva in his mouth, and briefly glanced at Barty/Black. His roundish face seemed carved in stone; only his eyes betrayed the emotions he was so carefully hiding. For the fraction of a second, their looks met, only to skitter apart as quickly as possible. But the message had been transmitted. They were both mortally afraid of Petty Pettigrew.

Crabbe and Goyle were still unconscious when Voldemort began his speech.

“My faithful followers. We are united again, after so many years have passed. And tonight—” he rose from his chair and took a few steps forward “—is the last time we have to meet in a decrepit Muggle house. For tonight—” with a dramatic swish of his blood-red robes, he began to pace “—we will conquer a stronghold, a symbol of the society of bigots we are fighting against. Tonight, we will take Azkaban.”

A ripple of gasps went through the group, then silence fell again. Crabbe—or was it Goyle?—emitted a soft gurgling noise. “Outside!” Voldemort hissed, and Pettigrew obediently levitated the two thugs and scuttled out of the room.

“Are you afraid, my faithful servants?” Voldemort continued, “Are you secretly thinking that my plan is sheer madness?”

A chorus of murmured ‘No’s answered his question, underscored by the rustle of fabric, as everybody shook their heads in the negative.

“Good. Because Azkaban is not an impregnable fortress, as the Ministry is so fond of calling it. Nothing resists Lord Voldemort, nothing. Neither death, nor the prison of Azkaban. Did you not think that the man standing next to me was dead?” He gestured at Barty/Black, who stiffened slightly. “That was just another of the fairy tales the Minister of Magic feeds the witches and wizards he has sworn to protect. This man—” now he put his right arm around Barty/Black's shoulders “—this man has orchestrated my rebirth, and he shall be rewarded. He is now my second-in-command, and you shall obey him as you obey me.”

They all bowed their heads. Small wonder, Severus thought, as they had all been obliviated by himself, Lucius and Owen on that fateful Halloween night. Maybe they were a little bewildered, but none of them uttered a word of surprise. There was something to be said in favour of iron discipline and memory charms, he thought wryly.

“Together with another faithful servant,” Voldemort continued, “he has once more risked his life by going to Azkaban on a reconnaissance mission. Thanks to him, we now know that the wards of Azkaban are not unbreakable.”

He returned to his chair and sat down. Obviously, Severus mused, he had rehearsed this scene together with Barty/Black, for the latter stepped forward and began to speak without having been explicitly encouraged to do so. He gave a brief description of their expedition—the official version, of course—and of the shielding spells protecting the island.

“Lord Voldemort has decided to divide you into two groups,” he said, “One under my command, the other led by Pettigrew.”

Now that was a choice, Severus thought, like between being hanged or drinking hemlock. To be bossed around either by Black or by Pettigrew… He wondered what Lucius and Owen might be thinking.

“Pettigrew’s group,” Barty/Black continued, “is to eliminate McFarlane and his family. They will Apparate to his house at exactly eleven forty-five and are expected to finish their job within fifteen minutes. No Dark Mark today, as we need time and don’t want to alert the Ministry before we have finished our mission. No Unforgivables either. Although it seems improbable, the Aurors might have a closer look at the detectors. My group will take the raft you have seen outside and Apparate as near to Azakaban as possible exactly at midnight. Once the Governor is dead, the Dementors are not bound to him anymore. This is our chance. We pull down the wards and Apparition barrier. It should not take us much more than forty-five minutes, according to my calculations. At one a.m., Pettigrew's group joins us, as does our Master. He will then perform the ritual necessary to bind the Dementors to himself, and we will free the prisoners. Any questions?”

Somebody cleared his throat and raised his hand. When he spoke, Severus recognized the smooth voice of Lyndon Avery. “My Lord, if I may be so bold as to ask… It seems that you have made preparations for a change of residence?”

The lipless slit that was Voldemort's mouth broadened slightly. Probably he meant to smile. “Well observed indeed. Yes, I will take up residence at Azkaban, once it belongs to me. And—” he chuckled “—nobody will be able to break my magical shields, believe me. Azkaban will become my fortress. The beacon of my power. As Barty said, there will be no Dark Mark tonight to celebrate the annihilation of McFarlane and his family. But from tonight on, it will shine over Azkaban permanently.”

They had ten minutes left until the time of departure of the first group. Time for Barty/Black and Pettigrew to gather their men.

~~~~*~~~~

Such stuff as dreams are made on… or nightmares. The worst ones, as Severus recognized only now, were made of nothingness, of a void so potent and all-encompassing that you could never resist it. The soul felt blinded, and in its helplessness, it embraced that cold emptiness, gave itself over willingly, because to try and fight would have been hopeless.

Thus was the power of Azkaban.

Never mind the repetition of the adventure that had nearly cost him his life five days ago. Never mind the Dementors, less focused, and hence less dangerous, because they had lost their master, but still craving to feed on human emotions and souls. Never mind the minutes of naked fear, when they had already taken down the barriers and needed to defend themselves as best they could, stumbling and grappling for a foothold on a raft in the icy water. Never mind the exhaustion, the terrible exhaustion of casting multiple Patronus spells. Never mind Carl Nott’s hysterical screams when he had gone overboard, lost his wand, and fallen prey to one of the tall, grey fiends.

All that did not really count, because, horrible as it was, it was still a part of life. Muscle spasms, cold air burning the lungs, bone-deep weariness… all that was inconsequential, was even to be welcomed. But this… black hole, this agglomerate of sheer, vertiginous nothing that tugged and sucked and pulled at your sanity… In one way or another, it seemed that they were all feeling it. Severus watched the others as they dragged their feet, their bodies struggling against the overwhelming negative pull for every inch of progress, through the vast tunnel that was the main corridor of the prison of Azkaban. The Dementors, now bound to their new Master, were lurking in some remote part of the building, waiting for the Dark Lord’s call; Voldemort had ordered them away, seeing how strongly they affected his exhausted followers.

His face protected from inquisitive looks by his mask—although Severus doubted that any of them could muster much curiosity at this point—he tried to concentrate on replaying the binding ritual before his inner eye, so as to regain control over his mind and prevent it from spinning off into the void which beckoned and called. The spell in itself was simple enough; the words had been provided by McFarlane before he and his family were killed by Pettigrew’s hit squad. The little rat had chosen wisely, and taken Lucius, Owen and Cedric Nott to the Governor’s house with him, the latter probably just in case physical force was needed to kill the victims. It was an ancient spell, powerful and elemental, but not technically difficult. It was the power the caster put behind it that counted, not the right movement of the wrist or position of the wand. Was it only wishful thinking spawned by his overtaxed imagination, or had Voldemort had difficulties summoning his power?

He sighed, as inaudibly as possible. It did not really matter, did it? Pettigrew might be a traitor, might even be a potential double traitor, but to find that out would take time. For now, he had to think of that hateful creature as Voldemort's faithful servant, and one who could easily make up for what his Master lacked in strength. Besides, he had a lot to lose. To help Voldemort enlarge his base of power was Pettigrew’s major aim, and he would be nothing more than a fool if he acted otherwise.

They trudged further along the corridor, which was wide and high-ceilinged—he wondered where the light was coming from, for there were no torches or windows, nothing that might have interrupted the uniform smoothness of straight walls and precise right angles—until they arrived at a staircase, where the procession came to an abrupt halt. Or rather, Severus assumed it had to be a staircase.

The fortress of Azkaban was indeed a perfect cube, constructed of blocks of granite. They had been cut and put together with such exactitude that there was not a fissure, not a single crack or interruption in the uniform grey surface, except for a few windows—if they could be called thus, considering that every hundred feet or so there was a gaping, quadrangular hole in the outer wall, maybe a hundred feet under the top edge of the building. The only way of entering it was a huge and also quadrangular portal which had its centre at the point where imaginary diagonals of the western wall would have intersected. This enormous mouth, measuring about one hundred feet by one hundred, was closed by a two-winged door. An unbroken—except for the almost imperceptible vertical fissure bisecting it—expanse of titanium, its faint bluish-grey glint not unlike the colour of the Death Eaters’ masks, without handles or visible hinges. It was set back into the wall, thus leaving a narrow ledge, not broader than three feet, to stand on. Standing on this precarious perch and looking down, there was not a single member of the group who did not flatten themselves instinctively against the metal door after the first glimpse of what lay underneath: almost five hundred feet below, there was the steep slope of the cliff, and then the perfectly still, unrippled surface of the sea. Its utter stillness made the distance seem even more empty and terrifying.

Voldemort had muttered the password, the door had swung back on its hinges without a noise, and they had entered the corridor. And now, at the point where the group had stopped, the floor simply ceased to exist. There was a large opening, its dimensions mirroring the identical height and width of the corridor; cautiously stepping closer to its edge, Severus saw that, indeed, there was a staircase. If there was a path towards hell, it had to look like this. An endless succession of stairs, no railing, no visible supporting structure, just down down down into earth’s black heart. If you did one wrong step on your way down, there would be nothing left of your body when you finally arrived at the bottom. Your bones and flesh and tendons would be disintegrated into myriads of tiniest particles by the fall, lose their texture and colour, and when they finally reached the indifferent cold ground, they would be nothing more than a rain of ashes. Severus wondered why Black had not chosen that option rather than hurling himself out of the door or one of the windows.

“The cells are downstairs,” Voldemort said, in the tone of a host indicating the location of the guestroom to a friend invited to stay overnight. “Let us go down, my courageous servants.”

The last two words, and the mocking intonation, echoed through the gigantic stairwell for more than a minute, orchestrating their descent.

At that point, Severus lost track of time. He tried to count the steps but failed, because the grip of bleak anxiety around his heart and lungs was tightening by the second. Besides, he had to concentrate on his movements, careful not to step on the hem of his cloak. Some of the Death Eaters were gathering the rich folds with both hands; a defile of debutantes on their way to a rendezvous with madness.

The farther down they went, the colder and damper the air was becoming; its oxygen content seemed to be decreasing, but maybe that was merely a figment of his terrorized mind. And when the bottom was already discernible in the faint light coming from above, he began to sense the stench of rot and decay. He wanted to hold his breath but could not. He would have liked to at least put one protective hand over his nose and mouth but was afraid to lose his balance, for the stairs, glued to the walls, were so narrow that his shoulder brushed against the stone. So he tried to breathe as steadily as possible, to ignore the shaking of his legs and the sense of rising nausea.

Ten more steps. Seven. Three. They had arrived.

Down here—and probably their journey had taken them well into the island’s bowels—the atmosphere of malignant power was much denser. He saw a few of the others sway and steady themselves against the wall. Probably he was not the only one who wished to tear off his mask and take big, greedy gulps of air, its staleness and dankness notwithstanding. Obviously Voldemort was conceding them a short reprieve, and Severus used the break to glance at the surroundings. They were much as he had expected them to be. Above them, where he knew the corridor ceiling must be, he could see only blackness, like an inverted, strictly geometrical abyss. The vertical walls, with the stairs running along them like harsh, varicose veins. The floor, made of the same granite as the whole building. Exactly in its centre he noticed a small opening covered by an iron grating; upon closer examination he saw that the floor was sloping towards it ever so slightly. Having deducted that the light had to enter into the building through a sophisticated system of shafts and maybe mirrors, he supposed that there was a similar mechanism down here for letting in seawater to clean the cells. He shuddered. Even House Elves were kept under more humane conditions.

In the middle of each of the four walls was a quadrangular opening; they gave access to four identical tunnels, lower and narrower than the corridor above but still of impressive dimensions. Three men could walk abreast easily. These tunnels had to lead to the cells.

Barty/Black’s voice reverberated eerily in the granite-enclosed space, when he uttered his first command since they had entered the prison. The hoarseness of his voice betrayed the effort it cost him to speak coherently. Not that it was going to make Voldemort suspicious. The Dark Lord knew what effect a prolonged stay in Azkaban—even though Barty had spent considerably less time here than Black—had on people he deemed inferior to himself. “Four g-groups of four,” he croaked, stumbling lightly at the second word, “You—” he pointed at Severus, Lucius and Owen “—come with me.”

Apart from his sudden unease, because Voldemort used to be the only one able to tell his followers apart when they were wearing their masks, Severus felt relieved. When Pettigrew’s group had joined—and, to say the truth, practically saved—them, he had in vain tried to gauge Lucius and Owen’s posture; it betrayed nothing, unless one took the fact that they were both walking upright as a proof of their being unharmed; relatively, at any rate. With Voldemort remaining in the central space, upright and arms crossed in front of his chest, Nagini slithering and coiling around him, and the others safely out of hearing distance, they might get a chance at exchanging a few words.

“Password for the cells is ‘Lethe’,” Lucius muttered.

Barty/Black merely grunted in reply and swiftly preceded them into the corridor. The first cell was empty. “I’m sure the Lestranges are in this block,” he whispered to the others, “Should we simply kill them?”

As quickly as they had entered it, they left the cell and opened the next one. That, too, was uninhabited. “First let’s see which condition they are in,” Lucius hissed.

Down the corridor, door by door by door, their strange choreography continued—open, enter, a few words, out, next. Then, near the end of the passage, Barty/Black stopped with an audible gasp. Through the slits of their masks, the three shot him a questioning look. He merely pointed at himself; no more was needed to indicate that this had been the place he had spent twelve years of his life in.

The cells were terrible. More so, Severus thought, because of the total absence of any… well, of anything. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, in those bare cubicles. No chair, no desk, no cot. No window, merely a faint shimmer of dead light seeping in through four holes in the ceiling, one in each corner. The doors were smaller copies of the main entrance. In the wall opposite the door, maybe two feet above the floor, was another opening, which Severus presumed served for flooding the cell once it was in need of being cleaned. He could well imagine that the inmates had gone mad, even before the Dementors were employed. It was impossible to retain one’s sanity without giving the mind something to hold on to—the iron bars of a small, out-of-reach window, or the minuscule dent in the iron frame of a cot. The progress of a spider weaving its web up there on the ceiling, the sound of echoing footsteps when the guards went on their rounds. Or maybe even the sound of wind and waves outside would have been enough. But not only were the cells so far down that no noise could possibly penetrate the tons of stone separating the prisoners from the outside world, there was no wind. No splash of water against rock, for there was no wind at Azkaban.

It was hell. The hell of silence, where sooner or later every thought and emotion would yield to the grinding pressure of stone and time. Severus found breathing increasingly difficult.

“They must be here,” Black whispered when they had entered the next cell. “I remember their screams when the Dementors dragged them past my cell.”

Reluctantly, Severus began to understand the extent of Black’s sufferings in this grave—no, it was worse than a grave. If you were buried alive, you might at least find comfort in the thought that sooner or later there would be no more oxygen for you to breathe. Once hope had become desperation, and desperation resignation, you might even die peacefully. Not so here. There was quiet, but no peace.

On they went, to find more empty cells. Then, the last door. They stopped and looked at each other. Even Owen, usually as susceptible to atmospheres as a piece of brick, convulsively opened and closed his free hand. They had known St. John and Tabitha at the height of their power and beauty. In the end, they had hated and feared the infamous couple, and certainly wished them dead. They had carefully prepared and carried out the plan to frame them, to have them put away forever in the depths of Azkaban. Hercules and Circe, thrown into the pit of decay. If the Lestranges were even marginally sane, it would be inevitable to kill them, for if they recovered, their revenge would be terrible.

“One of you has to do it,” Barty/Black said, “I can’t, I… I’m barely able—”

“Lethe!” Owen pronounced, without waiting for the other to finish his explanation.

Noiselessly, the doors slid back into the walls. Three hands flew up to stifle the gasp of horror that escaped their mouthless faces; Barty/Black merely emitted a groan and sagged against the corridor wall.

During the days Black had spent at Malfoy Manor being trained for the part he had to play, he had told them that the only thing the prisoners received in more than liberal quantities was nourishment. It could not be called food, for it was a greyish-brown substance, somewhere between solid and glutinous, almost tasteless but highly nurturing. It appeared in the cells at irregular intervals—or maybe they were regular, but how should the prisoners have told?—without any cutlery, so that they had to use their fingers to scoop up dollops from the parchment-like plate that dissolved into thin air once they stopped eating. Black had remained in his dog form most of the time, either dozing or getting as much physical exercise as was possible within that narrow space; in his animal guise, he had not minded this fashion of quelling his hunger too much. And he had succeeded in keeping himself in acceptable physical shape.

Not so St. John Lestrange.

When Severus, well hidden under an Invisibility Cloak and a Confundus Charm, had seen him at the trial, he had already gone slightly seedy. After merely a couple of weeks in Azkaban. But now… Severus briefly turned his back at the sight and steadied himself against the wall with his left hand, wand arm dangling limply, in an attempt to quench a violent fit of nausea. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lucius’s eyes, dark and dilated behind his mask. His breath was hitching and irregular, and he seemed to have trouble remaining upright. Owen, swaying slightly, merely repeated, over and over again, “Oh Merlin, oh Merlin, oh Merlin…”

Their former Head of House, blonde, blue-eyed and athletic, whose Classical-Greek good looks had caused the heartbeat of every female student at Hogwarts to shoot up to life-endangering levels, was now an almost amorphous mass of fat. Severus had seen him and immediately turned away; now, he forced himself to calm down and have another look. The prisoners’ robes were made of some nondescript but resistant material, of a non-colour somewhere between grey and green. Considering the physical changes every convict underwent sooner or later, they were enchanted to shrink or expand, according to the wearers’ thinning or fattening. Otherwise, Severus thought—and he had to suppress a burst of hysterical laughter at the idea—Lestrange would now be naked on top of everything else. But even so, he was a terrible sight to behold. The girth of his arms resembled that of Owen's thighs, but without a trace of muscle. The hands protruding from the sleeves of his formless shirt were so laden with fat that Severus doubted whether the man was still able to bend his fingers. His hair, once curly gold, was almost gone; the blue eyes, embedded in pouches of adipose tissue, had lost the light of intelligence. They were the eyes of a beast, numbed by years of captivity.

Severus's eyes travelled further down, over the chin and throat, which were not distinguishable from each other anymore, to the bags of fat similar to sagging female breasts, the enormous, bloated abdomen, the legs that seemed mere useless, if massive, appendixes… A new wave of nausea hit him when he realized that St. John Lestrange could not change his sitting position, except for shifting by a few inches. His clothes were caked with excrements. Gathering all his strength, he forced himself to analyse the stench that made the air unbreathable. Besides the piss and the shit and the sweat, there was also a pungently sweet note of decay. The man had to be rotting alive.

At his left, Lucius gave a soft yelp and nudged Severus's upper arm with his elbow, pointing to the other corner. Then he stumbled out into the corridor, where he was violently sick. Severus understood him only too well. They had found Tabitha, too.