The Sybil's Oracle: Book Three

Chapter 13

By Pigwidgeon37

Before they returned to the house, Severus cast a few charms on Nimue, so as to make her distress less obvious. Although the traces of tears and her crumpled appearance were in no way related to the spark of something more than merely giving and receiving comfort that had briefly glowed between them, he felt a little disappointed, as if he were wiping off everything: the salty paths from her cheeks and the smears of grass and earth from her blouse, together with the shimmer of affection from her eyes and the feeling of his skin under hers from her fingers. Something had happened during the hours spent together under the tree, and now it was over. Over but not gone, he told himself. Or at least he hoped so.

The charms he had to perform were simple, and thus his mind was free to wander, or rather—the mental image the thought evoked was quite hilarious—it was free to do some strange act of contortionism, in order to look at itself. No mirrors there, so the result was probably not perfect. Acceptable, maybe. Whether satisfying or not, this moment of self-examination was necessary in any case, because he had such difficulties believing what was happening within and to himself. Not that he was in any danger of suddenly beginning to write sonnets, or of crawling after her on his knees and gazing at her longingly, or of feeling the urge to impress her by his prowess on a broomstick. He did not feel lovesick, and he did not even feel in love. He just felt that inexplicable softness where she was concerned, and the absolute impossibility of defending himself against her. But why? That was the important question, the one that nagged him incessantly. Was it really possible that the mere certainty of Nimue and himself being destined for each other produced such changes within him? He had a passing knowledge of Muggle psychology and knew that there was such a thing as the subconscious and its complex psychodynamics set in motion by Merlin knew which trivialities. But the prediction hidden in his medallion was conscious knowledge. Too conscious, too ever-present. So what was happening to him? Or—and that possibility was maybe even more unsettling—was it not really happening? Was he just trying to follow a predestined path, and developing the appropriate symptoms as he went along? Something like a false pregnancy of the mind? He shook his head at his own cluelessness and returned his attention to Nimue.

Even without swollen, bloodshot eyes, blocked nose, and with her linen blouse restored to its pristine, clean state, she still looked quite pitiful. But he had managed to calm her sufficiently to go back to the house, search for Lucius and discuss the next steps with him. Severus hoped for her sake that, by now, the Lord of the Manor would have come to terms with last night’s disaster, and thus be halfway treatable.

Yelena must have Apparated into the entrance hall mere seconds before they opened the door; the whole family was still standing around her, exchanging greetings and asking about her stay in Bulgaria. Severus sent a mental thank-you to Fortune, who had arranged this comfortably domestic scene for Nimue to witness first thing after entering the house. A crying Narcissa or still-sulking Lucius would not have had a very beneficial effect on her.

He gave Yelena a smile of gratitude behind Nimue’s back, when she greeted the girl with a firm hug before turning to him. “How have you been?” he asked after she had kissed him on both cheeks.

“Quite well, thank you. Although it was unbearably hot. And the news I heard was rather disconcerting. Nothing that could not wait until dinner, though. Right now, I have to rest a little.” She gave them all a smile and turned towards the staircase.

Lucius was about to leave in the direction of the library, but Severus called him back. “I think Nimue wants to discuss some matters of importance with you.”

“Yes, of course.” Lucius passed a weary hand over his eyes and straightened his shoulders. “Come with me to my study, then.” He had already reached the stairs when he noticed that Nimue was still standing on the same spot. “Well?” he said, turning round and frowning at her.

“Can Sev—I mean, Professor… can he come, too?”

“Of course,” was his curt answer before he started climbing the stairs.

Nimue fidgeted with the tails of her blouse, shot Severus a sideways glance and said, “Sorry, it’s just a bit difficult, after…” Then she brusquely turned away and ran after Lucius.

He caught up with her when she was already halfway upstairs. “The offer still stands, you know?”

“I wasn’t sure whether…”

“I don’t believe in eating my words. Once they are out, they are out. And, just for your information, I don’t regret having made this particular offer.”

The frown that had crept over her face at his first words gave way to a smile. “Oh. Then I think I’ll accept… Severus.”

Lucius, who had been waiting for them at the door to his study and thus overheard the last part of their exchange, shook his head. “Are you sure this is a good idea? You’ll have to switch back to ‘Professor’ in little more than a month.”

Nimue rolled her eyes at him. “So what? I’ll hardly be calling you Lucius anymore, once school has started.”

“I truly hope so,” Lucius retorted with a smirk, and, with a gentle clap on the small of her back, ushered her inside the room. “This bloody war is turning me into an alcoholic,” he said to Severus, while he poured both of them a drink.

Severus raised his eyebrows. “The war? I hardly remember ever seeing you without a glass in your hand, Malfoy. Not since you turned fifteen.”

“Indeed. But it feels good to blame it on Voldemort. Nimue,” he said, motioning for her to join them, “this is not a museum. Kindly sit down here with us.”

“But—” she frantically waved her hand at one of the bookshelves “—you’ve got the Grand Grimoire of—”

“Thank you for pointing that out. And now sit down. Anything to drink?”

“I think I could use one of these, too,” she said, as naturally as if she were asking for pumpkin juice.

Lucius shook his head. “You must be out of your mind, my dear.”

“But Professor, I mean Severus, always—”

An evil grin slowly spreading across his face, Lucius looked at Severus. “Sev? Corrupting the youth? Next thing you know, you’ll be downing a cup of hemlock.”

“One tenth whiskey, nine tenths water,” Severus replied by way of an explanation. While Lucius, still chuckling, went to prepare the drink, he glared at Nimue. She merely shrugged.

“All right,” Lucius said, returning to his seat and handing Nimue her tumbler. “What is it you want to discuss?”

“Well…” She stared out of the window, visibly fighting against a new rush of tears. “Severus told me what happened last night…”

His expression once again serious, Lucius nodded. “It must have been a shock. I am very sorry indeed about your loss, but there was no way we could prevent it.”

“I know.” It sounded sincere. “I’m not blaming you, neither of you. It’s… I suppose it just had to happen that way. I know it sounds callous, but I’m more sorry for myself than for them.”

“Understandable,” Lucius said. “So I take it you are worried about your future?”

“Well… yes, to say the truth. I mean, don’t think I’m ungrateful, but… What exactly does being my guardian mean? What decisions can you make for me? What are your rights and duties?”

Lucius took a deep breath and crossed his legs. “Basically, it’s a magical contract. Binding, final, no getting out of it etcetera etcetera. However, it gives me more duties than rights. For example, I have to provide for your upbringing, which is a moot point anyway.”

“Why?” she asked, frowning.

“Because you, my dear Nimue, are the unique heiress of an immense fortune. I shall, of course, continue to administrate it for you until you come of age, but rest assured, you don’t need to worry about money.”

“Oh…” It took her a while to digest this piece of news. “Could you… I mean how much is it, approximately?”

“Difficult to say. I suppose that Monrepos will slip through your fingers—”

“What’s Monrepos?” she interrupted him.

“The Lestrange family seat,” Severus explained. “Down in Wales.”

Her eyes widened. “Something like… this?” she asked, pointing at the floor.

“Oh, yes,” Lucius said, “More or less. But, as I said, it still belongs to your grandfather who is not even seventy yet. As far as I know, it is currently uninhabited, because the rest of the family live in France. However—” he grinned at Severus “—knowing Sinclair and Héloïse, they won’t give it up without a fight in case he dies. So don’t count on it. Your inheritance is mainly money, jewels, books… Yes,” he said, patting her hand, “I know that’s the magical word to cheer you up.” He merely smirked at the indignant look she gave him. “So, to return to the business of being your guardian: you have to ask my consent if you want to marry before coming of age, you can’t change or drop out of school without my permission. That kind of stuff. On the other hand, I am going to be held responsible for any offences you might commit.”

“I see.” She was pleating the tails of her blouse into tiny folds with her fingernails. “Would you… I mean, just in case there is some really important decision, do you think you might consult my mum and dad?”

“No.” Lucius’s tone of voice was firm but not unkind. “Try to understand, Nimue. Which decision concerning yourself cold possibly justify putting your adoptive parents into such danger? Look,” he said, raising his hand, because she was about to reply, “try to reason this way: If I become your guardian—and I have little doubt that I will—my rights and duties will be more or less the same as if I were your father. So just answer me one question: Do you have any reason to think that Draco or Selene are constantly being forced to do things against their will?”

“No, but they’re your own flesh and blood, and—”

“And you are my wife’s blood relative. I am hardly a saint, Nimue—I would, indeed, strongly object if anyone dared to call me thus—but never let it be said that I don’t protect my family.”

She sighed. “You know, it’s less about protection and safety and all that. It’s the small things that worry me, the everyday problems. What if…” She stared at the ceiling, evidently searching for a striking example. Severus was curious to see what she was going to come up with. “Let’s pretend you want to cheer up your students, once you’re headmaster, and decide there will be a Valentine’s Ball.” Lucius almost dropped his tumbler and merely stared at her. “I said let’s pretend. So, I need dress robes, and I buy them, because I suppose you’ll give me some kind of allowance. I love my new dress robes, but you object, because the neckline’s too deep or the fabric too transparent.” When Lucius put down his glass and doubled over with laughter, gasping for breath, she shook her head—the very picture of indignation. “Okay, that wasn’t a very good example. Another then. What if—”

“Nimue,” Lucius, who had recovered from his hilarity, interrupted her, “Do you really think that I bother with such matters? You are going to have—as you rightly guessed—a generous monthly allowance, which you will be free to spend at your own discretion. You are fifteen, and both intelligent and mature enough to make your own choices. If you mess up, beware of the consequences. If you dishonour the family name, you’ll certainly regret it. If you get into trouble, come to me, and I’ll try to get you out of it. But I’m not your fashion consultant, my dear.”

She frowned at him. “That sounds great,” she said, “But it doesn’t cancel the fact that you’re pretty authoritarian.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lucius leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“I said you are authoritarian. Maybe you’re not even aware of it, but everybody here behaves as if you were God Almighty. I don’t think I can do that. I haven’t been brought up that way, and I simply don’t want to flatter your male ego whenever you need it.”

This, Severus thought, had to be the first time anybody had had the nerve to say such a thing to Lucius. Like his father before him, he was the family patriarch—his authority never questioned, his whims always indulged—and nobody would even have dreamed of questioning this position. He seemed to take it quite well, though. No angry red was yet showing on his throat and face. Yet.

“God Almighty?” Lucius drawled, “Interesting that you should use that simile. But then, you might also want to remember that, when the citizens of Sodom and Gomorrah decided that—how exactly did you put it?—that they did not want to flatter His male ego anymore, their… er, reward was a somewhat fiery downpour.” The smile he gave her did not even reach the corners of his mouth.

She nodded, apparently not much intimidated. “True. But that merely proves my point. So—” she chucked off her shoes, pulled up her feet and tucked them underneath her “—let’s try to approach the point in a different manner. After all, a rain of brimstone would damage the polish of your desk. Tell me, do I have another option?”

“You mean an alternative to becoming my ward? Oh yes, of course.”

“Would you mind telling me?”

“Not at all. There are your uncle and aunt, Sinclair and Héloïse Lestrange.”

“The ones who wouldn’t give up the house without a fight?”

“The very ones. Narcissa’s parents and thus my in-laws. May I suggest that you ask Narcissa whether it would be a good idea to move in with them?”

Nimue tilted her head and scrutinized him. “You don’t like them, do you?”

“Certainly not. But do not let that fact influence your judgment. You might want to consider, though, that such a decision on your part will entail grave consequences for myself, my family, and probably also Severus. Oh, and Owen, but I am sure you don’t mind.”

“Oh,” she said and fell silent, crossed her arms and stared down at her knees.

Lucius and Severus exchanged a glance of conspiratorial mirth. Although the situation in itself was grave, it was always fun to indulge in a little sparring match with a Gryffindor. And in spite of the soft spot he was developing for Nimue, Severus was well aware that a forehead-to-forehead confrontation of the Stags-During-Mating-Season kind was never going to get them anywhere, even though she was likely to lose it. All she would do was lick her wounds, revel in her defeat and draw new strength from it, for more confrontation and opposition, which they really could not afford. She had to realize what was at stake and make her decision accordingly. To ensure a favourable outcome, they could always count on her sense of honesty and loyalty.

“So Voldemort knows of my existence,” she said after a few minutes of silence. “And what exactly did you promise him?”

“Well…” Severus briefly pondered how to make the truth palatable for her. “Maybe I should explain what we have told him so far.” At her nod, he continued, “Basically, we told him the truth. That we had to snatch you before the Aurors got you, that we deemed hiding you in the Muggle world preferable to leaving you with your grandparents, although we gave different reasons for that decision. And that, once he had returned, we were sure that, sooner or later, your parents were going to leave Azkaban and claim you. That we meant to score points with both them and Voldemort, and thus killed your adoptive family and abducted you. For the last bit, we had to twist the truth a little, so as to make him believe that you are currently held prisoner at Malfoy Manor.”

She looked from one to the other, shaking her head. “And he really bought that bunch of crap?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Lucius said. “Try to look at it from his point of view. He believes himself to be invincible, and he thinks that we are his loyal servants. He doesn’t expect to be deceived, and therefore he bought our version of the events, yes.”

“Hmm…” She shot them a doubtful glance. “And what did you promise him?”

“Nothing much,” Lucius said, smoothing his robes over his knee. “I merely had to pledge that I would see to your… er, education.”

“Meaning that you’ll mould me into a perfect replacement for my parents?”

“Exactly. Just the same he assumes I am doing with Draco.”

“But…” She swallowed. Her fingers were clenched around her glass. “But Draco isn’t… I mean, you don’t…”

“Of course I don’t,” Lucius snarled. “That is exactly my point. He never recruits anybody under eighteen, at least he has never done it in the past. Underage magic outside of Hogwarts is closely monitored, and unless he solves that particular problem, sending a fifteen-year-old out on a mission would merely cause lots of unnecessary trouble. So we have three years.”

“Until shit hits the fan.”

“What a colourful expression. But essentially correct.” He took a sip of his drink. “He might, of course, want to meet both you and Draco earlier than that, but I am sure you will be up to it.”

She gasped. “Up to it? What if he feeds me Veritaserum?”

“You can resist Veritaserum,” Severus chimed in.

“That’s simply not true! I read—”

“Believe me, Nimue. If I tell you that you’re able to resist it, you’re able to resist it. Potter managed to shake off Voldemort’s Imperius Curse, didn’t he? Did you read about that in one of your books?”

“No, but…” She frowned. “I suppose you wouldn’t find that in just any book.”

Suppressing a Cheshire Cat grin, because she had walked right into his trap, he replied, “And why would anybody, especially the Ministry, have an interest in spreading the knowledge that Veritaserum isn’t the almighty truth drug?”

She nodded slowly. “Point taken. So, just to sum this up: unless I agree to accept Lucius as my guardian, Voldemort sends out his goons to kill you, me and the entire family, which makes the problem of dress robes seem relatively unimportant. Correct?”

Lucius smiled and bowed his head. “Absolutely.”

“And if I do my best not to get you-cum-family in trouble, I can be sure of your unconditional protection. Correct?”

“Your way of putting things might be a tad blunt, but, again, you are correct,” Lucius agreed.

“Fine.” She put away her glass and rose. “Then I think we have a deal.” Right hand outstretched and a solemn expression on her face, she stood in front of Lucius.

He looked up at her, his head slightly tilted, then got up as well and took her hand. “Although this is not yet official, welcome to the family. And I’m sure that Severus—” over her head, his eyes searched for Severus’s, who tried not to flinch “—will protect you as fiercely as we will. Won’t you, Sev?”

Nimue’s hand was still within Lucius’s, but she half-turned her head and smiled at him. “Yes,” she said, “I’m sure he will.”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed slightly, as he looked first at her, then at Severus, and his right eyebrow quivered almost imperceptibly. “I see,” was all he said before sitting down again, but those two syllables held a world of curiosity finally satisfied. “Well then, I am glad that this matter is settled.” Severus wondered whether he was referring to Nimue’s decision or to having put two and two together. “You will of course understand,” Lucius continued, “that we have to wait until the fall of Azkaban becomes official, so to speak.”

“You mean it isn’t—but I thought that by now…” Nimue frowned.

“No, no,” Severus said. “It’s one of Voldemort’s little games. He intends to wait until the papers report McFarlane’s death—The Governor of Azkaban,” he explained, seeing her puzzled look. “And then—”

“But there must be something in the Daily Prophet!” she interrupted him. “I saw the Dark Mark at the Quidditch World Cup—how could anybody have overlooked that?”

“We didn’t leave one,” Lucius replied. “Too dangerous, because the other group needed time for breaking the wards safeguarding Azkaban.”

Her face suddenly pale again, she stared at her soon-to-be guardian. “The other…” She took a deep breath. “So you were… You had to… Did you do it?” The last words came out as a hoarse whisper.

That, Severus thought, was exactly the reason why he had been so anxious about being selected by Pettigrew for his hit squad. And now that he saw her reaction, he realized that he had been less worried about an indignant or contemptuous outburst. No, he had not wanted to see her face turn into a battlefield of conflicting emotions. He could clearly see how she was oscillating between fear—understandable, he thought, after all this was the first time she found herself face to face with a killer, knowing that he had killed less than twenty-four hours ago—compassion, understanding and self-hate because she so desperately wanted to understand instead of condemning.

“No,” Lucius said, “Nott killed them. My… part came earlier than that.”

She drew a ragged breath. “I… Did you…” She cleared her throat and grabbed one shaking hand with the other, so as to steady them. “Did you torture him?”

Lucius sighed. “Nimue, I am not sure what idea you have formed of myself, but I assure you that this is a memory I have no particular desire to relive. I don’t enjoy torturing people,” he added, a sharp edge to his voice.

She blushed and nodded. “Sorry. That was very rude. I had no right—”

Her apology was interrupted by a brief but forceful knocking on the door. Lucius sighed and closed his eyes. For a moment, he looked much older than his thirty-seven years. “Come in!” he called, once he had schooled his face back into its customary alert expression.

The door opened and in came Owen, brandishing what looked like the Daily Prophet. When he saw the group of three, he stopped and looked from one to the other. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No, no,” Lucius said, “We had practically finished.” He pointed at the newspaper Owen was holding. “Have they already discovered the bodies? Then they were much quicker than I thought.”

“Yes, but—” Owen handed him the Prophet “—look what they made of it. A special edition, and then this!” He snorted and went to pour himself a drink, while Lucius unfolded the paper.

“Azkaban Governor Gerald McFarlane dies—no!” he said, lowering the newspaper and shooting Severus an incredulous look.

“Well, what?” Severus rose and went to stand behind the other wizard. “A Muggle car crash? That’s… unbelievable!”

“But why—”

They had completely forgotten that Nimue was still present, taking in the news and probably as astonished as they were. “Nimue,” Lucius said, “If you would please excuse us?”

“All right,” she said gruffly. Already at the door, she turned back. “But you’ll explain to me afterwards, won’t you?” she asked Severus.

He nodded, without allowing himself to smile at her. “Of course. Now go.”

“Well,” Lucius said after the door had closed behind her, “That’s certainly unexpected.”

“Wait till you turn the page,” Owen said, sitting down on the chair previously occupied by Nimue.

Lucius’s eyebrows shot up. “There’s more?”

“See for yourself.”

Still standing behind Lucius’s chair, Severus read ‘DUMBLEDORE RETIRES—LUCIUS MALFOY NEW HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS’. “Well,” he said, looking at the other two, “that’s certainly a more intelligent move than I’d have thought Fudge capable of. Playing down McFarlane’s death, and topping it with the news people will really be interested in…” He returned to his chair. “I’m very curious to see Voldemort’s reaction.”

“Indeed.” Owen took a deep swig of his whiskey. “I wonder who came up with that car crash idea. It’s pretty ingenious—Tricia McFarlane was a Mudblood, so it fits perfectly. But the problem is of course that they haven’t been murdered, according to the Prophet. So he can’t possibly claim it for himself.”

Lucius wagged his head. “Remember summer ’74? When they sunk that Muggle boat near Urqhart? He wrote the Ministry a letter back then. He could do the same now—not to Fudge, of course, but what about the Daily Prophet? Pierson has a big grudge against Fudge, after all he had her archives burnt down, and her feelings won’t have become any friendlier, considering that his Aurors haven’t yet found a trace of Skeeter.”

“That’s a possibility,” Owen conceded. “By the way—” he motioned for Lucius to go back to the article concerning Hogwarts “—Dumbledore kept his promise: it’s clearly stated that he chose the replacements for DADA and CMC, much to Fudge’s displeasure. The governors don’t seem to have forgotten the stunt you pulled two years ago—they must have danced on the table with joy, thinking they got their own back at you.”

Lucius chuckled. “I suppose so. They’re not completely mistaken, you know? Having to deal with Maribel Bulstrode is hardly a pleasure.” He scanned the page for more information. “Ah, he’ll stay at Hogwarts till 10 August. Wonderful. So he can answer his own letters—I’m sure that by tomorrow Hogwarts will be invisible under a cloud of owls.”

“Well, then,” Owen said, rising from his chair, “I’m afraid I have to leave you—I just wanted to discuss this with you. But Sybil and I are going to Las Vegas—”

“You are what?” Severus thought he had misunderstood the last words.

“You heard me right. We are going to Las Vegas—no, Malfoy, not for gambling.” Lucius smiled and raised his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Ever heard of David Copperfield?”

Severus snorted. “Not everybody is as illiterate as you. Of course I—”

“Not the one of Dickensian fame. The Muggle, who claims he’s a wizard. Makes things disappear.”

“What kind of things?” Lucius asked, “Doughnuts?”

Owen rolled his eyes. “Things like the Statue of Liberty, for example. Airplanes. Huge things, just to give you the general idea. Sybil thought it might be fun to watch, and I have to say I’m curious.”

“How is Sybil these days?” Severus inquired, observing Owen’s reaction. “She’s making herself pretty scarce.”

“A little under the weather,” Owen replied and shrugged. “Nothing serious, though. I suppose the whole Voldemort business is getting to her. I’m glad I’ll be at Hogwarts, too, this year. Hopefully it will make things easier.” He raised his right hand in a brief salute and left the room.

Lucius and Severus exchanged a long, thoughtful look.

“He seems pretty normal,” Lucius finally said.

Severus sighed. “Yes. Yes, he seems pretty normal. But so did Mad-Eye Moody.”

~~~~*~~~~

“It looks… creepy, doesn’t it?”

The others had already Apparated to Hogwarts; the three horseless carriages containing the luggage of the five Malfoys, Severus and Nimue were already out of sight. A light-grey sky hung high above Malfoy Manor, and there was a slight chill in the air, despite the absence of wind. With all the shutters closed, the Manor looked truly sinister; its huge bulk seemed to swallow the colours of the surroundings. Not even the exotic flowers, now in full bloom along the gravel-strewn paths, were able to cling to their gaudy tints. The deep purples, oranges and pinks were faded, as if aware that they did not really belong here and might flourish only while life was buzzing around them.

“Yes,” Severus agreed. “It looks… dead.”

Nimue shivered slightly. “Don’t say it, please. I think we’d better leave now.”

“Yes, we really should.” Severus opened his arms. “Hold on.”

When he felt her arms sneak around his waist, he could hardly believe that this very same position, necessary for joint Apparition, had caused him so much awkwardness, if not flat-out displeasure, only four weeks ago. A little more than four weeks, true. But three or four days did not really matter where changes of such dramatic nature were concerned. Nothing noticeable had happened since they had spent a whole afternoon under the willow at the pond. Nothing noticeable concerning him and Nimue, that is. As a matter of fact, this embrace, which technically was not even an embrace but a means to an end, was the first physical contact they shared since that day.

“I don’t really want to go back,” she said, taking a step backwards. Her arms were still resting lightly around his midriff.

Severus smiled down at her. “You? You don’t want to go back to Hogwarts, where you’ll have the library all to yourself for an entire month?”

“There’s more to life than books,” she stated gravely.

“And you have discovered it here?”

“Mmh…” Her eyes narrowing, she looked up and into his eyes. “Yes, I think so.”

“And you’re sure you can’t find it at Hogwarts, too?”

“N-no. Not sure. But… things will change once we’re there. People will have to go about their own business…”

“If…” He hesitated, not wanting to expose himself. Then again, he thought, what might she be talking about except their friendship? “The distance between our doors might be a little less comfortable than here, but I’ll give you the password to my quarters.”

“Really?” Her eyes lit up. Then her face fell. “But people will notice.”

Frowning at her in mock-reprimand, he said, “Don’t tell me you never used an Invisibility Spell.”

“No, I—we had Harry’s cloak, you know? You already did know, didn’t you?” she asked, suddenly alarmed.

“After that stunt he pulled with Draco near the Shrieking Shack, that was more or less obvious. But the spell is better, in many ways. For one, a sudden gust of wind can’t blow it off. I’ll show it to you. It’s—” he looked at the surrounding hills and smiled at the memory “—it’s been part of my repertoire since my earliest days at school.”

“You?” She shook her head and grinned. “A prankster? I don’t believe it. And you’ll really show me the spell?”

“Yes. Promised. And now—” He drew her closer to him, his hands on her shoulders. “Ready?”

At Hogwarts the weather was much better; sunny and warm, with a few clouds lazily following a light breeze. For a moment, they both stood and held their faces into the warm sunlight, then they quickly stepped into the carriage waiting for them inside the gate. “Do you think Harry will be here?” she asked, after the vehicle had started to roil and sway along the road.

“To tell you the truth, I have no idea whether he is still in England. I suppose that the Headmaster is going to fill us in on this and many other details.”

“Hmm…” She looked out of the window. “He’ll have read about me in the Prophet, won’t he?”

“If Dumbledore has been keeping him at Hogwarts, I should think he has. Does that worry you?”

“Well, yes. It can’t be easy for him…”

“Most of all, it’s not easy for you. Do try and stop thinking about others instead of yourself,” he said, somewhat annoyed.

“I’m thinking about myself all the time. But—” she leaned forward and stabbed at him with her right forefinger “—I’m not alone in this world, and certainly not here at Hogwarts. Therefore it’s natural for me to worry about other people’s reaction to me, isn’t it?”

“It might spoil the rest of your holidays,” he remarked dryly.

“It already does, at times,” she admitted. “It’s a pity Lucius couldn't do anything about the news leaking out.”

“Lucius had no intention of doing anything whatsoever. And, in my opinion, he chose the right option. At least your schoolmates will be prepared. Or how do you think they’d have reacted to your being called Miss Lestrange for the first time in class?”

“Not many people know who my parents were.”

“Not your peers, no. But their parents do. Having read about you now, the students can come up with their insipid conjectures while still at home. When they return to school, they’ll have already calmed down.”

“Meaning they’ll already be convinced I’m evil.”

Severus shrugged. “Most of them, probably. Unfortunately, your fellow Gryffindors don’t appreciate unexpected changes of paradigm. They can’t handle them. They’ve put you in a drawer labelled ‘Brave Know-It-All, Friend of Harry Potter, Boring But Reliable’ and now you don’t fit into it anymore.”

“But I haven’t changed!” Severus quirked an eyebrow. “Well, not that much! I’m still a—”

“Know-it-all?” he purred. Nimue merely harrumphed. “We have arrived,” he said, noticing that the carriage was slowing down.

Immediately, her expression became worried. “How should I address you now? Professor Dumbledore will be here, and—”

“Better switch back to ‘Sir’ right now.” Her face fell. “Try to look at it as a highly useful exercise in acting.”

~~~~*~~~~

Much to Severus's dismay, Potter was there.

When he had entered his quarters—no stale air this time, and not a speck of dust, since Peggy had arrived the day before, as usual, and evidently had a cleaning orgy—he found a note from Dumbledore inviting him to lunch at the Headmaster’s quarters. Not that the invitation was unexpected—after all, there was much to be discussed. Nor did it surprise him that the others’ presence, too, had been requested. Potter, on the other hand, he could easily have done without.

As he muttered the password ‘Jelly Slugs’ to the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster’s office, he grinned to himself, thinking that, once Lucius was Headmaster, there was going to be a different kind of password. As changes went, this certainly was one he wholeheartedly appreciated. The statue jumped aside, and he had not yet set foot on the staircase when he already heard Potter’s voice. His mood immediately plummeted from ‘slightly annoyed’ to ‘highly annoyed’; the fact that Potter’s voice was breaking—finally, he thought, and much later than most of his peers’—at least provided some mild amusement, so his mood at least did not precipitate right down to ‘severely pissed-off’.

Entering Dumbledore's office, he noticed that he was the first to arrive and fought the urge to roll his eyes. Pre-lunch small talk with The Boy Who Lived and the Headmaster was not his idea of fun. He shook Dumbledore's hand and, while he murmured his polite thanks for the invitation, let his eyes roam the office. Apparently, its occupant had almost finished his preparations for moving out. The bookshelves were empty and gaping like toothless gums, and there was a strange silence in the room, due to the absence of Dumbledore's many humming devices and trinkets. It looked odd, Severus thought, odd and much bigger than before. The portraits of Headmasters past seemed to rather appreciate the change. Most of them were not snoozing placidly in their frames but darting curious looks here and there. A few had even left the paintings, probably to spread the news around the castle.

“Mr. Potter,” he coolly acknowledged the boy’s presence. When those annoying green eyes kept staring at him, he snapped, “Anything the matter?”

Potter flinched. “No, Sir, it’s just your… er…” He fell silent and gestured at Severus's head.

“It is called hair, Mr. Potter. You are hardly a trichologist, so pray explain your sudden interest, would you?”

“N-nothing, sir.” He looked away.

Strange, Severus thought. Very, very strange. Usually, any biting comment on his part unfailingly produced the same reaction: Potter’s eyes would narrow, he would clench his teeth and raise his chin, ready to attack. What with Dumbledore present, he would have expected the boy to feel even more self-assured, more justified in his never-ending crusade against Snape-the-Bastard—hardly a miracle, considering how many times the Headmaster had let down, not to say humiliated, his Potions Master in front of his pet student. But Potter remained silent, and Severus, who had turned part of his attention back to Dumbledore to utter and respond to meaningless comments about the weather, thought that the boy was far from being his usual self. He looked wilted, diminished, haunted even. His eyes, usually as bright as the gems they were constantly being compared to, seemed distant and empty, like the glass shards one found on the beach, their shine and edges taken away by the perpetual friction of sand and water. Was he still under the effect of having caused, if by pure coincidence, the death of a fellow student? Or was it merely the weight of responsibility resting on him, slowly grinding his cocky Gryffindor attitude to powder? Not for the first time, Severus felt a stab of anger at Dumbledore, who preferred having the child destroyed by the spectre of a responsibility that had never really been his. His own sentiments concerning the boy were less than friendly—there had been no reason for him to change his mind—but those feelings notwithstanding, he fundamentally objected to anybody being turned into a chess piece. Probably because it had happened to himself. And he had certainly not enjoyed the experience.

But, he thought, the boy certainly had not lost all of his spunk. That much became obvious when Lucius and his family made their entrée. Although Potter had certainly been prepared by Dumbledore—and Severus could well imagine the bunch of half-truths the old man had fed his Gryffindor pet—the hate in his eyes was hard to miss. Severus almost snorted aloud while watching the Malfoy procession on its way across the room. It was a carefully choreographed act, a presentation of power and money, to make the beholder understand just who had the upper hand. Narcissa was wearing her society face, all icicles and polite disgust; her left hand was resting lightly on Lucius’s right forearm. Behind them Yelena and Draco, the latter leading his little sister by the hand.

Dumbledore, however, seemed to appreciate the spectacle, and kissed Narcissa's hand gallantly before shaking Lucius’s. More small talk ensued; Yelena was happy to finally meet the great Albus Dumbledore; Selene was duly admired and nearly spoiled the dignity of the moment by falling into raptures of delight over the Headmaster’s beard. Draco and Potter merely exchanged silent glares. Then Nimue arrived, a little out of breath, and the tension suddenly flared up. Or maybe, Severus thought, he was the only one who felt tense, because he did not want Potter to commit a faux pas similar to Black’s. But, grudges and antipathies aside, he had to admit that the boy possessed a lot more tact than his godfather. After she had greeted Dumbledore and stepped towards her friend, she got a simple “Hi!” and a firm hug. Severus could almost feel the girl’s relief.

“I missed you,” Potter said. “And I was worried, too. But it seems you’re alright.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling at him. “Yes, I’m okay. Sorry about not writing. I’m sure you would have needed a friend…”

He nodded. “Safety measures. I wasn’t allowed to write to you, either. Ron sends his love, by the way.”

“Well then,” Dumbledore said, “seeing as how the party is complete, we might as well see what the House Elves have prepared for us.” And he offered his arm to Yelena.

Severus had been to the Headmaster’s private quarters only a couple of times, and then only in the bedroom—many years ago, when he had already been giving information to the other side but not yet teaching at Hogwarts. He had therefore no idea—and, if truth be told, he had never given the matter much thought—how large and sumptuous those quarters were. Like between every staff member’s office and private rooms, there was a direct connection; a large doorway appeared after three taps of Dumbledore's wand on the Hogwarts crest carved into the wall behind his desk. When they stepped through, even Lucius was unable to refrain from gasping.

During his few night time visits, Severus had already conjectured that Dumbledore's rooms had to be very high up, overlooking the grounds in their entirety. Only one tower fitted that description; Lynceus Tower was the highest of all the castle’s various stony outgrowths which had been added and altered throughout Hogwarts’s millenary existence. The breathtaking panorama greeting them once they crossed the threshold proved Severus’s assumptions to be correct. The room, which had windows on three sides, was flooded with light but cool. There was not much space between the windows, and thus it seemed, at least at first sight, that the walls were made entirely of glass, or rather non-existent. Despite the midday heat, a cool breeze was drifting through the combination between salon and dining room; besides, it seemed that some elaborate charm was somewhat diminishing the heat of the direct sunlight. The creamy-white marble floor, together with the yellowish tint of the walls and the light tones of both wood and textiles, further enhanced the feeling of being in an open space, in some mythic southern paradise where summer was more than just a gruff, temporary absence of winter.

The dining table, parallel to the longer wall, was magnificently laid; golden plates, crystal goblets and heavy cutlery catching and reflecting the sunlight, so that myriads of tiny rainbows and bright sparks dotted the walls and ceiling.

Dumbledore stood smiling, waiting for his guests to take in the sight. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he finally said. “I hope you are going to like it as much as I did,” he addressed Lucius, who had strolled over to the far corner of the room to admire a magnificently carved trunk of age-darkened wood.

“This is…” His finger glided over the relief of a phoenix rising from a pile of ashes. “Marvellous and a very rare piece. And much older than Hogwarts, unless I am very much mistaken.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Much older, yes. It’s an heirloom of the Ravenclaw family, probably from the third or fourth century.”

“Incredible,” Lucius breathed and then, as if remembering his dignity and the role he had to play, straightened his shoulders and turned to face his host. “Yes, Headmaster, I am sure that these rooms will indeed be to my liking.”

Dumbledore nodded, smiled and gestured for them to sit down. While everybody was taking their seats, Severus cast a surreptitious glance at Nimue. And smiled to himself, when he saw the expression of delight on her face. Much like himself, she seemed to have an innate sense of aesthetics—the memory she had put into the Pensieve had already told him as much—and to love beautiful objects; not because of their value, just because they were beautifully crafted.

Smiling to himself, he thought that he was rather anticipating her reaction to his own quarters.