The Sybil's Oracle: Book Three

Chapter 14

By Pigwidgeon37

But it’s also time for a small warning: in this chapter, the relationship between Severus and Hermione is beginning to change. Nothing untoward or really illicit as of yet, but I’m aware of the fact that not everybody likes the idea of a 37-year-old teacher starting to get involved with his 15-year-old student. For now, there won't be any sex, and although the description is graphic, I think the sentiments expressed aren’t really offensive (the rating of this chapter is certainly not more than PG). However, I’m prepared to lose some of my readers, which I truly regret. But alas, stories have to be written the way the demand to be written. For those who are willing to continue the journey: Enjoy!

The lunch was not a formal meal, and thus the five-to-three ratio between male and female participants—not counting Selene, of course—did not really matter in terms of the seating order. Assuming, and correctly so, as it turned out, that the really important matters would be discussed later, behind closed doors and without the youngsters, Severus had deemed it more interesting to place himself closer to the younger tablemates. He was curious how the reluctant truce/friendship that had developed between Draco and Nimue was going to influence the relationship between her and Potter, and whether Potter would have the good sense to acknowledge that somebody Nimue deemed worthy of decent treatment probably had some merit.

“How long will you be staying here, Harry?” Nimue asked after her first spoonful of soup.

Potter shook his head. “I shouldn’t be here anymore,” he replied around a bite of bread. “Special favour of Dumbledore, he thought I’d want to see you… one last time,” he added, his eyes darkening.

“It’s not the bloody Apocalypse, Potter,” Draco muttered. “You might have to use your own brain for some time, provided you’ve got any, but there’s no need to make that sound as if we were all going to die!”

“You never know, do you?” Potter replied. It sounded tired, more than hostile.

“I suppose you can’t tell us where they’re sending you?” Her question, Severus thought, was pretty redundant. Then again, it had probably been motivated less by curiosity than by the wish to steer the conversation past the cliffs of enmity and aggression, or so he assumed. Observing her from under his eyelashes—since his hair did not provide sufficient cover for clandestine examination anymore, he had to resort to sipping water and darting furtive glances with his eyelids half-closed—he saw her eyes flit from one boy to the other, gauging their faces, trying to discover signs of imminent conflict. It occurred to him that her friendship with Potter and Weasley had probably pushed her into the role of peacemaker, of the one always ready to re-establish harmony, to put the others’ needs above her own and thus keep the balance. And he wondered which effect Potter’s imminent departure might have on her in the future. As far as he was able to judge the dynamics within the trio, Nimue had been investing a considerable amount of energy and strength into playing her part—energy she would be free, from now on, to use otherwise. Or maybe not, he thought frowning; maybe the Weasley brat was going to lean on her much more heavily, now that his main raison d’être, namely that of being Potter’s sidekick and alter ego, was gone.

“No,” Potter answered with a sigh. “I’m afraid I don’t know that myself. Probably I should be more grateful, but I kind of feel like a parcel containing a bomb. Everybody wants to get rid of me as soon as possible.”

Draco snorted. “At least you’re being shipped towards safety.”

“You’re one to talk, Malfoy. What with your father being the new headmaster, you won’t exactly be exposed to danger.”

Draco merely glared but said nothing.

“We’ll all be exposed, in some way or other,” Nimue observed quietly, darting Severus a brief glance.

Potter, who evidently thought that she was speaking of herself, nodded vehemently. “What about you? You’ll be more exposed than anybody else, now that people know…” He looked from her to Severus and then at Draco. “Somehow…” He cleared his throat and grinned. “I know it sounds stupid, but I felt almost relieved when I read who your real parents are—were, I mean. I’ve always been wondering about your talent, it’s just too amazing for a Muggle-born witch.”

“I almost thought you were going to say Mudblood, Potter,” Draco said, sneering at him.

“That’s not what I meant, Malfoy, and you know it!”

“Well, what did you mean? Not that there’s much room left for interpretation…” Draco shot his long-time archenemy a look of malignant superiority.

“I merely wanted to say that it’s hard to imagine that a Muggle-born witch could have so much magical power, is all!”

“Yes, Potter. I heard that, no need to repeat it. But, as I was saying, it seems to express more than a little contempt of Muggle-borns.”

Severus had already opened his mouth to interfere, but Nimue was quicker. “Stop that!” she hissed, contemporaneously glaring at Potter, who was sitting opposite her, and kicking Draco’s ankle. “Stop it, both of you! Immediately! You’re just two stupid boys!”

From his position at Potter’s left side, Severus saw a fierce blush rise to the boy’s cheeks. A vein was visibly throbbing in his throat, right under the ear where the skin was delicate and pale. Draco, on the other hand, tightened his grip around his spoon and sat up a little straighter. But, as Severus had already noticed on various occasions, once Nimue was really angry, she bore a surprising similarity to a rampaging rhinoceros—despite her petite frame and usually mild manners, she deployed an astounding amount of single-minded energy when sufficiently furious. That, more than anything else, made her so very Gryffindor; that sudden disappearance of any prudence or caution she might have used when less infuriated.

“All you’re worrying about,” she continued heatedly, accompanying her words by rhythmic taps of her spoon on the tablecloth, “is your stupid, immature cockfight! I’m so fed up with it! Don’t you realize—” and now her voice was becoming definitely shaky “—can’t you see, you infantile, stupid… males, that everything’s going to change? That we’re really sitting together, this very group, in this very room, for the last time?”

Severus’s fingers itched to reach across the table and wipe the tears of anger from her cheeks. As things were, he had to be content with watching her, and the boys’ reaction to her outburst. Draco, who had far more experience in dealing with females—of whichever age, for he was also much closer to the girls of his own house than Potter had ever been and, moreover, perceived them as very different beings—immediately smiled and nodded, and put a soothing hand over hers. Potter merely cringed and became quite flustered.

“I’m s-sorry,” he stuttered, lowering his eyes to his plate. “I didn’t mean to—Malfoy started—”

“You see?” she said, pointing at him with her spoon, “You’re doing it all over again! Infantile, just as I said.”

Selene, sitting next to her brother, had been watching the goings-on, silently fascinated and staring as only small children are allowed to. “Draco elephant!” she declared loudly, banging her spoon against the edge of her plate. “Draco elephant, Ripotta elephant!”

Lucius, who had been engaged in a conversation with his mother and Dumbledore, looked at her across the length of the table, frowned and shook his head. Her green eyes widened, and she put a finger to her mouth. “Draco elephant,” she whispered, nodding energetically.

“Infantile,” Nimue corrected her, still glaring at the boys, but her stare had lost some of its previous intensity. “But in a way,” she said sweetly, “‘elephant’ isn’t bad, either. Speaking in terms of tact and delicacy, of course, not intelligence.”

“The company you’ve been keeping seems to have rubbed off on you,” Potter observed, not without venom.

Although Severus chose not to comment on this remark, he could not help feeling somewhat gratified. Especially after the furtive smile she sent him. Draco busied himself with Selene, but his contemptuous sideways glance at Potter clearly expressed his opinion, although he, too, refrained from putting it into words.

“So,” Nimue said after the plates had been changed, “what do you know about your future, Harry? I can’t believe that Professor Dumbledore has left you completely in the dark.”

“No, not completely. I’m going to receive special training, mostly DADA and partly also Charms and Transfiguration. So I’ll be ready for… well,” he said, forcing a smile, “I guess you could call it the final combat, although it sounds awfully cliché.”

Nimue nodded pensively, all the while toying with the buttered beans on her plate. Suddenly, an abrupt movement of her fork destroyed the elaborate pattern she had assorted the vegetables into, and her head shot up. “But…” Her knife slipped from her fingers and clattered on the plate. “Sorry,” she said, when everybody turned their heads in her direction. “But,” she continued in a low voice, when the others had returned to their interrupted conversation, “what about your O.W.L.s? Maybe even your N.E.W.T.s? You might lose—” she was visibly calculating “—oh, Harry! You might lose years! You’ll forget everything you ever learned for all the other subjects, and you’ll—”

“To tell you the truth,” Harry interrupted her sharply, “I’m rather more concerned about leaving my friends.”

“That should be the least of your worries.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “We’ll be safe and—”

Potter put down his cutlery and leaned forward; the knuckles of his balled fists were almost as white as the tablecloth. “Just for your information,” he hissed—Severus saw her eyes widen in surprise, and she instinctively shrunk back into her chair, “I’m being utterly selfish, and thinking of myself! Just imagine—” and now his voice was dripping with cynicism and self-loathing “—what a bad boy the Boy Who Lived really is! He dares think about his own well-being! He has the audacity to worry how he’s going to feel in a place he doesn’t know, among people he doesn’t know, where he’ll have to stay for years!”

Seeing the tears brimming in Nimue’s eyes, Severus decided to put a stop to this conversation, which was threatening to go totally wrong. With an almost imperceptible movement of his head, he forestalled the comment Draco was about to spit out; it would certainly make things worse, he thought, as the boy’s eyes were blazing with indignation. “Mr. Potter,” he said, putting his hand on the young wizard’s left forearm, “I suggest that you save your righteous anger for those who deserve it.”

Potter slowly turned his head; his green eyes behind the glasses conveyed a desperation that momentarily overwhelmed even Severus. But he felt the muscles unclench under his hand, and saw the boy’s eyes soften slightly. “I’m sorry,” Potter said, visibly struggling for control. “It’s just… you don’t know…”

Severus nodded and pulled back his hand. His fingers closed around the cool stem of his wine glass. “Then why,” he said calmly, taking a sip, “don’t you tell us, Mr. Potter? I suppose Miss Lestrange would be far more interested in the reasons of your distress than in your—” he locked eyes with the boy “—pathetic outbursts.”

For a moment he thought Potter was going to stab him with his knife. Then, the tension suddenly broke, and the boy gave him a lopsided grin. “Of course, Sir. I’m just not sure whether anybody else is interested,” he replied, indicating Draco with a slight tilt of his chin.

“We’re civilized people, Potter,” Draco snapped, “Or at least some of us are. Which means we’re able to make polite conversation on almost any topic, including your tales of woe.”

Nimue, who had bravely swallowed her tears, shot him an evil glare. Then she looked at Potter, and her expression softened. “You didn’t see a therapist or a counsellor, did you?”

Potter snorted. “You kidding or what? Apart from the fact that the Dursleys wouldn’t even dream of paying one, I wasn’t allowed to move out of the house, for as long as I was staying with them.”

“And how long was that?” Severus inquired, more for Nimue’s sake than out of curiosity, let alone interest.

“Until the day before yesterday.” He sighed and cut a bite off his steak, though without much enthusiasm. “I know you’ll think I’m being maudlin, and whining, or whatever…” He put the piece of meat into his mouth and chewed it pensively. “It’s not as if I was lacking anything… this time, they even fed me properly. And I was allowed to move around the house.”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me? Are you saying those Muggles used to starve you and lock you in?”

“Feel free to gloat,” Potter snapped back, “But yes, they did. And, just to make you feel even more superior, they used to keep me in a kind of cupboard under the stairs, until I got my first Hogwarts letter.”

“But…” Draco swallowed and almost choked. “You’re family!”

“And a fat lot of good that did me,” Potter muttered. “Anyway, this time they were behaving almost decently. I reckon they were afraid of me…” He viciously dug his fork into the remaining half of his steak.

“Your scar continued to hurt, didn’t it?” Nimue asked.

“Yes. And sometimes…” He abruptly turned to Severus. “What the hell did Voldemort do? Some days after I returned to Privet Drive—I don’t remember the date, but it couldn’t have been more than four or five days…” His eyes were slightly glazed, and he shook his head. “It was terrible… And then again, maybe a week ago…”

The green eyes bored into his, and Severus sighed. “Karkaroff,” he said, “and then Azkaban. I suppose he… it went a little differently than he had imagined. He was very angry.”

“Figures.” Potter nodded. “Azkaban… that was the day Hermione’s parents…” He did not finish his sentence, but shot Nimue an anxious look. “Sorry, that was… tactless. And I shouldn’t be calling you Hermione, should I?”

“It won’t make much of a difference,” she replied, “since you’re about to leave anyway.” She had not eaten much, Severus noticed, and now she pushed away her plate. “And I don’t mind if you talk about them. It’s different for me, you know? I had a real family, and even now…” Her eyes swerved towards the upper end of the table. “I’ll just have to adapt,” she continued, “But it’s going to be all right. So far—” she attempted a small smile “—I haven’t been locked in or starved.”

Draco snorted. “Father wouldn’t even know where the cupboards are.”

They all laughed, and from then on the conversation proceeded more smoothly.

~~~~*~~~~

The last bite of dessert had been polished off the plates, the last drop of coffee had been drunk; the breeze playing with the gauzy white curtains had lost its sultry overtone, and the shadows in the dining room were gradually elongating. Harry Potter stood, trying to fight down his tears, trying to keep a stiff upper lip, trying to sound cheerful, when all he wanted was probably to fling himself into his friend’s arms and cry. The last greetings had already been exchanged—Nimue was wiping furiously at her eyes, and even Draco was staring at the floor with a bemused expression.

“Ready?” Dumbledore said, drawing his wand.

Potter nodded stiffly. “Ready. Good bye, Sir. And thank you. And…” His green eyes swept over them, one by one. “Good luck to you all.” He held the small black notebook he was clutching out for Dumbledore to tap with his wand. “Please don’t forget to give my love to Sirius if you see him.” Dumbledore nodded—a last smile, a last nod, and Potter was gone.

None of the people present in the room felt the need to fill the heavy pause with meaningless comments like ‘Well, that’s that then,’ or ‘Must be difficult for the boy.’ Instead, they all stood silently, as if to better acquaint themselves with the weight of the situation that seemed to suddenly have multiplied. Seconds limped by and became minutes, and still nobody said a word; then, Nimue gave a strangled sob and ran out of the room.

“I’ll go after her,” Draco said, picking up his little sister. “Come on, Selene, I’ll show you the castle.”

The adults nodded, but even this small movement was difficult to manage, Severus thought, since time seemed to have been spun into a cobweb that held their limbs in its sticky grip. Time was their ally, or their enemy—impossible to see which it really was. Probably it was both.

Dumbledore gestured for them to sit down in the chairs grouped near the fireplace, which occupied a large part of the windowless wall. “We have a lot to discuss,” he said, “I think we might just as well start now.” He, too, appeared to be caught in the web, for his voice and stance lacked their customary energy. “I think it would be best,” he continued, when everybody had taken their seats, “if you told me about Azkaban. The papers have not been very informative on that subject. To say the truth—” he took off his glasses and put them on the coffee table “—I was surprised that Nathalie Pierson had his letter printed in the Prophet.”

“She has a daughter, remember?” Lucius said. “Considering that Fudge doesn’t have a prison at his disposal right now, but Voldemort does, I think the choice was not one of the most difficult.”

“So he will really be using Azkaban as a prison for his enemies? And I assume that he told the truth about having killed the few prisoners you found?”

“Definitely,” Severus said. “There were only ten, including the Lestranges, and…” He avoided the Headmaster’s eyes. “They were in a deplorable state. Concerning his idea to continue using Azkaban as a prison, it was more ours than his. We thought it would be worse if he let the Dementors loose. So we persuaded him to keep them where they were, and use them as guards. He seemed to like the concept. At least…” He raised his hands and let them fall heavily on the armrests of his chair.

“At least we know where they are,” Dumbledore finished the sentence. “Yes, that is doubtlessly an advantage. Or rather, the lesser of two evils.” His House Elf Kitty brought a tray containing glasses, a pitcher of iced water, and a brandy bottle. “Just leave it on the table,” he said, and for once, the elf merely bowed and disappeared. Severus sighed. If even that inferior creature sensed that the situation was exceptional, they really were in trouble. “I suppose,” Dumbledore continued after having poured himself a glass of water, “that your request to become Hermi—Nimue’s guardian has been authorized by Voldemort?”

“Of course.” Lucius reached for the bottle. “Considering our impeccable performance at Azkaban, I suppose we are all safely back into his graces. At least to a certain extent. He trusts us, but not enough to restore us to our former status. So we have the additional benefit of remaining incognito, although he certainly considers it a punishment.”

“Needless to mention,” Severus chimed in, “that he has great expectations for both Draco and Nimue. But I think we can handle the situation, at least until they come of age. Which somehow sets our time frame.”

“I prefer to think of our time frame as being much narrower,” Dumbledore replied. “And not only because I’m worried about the fate of this country. Right now, we have many advantages on our side, and to let time pass means to waste them.”

Lucius shot him a questioning look. “I’m not sure which advantages you could possibly mean.”

Dumbledore put his glasses back on. “I’m not saying that we have reason to be overly optimistic, Lucius. But don’t forget that, at the moment, Voldemort does not possess a lot of allies. It seems—” he pulled a slightly crumpled parchment from one of his pockets; Severus’s nostrils flared as a faint aroma of chocolate wafted towards him “—that Hagrid and Maxime are fulfilling their task in a most satisfactory manner.” He unfolded the parchment. “Maxime writes that most of the giants are willing to remain neutral. That is more than I would have dared to expect.”

“But you know, don’t you,” Yelena said, “that ultimately their loyalty is on the side that pays them more galleons.”

“I am aware of their greed, yes. On the other hand, don’t forget that there is money on our side as well. Through Solange Delacour, I have contacted your parents and grandfather,” he said, turning to Narcissa, “and it seems that they are willing to… well, invest considerable sums into keeping the family name above any suspicion. And they are not the only ones.”

“Hmm…” Lucius sloshed his brandy around in his tumbler. “Assuming that we are able to keep the giants at bay. Further assuming that the Veela’s offer remains valid…” He gestured for Yelena to speak.

“I have spent some days in Bulgaria, with my tribe,” she said. “And it seems that not only my own tribe, but the whole Veela population are very alarmed indeed at what is currently going on at Durmstrang.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said, “that is interesting news. I was already wondering which side they might take, Durmstrang I mean. So they have made their decision?”

“Oh, yes. Karkaroff has prepared the ground remarkably well, gradually replacing teachers he was not quite sure of with others, whose loyalties are… well, less ambiguous. Of course, none of the staff are Death Eaters yet, but they all sympathize with Voldemort’s cause. There have been terrible raids, forcing my people to withdraw deep into the forests. They are angry, and they want to fight. I daresay they would be valuable allies.”

Lucius and Severus exchanged a look. “Well,” Severus said, “I would have to do some research first, develop a potion that makes the men on our side immune to their charms. Otherwise they’d do more damage than good. Fortunately, we can even do practical tests, if you—” he smiled at Yelena “—are willing to play the part of the enchantress.”

Dumbledore produced a parchment and quill. “Even though this is only a preliminary meeting,” he said, “I think I’d better write down some results. Later on, when we think that the list is complete, we may proceed to distributing the tasks.”

“To return to the advantages you mentioned,” Lucius said, “what about other non-human species? What about the Goblins, for instance? The House Elves? If Voldemort lands a successful coup against the Ministry—although he will have to wait, there are too few of us now—if he succeeds in eliminating large parts of the Ministry, we’ll be facing anarchy in less than no time. And if push comes to shove, we’ll have to fight on two fronts.”

Dumbledore let out a heavy sigh. “You’re right, Lucius. Do you think—” he looked from Lucius to Severus “—that he might be planning such a big attack?”

Severus shrugged. “Difficult to say. If he has learned from experiences past, I’d say yes, he will. He’s well aware that the Ministry as such—and never mind who actually holds the position of Minister—that the Ministry in itself is respected by an overwhelming majority. Therefore, he has two possibilities: lure them over to his side, or eliminate some key figures and replace them. How many trustworthy people do you have there?”

“Few,” Dumbledore said, shaking his head. “Too few. And most of them in inferior positions. And Fudge…”

“Fudge,” Lucius said, his voice dripping with contempt, “will do whatever is necessary to keep his position. If Voldemort promises him that he may remain Minister…”

“Indeed.” Dunbledore rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We cannot expect any support from that side. On the other hand, we must not risk anarchy. Not while Voldemort is alive, and neither in case we manage to defeat him. Our society will be deeply traumatized in any case, and in order to rebuild it, we need a working infrastructure. However, there are various examples in Muggle history…”

“Are you suggesting that we start to form an alternative government, ready to take over in case our side wins?” Severus asked.

“Exactly. Remember the Stauffenberg conspiracy against Hitler? The rebels had already worked out who was to step in for his minions. We might do the same. Besides, every resistance organisation needs a structure, so why not establish the one in view of the other?”

“Because,” Lucius said, frowning at him, “we cannot afford having a single commander—meaning the person that later on would become Minister. What if he or she gets caught or killed? The whole resistance would collapse, and things would be worse than before.”

“Not necessarily,” Narcissa said. Lucius raised his eyebrows. “You were thinking of a structure similar to the one we already have,” she continued, “But it is pretty old-fashioned and not very democratic. Look at France, for example. They have a council of six, not a single Minister who holds all the reins. If we could come up with something similar…”

“Exactly my thoughts,” Dumbledore agreed. “Our goal should be to maintain, or rather to imitate the existing structure as far as possible—as Severus said, people are used to it and respect it. At the same time, we must aim at democracy, and hence choose more than one leader. Not too many of them, but a small group of wizards, who we can be sure are going to be accepted, if not by everybody, then at least by a solid majority. This is, of course, merely a suggestion—we don’t have to make any decisions right away. Besides, such a choice must be based on more than just the will of five people.”

“Sounds reasonable, even thought it smacks more of coup d’état than resistance,” Severus said, parrying Dumbledore’s sharp glance with a shrug and a smile. “But it makes me think of another problem, and a more urgent one at that. I suppose you will have to put up your headquarters somewhere, and we absolutely must find a way to communicate—owls and Floo being out of the question for obvious reasons.”

“You don’t plan on having your headquarters anywhere near Hogwarts, do you?” Narcissa asked, her expression suddenly alarmed.

“No, no, my dear. Don’t worry.” Dumbledore patted her hand. “Do you remember the refugee camp we set up last time? The one I made unplottable with Mrs. Delacour’s help? That should be sufficient.”

“Unplottable, but—” Lucius passed a hand through his hair. “It might guarantee your safety, but what about communication?”

The smile was back on Dumbledore’s face. “To tell you the truth, I was eagerly waiting for you to ask the question. Because I have a little surprise for you.” He rose from his chair and beckoned for the others to follow him. “It’s something I’ve been working on for quite some time.”

~~~~*~~~~

“We are below the level of the dungeons now, aren’t we?” In the low tunnel, Severus’s voice did not carry very far, and he had to repeat the question for Dumbledore, who was walking a good twenty yards ahead of him.

Dumbledore stopped in his tracks, turned and waited for the others to catch up with him. “Yes, far below. But we have almost arrived.”

The air was surprisingly fresh and cool down here, Severus thought. He also noticed the absence of humidity—the walls of the corridor, though roughly hewn, with the occasional jagged protuberance, were dry, not oozing water as he would have expected. The tunnel floor was just the same as the walls, sere and obviously not much used, because the rough edges of its surface had retained their sharpness; unlike the upper part of the castle, where the flagstones of the most frequented hallways had been polished and hollowed out by hundreds of generations of students and teachers alike.

The party of five was walking in single line, led by Dumbledore, whose springy gait and fluid movements belied his age. Maybe that was going to change once they returned to the upper world, though; the tunnel’s inclination had to be considerable—a fact Severus had concluded from the constant ache in the muscles of his thighs. Other than that, he did not have the faintest idea as to where they were going. His sense of direction or orientation had long been dulled by the absence of any sound aside from the regular rhythm of their footsteps. They were heading downwards, and he supposed that the tunnel had the form of an immense spiral. But that might just as well be a mere impression. Not that he minded. Unlike Azkaban, the outside aspect of which was enough to make the beholder shiver with horror and cold, the foundations of Hogwarts did not inspire gloomy thoughts or claustrophobia. On the contrary, he thought, he was feeling more serene by the second, and a backwards glance at Narcissa and Lucius, who were bringing up the rear, told him that they, too, were feeling the benign effects of the journey.

In the shine of softly glowing crystals, inserted into the rock near the ceiling every ten feet or so, on both sides of the tunnel, Severus saw that they had, indeed, arrived. Or almost arrived, as Dumbledore came to a halt in front of a solid door. At first sight, it seemed inconspicuous, plain even, because it was made of unvarnished wood and bore neither ornaments nor inscriptions of any kind. But once Severus had covered the small distance still separating him from the entrance—or was it an exit, he wondered—he distinctly felt the raw magic it exuded, like a gentle but immaterial touch.

“Strange,” he heard Narcissa whisper behind him. “Strange, it almost seems alive!”

Dumbledore drew his wand and turned to face them. “Excellent observation, Narcissa,” he said. Then, he briefly closed his eyes, evidently to concentrate and focus his power, for suddenly he seemed taller and both older and younger, timeless really, a living beacon of magical energy.

The other four held their breath as Albus Dumbledore raised his wand, reopened his eyes and turned back to the door. His left hand came to rest against the wood, as if to establish a physical bond, and his right directed the tip of his wand exactly to the centre of the wooden surface. “Eviridion Accresca!”* For a breathless second, nothing seemed to happen; but then, the quiet was suddenly filled with a soft rustling and crackling, and the door started to change.

Or rather, under the awestruck looks of those who had not yet witnessed the miracle, small boughs began to worm their way out of the wood, grew thicker and sprouted more branches, thin and flexible, which were soon covered in light-green leaves, shaped vaguely like mouths and arranged symmetrically left and right of the twigs that bent under the weight of their foliage. Albeit swift, the growth process was by no means menacing, and it did not even occur to any of the group to step back or move at all. Not that it would have been necessary, for—Severus realized it out of the corner of his eye—while the door gradually morphed into a huge ash tree, the corridor walls receded, the ceiling retreated farther and farther upwards, seemed to become smoother and change colour… Something deep within himself was responding to the unfurling magic around him, Severus could feel it uncoil and expand. An unknown sensation, as if he were breathing, really breathing instead of just filling his lungs with air, for the first time in his life. He briefly wondered at the complete lack of surprise, or astonishment, which he thought he ought to feel. There was merely tranquillity, and a deep sense of peace.

He just wished Nimue had come with them.

“This,” Dumbledore said, his voice echoing through the now-enormous space, “is the very core of Hogwarts.” He motioned for them to sit down and all four lowered themselves to the ground, eyes still riveted on the giant tree, and the dome of rock sheltering it and them. “In its very own way,” the Headmaster continued, “this place is as dangerous as Azkaban.” For pairs of eyes slowly swerved towards the ancient wizard, all holding the same, unspoken question. “Believe me, it is. If you linger for too long, or come here too often, you don’t want to leave anymore. The madness it causes is blissful, but it is madness all the same.”

“Then why,” Lucius asked, hoarse with emotion, “have you taken us here?”

“Because here lies the solution to one of our problems, Lucius. Besides, this is the place where I will pass the insignia of the Headmaster of Hogwarts over to you. I thought you might be interested in seeing it beforehand.”

Lucius merely nodded.

Yelena, who seemed a little less susceptible to their surroundings than the other three—maybe, Severus thought, this had something to do with her Veela heritage—focused her calm gaze on Dumbledore. “Show us, please,” was all she said.

“Of course.” The Headmaster got to his feet and walked over to the spot where the ash’s trunk seemed to become one with the ground. Only now did Severus notice the smooth, almost imperceptible transition from grey-brown bark to brownish-grey stone. It seemed as if the tree were part of the rock, or vice versa. Dumbledore bent down, until the tip of his wand touched the stone, and, always maintaining contact with the ground, moved the wand, inch by inch and obviously searching for something. When the wand twitched slightly, not unlike a dowsing rod, the ancient wizard uttered a satisfied “Ah!” and rose again to full height. “Look!” he said, pointing the wand at the spot he had just identified. “Hylbiou exothen!”**

The four gasped in unison as the ground underneath them lurched and trembled, like some prehistoric animal awakening from deep, eternal slumber. A fissure appeared in the rock near the tree’s trunk, growing longer and larger, until it was maybe three feet by one. There was silence again, and then a soft gurgling, bubbling sound that reminded Severus of the voices of the Dryads guarding the entrance to his rooms. Its volume increased, though not by much, and took on a silvery, lilting note. Mesmerized, they watched as a fountain surged from within the cleft, rising high and falling down in one smooth movement, without spilling a single drop. A small, crystalline pillar of water.

Dumbledore, who had lost any resemblance to the harmless, slightly crazy old man he usually pretended to be and instead looked like one of Merlin’s mythical ancestors, opened his arms, as if to form a living, powerful bond between the four wizards, the fountain and the ash. “This tree and this spring,” he said, “are the very essence of Hogwarts, the ever-renewed source of its strength and magical power. As the legend tells, the water started to flow at the very instant the seed touched the ground. Impossible to tell which occurrence was the cause and which the effect. Neither do we know when all this happened, but it was certainly a long time before the Four Founders were born. In each and every wall of the castle, a particle of this ash is embedded, and a substantial amount of spring water has been added to the mortar that holds together the stones of the foundations. Which explains, at least in part, why the walls and staircases of Hogwarts are constantly moving,” he added, on a lighter note. “I was extremely satisfied once I found out that particular detail.”

“But then…” Reluctantly, Severus tore his eyes away from the fountain. “Isn’t this secret knowledge, to be handed down only from Headmaster to Headmaster?”

“Basically yes. But I’m not the first headmaster who comes here in the company of fellow witches and wizards who might benefit from the experience. Armando Dippet, may he rest in peace, let me sleep here an entire night before I went to fight the final battle with Grindelwald. This cave is protected by a powerful spell: even if I told you exactly how to find the tunnel entrance, you wouldn’t be able to locate it. Only the Headmaster of Hogwarts has this special ability. It comes to him the moment he receives the insignia.” He smiled at Severus. “So don’t worry. Now, however, I would like to show you the results of my little research project.”

As if drawn by an invisible lodestone, the four rose and stepped close to Dumbledore, forming a half-circle around him. He fumbled briefly through the pockets of his copious robes, and finally produced a small golden cup, which he filled at the fountain. “Take one sip each,” he ordered, passing the cup to Narcissa. “And now,” he continued, after plunging his hand into another pocket and pulling out a small, sharp knife, “take this and cut a splinter from the bark. A very small piece will suffice.”

They did as Dumbledore had told them, and soon they were all standing around him again, holding the tiny pieces of wood on their outstretched palms and impatiently waiting for instructions. “Now draw your wands, please,” the Headmaster said. He opened the top two buttons of his robes and, with his thumb and forefinger, tugged at a thin gold chain, from which a small, gold-framed locket was dangling; it was made of glass and contained a piece of wood identical to theirs. “You can do with it as you please,” he said, “even transform it into another object, something you may always carry with you without raising any suspicions. Now, the incantation is ‘Extollo simulacrium, ut videam effigium; monstretur mihi quodlibet, vox autem nemo audiet.’ *** I wish it were better Latin, but at least it rhymes.”

They repeated the incantation a few times, the horribly limping Dog Latin causing mild hilarity. When everybody was sure they had memorized the verses, the Headmaster told them to take a few steps away from him and each other, and to turn their backs. The four wizards obediently followed his order and pointed their wands at the splinters on their palms, exactly as Dumbledore had shown them, with a slight backwards twist of the wrist. “And now,” they heard his voice behind them, “concentrate on another member of our group. To make this a little less confusing—the first time it’s quite uncanny—may I suggest that, you, Lucius concentrate on Narcissa, you, Narcissa, on Yelena, Yelena on Severus and Severus on myself. Oh, and—” everybody looked back at him over their shoulders “—sorry, I almost forgot. Put your hands over your ears, just to make sure you don’t hear the others’ voices. And then say something, but keep your voice as low as possible.”

Mentally shaking his head at the complicated procedure, and somewhat doubtful whether it made any sense at all, Severus covered his ears with his hands, careful not to drop the piece of wood, and concentrated on Dumbledore. “Bloody hell!” he muttered, when Yelena’s face suddenly materialized before his mind’s eye. Try as he might, he found no other expression to describe the indescribable. He saw her, every detail of her face, the blue and green eyes, the almost imperceptible crow’s feet spreading outwards from their corners; every single lash was clearly distinguishable. But at the same time, he knew that he was not seeing her, at least not with his eyes. Her expression was one of utter bewilderment. “Can you hear me?” she said. He nodded, unsure whether the connection worked both ways. Apparently it did not, for she repeated her question.

“Did it work for everybody?” he heard Dumbledore's voice, muted and slightly altered through the barrier of his hands.

He lowered them and returned to the tree, where the Headmaster was waiting, a look of mingled expectation, pride and solemnity on his face. The wrinkles around his eyes seemed to have miraculously multiplied. “Yes, it did,” he said. “But it seems to be a one-way communication system, right?”

“Indeed. But, as it is meant to be used in case of absolute necessity only, for the transmission of urgent messages, I think it is sufficient.”

Lucius scrutinized his piece of wood. “And… er, how is the spell deactivated?”

“It wears off. After about three hours. That,” Dumbledore said, putting the medallion back under his robes, “is the only flaw. I am sure I would have found a solution to this problem, but seeing as how we don’t have that much time, I think we will just have to leave it as it is. Not perfect, but then what is?”

“And whom do you intend to equip with it?” Severus asked. The thought of Mundungus Fletcher’s shrewd, beady eyes popping up in his head was less than pleasant.

“Only very few people. But I propose that we continue our discussion upstairs, don’t you think so?”

Very much in spite of himself, Severus nodded; he saw the same expression of reluctance mirrored in the others’ faces. He was loath to leave this blessed spot, Dumbledore's warning notwithstanding.

“You will notice,” Dumbledore remarked nonchalantly, while retransforming the ash into a door and the rock dome into a tunnel, “That the water you drank does have some very pleasant effects. It—” he pocketed his wand and gave them one of his annoyingly benign smiles “—purifies the mind and spirit, which is, of course, necessary for my little device to work. But the, er… fringe benefit, as they say, is that it helps you to separate the wheat from the chaff, metaphorically speaking. Your real desires will emerge more clearly and, I daresay, in an entirely positive fashion.”

That cunning old fox, Severus thought. That thrice-damned, cunning old fox had done it again. Not only had he provided them with a most useful means of communication, he had also made sure that Lucius’s well-known thirst for power be adapted to his own ends. As for himself, Severus was not quite sure what to expect. Punishment was certainly not on top of his list of cravings anymore, as it had been when he received his Dark Mark. So all he could do was wait and see. Nodding to himself, he cast a last glance at the door and turned to follow the others.

~~~~*~~~~

“This is not in Hogwarts—A History!” Nimue said, glaring at him indignantly, as if daring him to prove her wrong.

“If you say so,” Severus responded lightly, plopping down next to her on the sofa.

A rueful smile. “Are you saying that my knowledge surpasses yours?”

“As far as that highly tedious book is concerned, yes, that’s what I’m saying. However—” he kicked off his boots and pulled up his be-socked feet “—even including only the legend would be too much of a giveaway.” His eyes glided over her, taking in the wild hair, her face, flushed with excitement, the small breasts under her navy-blue t-shirt, the rounded thighs clad in white linen. “You would have liked it,” he remarked.

“Liked? That seems an understatement. Considering how much it has changed you…” She returned his scrutinizing glance. Her cheeks, already rosy, suddenly turned a deep scarlet, as she slowly raised her right hand towards his face. A slight hesitation, as if to make sure one last time that her fingers were not going to be swatted away like a noxious insect, then her fingertips came to rest lightly at the corner of his mouth. “There,” she said, in a husky whisper, “I don’t know whether you’ve noticed yet, but…” One soft pad traced the line between his nostril and mouth. “Your face has softened.” The hand retreated, but she firmly held his gaze.

In a way, it was a non sequitur, and even if he had not been completely overwhelmed, Severus would scarcely have known what to say. Nothing he could think of seemed even vaguely appropriate. So he just continued to look at her, two unblinking stares locking, quivering gently under the impact of this clash of energies, then melting into each other, opening doorways hitherto locked and bolted, down down down right into the soul. Your real desires will emerge more clearly and, I daresay, in an entirely positive fashion… Was that it? Did he want her to see?

When a log in the fireplace—the evenings were already chilly, and thus he had lit a fire—crumbled under the assault of the flames and rolled down onto the grate, they both jumped. The spell might have been broken momentarily, but Severus still felt the pleasant warmth her gaze had ignited within him.

Nimue looked into the flames for a while, then turned back to him. When she spoke, her voice was slightly raucous. “And the… the spell? Where did Professor Dumbledore find that spell?”

Severus nodded, acknowledging that they were back on safe territory. It was better that way, at least for now. All the same, he felt that the brief moment they had shared had left its traces—as if its weight were now attached to each of their words, adding depth and more meaning to them. “Originally, it was designed to enchant mirrors—he found it in the diary of Chrysostomos the Conceited. It seems—What?” he said, as she clapped a hand over her mouth.

Now she burst into a fit of the giggles. “Sorry,” she panted, “It’s just… Sometimes those names are so funny. All the alliterations, like Boris the Bewildered…” She looked at him, eyes alight with mirth. “Severus the Sombre,” she blurted out, snorting with laughter.

“I was afraid you might name me Severus the Sociopath,” he commented dryly.

Her eyes went wide, and she shook her head vehemently, curls a-fly. “No! No, I would never say such a thing! You aren’t—”

“Not always,” he conceded. “Let me see… Nimue… Nimue the… Nincompoop?”

“Oh!” She wagged her forefinger at him. “That’s not nice, not at all. Why not Nimue the Nifty?”

“That’s not very impressive. Nimue the Nemesis?”

“Severus the Sourpuss?”

“Nimue the Numbskull?” She punched his upper arm. “Oh, no, you don’t!” he said, catching her arm and holding it. “Nimue the Naysayer?” Suddenly he was very conscious of his own fingers circling her wrist, which was so slim that the pad of his thumb covered the nail of his middle finger. Under his fingertips, he could feel her pulse racing. And he could smell her, a multi-layered aroma, first a faint note of camomile—that had to be her shampoo—then traces of lemon and rosemary, probably the body lotion she used, and underneath it all her very own scent, a little sweaty, warm and moist and very feminine. During this olfactory exploration he had unconsciously pulled her closer to him, without meeting any resistance. Now her face, eyes wide open and lips slightly parted, was very near his, so near that he could make out the whiff of spiced cocoa she had drunk earlier. In the left corner of her mouth, he spotted a remainder of the dark-brown liquid; his thumb went up to wipe it off, but then his hand refused to break the contact and instead cupped her jaw; his fingertips gently stroked the sensitive skin under her ear, and he felt the faint tickle of her hair against the back of his hand. Her eyes never leaving his, she turned her head, just by the fraction of an inch. His thumb came to rest on her lips, immobile, merely feeling the softness. The tip of her tongue, pink and glistening in the firelight, appeared between her lips and glided over his finger in a brief, wet caress.

Severus had a fleeting vision of himself going up in a multicoloured explosion—his hand and arm being the fuse on which the spark travelled to the powder keg that was his whole body. Never in his life had he felt such a consuming rush of physical need. It wiped out his reluctance to be touched, it overrode, without any difficulties, the bad memories of his uncle, and it immediately asserted its superiority compared to any arousal he had ever sensed. He bent his head to hers and gave her what he instinctively felt to be the first kiss of his life. Clarissa had been sweet, Nathalie had been hungry and demanding. This kiss, in reality no more than a gentle caress of lips against lips, an exchange of breath, was unlike any physical contact he had ever had.

Eyes still closed, he withdrew, just a little, so he could see the expression in her eyes once he reopened his. They were wide and dark, her pupils enormous. “Nimue…” he whispered, and felt her body go stiff.

Her eyelids fluttered briefly. “Please don’t say you’re sorry.”

Severus brought his forehead to rest against hers. “No. I am not sorry. I am content.”

Nimue’s small sigh caressed his cheek. “Good. I was afraid… Kiss me again?”

Exhaling, Severus let go of her wrist and, with his now-free hand, cupped the back of her head. When his lips met hers once gain, he felt her arms encircle his back. Her earlobe was rose-petal soft and plump under his thumb, and the fingers of his left hand entangled themselves into her hair, relishing the warmth and feathery smoothness. With the tip of his tongue, he traced the line where the skin of her face, tasting of salt and riddled with minuscule, downy hairs, met the poreless, hairless skin of her upper lip with its lingering traces of chocolate. Further he explored, dipping into the Cupid’s bow, where the taste of salt was a bit stronger, and slid down to caress the little nub on the inside of her upper lip. When his tongue slid over the sensitive spot, he felt her nails dig into his back. The small sigh she uttered made him shiver; a new jolt of heat burned through his body when he felt her lips open a little further, and his tongue encountered the hot wetness of hers.

“Uncle Severus?” They jumped apart, suddenly grounded again in reality by the sound of sharp knocking on the living room door. A short silence, then “Uncle Severus?” repeated a little more loudly, with an undertone of incredulity.

*** Dumbledore is, of course, right. The Latin is horrible. The incantation, however, is supposed to signify: ‘I hold up the imitation/artefact to see an image; I will be shown whatever I wish, but nobody can hear the voice’. The correct Latin (though still slightly nonsensical) version would be: Extollo simulacrum, ut videam effigiem. Monstrabitur mihi quodcumque libet, nemo autem vocem audiet.