The Sybil's Oracle: Book Three

Chapter 15

By Pigwidgeon37

Severus put a finger to his lips and, with his other hand, hoisted Nimue up from the sofa, motioning towards the other door, the one that led to the stairs connecting this floor to the upper one. She smiled and nodded, pointing at his boots, which he picked up. Noiselessly, they sneaked across the room. Down on one knee, Severus put his boots back on, all the time scrutinizing Nimue’s face for signs of embarrassment or regret. There were none. She merely smiled down at him, the slightly dazzled smile of a young girl who had just kissed the man she had wanted to kiss. He got up and, raising his hand, signalled to her that she should remain where she was. His footsteps now very audible, he went to open the door. “Draco,” he said, beckoning for the boy to enter, “Sorry, I was upstairs with Nimue, showing her my laboratory. How long have you been waiting?”

Draco grinned, stepped inside and waved at Nimue. “I merely knocked twice. And called twice.” Severus fought the urge to exchange a look with her. They had been so immersed in their play of lips and tongues that they had missed the first knock. “Am I disturbing you?”

“No,” Severus replied, closing the door. To his surprise, he felt that he had told the truth. Not that he would have objected to more kissing, but the interruption did not overly bother him. Probably because of her reaction, he thought. This first kiss had so obviously been something she truly wanted, that there was no reason for him to doubt she would want it again. No need to convince or persuade her. Something had been set in motion, and it would continue, even though the pace might not be dictated by himself. To his surprise, he found that he did not mind in the least. “Come,” he said, to both of them, “sit down. Anything to drink?”

“Chocolate,” Draco and Nimue said in unison.

Smiling, Severus shook his head at her. “You already had one cup, and not a small one.”

“Already craving chocolate because you’re pining for Potter the Wonder Pup?” Draco drawled.

“Oh, shut up,” she said, but it sounded a little absentminded. “No, I’m merely in withdrawal.” Severus shot her a sharp look. “After an entire month without the wonderful chocolate only the Hogwarts House Elves can prepare,” she added, quite innocently.

Draco snorted. “Uncle Severus’s is much better. Nothing like a Potions Master to brew a decent mug of chocolate. Not that he’ll ever give you the recipe, mind you.”

“Adulation at its bluntest and least sophisticated,” Severus said, rolling his eyes. “Rest assured that it will get you absolutely nowhere.”

“I rather intended to spur on your male instincts,” Draco replied with a grin. “Showing off your skills for the ladies, you know?”

Five minutes and a good deal more bantering later, the three made their way down to the kitchens. “Father is still deeply in conversation with Dumbledore,” Draco said as they walked along, “And mother and grandmother Yelena have gone into an unpacking frenzy.”

Nimue, walking on Severus’s other side, shot Draco a curious look. “I thought you had set up camp in the dungeons? You haven’t moved into your permanent quarters yet!”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Draco replied gloomily, “It’s a Deciding-What-To-Unpack-And-What-To-Leave frenzy. Selene is already asleep, the lucky girl.”

Nimue grinned. “So they threw you out, because they wanted you out of the way?”

“Sometimes,” Draco said, “I wish you were still just some Mudblood bitch and not my aunt. Twice removed,” he added, “not that that’s much of an improvement. By the way, I heard mother and grandmother Yelena talk about some marvellous place somewhere underneath the castle. Was that unpacking delirium or…” He looked up at Severus.

“No, no. It’s real. I hadn’t yet finished telling Nimue about it—you have to keep this a secret, understood?” Severus said, tickling the pear on the still life guarding the kitchen entrance.

While preparing the chocolate, he told Draco—although Nimue, too, listened rapturously, also to the part she had already heard—about the cave, the ash tree and the spring.

“So what did the old man take you down there for?” Draco asked. He had successfully—and not in a very gentlemanly fashion—wrestled the pot from Nimue’s hands and was busy scooping up the already-clotting remainders with his right index finger. “I suppose—” he licked his fingertip with exaggerated relish, throwing baleful looks at his aunt “—that it wasn’t merely for after-lunch sightseeing.”

Nimue’s head shot up. “You’re right!” she exclaimed. “Of course! How couldn’t I have thought of that! What on earth did you do there?”

“Drink your chocolate first, it’s good only while it’s hot!” Severus said stiffly, shoving the mugs towards them. Stupid, he thought, stupidstupidstupid! He should have foreseen that one of them was going to ask the question. He sighed and observed them, while they took a tentative first sip. Not that he harboured any illusions—their curiosity was not to be smothered by a mug of chocolate, unless it was laced with some draught of oblivion. Both were curious in the extreme, and would react badly to any attempt on his part at fobbing them off. Nimue and her kisses must be having an even stronger effect on him than he had realized at first, he thought wryly; usually, he would have come up with ten convincing lies in the time it took him to struggle against the urge to look at her lips closing around the rim of her cup.

Besides, his mind was misbehaving in other ways as well. To be here, down in the kitchen, together with the boy whom he cared for deeply, and with the girl he cared for maybe even more deeply, but in a completely different way… It was maddening, for he was unable to look at them without feeling that Nimue was too young, much too young for him to even consider kissing her again. Seeing her together with the boy who had made his first steps in Severus’s own quarters, whom he had bought his first potions set, reduced her to a child. And all the same, he felt that she was much more than that. She was mature far beyond her years. She was—

“Well,” Draco said, “My compliments to the chef. And now tell us, Uncle Sev—”

He was interrupted by a two-feet-high cannonball racing towards them, squeaking “Miss Hermione! Miss Hermione!”

Severus breathed a sigh of relief. At least the arrival of Dobby the overzealous House Elf had bought him some precious time. He would tell them… yes, that might satisfy their curiosity. For now. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and watched as the elf effusively greeted “Miss Hermione, the clever friend of the great wizard Harry Potter.” He sighed. This was another, if minor, item on their ‘To Do’ list. Dobby the House Elf had to leave Hogwarts, as soon as possible. Considering the damage he had done three years ago, the creature was a living time bomb. And Crouch’s elf, too. They could not afford any potential leaks.

Draco, who was witnessing the spectacle with more glee than he could have hidden even if he had wanted to, smirked and shook his head. Severus tried to return the smile, but the corners of his mouth felt as if covered in half-dried plaster. Mundane as the occasion was, it reminded him of all the important things they might overlook during their preparations. And today, he really did not feel like shrugging off the possibility of his own death.

In his Nimue-induced ecstasy, Dobby had completely overlooked the two wizards standing nearby. When she finally managed to pry his spindly fingers from her legs, so that he had to retreat, he suddenly noticed Severus and Draco, both standing with their arms crossed and none-too-friendly expressions on their faces. The elf gave a small squeak, jumped and backed off into what he obviously thought was a safe distance. “Pro-Professor Snape, Sir,” he squealed, “Dobby is… Dobby hasn’t…” He gaped for air like a fish out of the water, and then disappeared with a loud crack, leaving behind a small cloud of smoke, visible sign of his distress.

“Stupid creature,” Draco muttered darkly. “No!” he said, turning towards Nimue, “don’t start that spewing nonsense again! I don’t want to hear it, and I have my reasons for disliking that disgusting little wretch.”

Nimue affected a look of indulgent superiority. “It wouldn’t have been half as bad, if you hadn’t stolen that diary. You can’t blame that on him, you know?”

“I merely borrowed it,” he countered heatedly, his flushed cheeks betraying that she had hit a very sore spot indeed. “And how should I have known that it was so dangerous?”

She snorted. “If your father kept it hidden, it was pretty obvious that he didn't mean for you to play with it.”

“Oh, you’re so clever! Especially in hindsight, huh? What would you say if I told you that you mustn’t look at basilisks? What was that, if not stupid?”

Severus followed their bickering, leaning back against the work surface and simply enjoying the moment—he was well aware that this in itself was a small miracle, especially in the midst of all the chaos that threatened to irrupt from everywhere at once. But, he acknowledged, he had told Nimue the truth: he was content. Right now, he was feeling slightly dreamy, mostly because Draco reminded him so much of Lucius at that age; his gestures, voice and mannerisms bore an almost uncanny similarity to his father’s. Earlier, while preparing the chocolate, he had been sharply aware of the age difference separating him from both Draco and Nimue; now, though, he felt catapulted back in time, as if he were young again and had been given the chance to catch up on a multitude of things and feelings he had missed in his youth. At age fifteen, he had been so tired and battered—the summer with his uncle a terrible and fresh, yet never fully admitted trauma, his mother nothing more than an embarrassing eczema on the skin of his life, his puberty-stricken ego held together merely by the esteem of Voldemort and Lestrange… The sudden realization of how much he had really missed out on hit him like a solid rock. Yes, he was still young; true, he might try to live all the experiences he himself and life had denied him back then. But he was honest enough to admit that it was going to be a lot harder. First love at fifteen, or first love at thirty-seven. In a way, he was more fragile now, less relaxed than he might have allowed himself to be while still young. He was determined not to commit any mistakes—only he had no idea what his mistakes might be.

If only—no, he thought. Regretting her age would probably be the first mistake. Maybe it was better this way. Her youth, and his lack of experience made them strangely compatible. Or rather, each of them was able to contribute something essential: if they were lucky, her down-to-earth, sane personality might compensate for his lack of knowledge in terms of human relations, just as the twenty-two years he had lived ahead of her with all their accumulated knowledge might counterbalance her naïve youthfulness. If everything went right, that was. On the other hand, there was a most unpleasant alternative: she might not be able to cope with his past, and he might reject her because she was too eager, too demanding.

His thoughts went back to the journey into the heart of Hogwarts. He had felt that peace and drunk from the spring. Right afterwards, he had been too fascinated by Dumbledore's spell, and then too immersed in the ensuing discussion to pay much heed to the effect that sip of water had had on him. But he had felt it after returning to his quarters, and, more importantly, he had felt it when Nimue had come to join him in his chambers. Tranquillity, and the unshakeable knowledge that he wanted this… relationship? Yes, relationship. He wanted this relationship to proceed as auspiciously as possible. She was his soul mate, after all. She had already become his friend, and now it seemed as if she might want to be more than that.

He had sworn never to let anybody get close enough to hurt him. He had pledged not to allow himself to be weak and vulnerable.  It seemed that, with her and for both their sakes, he would have to shake off those promises—they belonged to the past, to the life in hell. The Bloody Baron was no fool, Sybil was no fraud, Dumbledore had not told them a fairy tale. He had guarantees, and it would be sheer madness on his part not to take the small risk that remained.

Severus shook himself back to the here-and-now. “Oh, stop it,” he said, stepping between Draco and Nimue, who were standing almost nose to nose. “Time to go to bed.” His right arm went around Nimue’s shoulders, his left around Draco’s. When they both smiled up at him, if in very different ways, he was sure he had just briefly glimpsed at happiness.

~~~~*~~~~

The desire to accompany him back to his quarters, or at least to spend some more time with him, was clearly visible on Nimue’s face. Severus briefly toyed with the idea, but then decided against it. No, it was certainly better for both of them to be alone with their thoughts now, so as to assess the situation calmly, without the constant distraction of the other’s presence. The last thing he wanted was to hurry or frighten her, and he was not sure how well his self-control was working at the moment.

So he left her at the entrance to Gryffindor Tower and escorted Draco back to the Slytherin quarters, from where he went directly to his own rooms in Serpens Tower. He smiled, when he entered the living room and saw the slight indentation where she had been sitting on the sofa. Absentmindedly, he let his hand glide over the spot, trying to catch some of her residual warmth. The windows were wide open. Severus strolled across the room, letting his right hand glide over the wooden pillars supporting the ceiling, feeling the carved relief smooth and tepid under his fingers. His elbows on the windowsill, he leaned out into the fresh night air and gave a small sigh, as his eyes were submerged by the darkness. The sky above Hogwarts was still studded with stars, but there were clouds gathering at the horizon. If there was enough rain, August was going to be pleasantly tepid, he thought. What else might he expect of the days to come? He pushed an obnoxious lock back from his forehead. What did he want to happen during the next month? Was he even ready to begin a relationship with a student? Not that Lucius was likely to give him any trouble, of that he was pretty sure. But he shuddered when he thought of September, of the classes he would have to teach—how on earth was he supposed to handle her? Not only would it be extremely difficult to return to the teacher-student status quo, he also felt that he might have trouble continuing to keep up his usual classroom persona.

So occupied was his mind with musings about the future that Severus felt the Dark Mark tugging and pulling at him only when the urge it provoked to join Voldemort had arrived at an almost unbearable level. Gritting his teeth, Severus went to the fireplace. It was late, but Dumbledore had not yet changed into his nightwear.

“Yes, Severus? Anything the matter?”

“Yes, I—is Lucius already gone?”

“No,” the Headmaster replied, shaking his head. “He is still with me. Would you like to talk to him?”

“Not really, I thought… Is he not being summoned?”

Lucius’s head, a little blurry because of the greater distance, appeared behind Dumbledore’s. “Sev? Is Draco giving you any trouble?”

Severus tried to fight the feeling of anxiety that slowly spread from his knotted stomach through his whole body. “No, no. Draco is already back in the Slytherin quarters. Don’t you feel your Mark?”

On the grate, Dumbledore’s head changed places with Lucius’s. “Are you saying you’re being called?” The worry was palpable in his voice.

“Yes, and I thought that you, too—well, I have to leave in any case. Wait up for me, if necessary here in my rooms.”

Lucius merely nodded, but his face betrayed his anxiety. “I will. I know it sounds stupid, but take care.”

Now that Malfoy Manor was closed and cut off from the Floo network, at least temporarily, Severus had to travel to the boundaries of Hogwarts via broomstick and Apparate from there. Tonight, he did not at all appreciate the extra time for thinking this journey allowed him. His mind was churning with possible scenarios, one more gloomy than the other, but all of them ending the same way: with his death. What else could be the reason for Voldemort to call only him? True, Lucius and Owen—for a brief moment, he tried to console himself with the thought that Owen might be there—were common Death Eaters now, just as he was, and not parts of the commando unit anymore. But to have been summoned on the very day Lucius had arrived at Hogwarts, ready to take over his Headmaster duties… Maybe Voldemort did not deem him important anymore, now that the school was in safe hands. He hid the broomstick under a group of bushes, hurriedly threw on his Death Eater robes and touched the Mark.

The first emotion he felt, once his feet were on firm ground again, was enormous relief—one of the roads towards death he had imagined, namely the possibility of the wards not responding to him, so he would materialize in cold water and drown, had ceased to exist, at least for the moment. He was standing in the quadrangular space at the bottom of the staircase, right in the centre of Azkaban. Voldemort was languidly sprawled on a couch near the fireplace, petting Nagini’s head. No trace of either Barty/Black or Pettigrew, although they might have retired to one of the adjacent rooms; it was quite late, after all. Severus admitted to himself that he felt slightly reassured. Pettigrew’s silvery hand was a sight he really could do without.

“My Lord.” He fell to his knees. “Forgive my tardiness, but I had to invent a pretext—”

An angry hiss from Voldemort’s direction—Severus was not sure whether it had been emitted by the snake or the Dark Lord himself—interrupted him. “Yes, Severus. Spare me your petty little excuses, I am in no mood for them today.” The distinct rustle of silk on velvet told Severus that the Master had changed position. “I am in need of your skills.”

“Of course, My Lord. What may I—”

“Barty.”

Severus felt fear stab at his guts. Was it possible that Black had messed up? Had there been some fault with the Polyjuice Potion? He swallowed. “Barty, My Lord? What—”

“He is weak!” Voldemort spat. “I should have known… known better than to assume he might have changed. To think that we share a blood bond…”

His heart hammering madly, Severus attempted to calm himself. “Weak in which sense, My Lord?”

The Dark Lord chuckled. “In every possible sense, my dear Severus. Now go and have a look at him. Unfortunately, I still need that weakling, otherwise the Dementors would already have eaten his soul, and the fish his body. But I need him here, and I want him to be as strong as possible. Do what you can, Severus, and…” He shifted again, and his voice took on an ominous tone. “Better be sure you succeed.”

“I will do my best, My Lord. May I go to him directly?”

“The sooner, the better.”

Severus rose and, as had now become his habit, tried to take in as many details as possible by darting a brief—and hopefully humble enough—glance at Voldemort. He silently cursed the feeble light, for it was impossible to make out anything that might have proved helpful. So he merely bowed and went off in the direction a lazy gesture of the Master’s hand had indicated.

On the night they had taken over Azkaban, they had modified the vast central hall, so as to make it fit for Voldemort to live in; as it was impossible to change or move any of the fortress's stone walls, they had merely inserted a second, smaller quadrangle into the main one, and subdivided the remaining outer space into a series of chambers. Barty/Black had been assigned one of them, and so probably had Pettigrew.

Severus knocked briefly and opened the door. “Barty?” he called into the darkness. There was no answer. He lit his wand and closed the door behind him. “Barty?” he repeated, and this time, his call was answered by a faint whimper. Darkly muttering to himself, he crossed the room and almost stumbled over the limp form huddled on the floor. He knelt down, let his hands glide over the other's body, so as to find his head, and brought his mouth so close to the other wizard’s ear that his nose was tickled by the strands of sandy hair. “Are there any monitoring spells?” he whispered.

Ragged breathing and a soft moan were the only reactions to his query. He felt his face grow hot with impatience and anger. “For Merlin’s sake,” he hissed into the other’s ear, dealing him a vicious punch in the upper arm, “You must speak to me if you want me to help you! Are there any monitoring spells in this room?”

Barty/Black took a deep, shivering breath. “Snape?”

“Yes, the very one. What on earth is the matter with you?”

“Help me, please!” The words, barely articulate and slurry, seemed to cost him an enormous effort.

“Yes, I’ll try to help you.” Severus sat back on his haunches, eyes boring into the darkness, which the feeble light of his wand-point seemed to enhance, rather than to chase away. “What exactly is happening to you?”

“Strength… fading…” Barty/Black inhaled—it sounded like the noise of an angry rattlesnake. “Memories… his and mine… can’t transform… Pettigrew…”

Severus nodded to himself. This was an effect they had not taken into consideration. Not that it was their fault; as far as he knew, this was the first time anybody had tried to survive in Azkaban while impersonating somebody else. Well, the second time, really. But then, Barty’s mother had come here to die, not to live. Loath as he was to do anything Sirius Black might benefit from, he was also aware that helping Black meant helping himself, Lucius and the whole resistance. Considering the state the other wizard was in, he had to reluctantly admire him for not having already succumbed to the destructive influence of this place. In any case, he had to get him out of here, and quickly. That in itself would not be too difficult; the tricky question was where to take him and how to persuade Voldemort to let him go. An idea brushed his mind, and Severus tried to shake it off. No, this was too foolhardy. Practically impossible… besides, his intuition might be wrong, today of all crucial days. In the end, he chose to take the risk. “Black,” he whispered, “Black, do you think you could transform?”

The harsh wheeze Barty/Black uttered was probably meant to be laughter. “You… mad?” He propped himself up on one elbow; Severus noticed that his arms were shaking with the effort.

“No,” Severus hissed back, “I’m not mad. Barty wasn’t an Animagus, but if I’m guessing correctly, you won’t be a big black dog if you transform, but will take on the shape that would have been his, had he tried to become an Animagus. Just do it, damn you!”

Barty/Black nodded and slumped to the floor again. His breathing was becoming more regular; obviously, Severus thought, he was trying to scrape together what energy he still possessed. Agonizing seconds later, the other wizard inhaled sharply, there was a slight ripple of magical energy, and when Severus directed the pool of light downwards, he nodded grimly. Not without satisfaction, though, for on the carpet lay a rather emaciated Fennec fox, whose sunken flanks were rising and falling with quick respiration. “I knew it!” he muttered to himself, “I bloody knew it!” Then, lowering his head to one of the large triangular ears, he whispered, “I hope it was worth the effort. I’ll leave you for a moment, and should be back shortly to get you.” The animal’s bushy tail moved slightly in response.

Severus rose to his feet and steeled himself for the piece of acting he would have to accomplish.

Voldemort was still lying on the couch when he returned to the central room; now that his worst fears had been appeased, Severus felt the heat hitting his face like a damp, warm compress. The snake’s head was resting on the upholstery, and the Dark Lord was caressing the scaly skin with a forefinger, engaged in a sibilant dialogue with his pet. Fighting back his revulsion at the scene, Severus advanced by a few steps but came to a halt at a safe distance from the domestic idyll. “My Lord?” he said quietly.

Both Master and pet raised their heads and glanced at him. The similarity of their movements and looks was striking. “Severus. You have not been with him for a long time.”

“No, My Lord. But—” he forced himself to take another few steps towards the couch “—I must confess that I was by no means prepared for what I found in there.” Voldemort bared his teeth in a lipless smile, which Severus took as a sign to continue. Not that he wanted to; even if he chose his words very carefully, he could not modify the message they conveyed. And the message was that the Master was not as omniscient as he liked to think. On the other hand, his megalomania was a sharp weapon without a handle that might also cut the hand of the one who wielded it, and if Severus played his cards well, he might avoid being wounded. “I suppose that St. John helped him, while Barty was still at school… forgive me,” he said, “I digress. And I must also ask your forgiveness for my lack of knowledge, My Lord.” He paused briefly, so as to give Voldemort as much time as possible—if he went too fast, the Master would not be able to hide his puzzlement, and the game was as good as lost. “What I am saying now is a mere hypothesis, but I suppose that Animagi, while basically retaining their human personality when in their animal form, are a little less susceptible to…” He made a small helpless gesture. “Atmospheres,” he concluded.

Voldemort’s eyes glittered, and his right hand slowly retreated from the snake’s head. But he said nothing.

“Considering the state Barty is in, although he has taken on his fox shape, from which he doesn’t seem able to retransform... Supposing that my assumptions are correct—” through the slits in his mask, his eyes briefly met Voldemort’s, who gave a minuscule nod “—I cannot see any other possibility but to take him away from here, if only briefly. Once he has regained enough strength to go back to his human shape, I can administer the necessary treatment.” Hoping that he was not exaggerating—for even Voldemort’s vanity had its limits—he fell to his knees. “My Lord, let me express my gratitude for having chosen me to accomplish this dangerous feat.”

The ensuing silence was both heavy and empty—no sudden crackle from the fireplace, as the flames were magical, no drop of water falling; even the soft scratching noise of Nagini’s scales on the floor would have been welcome. But the quiet remained empty, and only its weight of fear and anxiety increased as the seconds passed. In his mind’s eye, Severus could almost see Voldemort weighing his arguments, putting Severus’s words into one scale and his own doubts into the other. Whatever the outcome, there was always the possibility of the Dark Lord tipping the scales with a whimsical finger. And then all would be lost.

“For how long?”

“Not too long, My Lord,” Severus replied, surprised at the steadiness of his own voice. “Maybe a week. He would have to stay in my quarters—no one ever comes there. He would be safe.”

Voldemort took a deep breath. “Very well, Severus. But mind my words: if you are harbouring any second thoughts—nothing escapes Lord Voldemort, and I am well aware of your sentiments concerning Barty—if, I repeat, you plan to use his sojourn in your quarters for your own projects of petty revenge, you will regret it.”

“My Lord, I…”

“Enough! Or are you insinuating I might be wrong concerning your and Barty's rivalry?”

“No, My Lord, of course not. I merely wanted to assure you—”

“You are my faithful servant, Severus. I daresay that is more than sufficient guarantee, don’t you think so?”

“Of course, My Lord. May I ask one more question?”

“You are being very tedious tonight. Ask, then, but try to steal as little of my precious time as possible.”

He was physically weak, Severus thought, weak and tired. Of course, he tried to dissimulate it behind a mask of bored aloofness, but in reality he was eager to see Severus leave—he would never allow his weariness to be seen by anybody. Maybe by Pettigrew, who had nursed him through the last year, but certainly not by one of those he needed to present with a façade of complete self-possession and confidence, in order to keep them in line. “How am I to inform you of Barty’s recovery, My Lord?”

“I will send Pettigrew,” Voldemort replied nonchalantly.

Remembering that, officially, he was ignorant of Pettigrew being an Animagus—apart from the fact that it still was nothing more than a logical but unproven assumption—Severus made his head twitch in surprise. “Petti—My Lord, I apologize for not understanding, but he is believed to be dead! People are bound to notice, and—”

“Barty,” the Dark Lord replied smugly, “is not the only illegal Animagus. He will find your quarters, rest assured. Although, if Barty’s Animagus shape is a fox…” He chuckled, and his eyelids drooped slightly—they looked papery and stretched, and Severus wondered whether he could actually close them. Did he need to sleep at all? “Speaking of Pettigrew—he is late again, as always. You will have to wait for him to return, though…”

Not for the first time—and certainly not for the last—Severus thanked the deities for having to wear a mask. Now more than ever he found it difficult to wipe his face clean of any emotion. Nimue had told him his traits had softened; Voldemort would surely have noticed the change as well. Aside from that, he could hardly have managed to keep his shock at Voldemort's last words from showing on his face. Although Pettigrew was not the most intelligent or powerful of wizards, he was undoubtedly shrewd—Barty being an unregistered Animagus might be one clue too much. With Voldemort it was different, for, as Lucius had so wisely observed, he did not expect to be deceived. Pettigrew, on the other hand, was a traitor, and Severus knew from his own experience that traitors were always on their guard, not to say paranoid. “Wait for him, My Lord? Of course, if you deem it necessary.”

“He has to open a window in the anti-Apparition wards.”

So you can’t do it yourself, can you? The thought was less exhilarating than Severus would have expected, and now was not the right moment for such ponderings anyway. “Of course, My Lord. How stupid of me not to have thought of that necessity. But I wonder…” He let his voice trail off, hoping that Voldemort's curiosity might be piqued.

“What?” came the impatient hiss.

“Forgive me for being tedious again, My Lord. But may I ask whether you have informed Pettigrew about Barty’s… er, ability?”

“Certainly not.” Voldemort's tone was dry and the slightest bit annoyed.

“And…” Another carefully calculated pause. “Do you intend for him to learn about it now?”

“Hmm…” The pale, scaly hands played absentmindedly with the velvet covering the backrest of the couch, brushing it against the nap, creating a silvery pattern on the shimmering anthracite surface. “I see no reason to tell him.”

Severus fought down a sigh of relief. “In that case, My Lord, I might use a broomstick to get outside the wards and then Apparate. Otherwise, the presence of a Fennec fox might not go unnoticed even by him.” Not that he was looking forward to hovering above that ghostly immobile expanse of water, but this reluctance was outweighed by his fear that Pettigrew might see the fox and become suspicious.

“Interesting,” Voldemort wheezed, “that your unwillingness to meet Pettigrew should surpass your aversion to travelling by broomstick.” He chuckled.

“I do not trust him, My Lord. I know I should not say this to you, as you have chosen to treat him according to his merits, but—” He was silenced by a piercing look from the Dark Lord, who had given up his posture of negligent nonchalance and was now sitting almost upright, his right elbow propped up on the armrest, head slightly inclined towards his right shoulder. Poised to strike, Severus thought, and felt the muscles of his back tighten in response.

“Merits, you say? Pettigrew is a lackey, Severus, a mere lackey, and had you not forgotten your loyalties during my admittedly prolonged absence, you might be the one dwelling here with me, holding a position of honour and power!”

“My Lord, I am certainly not questioning the punishment you justly thought I deserved. My loyalty might not have faltered, but my courage certainly has. It is not easy to admit that to you, but I feel compelled to confess it. Please,” he sank to his knees, “do not think that I am denigrating Pettigrew out of mere jealousy. But the man has betrayed once, and he might do it again.”

“How very… considerate you are, Severus. And you are, of course, right. Your frankness certainly speaks in your favour, but—” he got up from the couch and approached Severus “—sometimes you truly are a child. I appreciate your anxiousness concerning my safety, though.” His hand briefly brushed Severus’s hair. “You need not worry, child. Or did you think Pettigrews new hand is a gift, bestowed on him out of the goodness of my heart?”

“I thought it to be the reward for having stayed with you for almost a year, and for having given his flesh for your resurrection.”

“Ye-es,” Voldemort said, his voice now a sibilant sing-song, “Yes, that is what everybody thought. You used to be so perspicacious, Severus—has your shrewdness left you together with your courage? And your hair, I might add?”

“I—no, My Lord, I just—”

“You might want to consider,” the Dark Lord continued, “that whatever gift I choose to give comes with a price. Just like the Mark you bear—it is a sign of honour, but it also forces you to obey. Pettigrew’s hand is very similar in that respect. Should he ever feel the desire to use it against me, I assure you he will have the surprise of his… life, for lack of a better term.” With a swish of his robes, he turned and went back to the couch. “And now, my dear Severus—much as it pains me to interrupt this pleasant little chat—I think it is time for you to go. And remember not to fail my expectations.”

Bowing deeply, Severus muttered, “Of course, My Lord,” and retreated, backwards, towards the entrance to Barty/Black’s room. The fox was still sprawled on the same spot. “All right,” Severus said rather more loudly than absolutely necessary, touching the animal with the tip of his boot, “It seems that our Master is feeling particularly lenient tonight. You’ll come to Hogwarts with me, dear Barty—” his eyes searched the chamber for an appropriate object to transfigure into a broomstick “—and I’ll have the unpleasant task of restoring your health and strength.” Barty/Black’s wand was lying on the table, and Severus decided that it was best suited to his purpose. Once he had turned it into a broomstick—a rather sturdy one, which gave a sense of safety more than elegance—he scooped up the fox and left the room. “And now pray to whomever you want,” he muttered into one of the yellowish ears, “so we don’t stumble across that nonentity Pettigrew.”

Despite being used to long walks—patrolling the corridors of Hogwarts with all their staircases was muscle-building, especially if done at his usual speed—Severus had no wish to test his strength by ascending the stairs towards the main corridor. Voldemort had probably retired into one of the adjacent rooms together with his snake and was nowhere to be seen, so Severus mounted his makeshift broom, made sure that the fox was safely buttoned into his jacket and, after a last look at the surroundings, took off towards the faraway ceiling.

~~~~*~~~~

The clouds, which had been so ominously gathering at the horizon before Severus had left Hogwarts, had by now covered the whole sky; a slight drizzle, pleasantly cool on his skin, was falling when he Apparated at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Without bothering to dismount and change broomstick, Severus soared directly towards the roof of Serpens Tower, where he changed the broom back into Barty/Black’s wand and, with the animal still in his jacket, descended the stairs into his laboratory and from there further down into his living area.

It had been a long and, to put it mildly, eventful day for all of them, and so he was not overly surprised at the sight of Lucius dozing on his Chesterfield. Eyeing his own clothes in disgust, as they were covered in long, beige-yellowish Fennec hair, he unbuttoned his jacket. The fox was snoozing placidly and did not even wake up when he was none-too-gently extracted from his makeshift hammock. Severus looked from the fox to Lucius and back at the fox and, with a rather nasty grin, approached the sofa and dropped the animal on the sleeper’s chest.

“What the—” Lucius woke with a start and sat up, thus making the Fennec tumble into his lap. “Sev, what is this?”

“It’s a Fennecus Zerda. More importantly, it’s Barty’s Animagus form. Much too nice, if you ask me.”

The fox gave a pitiful moan, and slowly opened his eyes.

“Doesn’t look well,” Lucius commented, still struggling against sleep and trying to get the animal off his lap.

“Not really. He’s weak, and it seems that the combination of Polyjuice Potion and Azkaban does strange things to the mind. Anyway, Voldemort allowed me to take him with me, if only for a few days, to nurse him back to health.”

“How lovely. Just what you’ve always wanted to do. So,” Lucius said pensively, “you might consider giving him something to eat—he isn’t much more than a skeleton.”

“Of course. Well, Black,” Severus addressed the fox, who was now cowering next to Lucius, tail between his hind legs and snout resting on his forepaws, “mice and larvae or steak and baked beans? Are you able to transform?” The Fennec looked up at him, conveying a sense of deep-running hatred despite the fur covering his face. “I see. Well, considering that I’m in no mood to go rodent-hunting, maybe some raw meat will do just as well. Besides—” he picked the animal up again “—you’ll have to stay on the roof. Knowing you, you’re not house-trained, and even if you were, I’m sure you’d defecate all over the place, merely to spite me.” By way of an answer, the fox just whimpered and closed his eyes.

After ordering a bowl of meat and another with fresh water from Peggy, the two wizards went upstairs, pausing at the laboratory where Lucius, following Severus’s directions, took a vial of Pepper-Up Potion from one of the storage cupboards. “Now this is something I wouldn’t want to miss,” he said, emerging from the trapdoor after Severus, “Smoke coming out of these ears—it has to be quite spectacular.”

Together, they transformed several gardening tools into a dog kennel, a blanket and a well-filled litter box; when Peggy arrived with the two bowls, Severus poured some drops of potion into the water. “Drink as much of it as you can,” he told the fox, who, ears twitching and nostrils flaring, crawled towards the food. Obediently, the animal lapped up most of the water, and promptly sneezed. This, combined with the smoke rising from its large, bat-like ears, was indeed a sight for sore eyes. Lucius and Severus were still guffawing when they arrived downstairs, after having ordered the fox to stay put until the morning and wait for Severus to return together with Dumbledore.

“So,” Lucius said, wiping his eyes, “I assume you did quite the tightrope walk tonight?”

“You can say that again.” Severus fetched them drinks and, after sitting down in an armchair, told Lucius about his meeting with Voldemort. “You know,” he said, swinging his legs up and over the armrest, “I’m not sure whether my memories are exaggerated or he has really changed so much. But this… this playfulness is extremely unnerving.”

“I can imagine. May I assure you, however, that the playfulness is a new character trait.” Lucius took a swig of his whiskey and played with a thin gold chain around his neck. “It’s the piece from the ash tree,” he said, seeing Severus’s questioning glance. “What did you do with yours?”

By way of an answer, Severus pulled his own chain out from under his shirt. Besides the locket and the key to his Gringott’s vault, it now sported another ornament: a tiny golden skull. “Very appropriate, don’t you think so?” he said, and Lucius laughed.

“Yes, very. So—” he put his glass down on the table and shook his head in the negative when Severus offered a refill “—our situation is basically as follows: one, Voldemort's flesh may be weak, but the spirit is as strong as ever. Two, Pettigrew plays the errand boy, but should he grow tired of this minor role and turn against his master, he’ll pay his insubordination with his life. Three, not only has Black not succumbed to the Dark, he's not even up to playing his part unless you work a minor miracle. Great, just great. Not to mention that I have to handle this goddamned school.” He sighed. “Sev, do you have any idea how we might get rid of him?”

Despite the sincerity of the question, Severus could not resist laughing. “No,” he replied once he had recovered, “no, I really can’t think of anything. There are many ways of killing the body, but I have no idea how we might kill Voldemort’s spirit, or soul, or whatever name you’d like to give it. Otherwise I would already have told you, believe me.”

“Yes.” Lucius shot him a long, inquisitive look. “You certainly have… an interest in seeing him gone.”

“I’d say we all have,” Severus replied, as calmly noncommittal as possible.

“Uh-huh.” Lucius shook his head. “Sev, I’m no idiot, and I’ve got eyes. You and Nimue—it’s rather obvious, you know? I mean,” he added, when Severus’s head shot up in alarm, “for somebody who’s known you since you were eleven.”

“I…” Severus cleared his throat. “I’ll try to… er, remedy to that.”

Lucius snorted. “Well, then you’d best tell her to stop looking at you that way, too. Since I brought you home from Azkaban, those lovely brown eyes have always been glued to you.”

Severus leaned forward, surprised and eager to hear more. “Are you saying…” Realizing that he was sounding like a teenager, he stopped in mid-sentence, shoved his hair back from his forehead and inhaled deeply, in an attempt at re-establishing some of his dignity. But Lucius—and he would not have needed to be as perspicacious as he was, after that lapse, Severus thought wryly—was already laughing. “Come on, Lucius, this isn't funny!”

“Well, that depends, Sev. I think I’d like another one now,” he said, holding out his glass.

“Lucius, if you’re trying to turn this into some male version of a girls’ night, I’m warning you, I don’t—”

“Oh, shut up,” Lucius said good-naturedly, “give me that whiskey and let’s talk. We’ll both be terribly busy during the days to come, so who knows when another occasion is going to present itself?”

“That was exactly what I was counting on,” Severus muttered between clenched teeth. “Go on then, say what you want to say, and then leave me in peace.”

When the glass passed from Severus’s hand into Lucius’s, the two wizards’ eyes met for a moment. Lucius shook his head. “Sev, you’re thirty-seven and in love—what the hell is wrong with that? Not even Voldemort would object to such a match.”

“No, he certainly wouldn’t,” Severus spat.

“So what’s the problem? I’ll be the Headmaster, I won’t cause you any trouble, so long as you don’t shag her in the Great Hall, during lunch.”

Severus felt the heat crawl up his throat and into his cheeks. “I haven’t—”

“No, of course you haven’t. But sooner or later you’re going to. No need to be afraid you might be fired, no need to worry about Voldemort. So what’s the bloody problem? Take her, and keep her as long as you’re not bored. Marry her, if you absolutely wish to. I’ll be her guardian—I promise I won’t object.”

A sudden gust of wind sprayed the windowsills and the floor with raindrops. Grateful for the humid freshness, Severus let his face be cooled by the breeze and watched as the draught ruffled the pages of an open book on his desk. “This isn’t about you or Voldemort,” he finally said. “This is…” He paused, unsure how to find the right words to express the depth and heaviness of his emotions, part of which he had not even explored yet. “It is linked to the whole situation.”

“Ah.” The dry sound left Lucius’s mouth at the same time as his right eyebrow shot up—funny, Severus thought, as if noise and movement were connected somehow. May the eyebrow had Apparated? “Sev, are you listening?”

“I… er, sorry. I was… somewhere else. What did you say?”

“I was saying,” Lucius repeated, slowly and rolling his eyes, “that you’re sounding a little cryptic. Would you mind explaining what ‘linked to the whole situation’ means? Has the Great Oracle of Delphi…” His mouth snapped shut, and he leaned back, crossed his arms and threw Severus a half-calculating, half-scrutinizing look. “This is somehow connected to what Sybil told you, isn’t it?”

“Lucius, I really don’t appreciate—”

“I don’t give a fuck for your appreciation,” Lucius interrupted him, “and I want to know what exactly this is all about. Sev,” he leaned forward again, eyes a-glint, “Sev, this could be important!”

“I know it is important, but merely for myself! So kindly stop badgering me!”

“If it’s important only for yourself, then please explain how it’s linked to everything else!”

For a while, the two men merely stared at each other, each of them trying to glare the other into submission. “Fine,” Severus clipped, yanking the medallion from under his shirt. “Now I only have to show it to Draco, and then the whole Malfoy family knows about it!”

“Considering what you know about the goings-on in the Malfoy family,” Lucius replied, “I can’t see how that might hurt.” He took the parchment Severus had handed him, perused it and whistled through his teeth. “I see,” he finally said. “Well, that’s… quite something. And, er, are you sure that Nimue’s the one?”

“Yes!” Severus impatiently snatched the parchment, shrunk it and put it back into the medallion.

“Dare I ask why?”

“No. If you want the whole story, ask Yelena or Narcissa. I’m not in the mood right now.”

“All right, all right,” Lucius said, raising his hands in a gesture of defeat. “You want to remain shut like an oyster—suit yourself. By the way, all this talk about Sybil reminds me… I think I might have an explanation for her sudden, violent bursts of clairvoyance.” Startled out of his gruffness, Severus motioned for him to speak. “I remembered what you told me, once upon a time, about the venom of that disgusting snake of his. Unless I’m terribly mistaken, you mentioned that it has mind-altering properties, didn’t you?”

“Uh-huh, that’s right. Indian wizards used it to reach trance—oh, I see!”

“Indeed. If that stuff, provided it’s ingested in sufficient quantities—”

“Sufficient? You must be joking. He practically runs on snake venom.”

“That merely confirms my theory. If it takes him to a different level of consciousness…”

“As everything,” Severus said pensively, “this fact has a positive and a negative aspect. If we tell Sybil, she might be able to focus her efforts a lot better. She might even help us find a way of defeating him. Really, I mean. But what if…”

Lucius nodded. “Exactly. What if he notices that somebody is tele-picking his brain? Worse: what if he becomes aware of her identity?”

“Then,” Severus said, each word punctuated by tapping his empty glass against his knee, “we’re unable to protect her. Neither you nor I.” He massaged the bridge of his nose. “Shit. I hate being trapped in an impasse.”

“So do I. But if we ask Dumbledore to take her to his hiding place with him…”

“Unplottable or not, you never know how those spiritual links work. It might enable Voldemort to find her, and consequently eliminate her, Dumbledore and the whole resistance.”

“That’s true.” Eyelids drooping, Lucius stifled a yawn. “Listen, Sev, I’m going to sleep. Maybe…” His lips curled into a lopsided grin. “Maybe everything will seem a bit clearer after some hours of sleep.”

Severus nodded, although he did not believe in this possibility any more than Lucius did. But sometimes it was better to keep up appearances. Even fake optimism was better than right-out despondency. And he, too needed his sleep.

If only because tomorrow, he would have to talk to Nimue.