The Sybil's Oracle: Book Three

Chapter 16

By Pigwidgeon37

Even the best of intentions were thwarted sometimes. Instead of meeting Nimue when he went down to the Great Hall for breakfast, Severus stumbled into the almost-complete resistance group. Draco and Nimue had obviously been told to stay in their quarters. Narcissa and Yelena were there, though, and so were Owen and Sybil. Too few Slytherins (although two of them only by proxy, and Moody hardly counted as a Slytherin, at least for him) to make up for the Gryffindor horde, he thought wryly on his way from the entrance to the round table he already knew from holidays past. Lupin was there, and Arabella Figg, Gordon and Astraea Black—their presence was more than enough explanation for the suppressed fury he saw on the three Malfoys’ faces; Arthur Weasley was sitting at Dumbledore's left together with his wife and their two oldest sons, Bill and Charlie. Strange, Severus thought, why had Pompous Percy not come with them? An elderly witch with obviously dyed red hair—the tone was simply too screaming to be natural—cut into a severe bob and with round, wire-rimmed glasses; after a brief hesitation, Severus identified her as Mafalda Hopkirk, at whose left side McGonagall was perching on the edge of her chair. There was a division commander of the Magical Law Enforcement, whose name Severus did not recall; Alastor Moody was staring grimly at the enchanted ceiling with his good eye, while the other was boring holes into people’s skulls; Amos Diggory, who had lost a lot of weight since Severus had last seen him five weeks ago, was staring down at the tabletop—somehow, his face now seemed too small for his bushy beard. Madam Pomfrey was sitting next to a tall, lean wizard whom Severus supposed to be her husband. His heart skipped a beat when he noticed Roberta Rosier—he had not been aware that she, too, was part of Dumbledore's inner circle.

It seemed as if he was the last to arrive—for some reason, this irked him immensely—but seeing as how the Weasleys and Hopkirk were only just starting with their breakfast, he could at least be sure that he had not kept them waiting for too long. After a terse “Good morning” to everybody but nobody in particular, Severus sat down between Lucius and Lupin, and reached for the coffeepot. A quick look at Dumbledore, who gave him a brief nod, told him that Lucius had already informed the old wizard of Black’s presence in Serpens Tower. Before descending to the Great Hall, Severus had made sure that the Animagus was still sleeping, and told Peggy to refill his empty food and water bowls. But this particular subject would have to be dealt with later. The fewer people knew about Black’s mission, the better.

For a while, the table was abuzz with conversation; groups of two and three spoke to each other in lowered voices, and more or less curious regards found their way to the three Phoenixes. Not that Lucius’s—and consequently Narcissa and Yelena’s—presence was much of a surprise, as by now everybody knew that he was going to take over from Dumbledore within a few days’ time. But Owen and, to a lesser degree, Severus had clearly not been expected to be here.

Years of teaching had honed Severus's ability to feel atmospheres—an indispensable skill when having to control a classroom full of students, especially if they were Slytherins and Gryffindors. Right now, he was positioned between two men, who, albeit not exactly enemies, certainly had no friendly feelings for each other. Besides, the waves of tension radiating off Lucius were almost tangible and very jarring. Lupin, who had already finished eating, certainly appeared calmer. His fingers were playing with the handle of his coffee cup, and he was gazing a some point on the far wall of the hall, eyes slightly unfocused. The werewolf had evidently taken one mental step back to distance himself from the group, and preferred listening to the many ongoing conversations to actively taking part. But when Severus had poured himself the second cup of coffee, Lupin turned towards him.

“Well,” he said, a small, ironic smile curling his lips, “If this isn’t a morning of surprises…”

“If you say so,” Severus replied curtly.

“I most certainly do. Dumbledore couldn’t be too explicit in his message to us, but now his somewhat cryptic admonition to ‘come to Hogwarts with an open mind’ certainly makes sense.”

“That phrase should be included into the traditional letters to the students,” was Severus's terse answer.

Lupin chuckled. “By all means. It would certainly be to the school’s benefit.”

“Without any doubt.” Severus carefully chose a slice of melon and a peach, and proceeded to cutting them. “Although I don't think it will be possible to send this admonition to the students anytime soon.”

“Probably not,” Lupin agreed, “What with the pressure Malfoy is going to be under…”

“He’s not the only one.”

“Certainly not.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Severus saw Lucius’s right hand; the corner of his napkin was pinched between his thumb and forefinger, in a grip so tight that his nails had gone completely white, the other fingers clenched the white linen into a tight bundle against his palm. From time to time, they gave a sharp little pull. The tightly-woven material was already showing the first minuscule rips and tears. When Dumbledore called for everybody’s attention by repeatedly tapping his teacup with his spoon, the group fell silent. Lucius’s hand unclenched slightly.

“My dear friends,” Dumbledore began, “first let me thank you for following my invitation to come to Hogwarts. For obvious reasons, this is both the first and last occasion for us to assemble here, as a complete group. From now on, we will have to rely on other ways of communication to ensure both our own safety and that of Hogwarts. Even today’s meeting represents a certain risk, but sometimes a calculated risk has to be taken in order to ensure the successful outcome of an operation.”

This observation was followed by nods and sounds of general agreement. Small wonder, Severus thought, when there was a majority of Gryffindors. Though the word ‘calculated’ had probably escaped their attention.

“As you shall see later,” Dumbledore continued his speech, “your presence here is also a technical necessity. But it certainly wasn't my principal reason for summoning all of you at the same time. This group—” his eyes came to rest on each of the tablemates in turn, then he leaned back and pushed his glasses further up his nose “—is too… let us say motley, to work together without having assembled, face to face, at least once. There are long-standing enmities—” he looked from the Blacks to Lucius, then at Severus and finally Moody “—which, understandable and even justified as they may be, have to be buried, at least temporarily.”

This time, nobody nodded. There was a long, heavy silence, underscored merely by Moody’s heavy breathing.

“We cannot afford—” the Headmaster’s tone had become a little sharper and more intense “—to allow those resentments to block the path towards our common aim. Even if this aim is the only thing we have in common, we must concentrate all our strength and efforts in order to reach it. I am old, maybe even wise, enough to know that a handshake doesn’t turn foes into friends. But—” his hands, bony and covered in age marks, grabbed the edge of the table as he leaned forward “—I do not hesitate to use my authority to ensure that a temporary truce be kept until we have got rid of Voldemort. All of you will swear a solemn oath to put your conflicts aside for the duration of this war. Because that is what we will have to face. A war.”

He poured himself a cup of tea and ceremonially put in four lumps of sugar and a generous dose of cream. While stirring the light-beige mixture, he continued, “Having stated this essential premise of our work, I suggest that we proceed to the distribution of tasks. As some of you already know, operational headquarters of the resistance group are going to be located at the former refugee camp. Apart from those who have to stay at Hogwarts, there are also those who cannot give up their jobs and homes without immediately attracting attention. Roberta, for example, Mafalda, Arthur, Flavius and Amos. You have to remain where you are, both for the safety of the resistance movement and to provide insider information. Remus, on the other hand, together with Bill, Charlie, Alastor, Gordon and Astraea, could easily be part of the group dwelling in the camp, lest they have any objections.”

Gordon Black exchanged a look with his wife, then asked, “You said something about methods of communication. I suppose that our staying at so many different locations won’t pose a problem then?”

“Absolutely no problem. I’ll show it to you later, though, because to explain it beforehand would be a useless waste of time.”

“I see,” Moody said. “Well, speaking for myself, I’m perfectly willing to join you at the camp. I’m retired anyway, and with my reputation, no-one is going to wonder about pretty much anything I do. Especially after my spectacular accident…”

Lucius’s head shot up. “Your what?”

Without looking at him, Moody replied, “The story we fed Voldemort before…” He stopped in mid-sentence. The information about Barty was classified, after all.

“And why,” Lucius said, his eyes boring into Dumbledore's, “Have we not been informed?”

Moody was about to snap at him, but Dumbledore put his hand on his forearm. With a deep growl, Moody closed his lopsided mouth and leaned back. “Because,” Dumbledore said, “I thought it would be easier for you to react in the appropriate way once Voldemort told you the news. So he did not tell you?”

“No,” Owen said, “he didn’t. So, what alleged incident did you have, then?”

“Fell off my broomstick while on my way home from Hogwarts,” Moody muttered. Sybil tried to turn her snort into a polite cough.

Eyes narrowing, the Law Enforcer called Flavius turned to Dumbledore. “Excuse me, Headmaster, but… none of this makes sense. What—”

“I’m afraid,” Dumbledore said and sighed, “I’m afraid there are one or two things that must be kept top secret.” He shot Moody an annoyed look. “The… er, story concerning Alastor is one of them.”

“I thought we were to be equals,” came Roberta Rosier’s sharp retort. “This concept doesn't go well with secrets some of us know and some don’t.”

“I’m sure the Headmaster has his very good reasons to keep part of the information classified,” Lupin chimed in.

Gordon Black’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you saying that the Slytherin part of this group is more trustworthy?”

“Now don’t be irrational, Gordon. Why would I say such a thing? Besides, even though Alastor is a Slytherin, he and Malfoy aren’t exactly buddies, are they?”

Moody grunted something unintelligible.

“Buddies or not,” said Astraea Black, “the fact remains that the group of people here present is supposed to organize the resistance against Voldemort. There should be no such thing as classified information, accessible to some but not to others. It doesn’t exactly help those who are excluded trust those who aren’t.”

“This,” Lucius said through clenched teeth, his voice a little too flat and emotionless, “is completely beside the point. It’s about our personal safety, and therefore, the fewer people know, the safer we are.”

“And who, if I may enquire, is ‘we’?” Flavius asked, “A group within the group? The pureblood elite?”

Lupin sighed. “Really, Murdoch, do you have to bring that up? I’m sure nobody here is interested in the others’ pedigree.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about our senior Death Eaters here,” Amos Diggory snapped.

“Enough!” Dumbledore rose from his chair. He had taken off his glasses, and now the unmitigated power of his eyes made each of them cringe in turn. “If this futile bickering is all you are capable of, then we have already lost. Then you may leave this room right now, go home, and wait until Voldemort comes for you. You are not children anymore, and all of you still remember what happened twenty years ago. Would Voldemort ever have accumulated such power without the unwitting help of all those who never got over their petty conflicts? At this table—” he bent slightly until his palms rested on the wooden surface “—we are neither Death Eaters nor Aurors, neither purebloods nor Muggle-borns. Nothing counts but our common aim. If…” He paused and sighed. “If one or more of you cannot accept this rule, which is both the simplest and most difficult request I could possibly make—I am fully conscious of that, believe me…” He cleared his throat and looked down at the table for a moment. When he raised his head again, every trace of insecurity or regret had vanished from his face. “If you feel you are unable to accept this rule, you may go now. I will bear you no grudge. On the contrary, if you recognize that you would rather leave the group than to endanger it, I would admire your courage.”

Good move, Severus thought. Tell a Gryffindor that he’s proving his courage by eating dragon dung, and they’ll do it.

For a long time, nobody spoke. Severus scrutinized the faces, one by one. What worried him most, more than the expression of grim hatred on Gordon Black’s face, was the mix of stubbornness and childish defiance twisting Flavius Murdoch’s traits. He had seen it countless times. But that was exactly what made him so uneasy, because Barty Crouch’s narrowed eyes, compressed lips and white nostrils had been symptoms of the very same emotions boiling and churning under the surface. No, he certainly did not trust Murdoch. A quick glance at Arthur Weasley, who, according to Severus's estimation, was about the same age and might know him from school, told him that the redhead, too, was not quite happy with this particular group member. Evidently, Murdoch had been in the resistance already the first time round. But, he thought, maybe Dumbledore should have considered how drastically things had changed. While the Weasleys and even the Blacks were probably too fervently anti-Voldemort to let anything come between them and their aim, the Law Enforcer seemed to be the type who, if push came to shove, might place his own sensibilities above anything else.

“You know,” Bill Weasley’s voice broke the silence, so abruptly that everybody gave him a surprised look, “in a way this is very similar to Quidditch.”

Some people snorted, some raised their eyebrows, others shook their heads in disbelief. Molly Weasley, whose face had gone very red, had already opened her mouth, probably to chastise her eldest son for daring to speak up in such an illustrious round, mentioning Quidditch of all things. But her husband put a hand over hers, smiled and shook his head.

“What an interesting analogy,” Lucius snarled, and immediately Molly Weasley’s glare swerved towards him, daring him to ridicule her baby.

“Oh, yes, it is,” Bill said lightly, grinning at him. “You just—” he leaned back in his chair and crossed his raised arms behind his head “—have to understand it. But you were quite a Quidditch player in your own school days, so I suppose you will. Chaser, eh?” Lucius nodded, the crease between his brows a little less pronounced. “What I mean to say is, you don’t have to be best buddies with the other team members, in order to win. But for the duration of the game, you have to forget all that, or else you won’t win. You can’t play against each other, within the team I mean, and win the game, it’s impossible.”

“The problem is,” said Astraea Black, “that this is going to be a very long Quidditch match.”

“Yeah, I know,” was Bill’s rather unperturbed answer. “I know, and it's one hell of a Snitch we’ve got to catch. But that doesn't change the rules. The Chasers come up with their own strategies, and the Beaters have their own ideas, too, and all of it serves one single purpose: win the game. Afterwards you can go and fight in the locker room, or hex each other in the shower. Who cares? Because you won.”

Not that Severus appreciated the simile too much, but he had to admit that Weasley had broken the tension. Especially his last remark about post-game fighting in the locker room seemed to have appealed to Murdoch. Probably the man was already revelling in his fantasies of strangling him, Lucius and Owen. Well, let him have his fun. So long as he toed the line while it was necessary…

“Very well,” Dumbledore said, smiling down at Bill and lowering himself back into his chair. “And now, to keep Bill’s Quidditch simile, who is going to be Chasers, Keeper, Beaters and Seeker? We have to distribute the parts each of us has to play.”

Molly Weasley, on whose face embarrassment had given way to pride, raised her hand and said, “Shouldn't we finish determining who’s going to be where?”

“Of course, Molly, of course. Thank you for reminding me. There are, in fact, a few persons who may choose whether they’d rather join me in the headquarters or remain where they are, as I already said. Bill, for example, and Charlie.”

“Well,” Charlie said, “I’m a bit hesitant, to say the truth. I mean, if I stayed in Romania, I could keep an eye on Durmstrang—it’s so near the border, up in those mountains, that I’m sure rumours will arrive very fast. Besides, there’s the vampires. Somebody should contact them and try to convince them that they have at least to stay neutral. So I—”

“You are going nowhere near a vampire, Charles Weasley!” his mother snapped.

Charlie, his freckled face suffused by a deep scarlet blush, turned towards her. “Mum, this is a war! You can’t protect me any more than I can protect you. So please let me do my job.” After receiving a fond smile from his father, he addressed Dumbledore again. “So, if that’s what you want me to do, I’ll stay in Dragu. If there’s more important things for me to do in England, I’ll come to the camp with you.”

“Headmaster?” Yelena’s silvery voice disrupted the ensuing silence. “Concerning Durmstrang and the vampires, I think my people could be of greater use. No vampire in their right mind would ever dare to attack a Veela. No offence, Mr. Weasley,” she said to Charlie, whose eyes had taken on a slightly dreamy expression while resting on her face.

“N-None taken,” he stuttered and lapsed back into his contemplation.

“I think you’re right, Yelena.” Dumbledore nodded. “Yes, that would be better, I think. After all, your people have… well, means of getting information nature has denied to Charlie. Yes, I think you’d better join me, Charlie. Don’t worry about losing your job, though. During your stay here in England, the resistance will pay you a salary equal to the one the Association is giving you now. And afterwards, I’m sure we’ll be able to help you get your job back.”

“Really, Headmaster, it isn’t—”

“Oh, yes, it is,” Dumbledore interrupted his protests. “What about you, Bill?”

Bill Weasley shrugged. “Same as Charlie, more or less. The only problem being that the Goblins won’t allow me much of a margin. I have to go wherever they order me to go, whether it’s Peru or Samarkand. And if you need me elsewhere, I’d have trouble explaining that to old Gringott.”

“I think,” McGonagall chimed in, “that a curse breaker might be most useful to us here in England. Considering Voldemort’s fondness of ancient magic, Bill’s experience with ancient curses of every type would come in very handy.”

Bill smiled at her. “That’s right, Professor. I’ve been in the business for more than ten years, and I know my curses better than the back of my hand. Besides—” he turned to Dumbledore “—I’m pretty sure that the Goblins won’t deny me a job after all this is over. They have as much interest as we to see Voldemort gone for good, and if we let them know that I had a hand in it, too…”

“Oh, we will, we will. Concerning your payment, we shall handle it in the same way as Charlie’s.” Dumbledore gestured towards the Blacks. “And you, my friends? Have you decided yet?”

Gordon Black glanced sideways at his wife, who nodded. “Yes, Albus. We will return to England and stay at the headquarters with you. As you know, Astraea is an Animagus, so that might be helpful. And…” He bit his lower lip and looked up to the ceiling. A ray of sunlight pierced one of the big, greyish-white clouds and cast sharp, oblong shadows on the table. In the overbright light, Severus saw that Black’s eyes were glittering with tears. “We might… be able to lay hands on that traitor, Pettigrew. And restore our son’s good name, wherever he is now.”

“I truly hope so, Gordon. And don’t worry. Right now, Sirius is perfectly safe. I give you my word.”

“What is your Animagus form?” Narcissa asked, leaning forward to catch Astraea Black’s eye.

“Nothing too useful, I’m afraid. A white deer.”

Severus smirked. “Second only to a Polar Bear. But I might have something very interesting for you.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Dumbledore agreed, “Severus has done a little research on Polyjuice Potion recently, and it seems as if it might change your Animagus form, too. So your ability might be highly useful after all.”

“My wife is not going to play lab rat for Severus Snape!”

Severus rolled his eyes. “Calm down, Black. It has already been tested.”

Before Black could utter a sharp retort, Dumbledore addressed Lupin. “What about you, Remus? I suppose you’ll join us, won’t you?”

Shoving his greying hair, which was in bad need of a trim, back from his forehead, Lupin nodded. “Yes, of course. It’s not as if I had a house to stay at. And jobs for werewolves are as rare as hen’s teeth.”

“Unless some batty old goat hires them,” Lucius muttered under his breath, only for Severus to hear.

Dumbledore, whose auditory sense at times bore an uncanny similarity to a bat’s, winked at him and said, “That’s settled then. Now to our roles. What—”

“Wait, wait,” the wizard, whom Severus supposed to be Pomfrey’s husband, interrupted him, “You’re forgetting me, Albus. I’m sure you’ll need a mediwizard, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course, but—” Dumbledore looked slightly puzzled. “Duncan, you can’t possibly—”

“Oh, yes, I can. I took in a partner two years ago, and she’s perfectly capable of handling our patients on her own, at least for a while. I have wanted to travel to Africa for a very long time, to study medicinal herbs and local healing magic. So I’ll simply pretend that I’m finally granting myself this wish.”

Dumbledore spread his arms in a gesture of both acceptance and defeat. “What can I say? I know I should not take advantage of you, and probably decline your offer, but we really need a mediwizard, as St. Mungo's it out of bounds for obvious reasons. Are you absolutely sure?”

“I’ve talked it over with Poppy, and I think she’d have my head if I decided otherwise.”

“Excellent,” Dumbledore said, “This seems to be settled, then. And now to our tasks.”

~~~~*~~~~

The sky, mirrored by the enchanted ceiling, was already losing colour when the meeting ended. It had not been an easy process, but at long last the roles and tasks had been distributed to everybody’s satisfaction, but also in view of the possibility that one day the group that had assembled today might be responsible of the destiny of England’s wizarding society. They had had an improvised lunch consisting of sandwiches and fruit—nobody had felt like interrupting the discussion—and most of the participants had excused themselves for dinner, as they wanted to return home as soon as possible, to start the preparations for their departure. Severus and the Malfoys, who had already received their piece of ash wood and drunk from the spring, went back to their respective quarters, while the rest accompanied Dumbledore down into the cave.

“I think it might actually work,” Lucius said, while gathering stray parchments from the table.

“Yes, if the Spirit of Quidditch looks benignly upon us,” Severus replied.

“That, my dear Sev, is something you’ll never understand.”

“I truly hope so, Lucius. In order to become even mildly interested in that pastime of dunderheads, I would have to undergo a lobotomy, which I’d rather avoid.”

Lucius glared at him, and then at his mother, who admonished them, in a tone somewhere between amused and annoyed, “Oh, come on, boys, stop quarrelling.”

“Mother, I’m not—”

“Oh yes, you are, Lucius. And now come, we have to look after the children.”

“Indeed,” Lucius agreed, offering her his arm. With a malicious look over his shoulder, back at Severus, he added, “I’m sure Severus is eager to… look after some of them, too.”

“Careful what you say, Malfoy. I’m still the better dueller. And, just for your information, I have to check on Black now.”

Lucius merely grinned and left the Great Hall together with his wife and mother. Severus cast a last look over the table, to make sure they had not left behind anything important, and then quickly exited the hall. Yes, he mused, the meeting had indeed gone well. Better than he—and probably most of the participants—had expected in the morning. Murdoch seemed to have been both flattered and appeased by the assurance that, once Voldemort was gone and Fudge had resigned, he was going to become Head of the Magical Law Enforcement. All four Weasleys were wildly determined, the Blacks appeared to have understood that this was not the time to pour oil on the fire of ancient enmities. Roberta Rosier was, as it had turned out, indispensable, for she had recently been promoted and was now deputy director of St. Mungo’s. Hopkirk had not said much, but her promise to prepare the ground for the expulsion of Muggle-borns whose parents were willing to leave the country, by flooding them with reprimands for the use of magic outside Hogwarts, was as important as her willingness to try and garner as many allies as possible within the Ministry. Arthur Weasley and Amos Diggory had vowed to keep their eyes and ears open, both to glean information and identify supporters of Voldemort among their colleagues. Dumbledore was only too willing to take the two potentially traitorous House-Elves to the headquarters with him, which meant that a constant source of worry would be gone within less than a week.

With a grimace of disgust, Severus repeatedly wiped his right hand on his robes. In order to swear the oath Dumbledore had requested they all take, it had been necessary to form a circle and join hands. He had had to touch that werewolf… Of course, only his saliva was contagious, and only if it entered the blood circulation by way of a wound; this knowledge notwithstanding, Severus was loath to establish an even minuscule physical contact. But the magic Dumbledore had wielded when they pronounced the words, in unison, had been highly powerful, he mused. The old wizard had not informed them about possible consequences in case they acted against their pledge. Even so, Severus had little doubt they would be none too pleasant. The certainty that neither Moody’s vindictiveness nor the Blacks’ grudges represented a danger until Voldemort was gone, ‘flesh, blood, and bone, spirit, mind and soul’—those had been the words they had to pronounce—was probably even worth touching a filthy werewolf.

The next big problem was, of course, Black. Dumbledore had promised Severus to accompany him back to Serpens Tower after dinner, so they could assess the situation together and decide what therapy to try with the Animagus.

“Phlegeton,” he pronounced when the two dryads slunk into view. The luminous path appeared, and he stepped onto it, briefly wondering why the two nymphs were sending him such strange smiles. Knowing and, yes, definitely lewd. Maybe they had a faun hidden somewhere in their sultry tropical wood—you never knew with nymphs, even on magical tapestries.

When he opened the door to his quarters, though, he realized that they had had different reasons for smirking at him. A mop of frizzy brown hair was spilling over the armrest of his couch. Smiling to himself, he closed the door without making any noise, and tiptoed across the room. She had fallen asleep; the book she had borrowed from his library—Occult Potions of the Ming Dynasty, one of the many tomes McLachlan had made him read during his own apprenticeship—was lying, face down, on her chest, rising and falling with the slow rhythm of her respiration. He shook his head and frowned—although it was not really her fault, he hated it to see his books treated like that—and then gently lifted the volume off her body. After putting a bookmark between the pages she had been reading, he took off his robes and jacket, and turned back to her sleeping form.

She was wearing that sundress again today, the very piece of clothing he had seen her in on the day when something like physical awareness of each other had briefly crackled between them. Severus felt his fingertips tingle with desire. As far as physical awareness was concerned, the other night had certainly furthered matters considerably. He took a deep breath, hoping the extra oxygen might slow down his heartbeat. Apart from the effect Nimue was having on him, he was also quite hot. The windows were open, but last night’s rain had not brought much refreshment; during the day, the air had again become damp and stuffy, and what little wind there had been in the morning had died down by now. Just like the night before, clouds were gathering, solid grey towers that promised rain and probably also a thunderstorm.

Nimue’s head, propped up on a pile of unfamiliar-looking cushions—she must have conjured them, he thought and felt a twinge of pride—was turned to the right, towards the back of the couch, so that he could see her face only in half-profile. It occurred to him that she had to be pretty hot under that mop of hair, for a thin trickle of sweat was running down her throat from behind her left ear. Severus knelt down and leaned forward, deeply inhaling her scent. She seemed to have spent the day swimming and sunbathing at the lake; the freckles on the bridge of her nose and cleavage had multiplied, and the aroma of water and sun was still clinging to her skin. His eyes followed the glittering trace of sweat down her throat and to her collarbone—how translucent her skin was, where the curve of her neck blended into the line of her shoulder—and further down to the neckline of her dress. Her skin had a soft pinkish hue there, and promptly his mind’s eye provided the image of her breasts pushed up ever so slightly by her bikini top. A fleeting thought of Clarissa crossed his mind. Despite the difference in build and height—Clarissa had been almost as tall as he and downright androgynous, all meagre, willowy limbs and not an ounce of fat—their breasts were very much the same. The rest… he smiled, following the contours of her body with his gaze. No, Nimue was certainly not androgynous. The white linen trousers she had been wearing last night had revealed more of her legs than the sundress. He had memorized their outline and was therefore able to find it again under the pale-blue folds of gauzy fabric that had bundled up around her knees. Her waist was rather narrow, her hips and thighs definitely rounded. Her belly still flat… for an idle moment, he wondered whether she was ticklish. Then his glance swerved back to her breasts, two small mounds, barely elevated now that she was lying on her back. He imagined the feel of taut nipples grazing against the skin of his palms…

“Do you like what you see?”

Severus’s head shot up and he felt himself blush. She did not seem to mind the scrutiny of her body, though; on the contrary, her eyes were glittering with mirth. “Nimue…” he said, a little weakly, frantically searching for his self-control which seemed to have sauntered off in search of whatever unemployed self-controls did to amuse themselves.

She smiled and raised her left hand, let it glide over his right upper arm, to his shoulder and up his neck, until it cupped his cheek. He turned his head to press a kiss onto her palm and, when he saw her pupils widen, gently bit down on the fleshy mound at the base of her thumb. Nimue’s eyelids fluttered, and she let out a soft sigh. Goose pimples rose on her left arm. “Don’t do that!” she muttered, her tone of voice betraying the exact contrary.

Severus had truly meant to talk to her immediately, but saw his resolve melt like an ice cube in a boiling cauldron once he looked up and met her eyes. The desire he found there was simply overwhelming. Well, he thought, they might always talk later. Dinner was to be served in little less than an hour. “What about this, then?” he whispered, and started kissing his way up the inside of her arm. Her breathing became shallow and irregular when his tongue caressed the inside of her elbow, and when he had arrived at the delicate tissue right under her armpit, alternately sucking and flicking his tongue over the expanse of pale skin, she emitted a low moan.

Resisting her stubborn attempts at pulling him down for a kiss, he continued his exploration; his mouth moved upwards to her shoulder and came to a temporary standstill on that enticing hollow just above her collarbone. He felt her shift against his left forearm, which was resting on the couch, preventing him from losing his balance. While he let himself be submerged by her reactions and his sensations, he smiled against her skin, thinking how different this situation was from his previous encounters with women. True, when he had slept with Nathalie, he had enjoyed mapping her body with his hands and mouth, but the prevalent feeling had been one of power: the power to obtain certain effects, to press the right buttons. The heady awareness that to do the right things to a female body meant to control it to a certain extent. With Nimue, on the other hand, the whole experience was more elemental, a mindless giving and receiving, neither entirely for himself nor only for her. To his surprise, he realized that it did not really matter whether he did things right, for there was nothing to prove; and he was not the one in charge, who might be blamed for possible errors. It was a wordless learning of each other’s bodies, step by step and inch by inch, but at the end—if there ever was an end to it, which he strongly doubted—neither tests nor grades were looming.

Severus felt her other arm encircle his back, and then, with a small mewling noise of exasperation, she drew him against her, chest to chest and mouth to mouth, and kissed him.

If last night’s kisses had conserved a vestige of hesitant innocence, it was gone now. This kiss was deeper, in every sense of the word. Currents of pleasure shot straight down into his abdomen and lower back and whirled around the spot her right hand was massaging in tight, hot circles. The fingers of her left were wandering restlessly up and down between his shoulder blades, holding him tight in a grip he did not want to escape. And her tongue… Gods, her tongue seemed to be everywhere at the same time, eagerly flitting across the roof of his mouth, inserting itself between his teeth and upper lip, tracing the outline of his lower lip, invading and inviting… Slowly and careful not to crush her, he lessened the resistance of his upper arms, and put more of his weight upon her, to intensify the contact.

At some point, his self-control returned and sternly reminded him that he had not wanted to rush her. Heart hammering and every fibre of his body in red-hot alert, he broke the kiss, retreated by a few inches and looked down at her face. Her eyes were almost closed, and her expression was one of deep concentration, not unlike her classroom attitude, but mingled with pleasure. She opened her eyes and smiled, a savage little smile of desire awakened and far from sated.

Without breaking their eye contact, she shifted a little towards the backrest of the couch. Mesmerized, he followed her unspoken command and heaved up his body until they were aligned, both their heads resting on the mound of pillows. When she was about to close the small distance between their bodies, he put a hand on her hip and shook his head. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he said, uncomfortably aware of the all-too-tangible outward signs of his arousal. To have her belly pressed against his erection would be a little more than he could handle; besides, he had no idea how she might react.

He certainly had not expected her to say, “Oh, I don't mind—I mean, I’m used to that.” His stare must have expressed a certain incredulity, because now she blushed and stuttered, “N-Not what you think, I-I just… Viktor was… I mean he g-got erections all the time…” She bit her lip and stared at the top button of his shirt.

“Krum?” She nodded, throwing him a guilty look. “He… what exactly do you mean by ‘erections all the time’? He didn’t—”

“No! No, we just kissed, I told you. And it wasn’t… I mean I didn't enjoy it…”

“Bad breath, yes, you told me.”

“Exactly. But he—” she giggled into his chest “—it's embarrassing, really, but he always claimed it had something to do with his exceptionally high adrenaline level…”

Severus snorted. “Adrenaline level… I wish they had thrown him into Azkaban,” he said ruefully.

“Well, you’d have freed him anyway. But—” she raised her face and looked straight into his eyes “—you must believe me, we never—”

“Shush.” He dropped a butterfly kiss on her forehead. “Of course I believe you. And I merely didn't want to… well, frighten you.”

They kissed again, more slowly this time. His hand again on her hip, Severus tried to put at least an inch between them. “Nimue, considering that we must not cross a certain line, at least not before 19 September, and best not before you have taken your N.E.W.T.s—”

Her eyes went wide. “My N.E.W.T.s? I wouldn’t… I mean, I’m not ready yet… well, to say the truth, I am, but… You can’t be serious! That’s three years!” She grabbed his shoulder and shook him. “Severus, I really appreciate your being such a gentleman, and maybe I wouldn’t have said yes today, but I don’t want to wait three years!”

“That’s a compliment, come to think of it.” He chuckled. “But we really shouldn’t rush things. I have no intention of taking advantage of you…”

“You’re not taking advantage of me,” she said indignantly, frowning at him. “Although I have to admit I have no idea what exactly happened. You used to hate me…”

“Now don’t exaggerate. I didn't hate you, I was merely irritated by your attitude.”

“And what happened to make you less irritated?”

He stroked her hair. “That, my dear, is a long story for another time. And believe me, I am at least as surprised as you are. Or did I somehow misread the signs of utter adoration in your eyes, when you glared at me during Potions?”

“Uh-huh. I always glare at people I like.”

“So do I. Well, that explains a lot. Anyway—” he made a rather pathetic attempt at sternness “—there are things we definitely cannot do now, and if you continue to wiggle against me in that fashion, you’re making self-control a bit hard…”

“Not only your self-control,” she said, glancing down between them. He treated her derriere to a sound clap, which made her squeal. “Okay, okay, you’re right. We should talk. Try to make sense of all this. Tonight after dinner?”

“Not tonight, no. I have to meet with Dumbledore. But we could go for a walk tomorrow morning.”

“And if it rains tomorrow morning?”

He clucked his tongue in mock-reprimand. “A witch skilled enough to conjure cushions should not have any difficulties casting a simple waterproof spell.” In a sudden rush of affection, he squeezed her close to him. “And now go. You’re looking way too kissed—everybody is going to notice. Splash some cold water into your face and think of your History of Magic finals. That should de-sensualize you sufficiently.”

Once more, their lips found each other, and Severus admitted to himself that he did not really want to see her leave. Those breasts pressing against his chest, and her hand playing in his hair…

“Well, well, well. Promoted from Death Eater spawn to Death Eater whore? And you, Snape? Already preparing to deflower her? Already decided who’s to have her blood?”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Severus had expected this to happen. Maybe his subconscious had registered that, by now, rain was pouring from the dark clouds, so that Black would have to seek shelter downstairs. But that only made him less shocked; certainly not less enraged, especially when he saw the expression of frozen horror on Nimue’s face.

“Who… who is that man?” she asked. Her hands were holding his upper arms in a death grip.

“Never mind that piece of filth,” he replied, reaching around her neck with his right hand to retrieve his wand from his left sleeve.

He had deliberately elevated his voice, in the hopes that Black would be sufficiently enraged by his derogatory comment to come a little closer. He had his back towards the intruder and needed the sound of his footsteps and voice to aim correctly.

“Filth, am I?” Black’s voice was trembling with fury. “Well, we’ll see who—”

“Stupefy!” The noise of Black’s heels on the hardwood floor and the few words he had uttered had given Severus a sufficiently precise idea of his location to push himself off Nimue, and aim backwards over his shoulder. The heavy thud following his hex told him that it had hit home.

“Severus, what…” Now she was trembling violently, and her breath was coming in short, hysterical gasps.

Torn between the necessity to deal with Black, and the urge to calm Nimue, Severus decided for the latter. He sat up and leaned forward, so as to gather her in his arms. But she shrank back and shook her head; her hands, palms turned towards him, were raised in an attempt to protect herself and push him away. “Nimue,” he said, “It’s over, you don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’ll explain to you, just let me get rid of him first.” Gingerly, as if dealing with a frightened animal that might bite if he moved too quickly, he let his hand hover towards her face. The gesture, cautious as it was, only made her recoil further. “Show me your hand, Nimue. You are bleeding.”

Maybe she had not even heard or understood him, because she remained stiff and immobile; not even her eyes were moving, but stared at him unseeingly. When Severus simply snatched her hand, he did not meet any resistance, and neither did she fight him when he gently pulled it closer to examine it. The nail of her right forefinger, which she had dug deeply into the fabric of his shirt, had been partly ripped off when he made the abrupt movement necessary to fire the hex at Black. He muttered a spell to stop the blood flow, and then a simple “Reparo!” to mend her nail. “Done,” he said, and bent down to kiss the fingertip, but she freed her hand with a savage yank.

“So that’s why,” she whispered, tears now brimming in her eyes, “That’s why you pretended… And I thought…” Her voice broke, and she started crying.

“Nimue—” he tried to pry her hands from her face “—Nimue, listen! Stop crying, please, and listen to me! I didn’t pretend—”

She shot up into a sitting position so abruptly that he almost fell off the couch. “You didn’t? You didn’t? You filthy liar, if at least you had the guts to admit it!” The fury in her eyes caused Severus to scoot backwards by a few inches. Her voice was steadily growing louder and more shrill as she continued, “If you merely needed my blood, why did you have to pretend? Why kiss me and be kind and make me believe… Oh, God!” She doubled over under a new assault of violent sobs.

“Nimue…” Severus bent towards her, to encircle her with his arms, but his movement was blocked by her elbow hitting his stomach so hard that, for a moment, he was unable to breathe.

Taking advantage of his pain-induced immobility, Nimue scrambled off the couch. “Don’t you dare touch me again! Ever!”

The worst pain was over, so that Severus could finally inhale; he raised his head to look at her, to make her understand—but his eyes had not yet reached her face, when the back of her right hand collided with his cheek. His hands, grabbing for her, encountered nothing but thin air, and then he heard the sound of the door slamming shut.

For a moment, he thought he was going to vomit; bile was rising in his throat, and the feeling of impotent fury made him gag and gasp for air. With Nimue gone, there was only one person he could take his anger out on. His right hand fumbled for his wand. He dimly remembered that it had escaped his grip when he had received that blow in the stomach. “Black!” he growled, searching the unconscious form of his archenemy with his eyes. “This time I’m going to kill you!”

He rose and felt himself sway—whether the dizziness had been caused by the slap Nimue had dealt him or by the overwhelming fury, which was still increasing with each incoherent thought that raced through his mind, he neither knew nor cared. He merely knew, with the animalistic certainty of an enraged bull attacking his victim, that he was going to beat the last breath out of Black, whatever the cost. They can’t send me to Azkaban, can they? he thought, and felt tears of laughter sting his eyelids.

Step by wobbly step, he approached Black’s body, the body of Barty Crouch whom he hated concealing the mind of the Gryffindor bastard he loathed even more, who had destroyed the only thing he had ever truly wanted, and raised his wand. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, so as to put the whole force of his wrath behind the torturing curse, never mind that Black was out cold, he was going to wake up soon enough…

A chilly touch on his right hand made him reopen his eyes. The Bloody Baron was hovering in front of him, his face a mask of severe disapproval. “You might want to reconsider your decision, Professor.”

“Out of my way, Baron,” Severus hissed at him.

“I’m afraid I cannot allow you to proceed any further, Professor. You would pay his life with yours, and I must not let that happen.”

The feeling of the last remainder of self-control snapping was almost a physical sensation, as if a too-tight band around his ribcage had suddenly been cut. He took a step back and pointed his wand directly at Black’s heart. “Cru—”

But he was unable to finish what he had started, because neither his tongue nor his muscles obeyed him anymore. His arm lowered itself, without needing a command from his brain, his feet made him perform a half-turn of their own volition and carried him back to the couch, where his knees bent of their own accord, so that he had to sit down. Severus felt the terrible chill, which seemed to originate in the very marrow of his bones and slowly creep outwards, only after it had left him, in some kind of uncanny, delayed perception.

The Baron, who was again floating next to him, bowed deeply. “I apologize for this rude intrusion, Professor. But it seemed the only possibility…” His form, as Severus realized only now, was slightly blurry, and he appeared to have difficulties speaking. “I shall leave you now, Professor. To enter a human body is a somewhat unsettling experience, not to mention quite draining, and I need to recompose myself. I trust you are not about to commit any… er, rash actions, Professor?”

Severus raised a weary hand. “No, Baron. Not after this—” he looked up at the spectre and attempted a smile “—cold shower. I will deal with him, but not kill him.”

With a grave nod, the ghost disappeared through the wall.

Severus remained seated on the couch. Now that the rage had literally been chilled out of him, all he felt was bone-deep exhaustion. And the leaden weight of desperation crushing his heart.