The Sybil's Oracle: Book Three

Chapter 17

By Pigwidgeon37

A/N (as you all know by now, loathed but necessary from time to time) A few readers have uttered—entirely justified—doubts as to whether the resistance group really consists only of Gryffindors and Slytherins. As a matter of fact, it doesn’t (that perception was Severus's own and based purely on his prejudice) and you’ll learn about it later in this chapter. As to Nimue’s reaction: you’ll have to wait until ch.18, I’m afraid, for its justification, from her POV. Personally, I don't think it’s very OOC. She's barely fifteen, she has been staying in unknown surroundings, with people she had enormous difficulties trusting. That’s not an easy situation, and one that might lead to overreactions, especially in a girl who hasn’t yet grown into her female identity. But, as I said, more about that in ch. 18.

I have lost her. Much as Severus tried to escape the poisonous whirl of these four words going round and round in his mind, he could not think of anything else, could not think anything but this single phrase, again and again. As if all the other words had suddenly disappeared from the universe. Only these four syllables remained, glued together in this very order. Impossible to change it, so it would at least have become a question. A certainty as solid as four blocks of rock. And during the second it took his mind to pronounce the words, he relived the vertiginous fall. A kiss, gentle and melting and sweet, a harsh voice, the shock in her eyes… Don’t you dare touch me again! Ever! Like Prometheus, chained to his rock, he witnessed helplessly as his heart was torn apart, only to become whole again, so the sweetness could build up… the voice, her eyes, Don’t you dare touch me again! Ever!

He knew his eyes were open, he knew that he was breathing and therefore alive. But his senses were numb. He knew that he must not remain where he was, that there was Black to be dealt with, that he had to go down for dinner. But the four words returned, inexorably. He was paralysed, body and mind. Frozen within a block of ice, the words ‘I have lost her’ engraved into it, right before his eyes. Or maybe into his eyes.

The blinding flashes of light and rolling thunder made his pupils contract and his tympana vibrate, but he neither saw nor heard them. Sweat was forming between his fingertips and the leather upholstery of the couch. The saliva coating his tongue and palate had turned sour-bitter and stale. The air was carrying a wealth of scents that burst into full bloom in the tepid humidity. But he might just as well have been a statue. A statue of stone with a heart of flesh and blood that chafed against its prison of marble with every beat.

At some point, he thought he had heard a voice. It was hard work to pry his eyes from the void they had lost themselves in—the tiny muscles moving his eyeballs did not want to stretch and contract, because they had gone as rigid as had his whole body—but he succeeded through a supreme effort of his will. Seeing Black as immobile on the floor as he had been an eternity ago, Severus released his tiny hold on reality and fell back into the comforting pain of his mantra. I have lost her—I have lost her—I have—

“Severus! For heaven’s sake, Severus, what happened?”

So there was a voice after all. The same as before? How long ago was ‘before’? He looked up and into Lucius’s worried grey eyes.

“Sev! What’s the matter with you? Did you have a fight with Black? Can you hear me? Damn you!” He grabbed Severus’s shoulders and shook him.

“Lucius…” Slowly returning to the here and now, Severus passed a hand over his eyes.

“Well, at least you recognize me.” Lucius crouched down in front of him. “We only have fifteen minutes until dinner, and—”

“Fifteen minutes?” He had been sitting here no more than ten minutes… It had seemed like several eternities, though.

“Yes, fifteen minutes. What about Black? Did he hex you?”

“No, I hexed him. That’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Lucius snorted and rose to full height. “Obvious? You must be joking. The only thing that’s obvious is that you stunned him. But I’m afraid…” He raised his wand and performed a brief scan for Dark spells. Evidently surprised by the result, he frowned down at Severus. “Nothing… I’m afraid I don’t—Sev, you were muttering something before… not quite clearly… What exactly have you lost?”

The pain sliced through him again; now that he wasn’t immersed in his stupor anymore, Severus felt its sharpness even more. Strange, he thought, he had been sure it could not get any worse. But he certainly did not want to let Lucius see it. “Nothing,” he replied, pulling himself together as best he could.

But Lucius was not easily fobbed off; on the contrary, such attempts—and this one was not among Severus’s most elegant or subtle—merely served to lace his curiosity with anger. “Sev, stop treating me like an idiot. You distinctly said ‘lost’ and…” He paused and drew a sharp breath. His eyes briefly darted towards Black and then, narrowing, back to Severus. “Did that piece of scum obliviate you?”

Severus rose wearily from his seat and put his hand on the other wizard’s shoulder. “No, Lucius. He didn’t obliviate me, and the rest is my own business. So please don’t inquire any further. Speaking of obliviating…” His hand automatically went for his left shirt cuff; then he remembered that his wand had slipped from his fingers after the scene with Black and the Bloody Baron. He bent down and picked it up.

“May I ask—” Lucius’s voice had taken on a razor-like quality “—what you’re about to do? You’re in no state—”

“Shut up and sit down, Malfoy.” Without looking at the other, Severus gestured to the couch. “I’ll be finished in a few seconds.” He felt himself being forcefully turned around; Lucius’s fingers were digging into his left arm.

“You won’t be finished, because you’re not even going to start. Look at yourself! You’re trembling like a leaf! You can’t even focus properly!”

Maybe he would have appreciated Lucius’s concern, had he not felt so deeply humiliated. Not by Lucius, or rather, only a very small part of that feeling was due to Lucius. Underneath all the pain and desperation and hopelessness, blind rage had been lurking since Nimue had hit him. It had stung, both physically and emotionally, at the very moment her hand collided with his cheekbone—immediately afterwards, his abasement had been virtually swallowed by grief, but when Lucius rammed the dagger further into the still-bleeding wound, it broke free, and with it his typical counter-reaction: destructive fury. Had Nimue returned to his chambers in an attempt at reconciliation, she would have taken the brunt of it. As things were, Severus ruthlessly jerked his arm out of Lucius’s grip, snatched him by the front of his robes and thrust the point of his wand against his throat. “Don’t…” He was almost hyperventilating with anger. His face was hot, and his hands slippery with cold sweat. “Don’t you dare give me orders, Malfoy! You don’t like what I’m doing—fine! Get out of my quarters. If you want to stay, do as I told you. Sit down, and shut the fuck up!”

Lucius, whose eyes were still wide with surprise, opened his mouth to answer but obviously thought better of it. His lips pressed together, so that they lost all their colour, he merely nodded and, once Severus had released him, sat down on the couch, breathing heavily.

The angry outburst had re-established, at least to a certain degree, Severus’s inner balance. His hands were steady when he turned back to Black. The door, through which the Animagus had intruded upon his and Nimue’s privacy, was still open. Severus cast a Mobilicorpus charm on the still-unconscious wizard—the rational, professional part of his mind told him that he had put considerable force behind the stunning spell, as usually the victims came to after a maximum of five minutes—and floated his body through the door, to deposit him at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the first floor. After taking aim very carefully, he treated Black’s right forearm and temple to a vicious kick each. Black’s arm was hidden under the sleeve of his robes, but a purple-red bruise became immediately visible on the delicate flesh of his temple. Severus nodded in satisfaction and took a deep breath. Now came the more complicated part, and in order to succeed, he had to be calm and concentrated. When he conjured the memory he wanted to erase, a new wave of grief hit him, but he blocked it mercilessly, waited another second until the point of his wand had stopped trembling, and pronounced “Obliviate!” and immediately after, “Enervate!”

Black stirred and groaned.

“You idiot!” Severus hissed, crouching down on his haunches, as if to examine the Animagus. “Why didn’t you maintain your fox shape?” Black moaned again and rolled onto his back, so he could touch his head with his unhurt left hand. “You fell down the stairs, you… Well, never mind,” he interrupted himself. “There can’t be any brain damage—you’d need a brain in the first place. Why the hell did you leave the roof?” he asked, extending a hand to help Black scramble to his feet.

“It’s raining, that’s why,” Black answered gruffly. Throwing Severus a hateful look, he clumsily unbuttoned his right shirt cuff and rolled up the sleeve to assess the damage. He passed a cautious finger over the bruised, swollen flesh and inhaled sharply through his teeth.

“You must have hit the banister,” Severus stated coolly. “Come to my laboratory, I’ll put some healing salve on it. You can move your fingers, can’t you?”

Black nodded and wordlessly followed him upstairs.

~~~~*~~~~

Like at breakfast, Severus was the last to join the group assembled at the round table down in the Great Hall. Not that he had expected Lucius to wait for him.

The others had already started eating. Nimue was not there—Severus noticed it with relief and a twinge of apprehension. The former prevailed, though, as keeping his countenance was difficult enough without her presence. A last mental straightening of his shoulders and back, and he was ready to sit down and play his role. At least, he thought with an inward smirk, his tiredness was not likely to attract attention. Everybody was looking weary, the conversation anything but vivid.

Two chairs were still empty, and he chose the one between Yelena and McGonagall, as it allowed him to avoid looking at Lucius. The other seat remained conspicuously untaken. In a fashion, this was almost as bad as having to endure her presence, he realized. Worse, maybe, for had she been sitting there, he would have been able to first acknowledge the fact and then ignore it. Absence, on the other hand, allowed for an almost limitless number of possibilities as to her whereabouts, mood and actions, which kept attacking his mind, trying to find a breach in his defences, like an invasion of ants.

McGonagall was talking to Lupin, and therefore not likely to turn to him anytime soon. Yelena, on his other side, probably had not needed more than one glimpse of her son’s stony face to know that something must have happened, and thus did not try to involve Severus into a conversation.

“Very good, very good,” Dumbledore said, and Severus looked up from his plate, puzzled at the non sequitur. It was anything but, though, for he had simply not noticed that Dumbledore had been reading what looked like an official letter from the Ministry, which the old wizard now gave back to Lucius. “And my congratulations for having persuaded the Ministry to work so fast.”

“Fiddlepenny has three sons, all of them still at university,” Lucius replied dryly, “And his daughter’s wedding is to take place soon. In situations like this, a little financial aid is always welcome. And I wanted this business to be concluded as soon as possible, before the Lestranges could claim her.”

So that was the reason why Lucius had Flooed to his quarters. Evidently, he had wanted to show Severus the Ministry’s letter granting him the guardianship of Nimue. He suppressed an angry growl. Why did everything have to remind him of the girl? He ought not to mind, but despite all his defences, the pain was still too fresh to be overridden by the coldness and indifference his mind was busy piecing together.

“Where is Nimue, by the way?” Dumbledore asked.

Draco swallowed his bite of salmon and said, “In her dormitory, I suppose. We spent the day down at the lake, and she said she wanted to study before dinner. She’ll probably have lost track of time.”

“Ah, I’ll send Dobby to her then, to bring her some food. It doesn’t do to disturb geniuses at work,” Dumbledore said. “How’s the squid?”

“Bid sgid!” Selene exclaimed, raising her arms above her head and spraying Draco with broccoli puree from her spoon in the process, “Sooooo big!”

Dumbledore smiled. “Yes, it’s really quite impressive. Weren’t you afraid?”

“No!” She shook her blond locks. “Lene not afraid. Lene with Draco and Nimue!”

Draco gave a long-suffering sigh and cast a cleaning charm on his robes. “We had trouble keeping her from trying to swim out and catch it,” he said. “Needless to mention that she can't swim. Fortunately, the House Elves always exaggerate with the food when you ask them for a picnic basket—otherwise we’d have starved. She insisted on feeding everything she could get hold of to the squid. I wonder—” he grinned at the Headmaster “—whether the poor creature suffers from indigestion now. Just imagine—”

“Draco!” Lucius cut him off sharply. “I think there is no need for you to elaborate any further.”

His fingers clamped around his knife and fork, Severus did his best to drown out the conversation and the images it made appear in his mind. Nimue playing with Selene, Nimue swimming, Nimue drinking lemonade from an iced glass, a bit of it trickling down her chin, over her throat and between her breasts…

A sotto voce altercation between Sybil and Owen caught his eye. Grateful for the distraction, he focused his attention on the couple sitting opposite him. Owen made an angry gesture, as if to say “Go on, do what you want, I wash my hands of it!” and Sybil turned brusquely away from him and towards Dumbledore.

“Headmaster, forgive my curiosity, but do you know why Percy Weasley was not with his parents today?”

Dumbledore frowned. “Molly mentioned… Why, Sybil? Did you see anything?”

Owen’s lips became a thin line of anger when she replied, “Yes, I did, but not today. It was—” she brandished her fork, eliciting a growl from Owen “—I’m not sure, in his fifth, maybe his sixth year. No,” she corrected herself, “must have been the fourth, because we did palmistry. I had forgotten completely, but seeing as how he was absent today, it came back to me.”

“And…” Dumbledore leaned forward, his expression now definitely worried. “What did you see, Sybil?”

“Headmaster, I don’t think—”

“Please, Owen. It might be important.” Owen put down his cutlery, crossed his arms and leaned back. “Well, Sybil?”

“A lion and a snake were fighting for his body,” she said matter-of-factly. Her hands were trembling slightly, though.

At Severus's left, McGonagall almost jumped out of her chair. “A snake? Like the one—”

“Yes, Minerva. Exactly like the one that’s part of the Dark Mark. And, just to complete the picture, a skull was floating above them. Yes, that kind of skull,” she added impatiently.

“Are you sure, Sybil?”

“Yes, Remus, I’m sure. Absolutely. I even wrote about it in my diary—do you want me to show it to you?”

Lupin was evidently as worried as the Headmaster and McGonagall, but he managed a small smile for Sybil. “I didn’t doubt the veracity of your vision,” he said, “On the contrary: I’m pretty upset because I’m sure you’re telling the truth.” He shook his head and frowned. “He’s extremely ambitious, I’ll grant you that. But I used to teach him for a whole school year—”

“Don’t forget,” Severus interrupted him, “that Minerva and I used to teach him for seven years. Besides, Minerva was his Head of House—I daresay we know him a little better.”

“It’s certainly not Remus’s fault that he wasn’t here for more than a year,” McGonagall spat, throwing him a nasty look.

Severus suspected that none of them would ever forget the row they had had on Lupin's behalf, after that terrible night one year ago. It had taken them many months to re-establish the mutual respect that had hitherto prevailed in their relations, and he was too tired now to launch headlong into another argument. “I think,” he said therefore, “that we ought to avoid bringing up this particular topic. It is a moot point in any case, as that school year was Percy Weasley’s last.”

McGonagall gave a prim nod. Her right hand came up to touch her bun—it was a characteristic gesture, as Severus knew well. Whenever she felt she had lost control, she evidently felt the urge to check whether the impeccable sternness of her hairstyle had lost any of its perfection. She was, quite literally, not a person who let her hair down easily. “Percy,” she said slowly, “is something of an outsider. If not for his outstanding performance at school… and, of course he was Prefect and Head Boy…”

“Just say it, Minerva. They all used to tease him, mercilessly, until he became a prefect. And—correct me if I’m wrong—he quite enjoyed taking points and meting out detentions, didn’t he? You could see he enjoyed the power.”

“Y-yes,” she agreed, if a little hesitantly. “Yes, Severus is right. He…” She sighed. “He is a terribly ambitious young man. As are Bill and Charlie. But with him, it’s different, he—”

“The way you describe him,” Owen interrupted her, “he reminds me a lot of Barty.”

“True,” Lucius said, “But then Barty came from a very different background. The Crouches were a rich and powerful family, and Barty was the typical angry young man. He had everything he wanted, except for his father’s esteem. Not that I’m too fond of the Weasleys—” his lips curled into a paper-thin smile “—but despite their lack of… well, almost everything, they do seem to be a… happy family without major conflicts.”

“You certainly have a point there, Lucius,” Dumbledore said, “but don’t forget that poverty, or rather the desire to leave it behind, can be a driving force as powerful as the hatred Barty Crouch felt for his father.”

“But…” McGonagall looked from Lucius to Dumbledore. “Albus, do you have reason to assume… I hope that… Did Arthur mention anything?”

“Molly did. Considering how fond she is of all her children, I suppose it cost her quite an effort to do so, even to myself. She told me that Percy has bought new robes—expensive ones,” Dumbledore added, when Lucius snorted. “And not just robes. Expensive quills, new books, a haircut at Figaro & Apollo’s…”

“I’ll have to look for another hairdresser,” Severus heard Lucius mutter under his breath.

“Maybe he has taken to gambling?” McGonagall offered, though without much conviction.

“That’s what I thought, too. But Molly also complained that he seems to be drifting away from the family. No common meals, staying out late—you know what I mean.”

“He’s what? Twenty? Twenty-one?”

“Nineteen,” Severus said. “But what does that have to do with his recent change of behaviour?”

“A lot,” Owen replied. “He’s earning his own money, he’s been doing so for a year, and now he wants to stretch his wings, taste his freedom and all that jazz.”

“And the money?” Lupin said, “If it weren’t for the money, I’d agree with—”

He was interrupted by the arrival of a medium-sized barn owl that circled the table once before settling down on the table in front of Dumbledore. “Speak of the devil,” the Headmaster said, “Unless memory fails me, this is Percy’s owl. Hermes?” The owl gave a small hoot and held out its right leg. The piece of parchment tied to it was rather small and a little crumpled. It took Dumbledore maybe five seconds to read it. “It’s from Molly,” he said. “She writes that Hermi—I mean Miss Lestrange arrived at the Burrow by Floo, crying and completely beside herself. But she refuses to talk to anybody. Molly thought she ought to advise us, in case we didn’t know where she had gone.”

“I see.” Lucius rose so abruptly that his chair clattered to the floor.

“I beg your pardon?” Dumbledore gave him an astonished look. “Do you know what might have driven her to such an action?”

Everybody’s eyes were on Lucius now. In spite of his strong dislike to do as the others, Severus turned his head all the same. Much as he wanted to avoid Lucius’s glare, his disinclination to rouse McGonagall’s suspicions by feigned indifference was even greater. For an instant, their eyes met—yes, Lucius had certainly put two and two together. Maybe he had even guessed which role Black had played in this whole nasty business. “I might have an idea,” he said slowly. “But that is of secondary importance now. She’s my ward, and I’m going to get her back. Now.”

“Are you sure that this is a good idea, Lucius?”

“Yes, Headmaster, I am sure. I will not risk the safety of the whole resistance movement. Nimue knows too much—just imagine if she blurts out our secrets to her red-haired friend. Don’t worry, I’m not going to blow up their pigsty of a house.” He turned on his heel and marched towards the door. “What is the name again?” he asked over his shoulder.

“The Burrow!” McGonagall called after him. “Mr. Malfoy,” she said, turning to Draco, “are you sure you have nothing to do with her departure?”

“What?” Draco exclaimed and, seeing his mother’s frown, “I mean, why should I have anything to do with it, Professor?” He crossed his arms and scowled at her.

“You are not exactly what I would call friends, Mr. Malfoy. Hence, my question is not as illogical as you seem to believe.”

His face now flushed, eyes ablaze, Draco was already about to answer, when Narcissa put a hand on his shoulder and calmly said, “I assure you, Minerva, that Draco and Nimue have resolved most of their problems. There has not been a fight worth mentioning for five weeks, so I really don’t see why they should have quarrelled today.”

“Draco and Nimue not quall! Lene would tell!”

Dumbledore chuckled. “The perfect witness, Minerva. Well—” he chose another piece of salmon “—I suppose we shall have to wait for Nimue to tell us herself what caused this reaction. Whatever it was, I truly hope she doesn’t confide anything to Ron or Ginny Weasley. The outcome of such an indiscretion might be more catastrophic than she can imagine.”

“I don’t think so,” Lupin said. “Remember how well she guarded my secret throughout her third year? She would never endanger the movement.”

“Especially considering that the movement is almost entirely Gryffindor,” Severus muttered, more to himself than to anybody in particular.

But McGonagall, whose ears were almost as sharp as Dumbledore’s or Severus’s—a necessary quality in a Head of House, whose apparent omniscience, or near-omniscience, was often the result of simply overhearing students’ conversations in the hallways—had of course heard him. Hackles rising, she turned to her right-hand neighbour. “You’re biased, Severus, and also unjust. True, there are more Gryffindors than last time, due to the Weasleys, but—” she looked at him over the rim of her glasses “—also more Slytherins, correct me if I’m wrong. Besides,” she continued, unperturbed by Severus’s attempt at replying, “Poppy and Flavius Murdoch are Hufflepuffs, as is Amos Diggory, and both Duncan and Roberta Rosier are Ravenclaws. Satisfied?”

“That’s still eight Gryffindors against five Slytherins, three Hufflepuffs and two Ravenclaws. Besides, Moody is so thoroughly Gryffindor-ized that he really doesn’t count as Slytherin anymore.”

McGonagall merely harrumphed and made an impatient move for the bowl containing the potatoes. The gesture was so abrupt that, with her elbow, she upset her wine glass. Severus quickly bent forward to catch it and almost dropped it himself, because Lucius’s face had suddenly surfaced in his mind. “Join me in the Potions classroom. Now!” was all he said before the image vanished as quickly as it had come.

Bastard, Severus thought. That bastard had used Dumbledore’s communication system to summon him. Knowing Lucius, it was better to comply—Severus had seldom seen him look so angry. He put McGonagall’s glass upright, next to her plate, sneered briefly at her muttered “Thank you,” and addressed Dumbledore in what he hoped was a convincing tone of voice. “Headmaster, would ten o’clock suit you for our appointment? I have a strengthening potion simmering in my laboratory and should like to finish it.”

If Dumbledore had an inkling that he was not telling the truth, it did not show on his face. “Certainly, Severus. Ten would be perfect. There are some matters of importance I have to discuss with Remus, and if we postpone our meeting, he won’t have to wait for me. At your quarters?”

“At my quarters.”

Ten o’clock—that meant he had two hours. Given the mess he was in, he hoped that he would have at least one of them to himself, to calm down before meeting Dumbledore.

~~~~*~~~~

Only the two torches flanking the blackboard were burning, so that Nimue had to squint against their light. She was sitting in the first row, at the aisle separating the two blocks of desks and benches. Lucius, backlit by the flickering flames—there was, of course, a charm to stabilize them, but, unsurprisingly, he had not used it, as he certainly wanted maximum discomfort for her—was towering in front of her, arms crossed and frowning. In the uncertain, mellow shine, she probably looked a lot better than she would have in plain daylight. But even so, Severus saw her puffy, red-rimmed eyes, swollen nose and lips, and the glittering traces of tears on her cheeks. Her dress was completely crumpled and stained with soot, her hair a wild bird’s nest of tangles and knots. On her left arm, a vaguely hand-shaped bruise was blossoming. Evidently, she had not been overjoyed at being dragged back to Hogwarts.

She looked so forlorn that Severus felt a brief rush of tenderness—its life was rather ephemeral, though, for it was crushed almost immediately under the weight of his still-persistent anger and hurt.

“Thank you for joining us,” Lucius clipped, when the door snapped shut.

Nimue slowly turned her head. “I want him out,” she said tonelessly.

“I asked him to come here, and I believe I told you to speak only when asked to do so.” Lucius took one step backwards, so he could observe both her and Severus, who had approached the desk. “She refuses to tell me what happened. Would you be so kind?”

“No.” Severus shook his head. “If that is what you called me for…”

“Of course. First, I thought that this was between you and Black—”

“Black? What does Black have to do—” She did not finish her question, though, for Lucius bent down, hands on her desk, until his face was almost touching hers.

“Shut. Up. Next time you talk without my authorization, it is going to be a Silentius hex, understood?” She nodded, sending him a look that would have killed him, had it been a solid object, and Lucius turned back to Severus. “As I was saying, this seems to concern the two of you as well. Nimue is my ward, which in itself entitles me to an explanation. Besides, there is also the small matter of Voldemort to be considered. What if he wants to see her tomorrow? With the state she is in, she might ruin everything.”

“Lucius.” He tried to stay as calm as possible, which was quite difficult under the circumstances. “Although Miss Lestrange has made me understand very clearly what she thinks of me, I am absolutely sure that whatever rancour she might harbour on my behalf, she would never endanger the resistance. As to any future problems, rest assured there won’t be any. She is merely one student among many others and will be treated accordingly. That is all there is to it, and now please excuse me. I have more pressing problems than—” he jerked his head in Nimue’s direction “—that.”

A muscle in Lucius’s jaw was working furiously, while he was looking from the girl, who was again shaking with suppressed sobs, to Severus, who barely managed to keep his countenance. “All right,” he said finally, “It seems that you don’t leave me another choice.” He drew his wand and pointed it at Nimue. “Impe—”

“Wait!” Severus pushed down the other wizard’s wand arm. “Are you crazy? You can’t use an Unforgivable on her!”

“And who, pray, is going to prevent me? Certainly not—” the tip of his wand was now directed at Severus “—you?”

“Lucius, be reasonable! I’m a teacher, and you’re going to be Headmaster! Do you really want her to see us fight like two third-years?”

“I certainly fight much better than a third year. And, considering your rather disadvantageous position, I’m afraid there won’t be much for her to see in any case. So, either you tell me, or I’ll make her. Your choice.”

Almost too livid to articulate the words properly, Severus ground out, “Malfoy, you’re treading dangerous ground.”

“I know. That doesn’t make me less determined to find out the truth. Go on, choose: you or she?”

“All right,” Severus said, stepping back and raising his hands, “All right. Put away your wand and I’ll tell you.”

Lucius calmly slipped the wand back into his sleeve. “I’m listening.”

“We were…” He gritted his teeth. This was harder than he had expected. “We were in a… compromising position and Black surprised us. He…” Severus paused and tugged at his hair. “He said something about Miss Lestrange being a Death Eater’s whore and alluded to the problem of her virginity, asking who was to have her blood once the deed was done.”

“Ah,” Lucius said, “Not that compromising, then, if her virginity was still a problem. And? What made her run?”

“Miss Lestrange evidently assumed that my… attentions were due only to the fact that somebody had to deflower her, and that I was the one who had been assigned the… er, task.”

“You didn’t tell her about the—”

Severus raised a warning hand. “Lucius, don’t! It’s of no importance anymore, so kindly refrain from meddling.”

“Of no importance?” Lucius shook his head, his incredulity all too evident. “Sev, this is serious! This is about your life and hers, and maybe others’ too! If this were just some half-baked, flimsy teacher-student affair, I would certainly leave you to your sulking. As things are—”

“Things are exactly as I told you. There is no reason for you to play matchmaker, and I would very much appreciate—”

“What are you talking about?”

Both whirled round, equally aware that they had completely forgotten Nimue’s presence. She was wiping her cheeks and eyes with her forearm; since her dress was sleeveless, the result was far from satisfying.

“We are talking,” Lucius said in his most cutting tone of voice and threw her a handkerchief, “about the fact that there’s more at stake here than just your or Severus’s pride. And I am trying to convince him to swallow aforementioned pride, whatever insults the two of you saw fit to fling at each other’s faces, so he can stop being a prick and tell you what all this is about.”

“You mean—” her voice was becoming more steady, despite the occasional hiccough “—that this wasn’t just some…” She blew her nose and continued in a less nasal tone, “His being nice and… and, well, whatever else he… we did, wasn’t just the sugar coating?”

“You’re completely infatuated with him,” Lucius snarled, “Are you telling me that the pill would have been too bitter without it?”

“The question is whether there was a pill in the first place,” she replied, raising her chin in a belligerent fashion.

Lucius sighed and rolled his eyes. “No, you stupid girl. There was no such pill. There was a very vague possibility—in fact, the possibility is still there, that Voldemort might want to perform one of the more unpleasant Dark rituals. Of those including virgins,” he added, when she frowned in incomprehension. “It would give him considerable power over you, and even over your children, should you decide to have any. Black was present when we discussed the question, and obviously came to his very own conclusions.”

Nimue’s jaw dropped. “But that man—he wasn’t Black…”

“Believe me, he was,” Lucius said grimly. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to destroy that particular memory, won’t we, Sev?”

“I suppose it would be better.” He looked at Nimue, observing the subtle change of expression on her face. “But I would be grateful if you did it.”

“You want to put a memory charm on me? I promise I won't tell—”

“There are ways to make you tell,” Lucius interrupted her.

“But Sev—Professor Snape said that it’s possible to resist Veritaserum!”

“Would you like to try and resist the Cruciatus curse, too?”

“I… I… Do you think he would—I mean, if he wants me to join him, he wouldn’t…” She fell silent and lowered her eyes. “I see,” she said quietly, after a little while. “First he’d try to get as much information as possible, and then he’d still use me for… the ritual.”

“You have a remarkable grasp of his character,” Lucius said. “After the ritual, however, you’d have to obey him whether you want to or not. I suppose you have changed your mind about the memory charm?”

She nodded. “I still don’t like it, but…” She sighed. “And what should Professor Snape have told me about?”

“I think you should erase this whole conversation,” Severus said bluntly, although he was aware that, while certainly hurting her, the pain he caused her also echoed through his own being. A part of him even wanted to tell her about the prophecy, to take her in his arms and forget about this whole nasty business, but the old defences were still too strong. The walls had risen again, complete with bolted doors, as soon as she had hit him, and he was both unable and unwilling to open up to her again. He had made himself vulnerable, and she had struck him. That was what it all came down to, regardless of reasons and intricacies. And he was in no condition to risk that happening again. Better renounce, better suffer—these at least were known emotions he could handle.

Lucius shot him a look of pure worry. “Sev, you can’t—”

“Leave me in peace, Malfoy. Just leave me alone. And better be careful not to let slip anything. Let’s make your discretion the payback for the debt you owe me since Draco’s birth.”

All colour drained from Lucius’s face. “Don’t you think you’re carrying things a bit far?”

“Trust me, I know exactly what I’m doing. The discussion is over.”

He turned and left the classroom.

~~~~*~~~~

The thunderstorm had ended maybe an hour ago, and now the air was crisp and cool. In the east, above the looming silhouette of the Forbidden Forest, the sky was still flickering with faraway lightning, but here at Hogwarts, ragged clouds were forming a rapidly-changing pattern on a background of black littered with stars.

Standing at the open window of Severus's laboratory, Dumbledore inhaled deeply and then turned back to the two men who stood behind him, giving unmistakeable signs of impatience. “Forgive an old wizard,” he said, “But for all my one hundred and fifty years, I have yet to become indifferent to the beauty of a summer night. Shall we?”

Severus nodded, and the three proceeded downstairs and into his living room. They sat down near the fireplace, and Peggy was summoned to serve them drinks. Had he been only in Dumbledore's company, Severus would have done it himself. But he had no intention of waiting on Black. Except if he possessed one of those rings à la Borgia, containing poison he might sprinkle into the Animagus’s brandy.

“Well,” Dumbledore said, sniffing his Grand Marnier with a beatific expression—Severus shuddered, since he abhorred sweet alcoholic drinks, “I think you should tell us what you can, Sirius. About yourself, about Voldemort, Pettigrew—everything.”

Black sighed. “I’m afraid I won’t be of much use, Headmaster.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Severus muttered, and got a sharp look from Dumbledore.

“Most of all,” the Animagus continued, glaring at his nemesis, “because nothing much has happened since we went to live in… that place.”

“Well, that in itself is interesting, Sirius. Any ideas why Voldemort is being so inactive?”

Black’s forehead creased in deep thought. “I suppose,” he said slowly, “that partly it’s due to his physical weakness.” Reluctantly meeting Severus's eyes, he asked, “You’re the Dark arts expert here—could it have anything to do with the ritual he performed to get a human body? Even though ‘human’…” His voice trailed off.

“That’s what we’ve all been thinking about,” Severus replied. “It is certainly a possibility, as none of the ingredients he used were flawless. But—” he took a sip of his whisky, relishing the acerbic, smoky taste biting his tongue “—it might also be due to the energy holding that place of damnation together.”

“No.” Black shook his head. “Definitely not. It has a terrible influence on everybody else, but not on him.”

“What makes you so sure?” Dumbledore inquired.

“The fact that he hasn’t become any weaker since we left the Riddle house. On the contrary.” He poured himself another brandy. “His spirit seems to grow stronger—it’s almost as if his body were too weak to contain it.”

Staring into his glass, Severus shoved back his hair. “That means, as a worst case scenario, that his body might give up at some point, and we’d be exactly where we were fourteen years ago. Not a pleasant thought.”

“Especially,” Black said, nodding his consent, “as his spirit might choose whoever is near him at that moment, and simply use their body. No need to go into the implications that would have.”

“Certainly not,” Dumbledore said. “What about Pettigrew, then? It seems that Azkaban affects him less than it does you.”

Black harrumphed. “Of course—he's got that bloody hand! Not only does it magnify the power of his spells—and believe me, from what I’ve seen him do, you wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of a Cruciatus curse he casts. It also seems to… well, protect him, in a fashion.”

“And what does he do all day?” Severus asked, “Voldemort apparently sends him away a lot. Not that he could show his face anywhere in England.”

“Collects ingredients,” Black replied. “And don’t ask me what ingredients,” he snapped at Severus, who had already opened his mouth to ask this very question.

Severus gave an exasperated sigh and let himself fall back in his chair. “You must have identified some of them! It’s important, Black, can’t you see that? Potions isn't exactly Voldemort's forte, and you should know best what a lousy brewer Pettigrew is! Not that you’re much better…”

“Pettigrew keeps them in his rooms, all right?” Black shouted, “So what am I supposed to do? If Voldemort doesn’t tell me what he’s up to, he probably doesn’t want me to know! That means I’d be punished if one of them caught me snooping around in Pettigrew's rooms! And—” he furiously slammed his glass down on the table “—don’t you dare criticize me because I’m unable to worm it out of him! I have to use all my strength to fend off the energy of that hellish place, and then some to fight my disgust…” He took a deep, shaky breath. When he exhaled, his shoulders slumped. “You can't imagine what it’s like,” he said hoarsely, “Not even you, Snape! Because you never had to be around that… that monster every hour of every day! Always playing with that snake, talking to it! Always cracking sick jokes about people I used to love! His laughter…” He shuddered and hugged himself, rubbing his upper arms. Closing his eyes, he added, in barely more than a whisper, “I’m failing you, Headmaster. I’m letting you down, and I don't have words to express how very sorry I am.”

Severus grabbed the whiskey bottle and poured himself another drink. “Don’t wallow in self-pity, Black. You’re right about being largely useless, but…” He cast a quick look at the Animagus, who had reopened his eyes and was staring daggers at him. “Much as it pains me to acknowledge it, the mere fact of your presence there is a success in itself.”

Black grinned weakly. “A compliment, Snape? Or was that a hidden insult?”

“It was,” Severus retorted tersely, “merely an acknowledgement of an undeniable fact. Voldemort wanted Barty back, he has got Barty back, ergo he’s satisfied. And we want to keep him satisfied, don’t we?”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore agreed. “Sorry to insist, Sirius, but are you absolutely sure that he isn't planning any attacks right now?”

“Absolutely sure. That is,” Black added, “to the extent you can be sure of anything with that madman. If his snake tells him it wants Fudge for dinner, we’ll probably have to attack the Ministry.”

“Don’t I know that,” Severus murmured, feeling almost sympathetic.

“I suppose you would,” Black growled. “So, what did he tell you? When do I have to return? I still can’t believe he let me go in the first place.”

“He doesn’t have many options, does he? Seeing as how he doesn’t trust Lucius, Owen and myself completely anymore, you and Pettigrew are the only ones he's got. Pettigrew is, as he so elegantly phrased it, merely a lackey, and—”

“A lackey with a very powerful magical prosthesis,” Black interrupted him, “What if—”

“There is no ‘what if’, Black. He might be insane, but he’s not stupid. He told me himself that, if Pettigrew attempts to use it against him, he’d be in for the surprise of his life. So, as I was saying, he has got Pettigrew and yourself. None of the others has ever actively done anything to prove their loyalty—they carry out his orders, yes, but can he trust them enough to keep them at his side and let them into his best-guarded secrets? No. Therefore he had to let you go, so you could be healed, and he needs you back, as soon as possible. There is—” he looked at Dumbledore “—a slight problem, however.”

“To quote you: why am I not surprised?”

“Indeed. Voldemort told me he will send Pettigrew to check on his—” he tilted his head to indicate Black “—health.”

“Pettigrew? But… Ah, I see,” Dumbledore said, “So he hasn’t told you Pettigrew is an Animagus?”

“He did, but only last night. Pity he’s a rat. It will be difficult to prevent him entering the castle. Not to mention impossible to find him once he's inside.”

A wild grin slowly spread across the Headmaster's face, allowing the others a glimpse of the boy he must once have been. He exchanged a look with Black, on whose face understanding was beginning to dawn. “I think I might have just the thing we need.” He whipped out his wand. Puzzled, Severus followed him with his eyes, frowning in bewilderment when the old wizard rose, stepped close to the fireplace, threw in a pinch of Floo powder and called “Headmaster's study!” But when he had pointed his wand at the green flames, pronouncing “Accio Marauders’ Map!” and a familiar-looking parchment soared into his hand, Severus thought he was beginning to comprehend.

“No need to show this to you, Sirius,” Dumbledore observed and went back to his chair. “Moody, I mean the impostor, confiscated it after breaking into Severus's office, and we found it when going through Alastor's trunk. Harry doesn’t need it now; as a matter of fact, he didn’t even ask about it. Severus—” he held out the parchment, which Severus reluctantly took “—tap it with your wand and say ‘I solemnly swear that I’m up to no good’!”

“A little clichéd, your password, isn’t it?” Severus said, and did as the Headmaster had told him. “Oh!” he breathed when a three-dimensional diagram of Hogwarts appeared before his eyes, peopled by small dots bearing the names of the persons they represented.

“Not bad, eh?” Black was not even trying to conceal his insufferable smugness. “We made that during our fourth and fifth years.”

“Quite impressive,” Severus said, trying to sound as unimpressed as possible. He glanced at Dumbledore, who was looking like Santa Claus after delivering presents to his favourite children. “So, all we have to do is to constantly monitor this map, and if he shows up… Well, that seems to be the difficult bit.”

“Difficult?” Apparently, Black had by now fully got back his aplomb. “There’s Minerva, and Mrs. Norris—”

“Pettigrew knows them, you moron!” Severus spat. “Even he isn't stupid enough to run into them!”

“Maybe not,” Dumbledore said, “But that can be easily remedied.” With a dreamy look in his eyes, he added, “It might even be fun…”