The Sybil's Oracle: Book Three

Chapter 18

By Pigwidgeon37

This had to be the first time in his life—Severus noticed it with a kind of clinical detachment—that he preferred company, Black’s company, for heaven’s sake! to staying alone in his quarters. Not that he would have had any choice; Black had to remain in Serpens Tower until the next morning, and then for as long as it took Pettigrew to show up at Hogwarts. They had agreed that Dumbledore would Floo over early in the morning, to take the Animagus down into the cave with him, for an invigorating drink from the spring. No ash wood and no incantation for him, though, for that would have been as foolhardy as it might prove practical. And after his visit to the core of Hogwarts, he was of course going to return to Severus's rooms.

Drained as Severus felt of any emotion—a side effect, he suspected, of the Bloody Baron having briefly slipped into his body—all that remained was an enormous tiredness, though not one that was likely to leave him after a few hours of sleep. It was more powerful even than the hatred, deeply ingrained into his very being and renewed several times, which he felt for Black, and in this leaden state of fatigue which rendered him unable to work up his usual anger, he was also aware that the man was as miserable as he. Probably more, because he had never learned how to deal with his emotions properly. Thus, his presence provided some sort of grim comfort.

Not that Severus had forgotten—as if that were possible!—his most recent reason for wanting to cut Black’s throat. But, apart from the all-encompassing weariness, he had also had to distance himself from the events of a few hours ago, in order to function properly. During that process of detachment, his desire to wipe out the bastard's life had somehow been shut out of his conscious mind together with the rest.

Severus Snape and Sirius Black, in the same room, both still alive. A field day for old Dumbledore.

In order to have a few seconds to recompose himself, Severus had accompanied Dumbledore downstairs, after two hours of intense, and therefore draining, discussion. Steeling himself, he re-entered his living room, deliberately ignored the other wizard, who was standing near the fireplace—looking downcast and very obviously unsure what to do with himself—and trudged up the stairs to his laboratory. Dumbledore was gone, and now he, Severus, was stuck with the mutt who had… No, he must not think any further. There was work to be done, tonight if possible, and he would have to coexist with Black for a few days. He had a sneaking suspicion that, away from Azkaban and under the benign influence of Hogwarts, the Animagus had regained enough strength to retransform into a fennec, had he wished to do so, and that he was staying in his human shape merely to spite his long-time enemy. The problem being that, unless he returned to his—or rather Barty’s—animal form, he could not be banished to the roof. August nights, especially when there had been rain or thunderstorms, tended to be very chilly so far up north, and it was certainly not advisable for Black to waste the resources he had on warming charms, as they were especially difficult to keep up while asleep.

Hence, he would have to stay within Severus's personal sphere, if on a makeshift bed in the first floor laboratory. This, however, was a problem Severus did not feel like tackling just now.

Black was climbing the stairs right after him, which in itself was enough to irritate Severus to no end. It was better, though, to have him nearby than to take the risk of him snooping around the living area. Severus made a mental note to cast wards on the cupboards and bookshelves in the laboratory before going to sleep. More trouble, just to keep the obnoxious Gryffindor out of his personal things. On the other hand, having to deal with Black prevented other, much more painful thoughts from irrupting into his mind.

Without paying any notice to the presence behind him, Severus lit a fire and selected a cauldron.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Severus looked over his shoulder. “Stay away from my workbench. Other than that, no.” He rummaged through one of the larger cupboards and found the sealed jar he had been searching for.

“How long will it take?”

“You heard what I told the Headmaster,” Severus replied, unable—and unwilling—to keep the irritation from bleeding into his voice.

“Of course I heard it. It just made me wonder… you’d have to use some additional ingredient, to accelerate the process, don’t you?”

Although the other wizard could not see it, Severus raised his eyebrows. “Since when have you turned into a Potions expert, Black? But yes, I have to add… come to think of it, there is something you might do.” He pointed to a drawer. “There should be various pouches in this drawer. Take one linen and one leather pouch, go up to the roof and get me some needles from the Larix Locustifer, and—”

“That would be the… er…”

“The small, dark-red larch with poisonous spurs at the end of each branch. The needles have to be harvested using a severing charm, and they go into the leather pouch. And I need some leaves of the silver nettles, too, but they have to be picked by hand. As you might already have concluded, you have to put those into the linen pouch.”

“By hand? Are you sure you’re not being your usual sadistic self, Snape?”

“Absolutely. You see—” Severus threw another glance over his shoulder and felt slightly exhilarated at the other wizard’s bemused expression “—it’s the silvery fluff on the underside I need for the potion. The hairs must not be damaged. Therefore you have to pluck the leaves carefully, touching merely the stem, and you can’t do that with dragonhide gloves. You can put some soothing ointment on the welts afterwards,” he added reluctantly.

“All right,” Black said gruffly, fished the two pouches from the drawer and, his unwillingness evident in every step he took, climbed the stairs leading up to the roof.

After a couple of minutes he returned and flung the requested items onto the workbench. Severus gave a brief nod of acknowledgement. “Let cold water run over your hands for at least one minute, and then spread some ointment on the skin. It's there.” With his left elbow, he gestured at a small earthenware jar sitting next to the sink.

During the next fifteen or so minutes, none of them spoke, the silence in the large room echoing with the muted sounds of chopping, grinding and stirring that punctuated the constant soft hiss of the flames heating the cauldron. When he had finished what he could do tonight, Severus carefully put a lid on the cauldron, reduced the fire to a series of yellow-orange pinpoints and cast a protective charm that would alert him immediately if the simmering mixture went beneath or beyond the correct temperature. He washed his hands, dried them on a fresh linen cloth and finally sprinkled a few drops of olive oil over them. While rubbing it into the skin, he cast a sideways glance at Black.

The Animagus had conjured a chair—another sign of his strength having returned—and was sprawled more than sitting on it, his head resting against the back, his eyes half-closed and staring off into space. When Severus cleared his throat, he jumped and sat bolt upright.

“I’m finished,” Severus said, wiping off the surplus of oil with the same linen cloth, which he then threw into a laundry basket.

Black nodded, but did not respond immediately. From the conflicting emotions flitting across his face, it was evident that there was some internal struggle going on. Strange, Severus thought, to witness those changes on Barty’s face. Like most Slytherins, Barty had been a master at concealing his emotions. Not so Black. But then, this was hardly a surprise.

“I suppose you’ll go to sleep,” Black finally managed.

“Sooner or later, yes.” Later, if he was able to keep himself awake. He might have the strength to suppress thoughts of the disastrous scene with Nimue while he was awake, but knew only too well that the images were going to haunt his sleep. Maybe some Dreamless Sleep potion was in order tonight.

“I…” Black began but fell silent again.

“What?”

“I was wondering whether we… might talk a bit.”

“Talk?” Unable to mask his surprise, Severus looked at Black. As far as he could remember—and his memories concerning his archenemy were anything but vague—they had never talked in all the twenty-six years they had known each other.

“Yes, talk. Not too difficult a concept for you to grasp, I hope?”

“What would you like to talk about with me, Black?” Severus asked, deliberately ignoring the other’s rather blunt baiting.

A deep sigh. “Honestly, I don’t know. It’s just… I need to hear the sound of a human voice, even if it’s yours.”

Severus snorted. “Considering the company you’ve been keeping during the last three weeks, I can’t say I blame you.” Black gave a lopsided grin and made his chair disappear. “Very well. Let’s talk, then. At your own risk, of course.”

Severus extinguished the lights, and the two wizards descended the stairs to the living room. At the sight of the couch, Severus quickly averted his eyes and steered toward the fireplace. The bottles and glasses were still on the low table.

“I’d rather switch to whiskey now,” Black remarked as he heavily sat down in the armchair he had occupied during their talk with Dumbledore.

Severus nodded and handed him the bottle after having poured himself a drink.

A few moments passed in silent appreciation of their beverage, then Black said, “I suppose you don’t know where Dumbledore has sent Harry?”

“Nobody knows, except for Dumbledore, and I strongly suspect there’s a Fidelius Charm involved.”

“Hmm…” Black gave him a pensive look. “Yes, that would make sense. Considering that other Secret Keepers haven't exactly lived up to our expectations…” His eyes went dark, and for a moment Severus could see Black, the real Black, sitting in the grass near Godric’s Hollow, sobbing and shaking.

“I’ll never understand why Potter didn't choose you. James Potter,” he added, when Black gave him a puzzled frown. “It worked perfectly for his wedding, so why did he opt for Pettigrew instead, when being protected was so much more important than the first time?”

Black shrugged. “The old Hiding-In-Plain-Sight principle, I suppose. I mean, honestly, who would have chosen Wormtail as their Secret Keeper? It was simply too preposterous to be true.” He refilled his glass. “I should never have allowed it.”

“Allowed?” Severus shook his head in disbelief. “Knowing Potter, he wouldn't have cared much for your authorization. Lily was the reasonable one.”

A very Black-ish smile lit Barty’s features. “Lily… she was special, wasn’t she?”

“Even though I would have chosen a less jejune way of expressing it, I agree. Lily Evans was a powerful, not to mention clever witch. Certainly way beyond Potter’s league.”

“She was beyond everybody’s league,” Black muttered. “And I’m sure—” He stopped in mid-sentence, suddenly aware whom he was speaking to.

“You mean she wouldn't have married Potter, or married so early, had not her parents died in a car crash?”

Black shot him a half-reproachful, half-surprised look and nodded. “Exactly. She was devastated—her only remaining relative was that sister… You know, the one who took in Harry… Nasty piece of work, that one. As Muggle as they come, and jealous of Lily. They’re almost ten years apart, you know. I still remember Lily telling us how furious Petunia was when she heard that her freak sister had gotten pregnant first. In the end, Petunia beat her to it—the child was born six weeks early…” He took a thoughtful sip and continued to stare into the fireplace. “Not that Lily minded. She had her own family…”

“Including the Gryffindor Musketeers, of course,” Severus observed. The words came out a little less harsh than he had intended them to be.

“Oh, yes…” Black’s smile broadened. “Whenever possible, we’d go to Godric's Hollow, all of us, complete with girlfriends—except for Pettigrew, of course,” he added, his smile turning into a nasty grin. “That little toad never had a girlfriend.”

“Of course not. He was way too enamoured of Lily.”

“How would you—” Black’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think that was the reason why…”

“Part of it, I suppose. I don't know what Voldemort promised him—”

Every trace of dreamy nostalgia gone from his face, Black leaned forward and stared at Severus. “Are you saying you didn’t know?”

“Know what?” Without changing his position, Severus ascertained, with a quick movement of his left wrist, that his wand was there for him to grab instantly, if Black got any ideas.

“The traitor’s identity, of course.” His emotional intensity was almost more than Barty's boyish face could express.

“No,” Severus said simply. “Believe me or not, but I had no idea. I saw him only once, and that was the night Voldemort killed the Potters. He was hooded and masked, maybe he had even put on some kind of glamour… Come to think of it,” he continued, more to himself than to Black, “I am pretty sure he did. Pettigrew is short and fat, and the person seemed to be of medium height…” He pulled himself together and looked at Black. “We knew, of course, that there had to be a traitor, but we were not sure about his identity. Or hers,” he added as an afterthought.

“You thought it was me, didn’t you?”

“Some of us, yes. But—”

“Dumbledore too.” It was not a question, it was a statement. When Severus said nothing to deny it, Black’s shoulders slumped. “How could he…”

“You were hardly an innocent, Black. In fact, you were behaving strangely—”

Black closed his eyes and shook his head. “I was young, Snape. Young and, although I hate admitting it to you, stupid, in many respects. And under a lot of pressure. You can’t possibly imagine the extent of my love for my friends… all of them… My parents were…” He sighed. “Idols, in a way. Superhuman. The Ministry’s star Aurors, go figure. I know they loved me, but… What I found with James and the others had so much more warmth, and fun—nobody expected anything of me, you know? I could just be myself, and they still liked me.”

“As did everybody else,” Severus commented dryly.

“You can’t blame that on me, can you?”

“Of course I can. At least the part of your dubious fame you acquired at the expense of others. Weaker others, I might add.”

“If you’re alluding to yourself—”

“No, Black. I’m not alluding to myself. I was hardly weaker than you.”

“Not when backed up by your cronies, no.”

“The same holds true for you. But I was talking about those oh-so-funny pranks you constantly played on people who couldn't retaliate, or were afraid to do so, because the mighty hand of Minerva McGonagall was protecting you. Not to mention the Headmaster.”

Black shrugged and threw his right leg over the armrest of his chair. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, “Not where you and I are concerned. We had the privilege of hating each other since we first met.”

“That,” Severus replied, unable to resist a thin smile, “is absolutely true. I hated your guts at the moment I set eyes on you on the Hogwarts Express.”

Black snorted. “Then I’ve hated you longer than you me, Snape. Because I already spotted you on the platform and thought, Merlin, if I ever get my fingers round that one’s throat…”

The silence that ensued gave Severus time to ponder his own thoughts and emotions. One thing he knew for sure: never, ever, was there going to be anything even remotely like friendship or—because the mere thought of friendship in connection with Black was ludicrous—acknowledgement of the other’s qualities. They belonged to different worlds, and each of them was convinced that his was the right one. There was no way to bridge the gap. However, after so many years, and especially in their current situation, Severus was able to feel something like sympathy for Black's woes, but only because they resembled his own. What astonished him most was that, albeit on the verge of killing him a few hours ago, he did not feel the same anger right now. True, Black’s sudden appearance in his rooms and, more than that, his cruel words to Nimue had had a disastrous effect. On the other hand, the Animagus had merely accelerated a process that would have set in anyway, if maybe a little later.

Not that he doubted the essential truth of the prediction Sybil had made for him. But he had been foolish enough, weak enough, to let himself be caught in the illusion that all he needed for it to come true was his firm belief that it would. He had been staggered by the truth revealed to him by Yelena; he had fought it with all his might and finally accepted it; he should have stopped right there. Instead, he had given in to temptation and got carried away.

Of course, there had been certain symptoms, but he had misread them. Understandable, considering that he knew what he knew. But also unforgivable, because he had misinterpreted the signs. All the more unforgivable, because he himself had pointed out to Yelena that, if Nimue felt more at ease with him than with, for example, Lucius, this could not be translated into a sign of affection. She had known him for four years, and, other than with the Malfoys, she had little doubt as to his loyalties. She had been forced to abandon everything that was dear to her, and, without having any choice or say in the matter, live with people she barely knew. It was only logical that, in this climate of insecurity and loneliness, she should cling to the one person she was familiar with. And once his attitude towards her had softened, it was natural for her to think she was feeling more than just comfort when around him. Add the usual rush of teenage hormones and a fairly passionate nature, and the crush was perfect.

All things considered, to have taken that crush for something deeper, for a promise of something much greater to come, had been his own fault. He was angry with himself because of his weakness, and a large part of that anger had been externalised and taken out on Black and, to a lesser degree, also on her.

How could he have been so stupid? It had to be the relief he had felt, after so many years of hopelessness. But he had forgotten, most conveniently so, that the prediction left little room for doubt: she’s yours if you leave it behind. He was still too deeply involved with the Dark; in fact, he had no idea whether it was possible for him to leave it behind—maybe he did not even want to, because it was a part of him. Impossible to untangle that problem right now. But he had most certainly made a grave mistake, despite his recent determination to get things right, just this once. He had lowered his defences; worse, he had not even had the good sense to wait for her to step through the wide-open doors of his fortress, but rushed out to meet her in his enthusiasm. He had acted against his very own nature—nobody could accuse him of being a spontaneous kind of person who got easily carried away by enthusiasm—and expected to find the firm ground of trust where a thin layer of cautious confidence had only just started to form. In one word, he had botched it. At least, Severus thought wryly, he had had enough presence of mind to prevent Lucius from disclosing any details about the prophecy to Nimue.

“How did she react to her parents’ death?”

“Huh?” Although he had been thinking about Nimue, Severus did not catch the question right away.

“Hermione—well, Nimue. How did she take the news about her parents?”

That filthy hypocrite, Severus thought. That two-faced son of a bitch, who had called the girl a Death Eater's whore a few hours ago… Sure, he did not remember it, but to see him play the concerned friend, inquiring about her well-being, was a little more than Severus could bear with equanimity. “Why would that be of interest to you, Black?”

“Well, that's obvious, isn’t it? She’s Harry’s friend, and therefore… well, not exactly my friend, but…” Severus leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs and sent Black the smile that was usually reserved for frightening Longbottom out of his wits. “What's the matter, Snape? She’s a sweet, young girl, and life dealt her some bad blows. It’s only understandable—”

“A sweet young girl?” Severus felt his face go hot. “Black, do I detect a hint of romantic interest? If you care about your balls, I'd strongly suggest you forget about her. Lucius is her guardian.”

Black’s hackles were visibly rising, but he avoided Severus's eyes. “I’m a man, Snape, and unlike you, I have no intention to use my cock only for pissing. What’s it to you if I think of her as a sweet young girl?”

How could he ever have assumed he might spend more than one minute in the same room with Black without wanting to gut him? But he had to tread carefully. If Black got so much as the shadow of a suspicion that Severus was… jealous? Was he really jealous? He had believed this chapter to be closed, but obviously this was not as easy as he had thought. This was another problem for another time, though. Even if Nimue were nothing more than a student under his responsibility, he would never have allowed Black to put his dirty hands on her. “What you think or don't think doesn’t interest me. But Miss Lestrange is a student and I’m a teacher. It is therefore my duty to guarantee her well-being.” He took a deep breath and continued, “I have seen enough girls cry their eyes out over you to be sure that an affair with you would be detrimental to her well-being.”

“She isn’t one of your Slytherins, Snape!”

“Do you think Minerva would be overjoyed?”

Black stared at him out of narrowed eyes. “You wouldn't tell her!”

“I would expect her to do the same if you were after Miss Parkinson.”

“I know that pug-faced blonde obscenity, and I would never even bother to look at her twice, let alone shag her.”

“Maybe not,” Severus conceded, glad to have steered the conversation out of the dangerous waters, “Let’s say Draco, then.” A vicious blow, well under the waistline, and he knew it. But he had denied himself the pleasure of reacting to a few provocations already, and Black’s allusions to Nimue had just been the last straw.

But Black did not, as he had expected, utter a howl of fury and attack him. Instead, he made himself a little more comfortable in his chair, crossed his legs and gave Severus a long, inscrutable look. “I don’t think so,” he finally said. “Boys—” a careless little wave of his right hand “—don’t interest me anymore. Neither do grown men,” he added with a fiendish grin, “So no need to watch your back, Snape. No,” he continued on a more serious note, which made Severus feel even more uneasy, “I'd really like to try my luck with Miss Lestrange.”

“My felicitations on a well-chosen target,” Severus snarled, “Especially as you won't have many occasions to see her.”

“It’s so terribly lonely out there in Azkaban…”

Severus's heartbeat accelerated so abruptly that it caused a needle-sharp pain to shoot into his stomach and through his left arm. “Black,” he said tonelessly, feeling his mouth go dry, “Black, you couldn't possibly…”

“It's not such a bad idea,” Black said, “Because I’d be able to protect her, and Voldemort would be happy and utterly satisfied to have such a powerful witch at his side.”

“Is that a plan you devised all on your own?” This had to be a bad dream, Severus thought, this was too… too absurd to be true. “Black, try to think logically! Even if she accepted, which I doubt, how would you be able to protect her? You can't even protect yourself, you just said as much to Dumbledore! What if Voldemort fancies testing her loyalties? What if he tortures her? You’d have to watch, you couldn't do anything! What if he really performs that ritual?”

“So concerned, Snape? One might come to think that your interest in little Miss Lestrange exceeds that of a teacher… You should be more careful with your budding emotions, Snape—I might tell Voldemort. Don't you think he’d be very amused? Are you in love with her? Or are you just fascinated with those lovely small breasts? Eh, Snape? Tell me, are you in love, Snape? Snape? SNAPE!”

Severus opened his eyes, only to see Black sitting in the chair opposite him, rolling his eyes. “I’m telling you the story of my life, and you fall asleep on me. One more reason for me to hate you.” He downed the last of his drink and stood up. “Time to go to sleep, don't you think so?”

Still dazzled, Severus looked up at him, while slowly regaining his bearings. He had dreamed… Where exactly had he fallen asleep? Had Black really asked him about Nimue’s reaction to her parents’ death, or had that already been part of his dream? Nightmare, rather. “I… yes, I’m afraid I’m rather tired. It has been a long day, and a tad too much whiskey, I suppose.” Try as he might, he could not get rid of that dream. “Black, what was the last you said before I dozed off?”

Black snorted. “I said that I saw you first, back then at King’s Cross. And that I have the privilege of having started hating you first.”

The relief washing over him was so enormous that Severus almost gave in to the impulse of patting the other wizard’s shoulder. “I see,” he said, a little stiffly. “Well, I suppose you’re right. We should go to sleep, Dumbledore will come to fetch you rather early in the morning.”

After giving himself a last mental shake, he preceded Black towards the stairs. On his way upwards, he noticed that, although the images of his dream were beginning to fade, the feeling it had evoked did not go away. He had to protect Nimue, whatever the cost.

~~~~*~~~~

Sitting in his bed, wide awake and stroking Elias’s head, Severus chuckled to himself. Not that he enjoyed his present state of insomnia, but he was so tired by now that a slight feeling of euphoria had set in. There sure as hell was a way to vanquish Voldemort, he thought, shaking with silent mirth. They just had to find a way of keeping him and Black in the same room for some weeks—the Animagus’s snores were bound to drive the Dark Lord mad in little more than ten days.

After this fit of noiseless laughter, he acknowledged that he was unable to go back to sleep anytime soon, considering that he was a very light sleeper. Black’s unearthly snoring—which might have been less audible, were the makeshift bed he had made for the other wizard not located directly above his bedroom—was too loud, even though filtered by the ceiling. And somehow, he did not feel like casting a sound-muffling charm. The idea of spending some time just gazing out into the night was suddenly quite appealing. So he threw his legs over the edge of the bed, fished for his slippers, rose and put on a dressing gown. Elias, apparently very happy to have company at this time of night, gave a sharp croak and fluttered to his master’s shoulder.

Severus strolled out into the living room, his wand already raised to light the candles. On second thought, he decided that artificial brightness, even though mellow and inoffensive to the eye, was not really what he wished for; he found his way over to the windows, opened one of them and leaned out into the night. Black was lucky indeed, he mused—the air had an autumnal crispness to it that made the mere idea of sleeping elsewhere than in a bed and under a feather duvet quite repulsive. But it was ideal for his own purpose, as he intended to stay at the open window for as long as he could, chill himself out completely and then return to his bed, shivering and grateful for the cosy warmth. Usually, this was one of his most successful sleep-inducing strategies, which always worked to perfection.

He inhaled deeply, relishing the cold air filling his lungs, down to the tiniest alveoli, and then exhaled. His breath formed a small cloud of white vapour and dissolved immediately. Another deep breath, but it turned into a gasp.

For a moment, he thought that maybe he had dozed off and was merely dreaming, but then Elias’s claws dug into his shoulder. The small needles of pain did not push him out of this oniric scenery. So he was awake, and this was real…

Hogwarts lay sleeping under a clear, star-littered sky; at this hour of night, no sound was to be heard. There was no wind, so that the castle and grounds seemed strangely static. Through this immense, soothing quiet, though, sounds were floating. Two woodwind instruments, a clarinet and an oboe, as far as he could judge… Sighing. A soft moan, perfectly mimicked by the two instruments, the oboe a third above the clarinet, holding a single note and then descending by a mere semitone. The same again, this time underscored by horns. And then a repetition, the sigh intensified, deeper and more desperate. Oh, and then the violins, telling the story of a grief too profound for words, holding the heart in their honeyed grip, and wrenching, wrenching… But after that, a glimpse of consolation, a tearful smile, when the melody suddenly turned from minor to major. And always those sighs somewhere in the background, barely audible, because they were nearly drowned out by the now-majestic mourning of the strings.

Mozart’s Masonic Funeral Music.

It was a relatively short piece, barely ten minutes, and Severus listened until the last accords died down in a soft, yielding breath of surrender to the inevitable.

He drew a shuddering sigh and tried to withstand the onslaught of emotion welling up within him. To no avail. Mozart and Nimue—for he had no doubt that she was the listener—could not have chosen a better way of razing his defences to the ground. Since his first run-in with Muggle music at McLachlan’s house, he had been aware of the power it held. A magic of its own, the Bloody Baron had called it, years before that. This was, of course, a cliché—Severus had concluded as much by reading what more or less erudite people had written on the covers and in the booklets that came with the records; the word ‘magical’ showed up with irritating regularity. But that was beside the point. In fact, it proved the Baron’s point. Because music was above all that, it did not need the words to be understood, and it wormed its way into regions of the human mind that could never be reached by human language.

Had Nimue stood before him, crying and attempting to tell him how disconsolate, how deeply sad she was, he might have had a chance to raise the shield of indifference and icy irony. He had heard too many vain protestations of feelings hurt and emotions misunderstood; it would have been easy to deny the truth of hers. She had chosen Mozart instead, and caught him, albeit unwittingly, at an hour of the night where man was at his most vulnerable.

He admitted defeat, half-cursing, half-blessing her.

Heedless of his state of semi-undress, he headed for the door.

The Fat Lady, guarding the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, was fast asleep in her gilt frame, and he had to knock several times against the carved wood to wake her up.

“At least one Head of House with some sense of responsibility,” she said, giving him an appreciative nod. Severus, who was in no mood for lengthy discussions with baroque females, however amiable, merely raised a questioning eyebrow. “I probably shouldn’t tell you,” she continued, her voice now a conspiratorial whisper, “but I went over to Fridolf the Flabbergasted—you know, he’s in Professor McGonagall’s sitting room…” Severus had no idea whose portraits his colleague was sharing her living quarters with, but nodded politely. The Fat Lady sighed. “Well, there was nothing to be done. I won't tell you how many drinks she’d had, but…” Her brow creased in severe disapproval.

“She received some bad news tonight,” Severus responded, hard-pressed to conceal a grin.

“Well, so has the poor girl, apparently,” the Lady snapped, “She’s been crying and listening to music all the time since she returned… Just give me the teachers’ password, Professor, and I’ll let you in.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. The password is ‘Per aspera ad astra’. Oh, and…” He leaned forward, close to the Lady’s ear. “No need to tell Professor McGonagall. She’d be mortified—you know how much she cares about her students.”

“Of course not, Professor. I’m sure you’ll find a way to tell her, if it's important.”

Severus bent his head in a gesture of both assent and salutation, and climbed through the hole the portrait had revealed.

Apart from the garish colours, the Gryffindor Common Room was actually quite nice, he thought. He had not been here often; in fact, he had been here only once, to confiscate a dragon egg, smuggled into the school by Charlie Weasley, from the boys’ dormitory.

But the Gryffindors’ taste in interior decoration was the last thing of interest to him right now. With an eerie sense of déjà vu, he approached a sofa, upholstered in maroon velvet and with a nightmarish, hypertrophically curved backrest that blocked his view. On the armrest, though, which looked like a wilting tulip cut in half, he saw a mass of brown hair, full of tangles and knots. The second—or maybe she had listened to it more often, but it was the second time for him—rendition of the Funeral Music had just come to an end on the small stereo she had put up on another couch, maybe ten feet away. The window at the right sight of the huge, griffin-infested fireplace was wide open.

A shuddering and very wet sigh, then her right hand went out, pointing her wand at the stereo. With a few, noiseless steps, he was there, took the hand, gently pried the wand from her fingers which had gone rigid with fright, placed it on the floor and kissed her hand. “You are going to catch your death,” he said, with a pointed look at her dress. It was still the same she had worn earlier, crumpled and soot-stained. The bruise on her left arm was gone; apparently Lucius had taken care of that.

“As if you cared.” With the first, understandable shock at having her hand grabbed by some intruder gone, she averted her head.

“I would not have come here, if I didn’t care.”

“I already have a guardian!” she snapped, still without looking at him. “He is concerned for my health, modifies my memory—what else could I possibly desire?”

“He cannot have modified it too brutally, if you’re in this state.”

“No,” she admitted gruffly, slowly turning her face towards him. “He only eliminated what he said was too dangerous for me to know. Claiming that I’d be grateful if he left the rest as it was.”

Still holding her hand in his, Severus muttered, “Hopeless romantic.”

This finally made her smile, if reluctantly. “That's the most incongruous characterization I’ve ever heard.”

“Yes, so it seems,” he agreed. “Listen, Nimue—” he sat down on his haunches, so that their faces were almost on the same level “—your hand is stone cold. I don't want you to catch the flu, so please—”

“Is that all you have to say?” She yanked her hand free of his grip. “Then you can just go back to your quarters!”

Astonished at his own patience, Severus shook his head. “No, there’s a lot more I want to say, but I think it would be advisable for you to have a hot bath and a change of clothes first.”

Nimue frowned up at him. “I hope that's not some ruse to send me away, so you can just disappear?”

“No.” He smiled at her and briefly cupped her cheek, glad that she did not flinch. “If that was what I wanted, why would I have come in the first place?”

“My health, remember?” She sat up and looked down at him. “I suppose you heard the music, so it occurred to you that the window had to be open, and—”

“Shush,” he said, catching her hands and pulling her to her feet. “Go take your bath, and I’ll call Peggy for some hot chocolate.”

In the next moment, her arms were around him with such force that he had trouble breathing, and she was sobbing into his chest. She smelled of soot and smoke, mingled with sweat and the slightly coppery-salty note of tear-soaked skin . Surprised, as he had not expected this reaction to the mention of hot chocolate, he was unsure what to do, but then decided that holding and soothing her was probably best. His left hand sneaked into the mass of curls, fingers gently working their way through until his fingertips had reached her scalp, while his right rubbed soothing circles over the small of her back. “Shh,” he whispered, “Why are you crying now?”

He got no answer, but gradually the sobs became less harsh and finally subsided. “Relief,” she mumbled.

“Wonderful.” He kissed the top of her head. “Now go, and don't fall asleep in the bathtub.”

~~~~*~~~~

There were two mugs of hot chocolate on the table when Nimue returned, large, plump ones with a flowery design; there was also a large platter containing assorted biscuits, slices of teacake and a few pieces of gingerbread. Next to Severus’s cup sat a small bowl filled with salted almonds.

He looked up when he heard the sound of her footsteps on the stairs, and smiled at her when she stepped through the archway. “Much better,” he said, taking in her flannel pyjamas and dressing gown. Her hair was clean now, shimmering with an auburn hue in the glow of the fireplace, and plaited, as she was wont to wear it for the night.

She crossed the room and stopped at some distance from the couch Severus was sitting on. Apparently, she had made good use of her bath, not only to warm up and clean herself, but also for some in-depth thinking. Her face, although still bearing the signs of hours of crying, displayed a certain stubbornness. “So you’re still here,” she remarked, eyeing him warily.

“Of course, and there’s chocolate and sweets as well.”

“Professor,” she said, and he winced, for the formal title hurt more than he would have thought, “I think I have told you often enough that I’m not a little girl anymore. Much as I like hot chocolate and biscuits, if you think that’s enough to comfort me, you’d better leave now.”

“I merely want you to get thoroughly warm, and you should eat something, Nimue. We can’t talk properly unless you’re comfortable. Grub first, then ethics, so to speak.”

She tilted her head. “Slytherin motto?”

“No, Brecht’s Threepenny Opera. I’m sure—” he patted the upholstery next to him, and she finally moved towards the couch “—that we would have found a slightly more elegant way of expressing the concept.”

“No communists in Slytherin?” She sat down, though careful not to touch him.

“Mutually exclusive, I’d say. The proletariat isn’t exactly close to a Slytherin’s heart.”

“The problem being of course,” she said between two bites of gingerbread, “whether Slytherins do have a heart, and secondly, whether they ever let anything or anybody get close to it.”

“We-ell…” Severus feigned deep thought. “There is Millicent Bulstrode and her cat…” He had to pat her back for a good thirty seconds.

“At least you’re making me laugh,” Nimue said, again cradling her mug which she had hastily deposited on the table during her coughing fit.

“The role of jester suits me particularly well, or so I heard.” He took a sip from his cup to wash down a few almonds. “Your disgusted expression is entirely uncalled for—in fact, salted almonds go perfectly well with chocolate.”

It was already half past three when Nimue had finally eaten and drunk her fill. Rosy-cheeked and sleepy-eyed, smelling of spice and camomile, she leaned back lazily and smiled at him. There was a trace of chocolate on her upper lip, and Severus had to conjure the memory of errors past in order to keep himself from pulling her into his arms and licking it off. “You should go to bed,” he observed, “You must be tired, and I suppose you’re in no condition for in-depth talk now.”

The alert look returned to her eyes. “I’d rather talk now, you know…” She stifled a huge yawn. “Because I’m not sure… I mean, things always seem different in the daylight, don’t they?”

Severus grabbed the end of her plait and twisted it around his fingers. “If by ‘different’ you mean that we’ll be back at square one in the morning, rest assured that we won’t.”

“Square one being—” she yawned again “—before the holidays or after Lucius manhandled me back to Hogwarts last night?”

“I saw that bruise,” he said, suddenly feeling very defensive of her.

She snorted. “At least he didn’t hex Ron, when he called him a filthy Death Eater. Not that he would have needed to—Mrs. Weasley was so enraged…” She smiled at him.

“Delphinum silvis adpingis, fluctibus aprum,” Severus muttered.

Nimue’s eyes lit up instantly. “Horace… How wonderful, so we can—” She stopped and visibly fought to rein in her enthusiasm. “I meant—” she darted a quick sideways glance at Severus “—I had no idea you liked Latin.”

“There are,” he replied, cautiously choosing his words, “a great many things we still don’t know about each other. My predilection for Latin and salted almonds being among the less consequential.” He let go of her plait and instead cupped her cheek. “It seems that I… attempted to take a shortcut where saving time was far less important than jumping the obstacles, one by one. Maybe we could try and start anew?”

“You’re asking?” she choked out, eyes again brimming with tears.

“Of course. Don’t you think you should have a say in the matter? But—” he put his forefinger to her lips “—before you make your decision, let me say this: I can’t explain the why and how. Not now, that is. And I cannot tell you about the man who interrupted—”

“Oh, that. He was Barty Crouch, wasn’t he?”

Severus’s hand fell, and so did his jaw. “You—how can you possibly—”

“Harry described him, of course. He was the one who impersonated Professor Moody. Though why he’d be in your rooms… Well,” she said, in a rather unconvincing attempt at appearing uninterested, “you said you can’t explain and therefore I’ll have to wait.” Her right hand crept toward his, hesitated, and finally touched his fingers. “The why and how… that’s the difficult bit, you know?” He nodded, and she continued, “Ever since… well, come to think of it, since the first evening at the Manor, when you didn’t kick me out of your room right away, I was wondering… And later, when you seemed so totally different…” Her fingers interlaced with his own. “Not to mention yesterday and tonight. I kept trying to convince myself that the kiss had happened, it was just so hard to believe that there wasn’t some ulterior motive, although I had no idea what it might be. And then, that… that Crouch person said… well, what he said, and everything seemed to come down with a huge, ugly crash. I’m sorry,” she blurted out, groping for his other hand, “I’m so sorry for hitting you, I really shouldn’t—”

“No,” he said, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze, “No you shouldn’t have. I don’t react too well to it.”

“But you understand why I did it, don’t you? It was so—There’s just one question I want an answer to: is there really no ulterior motive?”

He looked down at their joined hands. “No. There is a reason, which I don’t want to disclose to you now, merely because I don’t want to put any more pressure on you. But I promise—”

“You aren’t going to die?”

“Not if I can prevent it, no.”

“Good,” she said, nodding in agreement with herself. “I just thought you might have some terminal illness, and wanted to have some fun before you die…”

At that, he laughed out loud. “No, I’m not aware of any ailments, whether terminal or not. But even so, I hardly would think of you as a means for having fun.”

Nimue’s brows contracted into an ominous V, thunderclouds riding on her forehead . “That’s exactly what Harry and Ron always—”

“I. Meant.” He took a deep breath and made a conscious effort not to reverse to Snape-the-Bastard mode. “I meant that I would never take a… relationship, of whichever nature, with you lightly. Not even if I had Morbus Rapax.”

“Oh. I see.” She tilted her head, not unlike Elias in his more mischievous moods. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of Morbus Rapax… Is it a magical malady? What are the—”

“Nimue.” He rose, pulling her up together with him. “It is four o’clock in the morning, and I believe we have, if not resolved, so at least cleared up our misunderstanding sufficiently for you to be able to sleep. I am terribly tired myself, and therefore have no desire to give you a lecture on mediwizardry right now. Go to bed. Now.”

“What about our walk?” she asked, leaning into him.

“I’m afraid we will have to postpone—no, wait! Would you like to assist me in finishing a potion? Without any intrusions by Barty Crouch?” She shot him a quizzical look and nodded. “Excellent. Nine o’clock at my quarters?”

“Yes, Mr. Legree.”

“That’s ‘Yes, Mr. Legree, Sir’ for you.” He bent down and kissed her forehead. “Good night, and sweet dreams.”

A Head of House with some sense of responsibility, indeed, he thought, turning towards the portrait hole when he had heard the door of her dormitory click shut. But the Fat Lady was not there when he exited the Gryffindor Common Room. In the oblique light of the torches bathing the hallway in their flickering shine, he could see the faint traces of the destruction Black had wreaked upon the painting. The shiver that ran through his body when he set out towards his quarters after running his finger over the barely elevated scars had nothing to do with the chill draught permeating the corridors.

Black had made it into the castle as a big black dog. An animal much bigger and more conspicuous than a rat.

Whether Black really had more than friendly feelings for Nimue or not, his dream had contained at least one message of utmost importance: he had to protect her, for she might be in greater danger than they all had thought.

Do me one favour, he prayed to the deities he seldom invoked, and let Dumbledore’s plan actually work!