The Sybil's Oracle: Book Three

Chapter 19

By Pigwidgeon37

At five minutes shy of six o’clock in the morning, after less than five hours of sleep, Black looked even worse than Severus would have expected, given the small amount of sleep he had got. Barty’s boyish face was lined and slightly sagging around the mouth, there were purple smudges under his eyes, and his hands were unsteady, although he did his best to conceal it. But those were signs of physical weariness; nothing sleep, food and rest would not be able to cure. What worried Severus were the eyes. Pools of desolation, he thought with a twinge of apprehension. Having experienced Hogwarts’s intrinsic magic and the effect it had had on himself, he hoped that it was going to work for Black as well. Otherwise, Voldemort might very well decide that, his merits notwithstanding, his second-in-command was of little use.

Severus, who had barely slept more than an hour, was feeling like hell, but did not really mind. Not only was he determined to creep back into his bed as soon as Dumbledore had freed him of his obnoxious flatmate, he was also looking forward to seeing Nimue at nine.

Both wizards were sitting in the living room, grumpy, silent and unshaved, sipping the excellent coffee Peggy had brought a minute ago. The silence was not hostile, but neither could it be called companionable. They were simply too groggy for coherent speech. Dumbledore, on the other hand, looked annoyingly dapper when he made his appearance at six o’clock sharp. Dressed in magnificent robes of dark maroon embroidered with strutting miniature lions—a display of pageantry Severus thought highly unbecoming, given the hour and circumstances, but mostly because it marked, like a beacon, the distance separating him from his usual impeccable self.

“Good morning, good morning!” Dumbledore patted a trace of soot from his robes, rubbed his hands and sat down on the Chesterfield next to Severus. “I trust you slept well?”

Severus, who had correctly translated the question into ‘Have you been good boys? No fighting, no spitting and scratching?’ gave an irritated growl. Black merely nodded in an altogether unconvincing show of early-morning optimism.

“Headmaster,” Severus said while pouring a cup for Dumbledore and refilling his own, “I think you should keep him down in the cave for a little longer. Maybe the whole day—I admit that you can never be sure of anything with Voldemort, but all the same I’d say that the chances of Pettigrew coming here before tomorrow are practically nil.”

Dumbledore blew on his coffee, which was blistering hot, and studied Black’s face from under half-closed eyelids. “Yes, that would probably be a good idea. You’ll see,” he said to Black, who was throwing Severus suspicious glances, probably thinking that if Severus recommended a prolonged stay in the cave, it had to be a pit full of vipers and hungry lions, “that the effect is most memorable. Besides—” his look swerved back to Severus “—it will give Severus the necessary time to finish the potion. If you require an assistant—”

“No, thank you, that won’t be necessary. And I could always rope in Draco.”

“Or Nimue,” Dumbledore supplied, eyes twinkling.

“Indeed. But, as I said, I think I won’t be in need of help.”

Dumbledore merely smiled and continued, “Would a staff meeting this afternoon be very inconvenient to you, Severus? It’s already August, and we haven’t yet chosen either Head Students or Prefects. The letters have to go out tomorrow, though. Besides—” he put down his empty cup “—we, that is you, Lucius, Minerva, Sybil, Owen, Poppy and myself, should discuss the handling of the rest of the faculty.”

“Of course. Would three o’clock be too late? I have had little sleep last night and might want to take a nap after lunch.”

“Three o’clock it is, then. I suppose his snores kept you awake?” Dumbledore inquired, with a sideways glance at a mortified Black.

“Partly, yes. But I was also a little worried about the success of our plan. Have you managed to contact all the participants?”

“Yes, they should arrive between eleven-thirty and twelve. Time enough for a short strategic session before lunch.”

“What about the map?” Black asked, “Who’s going to keep an eye on that?”

“Ah, the map. Of course, I almost forgot. I think that we should work in pairs, shifts of two hours each. I have already sketched a timetable, which I’ll distribute during the staff meeting.”

“Considering how few of us there are,” Severus observed, while mentally calculating the number of hours he was going to lose staring at a piece of parchment instead of sleeping or working, “I really hope that Pettigrew will show up soon. This is going to take a lot of time.”

Black groaned and furiously rubbed his forehead. “And for both our sakes, I hope that he’ll show up before 10 August—if he gets caught after the Headmaster’s departure, we’re going to have even more trouble explaining things to Voldemort.”

Slightly taken aback at the ‘for both our sakes’, Severus said, “Well, try to see it from this point of view: if we really manage to catch the rat, who’s going to perform the punishment? At least not Pettigrew with his prosthesis, may it rot in hell.”

The uneasiness of the ensuing silence told clearly that Severus had not succeeded in dispersing the others’ worries as to that problem more efficiently than his own.

“Well, then,” Dumbledore finally said, rising from the couch, “I think it is time for us to go, Sirius. I will— ” he turned to Severus “—bring him back here between the afternoon meeting and dinner, in his animal form of course, if that is all right with you.”

Overwhelmed as he was by fatigue, Severus would have agreed to almost anything, provided that his consent ensured immediate access to his bed. So he mumbled a few words of assent, held the door open for the two wizards to leave his quarters, and then closed it with a sigh of relief. Peggy had been instructed to wake him at eight, with more coffee and something to eat. And after that…

He smiled to himself as he shut the bedroom door.

~~~~*~~~~

Nimue knocked on his living room door exactly at the moment the clock struck nine. Severus went to let her in and immediately felt guilty for having summoned her at such an early hour. She was young and needed her sleep; the lack thereof was all too visible on her pale face.

“I’m not late, am I?” she asked, when he had closed the door.

“No, you are not, and besides this isn’t a detention.” There was an awkward pause. Since Peggy had woken him, Severus had been trying to decide how he should behave towards her. It pained him to abandon the intimacy they had reached, but he also knew that, once he started kissing so much as her forehead, he would be positioning himself on top of the same, slippery slope he had fallen down earlier. Physical contact was to be avoided.

What he had not taken into consideration was that she might have other ideas. Her face tilted upwards, she was obviously waiting for him to kiss her, and when he did not budge, a cloud of disappointment swept across her features. “I knew it,” she said, her voice a little unsteady, “I knew that it was going to be different in plain daylight…”

“We have two hours,” he said, instead of an answer. “If we get started right now, we should be able to finish the work in an hour or so, and might use the rest for talking. And, just in case you’re free after lunch…”

Albeit still frowning, she seemed a little less preoccupied and followed him upstairs. “What plans do you have for after lunch?”

“I thought that we might finally take our walk.” He opened the door to his laboratory and beckoned for her to enter. “The weather isn’t magnificent, but I have to get some fresh air. Pale as you are, you certainly need some, too.”

“You…” She turned towards him, obviously unsure whether to continue. He waited patiently, leaning against the closed door and studying her face. Her cheeks were flushed, and he was curious whether embarrassment or anger was the cause. “Why don’t you touch me anymore?” she finally asked.

Embarrassment, then. The words had come out so fast that he had trouble understanding her. “Didn’t we agree to talk after we had finished working?”

“No, we didn’t!” She crossed her arms and shot him a defiant stare. “You suggested it, but I didn’t say yes.”

“I take it that your love of Latin doesn’t extend to Roman Law?” he replied, a little unnerved.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Quis tacet consentire videtur*—a sound principle, in my opinion.”

“And of course your opinion is the one that counts, isn’t it? So we are back to teacher and student? Do I have to call you Sir again?”

No, Severus thought, he did not react at all well to this kind of conflict. He had his very own, perfectly reliable recipe for dealing with whatever bothered him, but was unable to apply it to her. For so many years it had been sufficient to just throw in the weight of his authority whenever he met resistance; scruples as to whether he might hurt or intimidate the others had never been a problem. He recognized it clearly now: usually, people tended to expect everybody else to respect a certain code of conduct. Like dogs, really. They fought, and the one who was about to lose offered his vulnerable belly to the winner. Astonishingly, the latter refrained from digging his teeth into the soft, unprotected flesh and ripping out the guts. The deliberate demonstration of lack of defence automatically overrode the instinct to kill. A Slytherin, who had painstakingly worked his way upwards to the top of the pecking order, though, could not allow himself the privilege of generosity: so long as the opponent’s visor was up, whether by choice or carelessness, smashing their face with one’s fist was as surprising as it was ultimately successful. He had been doing exactly that, either to equals like Lucius, who retorted in the same fashion, or to inferiors, as for example his students, who had no choice but to tremble in fear and leave the battlefield, beaten and intimidated. With Nimue, these mechanisms almost as old as himself just did not work. He found himself confronted with a situation he basically knew—recalcitrant student, or fractious female—but the habitual patterns were not valid anymore. The insecurity this was causing him was hard to control, or rather, he felt it was unwise to recur to his customary fashion of dealing with it, which would have been to land a second blow while the victim was still staggering and dizzied by the first.

He also saw, with surprising clarity, that this situation—and likely there were going to be many more—was too highly emotional for him to deal with it rationally. He had to act, to react. The thinking might be done later. Right now, she was angry and hurt. She might not be aware of it, but Severus, with his innate instinct for power games, sensed it very distinctly: her readiness to express her emotions put her at an advantage. Not in the classroom, and not with someone who did not care. But here, with him, she had the upper hand.

His arms were crossed in front of his chest, his hands invisible to her. Severus balled them into tight fists, trying to channel all the tension he felt into those few muscles, so as not to let it seep into his voice. “Nimue, please try to understand. I have to finish this potion before eleven. If we start an argument now, I’d constantly have to keep an eye on my watch, and I don't think that’s very conducive to the kind of talk we need to have.”

“So that stupid potion is more important than I am? Fine! That’s exactly what I needed—”

He stepped forward so quickly that she instinctively recoiled, but he had already grabbed her by the shoulders. “Why?” he asked hoarsely, “Why do you have to compare two things that defy comparison?” He shook her, ignoring her wide-eyed terror. “Why do you have to make me choose where there is no choice? You—” he gave her another shake “—are important, and the potion is important, if in very different ways. So why—” She gave a soft whimper, and he realized that his fingers were digging deep into her flesh. He released her immediately and retreated by a few steps. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” A wave of hopelessness made his heart contract painfully. How was this ever going to work, if there were such insurmountable obstacles right at the beginning?

Her right hand flew to her mouth, a tightly-wound fist trying to stifle another outburst. For a few seconds, she remained like that, shaking her head, her fist against her lips, eyes bright with tears she fought to swallow. “I…” She looked up at him. “I’m doing this all wrong…” A tiny sob escaped her, and she continued, “I just don't know what to do anymore—whatever I say or do comes out completely wrong…”

As always, her helplessness completely disarmed him. “You expressed my own feelings quite admirably,” he remarked dryly, holding out his arms. Any intentions he might have had of refraining from physical contact dissolved like wisps of smoke in a gust of wind, once he felt her against him.

“I don't want to complicate your life,” she muttered against his chest. She sounded fierce and stubborn and very determined, which made him smile.

“I’ve had worse complications in my life.” He bent down to bury his face in her hair. “This is just very unusual.”

“But not unwelcome?”

He tightened his grip. “Certainly not unwelcome.”

A pool of warmth formed on his chest when she gave a shuddering sigh. “Shall we start with the potion then?”

Severus nodded into her hair and gave her a last squeeze before he reluctantly let go of her.

~~~~*~~~~

After little less than an hour, sixteen vials containing a glutinous, beige fluid were sitting on the workbench, and Severus and Nimue were cleaning the laboratory.

“I hope I’ll be able to get that cabbage smell out of my nose until lunch,” Nimue said, wrinkling her nose. “It reminds me of—” She stopped in mid-sentence and pretended she had a coughing fit.

“Polyjuice Potion?” Severus inquired sweetly. Knowing that nothing was wrong with her respiration, he merely stood and looked at her. Her face turned flaming red, and the coughing sounded even more artificial.

Then, she busied herself at the sink, cleaning some vials that were already flawless and sparkling. “Which potion?” she asked, speaking over her shoulder.

“Po-ly-juice,” he repeated. “Does that ring a bell?”

“Not really, no. Is it special in some way?”

“Nimue…” He tried to sound threatening, but laughter was vibrating in his voice.

“Yes?” She half-turned and gave him an innocent smile. “It certainly wasn’t on the finals…” With a tilt of her head, she threw her hair back and proceeded to dry the double-cleaned vessels.

Severus was now standing very close to her, torn between the urge to box her ears and the rush of physical need he felt. “Nimue, you are a lousy, lousy liar!” This said, his hands sneaked around her waist, and he bent down to find and bite her earlobe. He had meant it as a very gentle punishment for being so bad at dissimulating her secret, but obviously he had hit a highly sensitive erogenous zone. Nimue uttered a little sigh and leaned back into his embrace; the feeling of her rounded buttocks against his thighs was a little more than he could take with equanimity at ten a.m. and after only three hours of sleep. He wanted to let go of her, but her hands had already caught his arms.

“You knew?” she asked, letting her head fall back so she could look at him.

“Of course I knew. Poppy consulted me—she was at a complete loss as to which therapy she might try. Your cat face and the missing Bicorn horn and Boomslang skin made it easy to fill in the gaps.”

She sighed. “It was such a stupid accident. I didn’t know it was cat hair, you see?”

“Ah, that’s news to me. I thought you might have assumed that it worked for transformation into an animal, too.”

Immediately, a vertical line appeared between her eyebrows. “Did you really think I’m that stupid? It’s written in the book! Only for transformation from human to human, and trans-gender transformation is strongly discouraged.” She smiled. “You know, your nose doesn't seem that big anymore.”

Now he had at least the pretext of mock-indignation, to shove her away, turn her around and thus end the contact between their bodies. It was high time, too. “Is that a belated comeback for my remark about your front teeth?”

“No, I was just trying to say something flattering.” Her grin was half-mischievous, half-guilty. “It seems that it didn't come across as such.”

“Never mind,” he said, suddenly serious. “Besides, it provides the perfect opportunity for me to ask you a question that has been on my mind for quite some time: why, Nimue? Why me?”

She lowered her eyelids and stared at the floor for a while. “So,” she said, playing with a strand of hair, “you don't have to tell but I have to? That doesn't seem fair, does it?”

“I already told you—”

“Yes, I remember what you told me. But you could have made that up—No!” she said hastily, catching him by his right forearm when he was about to turn away in his anger, “No, I didn’t mean that! I just said it to… well, to say something! Because this whole There-Is-Something-But-I-Can’t-Tell-You business is so terribly unnerving…” Severus let out a low growl but said nothing. “Could we go downstairs? Sit on the couch, have some tea, perhaps? It would make me feel better—like this, I’m feeling like a first-year about to receive the tongue-lashing of my life. You are rather tall, you know?” she added, and there was so much real reproach in her voice that he could not resist laughing.

“Too tall,” he teased, putting an arm round her shoulders, “too old and the nose is too big. That really makes the answer to my question even more interesting.”

“You won't like it,” she muttered, while they were descending the stairs.

“What makes you so sure?”

“Well…” She shot him a quizzical look when she walked past him into the living room. “We do seem to have trouble making each other understand what we feel, don't we?”

Understatement of the millennium, he thought. He did not even understand his own feelings, not to mention anybody else’s—not that he had ever tried very hard, but with her, he did try, and the outcome was not exactly satisfying. “We just have to—” He turned to look at her, and caught her just in time. She had tried to steady herself against the doorframe, but her legs did not cooperate. “Nimue? What's the matter with you? Are you ill?”

She was even paler now than before, and a thin layer of perspiration was coating her forehead and upper lip. Her smile was somewhat forced, when she said, “No, nothing’s wrong. I just didn't have time to eat breakfast…” She inhaled deeply and walked towards the couch, supported by his right arm. “I suppose I had too many sweets last night, and that combined with too little sleep and no breakfast…”

“Hmm…” He scrutinized her face. “And PMS, too, isn’t it?”

At that, she blushed and gasped. “You can’t… I mean, I really don't want to talk about that with you!”

“Oh, come now!” He raised his hands, exasperated but also a little amused. “I have to deal with menstruating and pre-menstruating girls on a daily basis!”

This seemed to shock her sufficiently to make her forget her own embarrassment. “They come to you with those problems?”

“Of course they do. I’m their Head of House, and I also happen to be a Potions Master. There are very efficient potions, both for PMS and for cramps.”

“Yes, but…” She shook her head. “You’re a man!”

Strange, he thought, how this observation, although it had been made out of abashment and stated the obvious, nonetheless pleased him. He turned away to hide his own blush, called for Peggy and ordered breakfast. “You see,” he said, wandering towards the couch and sitting down next to her, “nobody in this school, whether teacher or student, male or female, sees me as anything but a teacher. I suppose that most of them would throw up their lunch at the thought of myself as a sexual being. Therefore, the girls—Slytherin girls, of course—don't have problems turning to me with their female woes.”

“Are you saying—Oh, thank you, Peggy!” She stared at the quantity of food the elf had put on the table before her. Peggy curtsied and disappeared. “I can’t eat all that!” she complained.

“Nobody said you have to eat it all. But do try to eat some egg and ham.” He filled their teacups and observed her, as she buttered a slice of toast and put some ham on it. “Milk and sugar?”

She nodded, chewing with relish and apparently pondering something important. “Are you saying,” she continued her question that had been interrupted by the arrival of her breakfast, “that no student ever showed any interest in you?”

“Only in my lessons, and that not without some… conviction on my part.” He sipped his tea, regarding her attentively.

“Strange,” she muttered. Then she cut off a piece of her toast, put some scrambled egg on top of the ham and shoved the bite into her mouth with a look of almost mystic ecstasy. “The perfect bite,” she explained.

“A concept not at all alien to me,” he agreed, smiling. “Although I would have used less butter and bacon instead of the ham.”

“Sybarite,” she said and grinned. “But you see,” she continued, once again serious, “you might not be handsome, well, not according to the general definition of handsomeness—”

“Like for example Lockhart,” he interrupted her—the taunt had simply too much potential for him to resist it.

As he had expected, she blushed and bristled. “Don’t mention that… that strutting, harebrained… well—” she cocked her head “—maybe that’s not my favourite memory, but on the other hand, he taught me quite a lesson.”

“Not in Defence against the Dark Arts, I presume?”

“Certainly not.” She giggled. “Although in a way, maybe even that. He taught me to always look behind the façade, and that's a very important skill, don’t you think so?”

“Yes.” He nodded slowly. It was difficult not to flinch under her steady gaze. “Very important. Had I possessed it, many things might not have happened.”

“I think…” Her hand hovered above his for a moment, but then came down to cover it in a warm grasp. “Surely Voldemort was better at presenting a façade? Let alone that he wouldn't have let people catch a glimpse at what’s behind it?”

“Maybe. But, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t very interested at the time. The façade was quite enough for me.”

“How old were you?” The words came out very slowly, like feet carefully testing treacherous ground, prepared to feel the ice break under them at any second.

“Almost fourteen. And very, very fascinated. He…” Severus gently removed his hand from under hers and crossed his arms. He needed some illusion of having a barrier between him and the world; to bare his soul without protection, if only symbolic, was impossible. She seemed to understand, though, for she scooted away from him by some inches and poured herself another cup of tea. “He listened to me. He made me feel valued, worthy.”

Silence followed his words; still not looking at him, Nimue put sugar and milk into her cup and stirred her tea. “You still can’t believe that you are, can you?” she asked hesitantly. “Otherwise you wouldn't have asked ‘why me’. You’d just have seen it as something natural.”

“You don't see it as something natural, either.”

“That’s different,” she objected.

“Is it?”

“Of course it is. Not if you’d just want to drag me off to bed, but that’s obviously not what you want.” He raised an eyebrow, making her blush and look away. “I meant it's not all you want,” she said, fiddling with her napkin.

“No,” he agreed. “But what about you, Nimue? What do you want?”

She sighed and pulled up her feet, after shaking off her shoes. “I don't think I can give you an answer. At least not right now,” she added. Her arms came around her shins, and she rested her chin on her knees. “All I can do—try to do, at least, is explain how and why I think I developed these… feelings, whatever they are.”

“A fair offer, I daresay.” His hand went out to briefly stroke her hair, and she smiled at him.

“Gryffindor candour, you know? Almost impossible to resist the impulse.” There was a short pause, and then she continued, “I think it started at the end of my third year. I suppose Professor Dumbledore has told you, in the meantime, what really happened that night?”

“He has, if somewhat belatedly.”

“Good. Well, you see, first, down in the Shrieking Shack, I was so… so deeply shocked. Not so much about Sirius—after all, I still thought he was a dangerous murderer. But you and Professor Lupin…” Her eyes wide and dark, she looked at him. “You certainly weren't my favourite teacher, but—”

“No, that was Lupin, I suppose.” He hated the nagging feeling of jealousy, and he hated himself even more for his words. But she did not seem to mind; she just shook her head lightly and rolled her eyes.

“No, stupid. My favourite teacher was and is Professor McGonagall. I like Professor Lupin, I really do, and it’s not as if I minded that he’s a werewolf, but… it's difficult to feel one hundred percent comfortable around him. Anyway, I liked him a lot, because he’s so calm and friendly… and you, although, just as I said, you weren't my favourite teacher, I had never seen you lose control. I mean, you’re an impossible bully with Neville, for example, but you’d never hurt him or let him hurt himself, right?” He nodded, trying to smile, but it turned into a smirk. Longbottom, if only the idea of him, and smiling simply did not go together well.

“So.” She crossed her legs and leaned against the armrest, so she could look at him directly without having to twist her neck. “I was shocked. I was completely thrown by that scene in the Shrieking Shack. Then the Dementors. Then that… that crazy rescue mission. And afterwards, when you lost control once again, out in the corridor, with Fudge… Surprisingly, I slept well that night. No dreams, no nightmares. But I woke up rather early, Ron and Harry were still asleep. The sun hadn’t risen yet, and I was feeling really well, not at all sleepy… And I started thinking about what had happened.

“I said to myself: Professor Snape usually is the most controlled person I know. Therefore, if something makes him lose that control, it has to be really, really bad. There had to be something more than just that schoolboy story you had told Harry about. Besides, you hadn't seen Pettigrew like we had. So you still believed that story about Black. But that wasn't what upset me most. I think that day was the first time ever that I had real doubts about Professor Dumbledore. Of course, there was no way he could tell you about Harry and me and the time turner before you met Fudge in the corridor. But he could have given you some sign, you’d probably have understood. But he didn't. He let you down in front of Fudge, of all people. And somehow I was sure you didn't deserve that. It didn't make me like you the least bit more, mind you,” she added, poking his thigh with her toe, “But it made me wary, I suppose you could describe it like that. There had to be something important behind all this, and until I knew exactly what it was, I wasn't ready to think of you as a complete and utter bastard anymore.

“And during the last school year…” She sighed. “I can't say that your behaviour was especially endearing, but… Difficult to define it, but I suppose I gave you the benefit of doubt. After the Third Task, I was proved right, of course. I have to say that I admired your courage—to show Fudge your Dark Mark was… well, reckless. I’m still wondering why you didn’t go straight to Azkaban…”

“I have to thank Lucius for that. He has got Fudge under his thumb—I don't know what exactly he threatened him with, but apparently it worked.”

“Uh-huh.” For a while, she sat still, her fingers playing with the hem of her trousers. “And after the holidays started… I guess you could say the ground was prepared. Not that I wasn’t surprised myself, but—” She locked eyes with him, and he noticed a distinct change in her expression. Was it fondness, he wondered, or apprehension? “I saw you with Selene. I saw that memory in the Pensieve… Maybe it sounds clichéd, but I thought that a man capable of so much… gentleness simply couldn't be all bad, despite the cruelty and the sarcasm.”

“That,” he said slowly, “depends on your definition of ‘bad’. To use a somewhat trite parallel, and one I’m not particularly fond of, Reinhard Heydrich, who was also called the Hangman of Prague, had two children whom he loved most dearly. And Hitler behaved really nicely with his dogs.”

“You…” She swallowed and shook her head vehemently. “You can’t honestly compare yourself to those… those monsters!”

“I’m not the one who made the comparison,” Severus said calmly, “But I have heard it several times. Not referring to myself, of course. But whenever Muggle-born students discuss Voldemort's first rise to power, the parallel pops up with annoying regularity. I’ve read some Muggle history books, and I must say the similarities are quite striking, at least in some points.”

Nimue waved an irritable hand. “Yes, yes, I know. It isn’t as if I hadn’t thought about that, too. But we aren't talking about Death Eaters in general here, we’re talking about you. Is that what you think of yourself? Do you compare yourself to Heydrich? Do you think he would ever have turned against Hitler?”

“Difficult to say, don't you think so? Since he was assassinated before the temptation could even arise…”

“What about Goebbels, then?” she asked heatedly, “What about Himmler? Eichmann? They went on and on and on, and never stopped for a moment, to think about what they were doing! They were the big shots, like you and Lucius and Owen, but did they risk their lives to put an end to all that madness? Did one of them become a double agent? I don’t think so, Sir!”

“No,” he said, “But that still doesn't—”

“What?” Nimue pounded the back of the couch with her fist. “You told me yourself that you aren’t saints! So don't expect me to canonize you! I’m merely giving credit where it's due.” Eyes blazing, she rose to her knees and crawled over to Severus. He had expected her to maybe kiss him, or fling her arms around his neck. What he had not been prepared for was to be taken by his upper arms, her thumbs boring into his biceps, and shaken like a disobedient puppy. “But you don't want to be a saint,” she shouted into his face, “That's not what you want, right? Your big problem, Severus Snape—” she let go of his arms and sat down on her haunches, breathing heavily, “—is that, since that… that pervy creep threw away your love, and your loyalty, and everything else you offered him, since he despised all those essentially good things you offered him, you’ve closed the shutters!” Palms against his chest, she shoved him backwards, as if to push him through the couch and onto the floor. “You deny—” another violent shove “—that you’re capable of loving, and worse—” another shove “—you deny others the right to love you, or care about you!” She gave one final push, so hard that he thought he heard his ribs crack, and then started sobbing violently. “You have no idea,” she choked out between sobs, “how much you… you mean to other people. Or… or you refuse t-to acknowledge it.”

“Nimue!” He pulled her forward, so that she came to sit in his lap, and held her tight. “You have been thinking about me quite a lot, haven't you?”

She nodded and raised her head. “Don’t you dare tell me I’m wrong, because I know I’m right! You haven't seen Lucius last night, after you left the classroom. He was terribly upset and—”

Her cheeks were hot under his hands, when he wiped the tears off her skin, feeling the chill on his fingers where the salty liquid evaporated. “You are right, but you only know part of the reasons.”

“Will you tell me?” She sniffed and wiped her nose.

“Yes. Yes, I will tell you, but not today and certainly not tomorrow. This is as new for me as it is for you, Nimue, and I’m simply not used to confiding in people.”

“I thought,” she said, the crease reappearing between her brows, “that I might be more than just people for you.”

His forefinger stroked the crease until it softened. “You are much more than that, and I’m sure you know it. But that doesn't change what I just told you. The ability to trust isn't something that comes to you in your sleep. It needs time and firm ground to stand on.” The clock struck eleven. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to go now, much as I wish you could stay.”

She nodded and scrambled off his lap. “I’ve been thinking about our afternoon walk.” She slipped into her shoes. “I think you should spend some time with Draco instead. He misses you, you know?”

“I know.” Sighing, he got up. “There just isn't enough time…”

“I could come back here tonight.”

Damn Black, he thought. “No, you can't. But…” He had meant to suggest that he come to visit her in the Gryffindor quarters instead, but then he remembered that there were the shifts they had to take monitoring the Marauders’ map as well. “I might be able to see you tonight in your quarters. I’ll tell you after dinner.”

“I wish I knew what everybody’s up to,” she said ruefully. “I know there's something going on.”

“Promise me not to investigate, will you?” He had a sudden vision of Nimue, being dragged to Azkaban by Pettigrew, and felt his heartbeat accelerate. Gripping her shoulders, he repeated, “You must promise that, Nimue!”

“All right,” she said gruffly. Then her face lit up. “It was a wonderful morning. Thank you, Severus.” Rising on her toes, she pressed a quick kiss on his lips and hurried out of the room.

~~~~*~~~~

The Transfiguration classroom was larger than the other classrooms, and it had always had a slightly different atmosphere. The desk were not arranged in neat rows, but scattered all over the available space, the wall opposite the windows was covered in shelves holding cages of every imaginable size and shape. The floor, unlike in other classrooms—except Severus's own—was not wooden but tiled, so as to make dealing with various animal droppings, hair and feathers easier for Filch the caretaker. A certain distance between the desks was necessary, in order to keep injuries by the teeth or claws of panicking animals down to a reasonable level, or at least to avoid students being bitten by their neighbours’ botched transfiguration results.

Due to these arrangements, McGonagall’s classroom seemed less scholastic than the others. This impression, however, only lasted until Minerva McGonagall entered. Once she stood in front of the blackboard, there might have been loveseats and rococo tables instead of chairs and desks, and still no student would have dared to doubt the seriousness of her lessons.

Today, when Severus pushed open the classroom door, carrying a wooden box holding the sixteen vials, the sight that greeted him could only be described as gaudy. A pink flamingo was preening atop the teacher's desk. In a magically enlarged bathtub in the far corner, a dolphin and a sea lion, both propped up on their upper limbs, were having a squeaky conversation, while a lemur, hanging from one of the chandeliers by its tail, pelted them with pieces of orange peel. On his way to McGonagall, who observed the scene with crossed arms and a smile on her face, Severus almost stumbled over a platypus and just barely avoided collision with two almost-identical meerkats, who were chasing each other around the room, greatly annoying a white deer who had to lift her gracious limbs whenever the two cantered past her, using her legs like slalom poles.

He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the sound of the door opening and closing behind him. Dumbledore, still in magnificent maroon, had joined the party. He looked as if Christmas had come early. “Dear friends,” he called over the multitude of animal sounds, “Thank you for coming to Hogwarts. You have proved beyond any doubt that you truly are who you claim to be, and therefore I think you should all retransform now, as we have some important matters to discuss.”

The dolphin and the sea lion clumsily flopped out of their tub, spilling the floor with half its contents in the process, and the lemur loftily jumped off the chandelier. For a moment, the air was vibrating with magic, and then eight men and women strode towards Dumbledore and Severus to shake hands. Unsurprisingly, the Meerkats turned out to be identical twins, tall, statuesque black women in flowing caftans and with strings of beads around their wrists and bare ankles. Astraea Black, the white deer, rolled her eyes at them behind their backs. The platypus had become a deeply tanned, blonde man in his sixties, whose hair had been bleached by the sun to a shade not unlike Lucius’s. He did not wear robes, but khaki shorts and a white t-shirt; his feet stuck in solid trekker boots. Instead of the dolphin, there was now a black-haired, black-eyed young witch with olive skin, whom Severus presumed to be Greek or Italian. The resemblance between the sea lion and the wizard he had turned back into was absolutely striking: beady black eyes shone as brightly as his bald plate, and his upper lip sported a somewhat unruly, bristly moustache. A Japanese boy, not older than maybe sixteen or seventeen, hopped lightly off the teacher’s desk he had stood on in his flamingo shape, and waved cheerfully at the petite, grey-haired Japanese woman who had been dangling from the chandelier as a lemur.

After the lengthy introductions, Dumbledore motioned for them all to sit down; he himself perched on the edge of the teacher's desk. He took off his half-moon glasses, carefully folded them and, while his fingers were playing with the delicate golden frame, he addressed his audience, “Let me thank you once again for responding, and with such admirable celerity, to my summons. As I already told you, you will have to sacrifice some of your valuable time and stay here at Hogwarts. Not more than four or five days, though,” he added, with a look at Severus, who nodded in agreement.

“We have reason to suspect that one of Lord Voldemort's closest followers, who is also an unregistered Animagus, will try to get into the castle. And while—” he stroked his silvery beard “—it might seem unwise to let the enemy see how much we know about his movements and plans, we have to make sure that this particular wizard be captured.”

“What’s his Animagus form?” the sea-lion wizard asked.

“He is a rat.”

At that, everybody except for Severus and McGonagall started murmuring and making sounds of surprise. “I don't think,” said the young witch whose form was a dolphin, “that I would be of much use in chasing a rat.”

Dumbledore smiled. “Not if you assumed your customary shape, Eleni. But I think—” he gestured towards Severus “—that maybe our Potions Master might be able to dissipate your doubts.”

Severus rose and stepped forward. “In this box,” he said, placing his palm on the lid, “are sixteen vials of Polyjuice Potion. I trust you are all familiar with its effects?” Everybody nodded. “Very well. Recent experiments I made, if somewhat accidentally, have shown that an Animagus who has taken on an other person’s appearance, assumes that person’s Animagus form once he or she changes. Considering that the animal we’re after is a cat, the most convenient solution to our problem seems for you all to turn into Minerva McGonagall before you change. And, just to make sure our plan is going to work, I brought two vials for each of you, one for testing purposes, and the other for you to take once we know that the rat has entered the castle.”

The assembly nodded, apparently intrigued.

“Once your transformation has been successfully performed,” Dumbledore said, “I will lead you to the teachers’ quarters, where each of you will be assigned a room. I know I am asking a lot, but I must insist that you stay in your rooms until the mission is accomplished. After that, you are free to stay at Hogwarts as long as you desire and explore both castle and grounds.” He looked at each of the wizards in turn. “I cannot emphasize enough the importance of catching this Animagus alive. All of you, with the exception of Minerva, are not yet accustomed to their new cat shape, and some will find the experience of suddenly being a carnivorous animal a little disconcerting. Therefore I recommend the utmost caution. If possible, let Minerva do the actual catching.” He waited a little, to make sure his words had sunk in—the Japanese boy was whispering to his older compatriot, obviously translating, and she nodded, looking back and forth between Dumbledore and McGonagall.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said, beckoning for Severus to open his box, “then I think we might proceed to trying the transformation.”

McGonagall got up and, with the air of a high priestess performing a ritual of great importance, pulled the hairpins from her tight bun, making three feet of glossy, dark hair streaked with grey tumble down her back. How different she looked, Severus thought, regarding her with a smile. More feminine and, surprisingly, even more austere than with her customary hairstyle. Her right hand went back behind her head, to pull the sheet of hair forward over her shoulder, and, using her thumb and forefinger like tweezers, she carefully separated a thin strand from the main mass and plucked eight long, thin threads she handed to Severus. He had uncorked the vials in the meantime, wound each hair into a tight coil around the tip of his forefinger and let the small black bundle drop into the beige liquid. It frothed and bubbled for a few seconds—the right reaction, his brain supplied, while he was watching the others’ faces for signs of doubt or distrust—and then settled. It was now a deep, greenish brown.

When everybody had drunk down their dose, many of them grimacing in disgust at the vile taste, nine Minerva McGonagalls, distinguishable only by their different clothing—both Severus and Dumbledore had trouble controlling their faces at the sight of her legs clad in khaki shorts and trekker boots—stood in a loose circle, grinning and looking expectantly at each other.

With a small inward sigh, for although he had been sure to have got the potion right, despite the added ingredients, he was still relieved to see it had actually worked, Severus nodded at Dumbledore, who said, “Excellent. Now if everybody would please transform?”

The Headmaster had to be as nervous as himself, Severus thought, although he succeeded in hiding it almost entirely. Only a rustling sound coming from his pocket betrayed that he was fiddling with a Chocolate frog wrapping. McGonagall, who certainly was no less anxious than they, was too busy hiding her embarrassment at having her legs exposed to leave much room for any outwards signs of nervousness.

When, for a second or so, the magic of eight wizards transforming into animals became almost palpable, Severus's heart skipped a beat. This might very well turn into the single most humiliating experience of his life.

But it did not.

Eight cats were looking at him out of differently coloured eyes. They were all tabbies, though their colouring was not identical. Some coats were a little more brownish than McGonagall’s—the sea-lion wizard had even turned into a gigantic red tom—and their irises were all shades from yellow to green and orange. In a very uncharacteristic show of mirth, the three Hogwarts professors grinned broadly at each other.

“This certainly went well,” Dumbledore said, and, turning to the cats, he continued, “Just in case you are wondering, ladies and gentlemen, you have all become cats.” His reassurance was answered by a chorus of meows. “And now, please follow me to your quarters. The House Elves have already taken care of your luggage. See you in the Great Hall for lunch,” he added to Severus and McGonagall, before he picked up the box Severus had brought and quickly made his way towards the door, followed by eight cats marching in single line.

“Like the Pied Piper,” whispered McGonagall, giggling.

Severus merely snorted and pulled one of her long strands. Her face immediately returned to its stern expression, and she collected her hair in its usual bun rather hastily.