The Sybil's Oracle: Book Three

Chapter 21

By Pigwidgeon37

“Any news?“

Severus closed the door and cast an angry look towards the couch. “Black. It’s two o’clock in the morning, and I have got four hours until the next shift. Do you think you might just leave me in peace?” He strode over to the table holding the bottles and glasses and poured himself a drink. “Why are you in your human form anyway? You know it’s risky, and you know equally well that I want you to stay on the roof as much as possible.”

Barty’s roundish grey eyes narrowed. “I’m not an animal, Snape. You can’t—”

“Prove it,” Severus snarled. “And I can do whatever I want, because these, just in case you forgot, are my quarters. I have as little desire as you to spend time together. As you might remember, I didn’t bring you here for either your or my pleasure.”

“I’d never think of staying in your quarters as a pleasure, Snape. But you could try to make it as bearable as possible for both of us.”

The thick bottom of Severus’s glass was bisected by a long crack, when he smashed the tumbler down on to the mantelpiece a little too forcefully. “My only interest is to make it as bearable as possible for myself, Black. And I’d be a lot closer to that goal if you kindly moved your annoying self to the roof!”

“Snape, I…” Black’s shoulders sagged, and he looked away. “You’re unable to let the past be the past, aren’t you?”

His heartbeat almost painful against his ribs, Severus slowly advanced towards the other wizard. “The past, Black—” he stopped at a few feet’s distance from the couch “—remains the past, whether I want it to or not. But if you want me to forget it, the answer is no. Can you forget it? Can you just leave it be? I don’t think so. You think you can, maybe you’re really convinced right now, because you’re afraid of going back and desperate for human contact, but—”

“Isn’t that a reason as good as any other?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said,” Black repeated quietly, “Isn’t my being afraid and desperate as good a reason as any other?”

Severus turned round abruptly and went to get himself a new glass and another drink. His hands were shaking, so that some drops of whiskey missed the tumbler and fell to the floor. Remaining with his back towards the Animagus, Severus wiped at them with his right boot; for a moment, his mind was focused on the smears of liquid, which rapidly evaporated and left nothing but a matte stain on the polished wood and a faint odour of stale liquor. “What,” he asked, turning back towards the other wizard, “are you playing at?” To his surprise, Black’s face was buried in his hands.

“I’m not…” He sighed and raised his head. “What should I possibly be playing at, Snape? Are you so… so callous that you really have no idea how I’m feeling?”

“You already told me how you’re feeling,” Severus replied coldly. “You are afraid and desperate. But that doesn’t change who or what you are. I’m even ready to believe that, at this very moment, you’d willingly forget the reasons we have to hate each other. But tell me: what good would it do? Once all this is over—”

“I might be dead,” Black interrupted him.

“Oh, stop the Confessions-On-My-Death-Bed act! Play your part, and play it well, and you’ll survive.”

Black merely shook his head. “Can I have one, too?”

“Help yourself,” Severus said, gesturing at the table. He was loath to admit it, but Black’s demeanour worried him more than he would have expected. Impossible to win a game if one was convinced of being destined to lose it. Only the loss would not be limited to Black… “What exactly,” he said, trying to sound as aggressive as before, so as to mask his concern, “makes you think you’ll die?”

“I just know,” he said, staring into his glass.

“Black, this is crazy! You have succeeded once, why—”

“It’s not because of me. I know it’s going to be difficult, but I also know I can continue impersonating Barty.”

Severus gave a sigh of exasperation. “Not because of you. What else do you think might happen? You’re an Auror, Black, and not a bad dueller. The risk of your being killed during a mission is infinitesimal, especially as there don’t seem to be too many missions ahead. At least not in the immediate future.”

Black shrugged. “It’s no use trying to explain it to you. You can’t understand unless you’ve felt the same. It’s some kind of gut feeling—I’ve never experienced it before, not even when they sent me to Azkaban.”

“All right.” Severus’s fist came down on his right knee. “I’ve had enough of this.” He rose and went over to the fireplace, aware of Black’s eyes boring into his back. “McGonagall’s quarters!” he called, after having thrown some Floo powder into the flames. “Sybil, could I have a word with you, please?”

Seconds later, Sybil was looking at him, her expression definitely worried. “We’ve been watching the map, he can’t—”

“Not Pettigrew!” Severus interrupted her. “I know you and Minerva are doing all right. But I—” he glanced back over his shoulder at Black “—I need your help. Do you think you might come to my rooms after your shift?”

“At four o’clock in the morning? Surely that can—”

“No, it can’t wait. Or do you think I’d still be awake and calling you unless it was important?”

Sybil sighed. “Very well, since you’re begging so prettily…”

“Password is Phlegeton,” Severus snapped and broke the connection.

~~~~*~~~~

Sybil gave a huge sigh, took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “I truly hope all this will be over soon, so I can finally use an Oculorectus charm on my eyes and get rid of this abomination,” she muttered. Raising her head, she looked at the two wizards. “All right. If I understood you correctly, you want me to read Barty’s… I mean Black’s future.” She shook her head and glanced at Black. “This is really, really creepy.”

“I know it is, Trelawney, but kindly try to get over it.” Black raked his right hand through his hair and frowned. “I’m still not used to those feathers… Anyway—” he leaned forward, elbows on his knees “—if you are ready to do it, do it quickly. Don’t know why I let him talk me into this…”

“Because,” Severus replied, “you have a gut feeling that you’re going to die soon. And I want Sybil to get that notion out of your head.” He was tired—this was, after all, the second night he spent without sleep—and highly irritated.

“And what if he’s right?”

Both men stared at Sybil. “Well,” Black said, a little hesitantly, “I suppose it would be better if you told me. So I can write the appropriate farewell letters to friends and family.” His gloomy expression was briefly lit by a half-grin, but darkened again immediately. “Poor Harry,” he mumbled, avoiding the others’ looks.

Severus gave an impatient sigh. “Don’t waste time imagining your own funeral, Black. Unless, of course, it makes you feel better.”

“Imagining yours would make me feel better,” Black snapped before turning to Sybil. “All right, Trelawney, open that Inner Eye and let’s get this over with.” He held out his hand, evidently supposing she was going to read his palm.

“According to this,” she said, stabbing at his hand with her forefinger, “you’re already dead, or as good as, you great big Gryffindor moron. This is Barty’s hand, remember?”

“Er… yes.” He withdrew his hand in obvious embarrassment. “So what are you going to use?”

Sybil merely raised her eyebrows at him, drew her wand and pronounced, “Accio crystal ball!” A few seconds later, the required object soared through the open window and right into her hand. “Would you mind moving over to the fireplace? I can’t concentrate with the pair of you goggling at me.”

Highly annoyed at being chased from his favourite chair in his own quarters, Severus stood up and scowled at her. Black snorted, rose and crossed the room, to lean out of the window. Severus did his best to ignore him and lowered himself into one of the chairs facing the fireplace, so that his back was turned towards Sybil.

It took her a while to sort out whatever it was she saw in the crystal sphere; when she called for them to come back, Severus had the distinct impression that she was making an effort to control her voice. Black did not seem to have noticed, though. “Well,” he asked, slumping down onto the couch, “what does the future hold for me?”

“Don’t try to ridicule these things!” she retorted, more sharply than Severus would have expected her to. One more sign of the distress she was attempting to dissimulate. He felt his stomach sink. A little more calmly, she continued, “I saw you standing next to a cauldron.”

“Nothing else?” Black asked, eyes narrowing, “Just me and a bloody cauldron?”

Sybil gave a brisk nod, and Severus said, “Well, if that means he’s going to be a Potions Master, he’s likely to live longer than Dumbledore. No way you could get the knowledge through his thick skull in less than one hundred and fifty years.” Black immediately turned towards him, hackles rising, and thus did not see Sybil’s small, grateful smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said, shrugging, “That’s all there was. And for the life of me I can’t fathom what it means. Sometimes these signs are very hard to decipher.”

Black rose so abruptly that the other two looked up at him in surprise. “I told you it was friggin’ useless. And now I’m going to sleep.” He turned brusquely and walked towards the stairs, transforming into a fennec as he went.

“Stay,” Severus whispered under his breath, and Sybil nodded.

Once Black was safely back in his dog kennel, Severus closed the trap door and warded it, just to be on the safe side. Deep in thought, he descended the stairs, cast an absentminded look around his laboratory and proceeded downstairs to his living room, where Sybil was pacing in front of the fireplace. She started when he closed the door behind him with an audible ‘click’.

“Tell me,” was all he said.

At his inviting gesture, she sat down, wringing her hands in her lap. She had put on her spectacles again and looked even more frightened, as her eyes, already wide with fear, now seemed to fill the large frames of her glasses. “Are you sure he can’t hear us?”

“I warded the door. Go on, tell me. Something to drink, maybe?”

“Yes, just water, please.” She made an effort to smile, but it was not very convincing. “I really saw what I told him,” she said after the first sip.

“But there was more, I suppose?”

“Indeed.” Sybil bowed her head and visibly tried to pull herself together. “There was a grim, too.”

“A grim? But that could have been—”

“No.” Her voice had become slightly raucous. “No, it wasn’t his Animagus form. Now that I know it’s a black dog, I was obviously able to see the difference. No—” she took another gulp and coughed “—this time it was a grim. Severus, you…” From her embarrassed expression, it was all too clear what she meant to say.

“No, Sybil. No, I’m not going to poison him. That cauldron must have a different meaning. Though which, I couldn’t say…”

“Neither can I.” She fingered one of her dangling earrings. “I… It was right not to tell him, wasn’t it?”

Severus crossed his legs, leaned back and stared off into space. Had she done the right thing? Would it maybe have been better to let Black know that his premonition was not unfounded? How did a man deal with the knowledge that his life was going to end sooner than he had thought? Knowing Black and his Gryffindor arrogance, he might even decide that the right to choose the time of his demise was his and his alone, and do something foolish… “I think you were right. If telling him made any difference at all, I suppose it would cause a change for the worse.”

“That’s what I thought, too,” she said, relaxing slightly.

An owl whooshed past the open window; it was already visible as a dark shadow against the sky, which was turning from a bluish black to deep indigo. The bird emitted a hollow hoot, then the silence was once again complete.

Although Severus was so tired that he could hardly keep is eyes open, he was aware that an occasion to talk with Sybil in private was not too likely to present itself again soon. A surreptitious glance at his watch told him that it was almost five o’clock. He had one hour, which was more than he needed. And Lupin, his partner for the next shift, would be well-rested and able to make up for possible lapses of his partner’s attention. Besides, one hour of sleep was worse than no sleep at all.

“Have you had more visions of Voldemort?” he asked, choosing the direct approach.

“I knew you were going to ask,” she answered ruefully.

“You’re supposed to know such things. Anyway, did you have visions, or didn’t you?”

“I think I need another drink. A real one, this time.”

He had already risen to get her a glass, but turned back, scrutinizing her face. It was tense, her lips pinched tightly. “Do you think this is a good idea? When does your next shift start?”

“At ten. And don't try to patronize me—that particular position is already filled.”

“Does Owen patronize you?” He poured a small measure of whiskey into a tumbler and returned to the couch.

“Yes, he does,” she said curtly. At the sight of her drink, her eyebrows shot up. “Have you run out of liquor, or is this another attempt at patronizing me?”

Instead of an answer, he repeated his examination of her face. “What’s the matter with you, Sybil? You’re edgy and tense.”

“Thanks for a well-phrased compliment.” She downed her drink. “Of course I’m edgy, everybody is. Even Dumbledore, and that’s saying something.”

“You’re not easily unsettled, even when under considerable stress. I know there's something else.” A morose stare was all he got. “Look, Sybil, if it's just trouble with Owen—”

“It would be none of your business.”

“Indeed. Absolutely none of my business. So tell me it’s just trouble with Owen, and I won’t interfere unless you want me to.”

Sybil uttered a funny little noise, somewhere between an amused snort and an angry growl. “Now you’re switching from patronizing colleague to patronizing older brother. Not that it’s an improvement.” She leaned back, crossed her arms and cast him a level look. “Just for the record: what would you do if I asked you to interfere?”

“Well…” Severus shrugged. “I don't know. Talk to him?”

“Ah.” She grinned. “I was afraid you’d challenge him to a duel.”

“You’re stalling.”

“I know I’m stalling,” she snapped, “So kindly let me take my own sweet time.” After a while—Severus had dozed off and reawakened twice—she said, “Yes, I’ve had visions. A… couple of visions.”

Every trace of sleepiness gone, Severus looked at her in alarm. “A couple of visions. And why didn’t you tell us?”

“ ‘Us’ being…”

“Lucius. Myself. Dumbledore—whoever. Why didn't you tell us? It might be important.”

“No. I couldn't have told you anything you didn’t already know. Most of the time you were there. You or Black, so what would be the point of telling you?”

Severus chose not to let the conversation drift in this direction. It would merely lead them straight into an argument; what he wanted, though, was information, not useless bickering. “So what did you see?” he inquired therefore.

“As I said, nothing of importance.” Sybil let herself fall against the backrest of the couch and rolled her eyes. “For Merlin’s sake, can’t you switch off that inquisitive look? If I tell you it’s nothing important, believe me that it’s nothing important. Why are you doubting my—”

“Sybil,” he interrupted her, using his best icy classroom tone of voice. It worked. She stopped in mid-sentence and was almost visibly deflating. “Kindly stop that useless arguing. Because we both know it’s useless, don't we? I didn’t expect sensational news when I asked you that question. So let me reformulate: how do you see whatever it is you see?”

Her voice was flat and strangely colourless when she answered, “As clearly as I see you in that chair. I could describe the interior of his lair in Azkaban down to the last detail.”

“And…” Severus rubbed the bridge of his nose, unsure whether to proceed, because he rather dreaded what he was going to hear. “These visions don't show you the future, do they?”

“No. When I get glimpses of the future, it has to be because I want to. Only very, very rarely—twice, to be exact—did I have them unbidden. And there was that strange incident I wrote to Lucius about. But usually, it requires a great amount of concentration and the deliberate intention of… well forcing the future to reveal itself. Besides, the images are different. There's no continuity, just flashes of faces, or objects… landscapes…”

“But with Voldemort it’s… like a Muggle movie?”

“Exactly.” She smiled faintly. “Like a Muggle movie—fortunately shorter, though. Two minutes, maybe three, and then it's over.”

“And how often does that happen?”

Sybil sighed and opened her mouth as if to speak, but then closed it again. “I…” She took off her glasses and started polishing them with one of her innumerable shawls. Instead of putting them on again, she kept them between her fingers, her thumbs restlessly gliding over the earpieces, back and forth, tracing the curve.

“You’re afraid I might tell Owen.”

The glasses clattered to the floor, as Sybil’s right hand flew up to cover her mouth. Evidently, she had been closer to caving in under the pressure than Severus had thought. Her fingers still clutched tightly over her lips, she motioned for him to go away with her other hand. Severus respected her wish, rose and went to ring for Peggy, as he was in dire need of coffee and something to eat. A small manoeuvre to guarantee Sybil a little privacy until she had recomposed herself. Slytherins did not like witnesses to their moments of weakness. He understood that all too well.

Peggy, who knew of no such subtleties, was visibly concerned and about to ask whether she might help, but Severus put a finger to his lips and shook his head. The House Elf nodded, ears flapping, and merely said, “Does you want breakfast, Master Severus?”

“Just coffee and two slices of toast. And coffee for Professor Trelawney, too.”

With another worried look at her master’s distressed guest, she nodded again and disappeared. Severus counted to ten and turned back to Sybil, who had managed to regain something vaguely resembling control. “I promise I won’t say a word to Owen,” he said, sitting down again, “but you must tell me, Sybil. I wouldn't ask unless it was really important,” he added, seeing her pleading look.

“And Lucius?” she asked.

“Both Lucius and myself do have some… well, doubts concerning Owen. If I feel it’s necessary to let him in on the secret, you may be sure of his discretion.”

Sybil bent down to retrieve her glasses. When she came up again, Peggy had arrived with the required coffee and toast. On Sybil’s side of the table, there was also a small plate heaped with chocolate biscuits. “The chocolate wills make you feel better, Professor,” she squeaked, and quickly disappeared.

“A very solicitous creature, your Peggy,” she remarked dryly and snatched a biscuit. “So, you were having doubts on Owen’s behalf?”

“Well, evidently we’re not the only ones—there must have been a reason for you to write to Lucius about the vision you had in July about Voldemort’s rebirth, and not mention it ever again. So I guess you didn’t feel quite comfortable with him knowing about it, either.”

“It wasn’t just him, his parents were there as well. Not that his mother counts, she’s just some kind of talking furniture, but Lester is… well, not somebody you’d like to cross.”

This, Severus thought, was of course an entirely new aspect. Neither he nor Lucius had ever taken Owen’s father and his loyalties into account. “Do you think Lester McNair is a dyed-in-the-wool follower of Voldemort?”

“It’s not as if he’d tell me, you know? But he was one of the first Death Eaters, at least that’s what Owen says.”

“True. But that doesn’t mean—”

“No, it doesn’t mean he’s a fanatic. Then again, Slytherins hardly ever are fanatics. Not beyond the point where it might cause them a personal disadvantage, anyway. But that doesn’t really matter.” She took another biscuit and dunked it into her coffee. “My point being that, if Lester thinks that bartering me for whatever Voldemort would give him is an option, he’d certainly not hesitate to do so. And Owen, for all his strong-headedness, would never risk an open conflict with his father. Besides—” she gave Severus a twisted smile “—I’m not family. If Lester needs a means to prove his loyalty, Owen would probably provide it.”

“That doesn’t sound like an especially happy relationship.”

“It used to be, if not a happy, at least a very satisfying relationship. Satisfying for both of us. But Voldemort’s badly-timed comeback certainly complicates things.”

“Indeed.” Lost in his thoughts, Severus absentmindedly broke a piece off his toast. Instead of putting it into his mouth, he stared at it, as if the jagged golden-brown outline might suddenly morph into the answer to all his questions. “Do you think there’s a way for you to block those visions?”

“Occlumency?” Sybil gave a raucous laugh. “You must be joking. Occlumency doesn’t work for Seers. I have been trained for years to keep my mind open and attune it to other levels of consciousness. Impossible to simply undo that—besides, it’s an innate skill and the polar opposite of what you need to become a good Occlumens.”

“Hmm…” He masticated the bite of toast until it took on a sweetish taste, and then swallowed. “This… connection you seem to have with Voldemort could prove dangerous, though.” He broke off another piece. “When these visions occur, do you also have access to his emotions? Or is it purely visual?”

“I’m not Harry-bloody-Potter.” She viciously bit into a biscuit. Obviously they had helped restore her spunk. “It’s merely visual. Therefore, I don’t think it’s all that dangerous. He won’t notice.”

“Not right now, at least.” But if he increased his daily dose of Nagini’s venom… He had to tell Sybil. This was a risk she must not incur unprepared.

“We learned about Waterdragon venom at Baton Rouge,” she said when he had finished his account. “But of course only in Theory of Divination, as the Amazonian Waterdragon has been extinct for centuries, and there are more efficient techniques to enter a state of trance. So who would have thought…” There was a brief, pensive silence. “I’m glad you told me,” she finally said, “Not that there’s much I can do, but at least I know that I must avoid trance at any cost. And probably I shouldn’t do real Divination in the near future, not even for teaching purposes.” She glanced at her watch. “Doesn’t your shift start at six?”

Ten to six. He had completely lost track of time—hardly a surprise, given his tiredness and the importance of their conversation. And he still had to change the password to his quarters, after giving it to Sybil. While they walked down the stairs, he thought that “Atropos”* would be an appropriate choice, considering their situation.

~~~~*~~~~

Unbelievable though it seemed, Pettigrew had come to Hogwarts in plain daylight. On Friday, during the early afternoon, when it was Narcissa and Dumbledore’s turn to monitor the map. Again, Hogwarts’s anti-Apparition wards proved to be a blessing, for the intruder had to cover the distance between the gates and the Whomping Willow and from there through the tunnel and into the castle on four minuscule paws, so that there was plenty of time for alerting the eight Animagi and positioning them at both ends of the corridor where he was bound to emerge.

It had been a short hunt—rather anticlimactic, as McGonagall observed—because Pettigrew had chosen that entrance to the castle. Had he tried to get into the building through the main door, or one of the many side doors where two or more corridors met, catching him would have been a much more difficult task. As things were, he had immediately been surrounded by eight tabby cats, baring their fangs and claws and hissing at him. As was to be expected, he had panicked and tried to break through the feline phalanx instead of transforming, and consequently been an easy prey. The Australian wizard had captured him, holding the limp rodent between his teeth until the others had retransformed into their human shape. Only then had Pettigrew done the same, but the sight of nine enraged Minerva McGonagalls had evidently been to much for him: before one of them could even stun him, he had simply fainted.

Now, he was sitting, tightly bound and immobilized, in Dumbledore’s office.

McGonagall—only the real one—was there, and so were Severus and Lucius; Owen had left Hogwarts after the end of his last shift, for he had to see to some business matters, which he had been forced to neglect over the last few days. The two Slytherins were hidden by Invisibility spells—a necessary safety measure, for although the possibility of Pettigrew escaping was so minuscule it bordered on impossibility, it was there nonetheless, and none of them wanted to take the risk. The rather spectacular method of capturing the traitor was enough of a giveaway as it was. No need to add further proof of their disloyalty.

When he heard the happy news, Black had, of course, wanted to join them, so as to savour Pettigrew’s defeat. For a fleeting instant—the fact that it was by no means the first had greatly annoyed him—Severus had felt pity for the man, when he fell from the heights of euphoria and grudgingly accepted that he had to be content with listening to Severus's account of the events afterwards. He seemed particularly distressed when he heard that even Dumbledore, usually more than ready to indulge his favourite Gryffindor’s wishes, had warned Severus not to let the Animagus accompany him. After all, they did not need a dead Peter Pettigrew; not now, and certainly not before he had given them whatever information he possessed.

The binding charm and magical ropes Dumbledore had used were powerful, therefore Pettigrew’s frantic attempts at freeing himself, once he had recovered—to move him to Dumbledore's study, they had thought it wiser to cast a Stunning spell—yielded no result. But the strength of his silvery prosthesis put the cords under visible strain.

“So we meet again, Peter,” Dumbledore said, his voice calm and quite gentle, but conveying a sense of enormous sadness.

He was standing behind Pettigrew, who had not yet noticed him, busy as he had been avoiding his former Head of House’s stern look and trying to shake off his bonds. He jumped and froze in mid-movement. “H-Headmaster?”

Severus watched with grim satisfaction as Pettigrew’s face became a mask of helpless, snivelling humility. A silent exchange of looks with Lucius—this was the advantage of an Invisibility Spell, if cast by one wizard on two or more persons: while invisible to everybody else, they could see each other—and the other’s raised eyebrows and malevolent smirk told him that they were thinking along the same lines: knowing Pettigrew, he was probably going to try and grovel his way out of his predicament, just as he had one year ago. During their breakfast together on Thursday, Nimue had told Severus what had happened in the Shrieking Shack after the trio had knocked him out. Only because he respected her feelings concerning the Potter brat had he refrained from cursing the boy’s Gryffindor magnanimity. Had the little idiot let Lupin and Black have their—equally Gryffindor-ish, but in that case preferable—way with the traitor, he would have saved them all a lot of trouble. Not to mention that Voldemort would have been deprived of a helper for his rebirth.

“Why have you come to Hogwarts, Peter?”

The watery blue eyes rapidly moved from McGonagall to Fawkes the phoenix, scuttled from portrait to portrait, never lingering, always searching for help that did not come. The former Headmasters and –mistresses did not talk, but they all had their eyes wide open and looked down at the prisoner with disgust and contempt. Pettigrew remained silent and, when no Deus ex Machina came to his rescue, merely hung his head.

“Did Voldemort send you?”

The Animagus’s head shot up, as if pushed by a violent punch to his chin. “He… I…” For some seconds, the only sound in the room was his rapid, shallow breathing, then he choked out, “No, I… I came on my own.”

Dumbledore’s thin body stiffened; the movement, small as it was, was visible even through the thick layers of his robes. There had been sadness in his face, and sternness, but also a faint trace of compassion. Pettigrew’s brazen lie had wiped it off his traits, though; both Severus and Lucius flinched slightly at the ripple of magic that pervaded the room when Dumbledore straightened his shoulders, leaving free rein to his wrath. “On your own. And what, Peter Pettigrew, did you come here for?”

“I… I…” Pettigrew’s face was shining with perspiration, thin rivulets sneaked down his temples and cheeks. His respiration, too, was quickening, so much that he almost hyperventilated. “I…” His eyes rolled back in their sockets, and his head lolled sideward, his cheek nearly touching his shoulder.

McGonagall, who was looking grimmer than Severus had ever seen her, stepped forward and slapped his face, none too gently. When Pettigrew’s hysterical gasps did not stop, she pointed her wand at him and pronounced “Enervate!” Eyelids fluttering, he raised his head and glanced around the room. If it was merely a show, Severus thought, it was not a very good one. Genuine or not, Dumbledore was by no means impressed. “Well?” he said, and Pettigrew ducked, as if to avoid a blow.

“I meant… I intended to ask for your protection…”

 “My protection? Is Voldemort’s protection not enough for you, Peter?”

“I don’t want to serve him anymore,” Pettigrew blurted out, “I’m afraid of him, and I want to help you fight him, please Headmaster, please let me stay at Hogwarts! I’ll tell you everything I know, everything! He trusts me, and he shares his secret plans with me—I’ll tell you, all of it, believe me, Headmaster, I will, and—”

Dumbledore had moved around the chair and was now standing in front of the whimpering, wailing man. Their eyes met, and Pettigrew’s mouth remained open, unable to pronounce more lies or treacherous promises. “You shall have the protection of Hogwarts, Peter,” he said gravely, raising a hand to cut off the torrent of gratefulness the other was about to utter, “But not as you imagined. You will stay here, without a wand—” he effortlessly snapped Pettigrew’s wand in two and threw the pieces into the fireplace “—and without this new hand you so obviously cherish.” He drew his own wand, raised it and, causing another powerful eddy of magic, pronounced, “Dystomos!”** The prosthesis immediately evaporated into a greenish-grey cloud, which McGonagall banished into a leaden jar. Lucius gave a small, appreciative nod—evidently, Dumbledore had thought of everything.

In the meantime, the Headmaster had healed—or rather cauterised, for the room was suddenly filled with the reek of burned flesh—Pettigrew’s stump. Every pretence of courage or even shrewdness gone, reduced to the spineless, cowardly worm he was, the Animagus was rocking back and forth on his chair, whimpering softly.

“You, Peter Pettigrew,” Dumbledore continued, once again drawing himself up to his full, impressive height, “will be confined to a cell deep in the entrails of Hogwarts. You will be given food and water. That and only that. Until Voldemort is defeated. The choice is yours: with time, you may come to recognize the wrongness of what you have done, or get even more entangled in Voldemort’s web of lies.”

Pettigrew was sobbing openly now, tears mingling with sweat and snot, running down his face and into the collar of his robes. “Headmaster,” he choked out between hiccoughs, “Headmaster, I implore you! Have mercy, please, don’t lock me away, please…”

Dumbledore smiled and shook his head. “I am showing you mercy, Peter. Maybe, one day, you will come to understand it. As I said, the choice is up to you.” He returned to his previous position behind the other’s back. “But before you are escorted to your cell, tell me about Voldemort’s plans. If you really wish to abandon your servitude, regard this as a first step. A confession, if you will.”

The change of expression on Pettigrew’s face was almost frightening. As if a veil had been brusquely lifted, exposing to the cold light of day what had hitherto been barely recognizable through iridescent layers of tulle. A mask of mingled hate and fear, with contorted features, eyes simmering with madness. “Mercy!” he spat, his voice high-pitched and almost as squeaky as a House Elf’s, “That’s what you call mercy? The great Albus Dumbledore? The generous Gryffindor? Mercy?” He stopped to breathe, in great, ragged gasps. “You’re just as bad as the Master, cruel and a bastard without pity! You’re locking me into a c-cell for the rest of m-my life, and you’re ca-calling that m-mercy? And t-then—” he had to pause again to inhale and try to control his stammer “—a-and then you… you w-want a… a c-confession, you self-righteous, sadistic—”

“Stupefy!” McGonagall stood, chest heaving and eyes blazing. “Sorry, Albus, I just couldn’t…”

“It’s all right, Minerva,” Dumbledore said, walking over to her and patting her shoulder. “I wish he had reacted otherwise, but…” He shook his head. “It will take him a long time to recognize his errors. If he ever does,” he added quietly. “So it has to be the Veritaserum, I’m afraid.”

~~~~*~~~~

Severus was still feeling the aftershock of the scene in Dumbledore’s office when he, Lucius and Owen met at the stone gargoyle after dinner. Lucius, too, looked rather pale and drawn. Partly, this was probably due to the stress of the last days, as none of them had ever got more than four hours of uninterrupted sleep, but Severus supposed that Lucius was just as shaken as he himself. Now that the terrible tension had finally broken, spectres of the future were looming close. Small wonder, after Pettigrew had spilled secrets none of them would ever have suspected.

“You look as if you were going to attend your own funerals,” Owen remarked, frowning at them. “Pettigrew’s caught and can’t escape, so what exactly is the problem?”

“Wait until you hear,” Severus said darkly. “Cotton Candy!” The password had never sounded more incongruous.

Owen shrugged, but said nothing when he preceded them through the doorway and onto the spiral staircase. Lucius and Severus merely exchanged a glance—during their shift the other morning, they had had more than enough time to share opinions on Sybil and Owen’s behalf. The conversation had done nothing to alleviate their worries. If anything, it had confirmed their certainty that, while they could feel relatively safe due to their knowledge of Owen’s more precarious secrets, Sybil had no such protection and was, if not in immediate danger, so at least at risk.

Dumbledore rose from behind his desk when the three Phoenixes entered his study, and beckoned for them to sit down by the fireplace. The chairs and desk were the only pieces of furniture left in the room, which he was going to vacate in two days’ time. Devoid as it was of the usual humming devices and other bric-à-brac, the office exuded an atmosphere of emptiness and desolation. It was, Severus thought glumly, a little too similar to how he was feeling.

Dumbledore’s elf Kitty, too, was visibly lacking her usual enthusiasm. Her ears at half-mast, her movements and demeanour listless, she served them their coffee and brandy, and when she bowed before disappearing, she seemed to be sagging under the weight of her sorrows rather than performing a gesture of politeness.

“Poor thing,” Dumbledore remarked, “She doesn’t want to leave Hogwarts, but when I offered her that she might stay, she almost fainted. They really don’t handle choices too well,” he added smiling, completely ignoring Lucius’s impatient intake of breath. Then he took a thoughtful sip from his coffee cup, winked at Fawkes and continued, “Well, it seems that tonight we have to deal with some very unpleasant news. Would you mind—” he looked at Severus and Lucius “—if I summed things up for Owen?” Both shook their heads. “You already know,” Dumbledore said, addressing Owen, “that our plan to capture Pettigrew was successful. He did, of course, not share his secrets with us willingly—maybe it was even for the better, because he might not have told the truth in any case. So we had to force-feed him Veritaserum, and it turned out that Voldemort seems to have learned his lesson. Whereas—” he leaned forward to pick up his brandy glass, which he cupped with his left hand, swirling around the contents “—during his first rise to power, all four of his lieutenants were privy to all the secrets and even encouraged—”

“Not really,” Owen interrupted him, “Think of the last year or so. Lestrange was his right-hand man, and we were becoming less important by—”

“It’s not important, Owen,” Lucius hissed. “Just listen.”

Dumbledore’s eyes flitted from Lucius to Owen, and finally met Severus’s, who shrugged. “What I meant to express,” Dumbledore said, “was the distinct feeling that Voldemort has finally understood the profoundly Slytherin principle of Divide et Impera.*** Always based on the assumption that Barty is really Barty and therefore as ambitious as ever, of course. He has evidently decided to share certain secrets with only one of his two lieutenants. Therefore—” he raised the tumbler to his nose, sniffed and decided that the brandy needed to become a little warmer “—Sirius was under the impression that Pettigrew’s numerous errands merely served the purpose of collecting ingredients. Potions ingredients—well, in a way, they are.”

Owen looked rather puzzled. “How can something be a Potions ingredient, in a way?”

Severus, who already had a scathing retort on the tip of his tongue, ready to be flung at Owen, was silenced by a gesture of Dumbledore's hand. “You remember the Imperius Potion Severus invented?” Owen merely nodded. “Well, it seems that Voldemort isn't so bad with potions after all. Or at least he knows where to look in order to make up for his deficiencies. He has found out, or so it appears, that there is a simple way of keying the potion to the person whose will he wants to influence.”

Jaw dropping, Owen stared at him. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? Like Polyjuice Potion? Adding a bit of hair or—”

“I’m afraid that is exactly what I was saying. He had all the time he needed—Pettigrew started collecting bits and pieces immediately after their return to England. Imagine how easy it was for him to slip into whichever house he wanted…”

“But…” Owen turned toward Lucius and Severus. “But this is a… a catastrophe! There are few wizards who can resist the Imperius Curse, but even they will have problems fighting it, if it comes in that form… Do we have the names?” he asked, again addressing Dumbledore.

“Some of them. He couldn't remember a lot. But even so…” He produced a roll of parchment from his robes. “Have a look…”

His eyes still riveted on the Headmaster’s face, Owen grabbed the roll and mechanically flattened it against his thigh. When he finally looked down to read it, the movement was slow, as if impeded by some invisible force. “Bulstrode… Fudge… Figg… Tyler… Headmaster,” he said and swallowed, “this is… just about everybody… although some of them don't seem to make sense…”

“Just what Lucius and Severus said.” Dumbledore took back the parchment, which was trembling in Owen's outstretched hand. “We have to consider, though, that you—” with a sweeping gesture of his right hand, he indicated the three of them “—have all noticed Voldemort’s… well, let us call it playfulness. If you look at the list from that point of view, it begins to make sense.”

“You mean…”

“Exactly,” Lucius said. “Partly he wants to pull the strings of people in key positions, but the others are merely for his amusement. Wouldn’t it be fun if old Betty Tyler tortured her grandson Neville, if that is his whim du jour? Or if Figg started killing Aurors at random?”

“Merlin’s bloody…” Owen fell back in his chair and stared into the fire. “Those ingredients have to be destroyed,” he finally muttered.

“Brilliant conclusion,” Severus snarled, “The problem is that it won’t be as easy as that. Black told us that they’re locked away in Pettigrew’s rooms. And once Voldemort has noticed that his lackey won’t come back, he's not bloody likely to hand them over to Black.”

“Do you think he can brew the potion on his own?”

“Of course he can. Any first-year dunderhead could. The formula is so easy…” He raked his fingers through his hair. “The important bit is his will, and he can certainly extract that…”

The four wizards sat in leaden silence, the possible scenario uncoiling in their minds. At last, Owen gave a short, mirthless laugh. “It’s ridiculous,” he said, smoothing his moustache, “Here we are, four wizards of not inconsiderable power, at a complete loss…”

Dumbledore nodded gravely. “True. And it seems that you haven't read until the end of our list. He has got the hair of some Gryffindor students, and—” a shuddering sigh “—of Hagrid.”

~~~~*~~~~

“The shabbiest clothes I’ve got?” Nimue’s head, circled by green flames, frowned up at him. “But, Severus, it’s quite late and—”

“Just this once, do as you’re told, for heaven’s sake!” he shouted, unable to control his temper any longer. “Or do you think I’d call you to my quarters at ten p.m. because I just noticed I’ve developed a fetish for old jeans?”

“No, I just—”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “No. Discussion. Follow my instructions as quickly as possible. I’ve unblocked the Floo connection to your common room, so kindly use that.” With a brisk wave of his wand, he broke the connection and rose to his feet.

The few hours that had passed since Pettigrew's confession had been close to unbearable. In the light of this news, all his previous fears concerning Nimue seemed childish. Insubstantial. Had the rat dared to drag her to Azkaban, there would have been a way of freeing her. If Voldemort had demanded to see her, there would have been a substantial possibility for him and the others to convince the Dark Lord that she was beginning to see the merit of his ideas. But if he had her under Imperius… Terrible. Too terrible to dwell on the idea longer than just a fleeting moment. For the first time in his life, Severus felt the weight of guilt descend upon him. And it was a very real guilt, not just some generic blame he had chosen to put on his own shoulders. This was not something that might ‘happen to everybody’, as was the cheap formula of mass-absolution. This was his very own guilt, tailored by himself for himself, fitting with sinister perfection, his very own penitent's tunic made of hair—only he had believed it to be finest silk, for so many years.

While pacing the length of his living room, to shorten—at least in his imagination—the time it took Nimue to dress and Floo to his chambers, he pondered that his current situation bore a certain resemblance to fifteen years ago, when, after the attack on Diagon Alley, it had first dawned on him that She—the then-mysterious She of Sybil’s prophecy—might have been among the victims. Now he knew Her, and what had once been vague terror had narrowed down to a precise fear: that the concoction a brilliant, overeager teenager had once created might destroy what the grown man had come to desire more than anything.

Yes, they—meaning himself, Lucius, Owen, Dumbledore, McGonagall and Lupin—were going to add a few subtle tricks to Hogwarts’s wards first thing in the morning. It was extremely difficult but by no means impossible to shield the castle and thus its inmates from Voldemort's will. Dumbledore had immediately dispatched an owl to Flitwick, who would doubtlessly join his skills with theirs. They were going to succeed, probably. But there was no way for them to test the result of their efforts, and hence he had decided to immediately start working with Nimue, so as to help her build up her own defences against the Imperius Curse. At this very moment, Lucius was doing the same with Draco, down in the Slytherin quarters. Just in case…

He whirled round at the sound of Nimue stumbling out of his fireplace. And he was pretty sure he would never forget the look of joy on her face when he strode towards her and pulled her into a tight embrace that expressed both his affection and anxiety.

** From Greek dys+temno: to part by severing

***Divide et Impera—literally “divide and command”, to gain power by sowing discord among enemies and allies alike