The Sybil's Oracle Book Three

Chapter 24

By Pigwidgeon37

“I think,” Yelena said when all six of them had safely Apparated at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the entrance of Gringott’s, “it would be better if I stayed here with Selene.” She indicated Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour. “What about you, Draco?”

“I’m going with mother. I’ve always enjoyed the ride, you know?”

Nimue cast him a doubtful glance. “Ride? What ride?”

“You’ll see,” Draco replied. The smile he gave her was almost evil.

After nipping Selene’s impending temper tantrum—the word ‘ride’ had absolutely mesmerized the little girl, so that of course she wanted to accompany her mother and brother—in the bud with the promise of an extra-large portion of coconut ice cream adorned by moving chocolate frogs, Yelena wandered a few yards down the street with her, to take a seat under an umbrella, while the other four climbed the stairs and entered the wizard bank. While Narcissa and Draco strode purposefully towards a richly liveried goblin, who had started bowing and scraping as soon as he had set eyes on them, Severus stopped briefly to search in his pockets for the key to Nimue’s vault. Unsurprisingly, the flat upper part showed, in a finely crafted relief, a witch, wand raised and hair a-fly, in front of a tree. While she was admiring it, he opened the clasp of his gold chain to retrieve his own key. The soft tinkle of metal against metal made her look up.

“What’s this?” she inquired, pointing at the medallion.

“Let me think…” He put the chain back around his neck. “A medallion, maybe?”

Nimue rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you simply say that you don’t want to tell me what’s inside?”

“That,” he smiled, “would be a very impolite thing to say.” Completely ignoring her half-angry, half-amused harrumph, he cupped her elbow and steered her towards another liveried goblin, who stood in attendance against one of the marble pillars. “Good day,” he said and, although he received only a grunt in answer, continued undeterred, “We would like to see Clawepaw, please.”

“Follow me,” the goblin rasped—after the mention of Clawepaw’s name, his expression had changed from disgust to cautious interest. He led them past the endless row of counters towards the wall holding the Floo terminals, swerved sharply to the left just before bumping into the queue of wizards awaiting their turn for departure, and finally came to a standstill before a high but narrow door that bore a plaque reading “CLAWEPAW—V.I.W. CLIENTS”

“V.I.W?” Nimue whispered.

“Very Important Wizards,” Severus explained under his breath. He knocked, and when a raucous “Come in!” resounded through the heavily gilded door, turned the knob and motioned for Nimue to precede him into the office.

Unlike the lesser goblins on the Gringott’s staff, Clawepaw did not wear a livery. Of barely medium goblin-height—not much more than three feet—he was clad in vaguely Indian style. The attire, the fabric of which, due to its dull, greyish shimmer, Severus suspected to be woven of finest platinum thread, consisted of a knee-length jacket with a wing collar—its edges richly embroidered with gold thread and precious stones—and a long row of bejewelled gold buttons that went from the neck down almost to the hem, and a pair of close-fitting trousers. When the goblin rose and rounded his desk to greet them, it became evident that his feet stuck in a pair of pointed shoes with slightly upturned toes, bearing the Gringott’s crest.

After ceremoniously shaking first Nimue’s and then Severus’s hand and making the appropriate introductions, he returned to his chair and beckoned for his visitors to sit down opposite him. His offer of refreshment was declined, as Severus wanted to get their business done as quickly as possible. “How may I be of service?” Clawepaw’s small, greenish-yellow eyes skittered from one to the other.

“This,” Severus said solemnly, as befitted the occasion, “is the key to Miss Nimue Lestrange’s vault.” He put the small object on the desk. “I understand that you also need to see her wand?”

Upon Clawepaw’s nod, Nimue pulled the wand from her sleeve and placed it next to the key. The goblin grabbed both, gave the key a perfunctory look-over and put it back on the desk. The tips of his gnarled fingers glided over the wand. “Blackthorn, eleven inches, with a core of unicorn hair?”

Nimue gasped. “Y-yes… But how—”

Severus nudged her with his elbow, as it was both unwise and rude—the former known from experience, the latter stated by goblin etiquette—to ask for information a goblin did not give of his own volition. Clawepaw sent a small, appreciative smile in his direction and nodded. “This is the first time Miss Lestrange honours us with her presence, I believe?”

Nimue was about to answer in the negative, but was stopped by a warning frown.

“Indeed.” Severus bowed his head to hide a smile. Of course Nimue had already been there, but in company of her Muggle adoptive parents, who counted for less than nothing in a goblin’s eyes. “She would like to take stock of her possessions and make a small withdrawal. Hogwarts expenses and a bit of pocket money,” he added, to hint at the relative insignificance of the sum, upon which Clawepaw’s smile widened considerably, displaying his pointed teeth.

“Excellent,” he said, “I suppose you are familiar with the procedure? Or should I summon a clerk to accompany you down?”

“That will not be necessary, thank you.”

The goblin rose again and led them out of his office and over to the door behind which the carts were waiting to take the bank’s customers down into the entrails of Gringott’s. About ten people were queuing there, but Clawepaw walked past them and through the entrance a liveried clerk held open for them. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Professor Snape, Miss Lestrange,” he croaked.

They shook hands again, and he waited until Severus and Nimue had climbed into their cart, gave a last nod and left for his office.

“Severus, what—” Nimue began, but was interrupted by their driver’s hoarse voice, asking whether they were ready.

“Ready,” Severus replied. “You might want to close your eyes,” he said to Nimue, putting his arm round her shoulders and pulling her close. She opened her mouth to respond but shut it immediately when the cart began to move, slowly first and then faster and faster, as the inclination of the rails increased.

Their journey lasted maybe two or three minutes, and all the time Nimue kept her head buried in Severus’s shoulder, her left arm like an iron band around his waist. Through the deafening whoosh of air streaming past his ears, Severus heard her whimper at every sharp bend. She did not budge when they came to a standstill; if possible, her grip grew even tighter.

“You should release me now,” Severus said, trying to disengage himself.

“Are you sure we have arrived?” came the muffled reply.

“Yes, I’m sure.” He patted her back. “Come, or don’t you want to see your books?”

“I’m not sure,” she muttered, slowly raising her head, “whether there’s any book worth this horror trip. And Draco actually likes this?” she asked, accepting Severus’s proffered hand and climbing out of the cart.

“He’s also quite fond of nearly breaking his neck on a broomstick. That might account for it.” Severus briefly scanned the heavy bronze door, then noticed a recess exactly the shape of the key in its centre and fitted the key into it. For a second, nothing happened, then the metal seemed to swallow the key, and the door swung back.

Nimue gave a muffled squeak and staggered back against Severus. “Oh, my god!” she breathed.

Severus, who was perplexed as well, cleared his throat and said, “This is quite, er, impressive.”

And ‘impressive’ was certainly an understatement, he thought. To begin with, the vault had a somewhat unusual shape. Unlike the others he had seen—his own, the official Hogwarts vault, and Lucius’s—it was high-ceilinged and oblong. The whole length of the walls to their left and right was covered in bookshelves. At the far end, glimmering faintly in the half-dark, he could discern large piles of gold and silver.

With an exasperated sigh, Nimue looked up at him. “This is going to take us forever! How could we possibly…” She gestured at the bookcases. “There are so many of them!”

Severus nodded and glanced around the room. “I wonder…” He whipped out his wand. “Accio inventory!” Promptly, a large roll of parchment came soaring towards him, and he deftly caught it. “Madam,” he said, bowing slightly and handing her the scroll. She took it eagerly and started unrolling it. He tapped her shoulder with his forefinger, and her head jerked up. “I believe we’ll have to change our plans a little. No books today, we’re just going to take the inventory back to Hogwarts. Then we can look through it together, and once we’ve established a list of the books you want to retrieve, we’ll simply owl Gringott’s and ask them to send them to you.”

“Hmm…” She cast a wistful look at the thousands of tomes. “It sounds disgustingly reasonable, but I suppose it’s the only way.” Muttering a spell, she reduced the scroll to the size of a finger and pocketed it. “All right, let’s get the money then.”

Severus went back to the cart, to pick a medium-sized leather pouch, and then followed her to the far side of the vault, where Nimue was raptly gazing at the piles of money. “Lucius said you’re to have a hundred galleons per month,” he said, handing her the bag, “so you may take a thousand for the whole school year. Just to be on the safe side,” he explained when her jaw fell, “Because I’m not sure when we’ll be able to return.”

Nimue briefly passed a limp hand over her eyes. “A thousand galleons? But that’s… isn’t that a bit much?”

“You don’t need to spend it all. But—” he cupped her chin “—think of the Hogsmeade weekends. Books, robes…”

Her eyes still wide, she swallowed and nodded. “Okay. A thousand galleons.” She crouched down and started counting.

Severus waited until she had arrived at fifty-seven. “Nimue,” he said, sitting down on his haunches and touching her shoulder, “why don’t you use the pouch?”

Frowning at him, she interrupted her counting. “Fifty-seven… The pouch? Fifty-seven… I planned on counting them first and—”

She was, Severus thought, quite irresistible when she looked puzzled. Therefore, he kissed the tip of her nose before explaining, “You tap the pouch with your wand and tell it how much you need. Then you put in the coins, and a number will appear on the outside, showing you the exact sum the pouch contains.”

She nodded, a little dazed, and proceeded to do as he had told her. “Ooof, that’s heavy!”

“Then put a weightless spell on it.”

“Y-yes.” She pronounced the incantation and sent him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I’m afraid I’m… uh, a bit overwhelmed.” Her gaze swept over the accumulated riches and came to rest on a basket filled with silver pieces that were much larger than sickles. “What’s that?” she asked, stepping closer.

Severus, who had been examining some pieces of jewellery that had belonged to Tabitha, turned around to look. “Your namesgiving medals.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Every magical child,” he explained, walking over to where she was standing, “receives the gift of a silver coin when it is named. You see?” He picked up one round, flat piece of silver. “The child’s name on one side, the donor’s on the other.” He tried to keep his voice as emotionless as possible, to speak as if this were his classroom and the basket in front of him not a trigger of powerful memories.

Evidently he had not been entirely successful, for Nimue cast him a quizzical look. “Anything wrong? Do you think there might be Dark spells on them?”

“No.” His fingers were playing idly with the metal disk, which had lost its soothing coolness in his hand. “No, you can’t put Dark spells on silver objects. Which is probably why this material was chosen for namesgiving gifts.”

“So many of them…” She let her fingertips glide over the shimmering heap. “I don’t have that many godfathers and –mothers, do I?”

“Of course not. But you got one from each guest. This basket—” he dropped the coin back onto the mound of silver “—is something like the wizards’ Who’s Who. Everybody was there.”

“Really? How would you—oh, you too? You were there, weren’t you? So there has to be one with your and my name on it!”

He tried to wrench his mind away from the images creeping into his consciousness—the torch-lit park, the long line of guests, St. John and Tabitha standing on top of the flight of stairs, Tabitha with a yellow bundle in her arms… a pair of large brown eyes gazing at him from under the brim of a yellow lace cap…

“Severus!” She grabbed his arm and shook him. “Severus, have you suddenly gone deaf?”

“N-no. Sorry.” With a final jerk, he yanked his mind from the past’s grip. “I was… Never mind. Yes, of course I was there. As a matter of fact, I was the last to put my gift into the basket, so, unless somebody touched it…”

Nimue had already bent over the pile of coins and was scanning them, occasionally flipping them over to read the donor’s name, and discarding them to the floor, one by one. “Oh!” Grinning, she held up her trove. “That’s Lucius and Narcissa’s!” She pocketed it and continued her search. “Are you sure you brought one?”

He nodded, smiling. “Try Accio.”

“Of course!” Rolling her eyes at herself, she drew her wand and pronounced the summoning spell. There was a small upheaval, and a few coins rolled out of the basket and onto the floor, but finally the required object jumped up and into Nimue’s hand. “Wow!” She rubbed it against her robes and held it up for examination between her thumb and forefinger.

Outside the vault, the goblin in charge of their cart loudly cleared his throat.

“I think we’d better leave,” Severus admonished, “we still have to go to the Hogwarts vault and to my own as well. Narcissa will think the goblins are holding us hostages, if we don’t turn up.”

The gleaming crystals set into the walls to illuminate the chamber dimmed out as they passed them, and when Severus closed the door, the room was completely dark. With a metallic ‘clank’, the entrance shut and sealed itself; the key sprang out of its bed and into Severus’s outstretched hand.

He helped a reluctant Nimue into the cart and climbed in after her. “It’s going to be less horrible now,” he said, but she scooted close to him nonetheless, and he again encircled her shoulders with his arm.

The vehicle slid forward at very moderate speed.

“Where are we going now?”

“First to the Hogwarts vault. I need money for potions ingredients to refill the students’ stores. And then to my own, because I must buy new teaching robes and replenish my private stores. Besides, I’m planning on a visit at Flourish and Blott’s.”

Nimue waited for him, while he went to fill another pouch with galleons out of a vault the door of which sported the Hogwarts crest. “May I come with you?” she asked when the cart stopped for the third time, in front of his own vault, which was protected by an iron door with two snakes forming his initials.

“Of course. Although there isn’t much for you to see.” He inserted the key into the mouth of the left snake. Its eyes briefly glowed an eerie green, and the door glided noiselessly into the wall.

Nimue paced the room while he counted out the money. When he had finished and rose to his feet, he saw her standing in a corner, eyeing with interest a few books and parchments piled up there. Originally they had belonged to Grindelwald’s library; Voldemort had retrieved them and entrusted them to Severus, for they contained important information that had ultimately led to the creation of the Liberatio Potion. After testing the concoction and finding that it worked, the Dark Lord had left the volumes in Severus’s possession, claiming that he had earned them. Back in those times, Severus had already been a traitor and a spy, and thus had not wished to see the volumes incorporated into his own library. So he had left them here—he would never have destroyed or given away a book—in a dark corner of his vault.

But, as he noticed when he approached Nimue, she was not looking at the books. Her eyes were riveted on a glittering object resting on the topmost volume. This was indeed a day of memories, he thought, and the ones linked to this particular piece of jewellery were among the bitterest and saddest he had. He put a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up at him in a wordless question.

“This—” he picked up the narrow gold ribbon studded with emeralds “—would tell you a long story if it could talk,” he said, weighing it in the palm of his hand.

“Did it belong to someone you… loved?”

He sighed. “Yes. But,” he added, tracing his forefinger across her cheek, “not what you probably think. St. John gave it to me for my fifteenth birthday. It was a collar for my cat, the one you saw in the Pensieve.”

“Esmeralda?”

“Esmeralda, yes. It still… hurts to think of her.”

He felt her hand on his forearm and saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I didn’t want to… When did she die?”

“She didn’t just die. She was killed—the Magical Law Enforcement—” his fingers clenched around the jewel “—was… being quite ruthless at the time. Later…” He reopened his hand and gazed at the gold ribbon. “Later on I gave it to a friend… Clarissa, she had had to leave the country…”

“Is she dead, too?”

“She died shortly after I had found her. Of drug abuse, in a hospital in America. She had been wearing it as a bracelet, and I sent it to her mother after her death. But she didn’t want to keep it…” For a few moments, he remained silent, merely staring at the bracelet, his eyes unfocused. Pulling himself together, he smiled at Nimue and said, “I would give it to you, but… it doesn’t seem to bring the bearer any luck. So we’ll just leave it here.” He pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “But it doesn’t do to dwell on the past. We should go, our goblin escort out there will be getting impatient.”

~~~~*~~~~

After some fortifying ice cream—not for Severus, of course, who merely had coffee—at Fortescue’s, the group started their shopping round at Madam Malkin’s. In spite of her dubious parentage, young Miss Malkin, who was now a little over thirty, had successfully taken over her mother’s somewhat old-fashioned shop two years ago. Although she still produced the traditional Hogwarts school robes, which after all represented a by no means negligible part of her income, she had evidently decided to attract a different target group than her now-retired mother, and catered specifically for the Young Upper Class. It had been a very wise choice, as Malkin’s greatest competitor on the British wizarding market, Gladrags, still tailored their own range of products for the more traditionally minded magical folk.

Placing his order for five sets of teaching robes took Severus no more than a few minutes; then, he retired into a corner and watched the others. Much to Nimue’s amusement—and Draco’s all-too-obvious embarrassment—Miss Malkin seemed to appreciate the Malfoy heir’s platinum blonde good looks a lot. Yelena and Narcissa, who never bought prêt-à-porter robes, and certainly not British ones, were leisurely wending their way among the racks and shelves, occasionally holding up a sleeve here and a length of cloth there, immersed in discussion.

Nimue, who had finally taken pity on her nephew and freed him of Miss Malkin’s clutches, was strolling through the shop together with him. Severus was unable to resist smiling when the pile of clothing she was carrying over her arm gradually grew more substantial, the farther she and Draco proceeded.

Their visit at Flourish and Blott’s ended in a similar shopping orgy, and when they finally emerged from the apothecary’s, everybody was tired, hungry and thirsty.

Yelena, who seemed to be enjoying herself a lot, took Severus’s arm. Eyes twinkling with mirth, she looked up at him. “I bet you ten galleons I can read your mind.”

“I wasn’t aware that my thoughts are worth that much. Besides—” he snatched her hand and bent down to kiss it “—I would never dare to bet against you.”

She laughed. “Spoilsport! Don’t you even want to verify whether I’ve read correctly?”

“Of course I do.”

“Your greatest wish, dear Severus, is to treat us all to a late lunch at Le Bistro de Pantagruel, isn’t it?”

He patted her hand. “May I thank you for having spared me the trouble of overcoming my notorious shyness? I don’t know whether I would have dared ask…”

With a peck on his cheek, she released his arm and gave Nimue a surreptitious push, so that she almost stumbled against him. Severus rolled his eyes at Yelena —incorrigible, unrepentant woman, he thought; the scolding he had given her the other day for sending Nimue to treat his bruises had obviously remained without any effect at all. The poor girl was blushing again, and so he tried his best to make her comfortable by enlightening her about the restaurant they were heading for.

Since the weather was agreeably warm, they remained sitting outside under the large blue-and-white striped canopy, eating their lunch and talking. They had arrived at their coffee, when Severus saw Narcissa’s shoulders go rigid, her eyes narrowing. He frowned at her, but she shook her head imperceptibly and, instead of giving any explanation, schooled her face into her icy-polite society mask. He did not have to wait for long, though, as a few seconds later he heard a well-known, oily voice saying, “Narcissa! Madam Malfoy! What a pleasure to meet you,” and Lyndon Avery stepped into his field of view, grey, wavy hair impeccably groomed, his robes unbuttoned over a pinstriped Muggle business suit. Fortunately, he first kissed both Narcissa and Yelena’s hands, and ruffled Selene’s hair, so Severus had the time to hiss “Careful!” into Nimue’s ear before rising and shaking his fellow-Death-Eater’s hand.

“Severus.” The voice had lost most of its fake enthusiasm. “A rare occasion, I daresay.”

Draco, who was of course aware that he had to be on his guard with Avery, rose and shook hands with him, bowing slightly.

“And…” One eyebrow raised, Avery looked down at Nimue, who had hastily wiped her mouth on a napkin and was now smiling at him impassively. “Unless I am entirely mistaken, you must be Nimue Lestrange.”

“Indeed,” she said, every syllable an icicle. She neither nodded nor held out her hand, to Avery’s obvious discomfort.

“Oh, I forgot, we haven’t yet met. My name is Lyndon Avery, Miss Lestrange.”

“Delighted,” she said, in a tone of voice that made it sufficiently clear she meant the exact contrary, and offered him her hand.

Narcissa, who at this display of coldness verging on impoliteness seemed to have trouble controlling her face—only her eyes were glittering with something very akin to glee—waited until the embarrassing interlude was over and said, “Why don’t you keep us company while we have our coffee? We don’t have much time, but…”

“Thank you my dear.” Avery bowed, a little stiffly; he had got the message hidden under the seemingly cordial invitation. “I am in a hurry myself and merely wanted to say hello. Give my regards to Lucius, please.” Another small salute, and he had been swallowed by the crowd of passers-by.

“Who was that slimy git?” Nimue asked, scrubbing the hand he had kissed with her napkin.

“Insufferable arsehole,” Draco muttered, and for once, neither his mother nor his grandmother did object to his choice of vocabulary.

“Lyndon Avery,” Severus explained, “is a—” he cleared his throat “—colleague of mine.” Nimue’s eyes widened, and her face turned an unhealthy shade of red. “He works for Gringott’s, where he is head of the Muggle liaisons department.”

“Bad luck,” Narcissa observed, “Bad luck that we should meet him here today.” She was looking quite distressed, and Severus was feeling too uneasy himself to offer comfort that could only have been fake.

“Is he—” Nimue glanced over her shoulder, but there was nobody within hearing distance. She lowered her voice to a whisper all the same. “Is he dangerous?”

“Avery? Oh, yes, he is,” Severus replied. “Dangerous, ruthless and terribly ambitious.” He stood up rather brusquely. “I think we’d better leave. You never know with the likes of Avery.”

~~~~*~~~~

As Lucius had foreseen, after Severus had told him about their encounter at Diagon Alley, he was summoned after dinner on the same evening.

“That’s the first time I’m grateful to Voldemort,” Nimue muttered, letting herself fall on Severus’s Chesterfield, dishevelled and completely out of breath. The Dark Lord had called his servant in the middle of an Imperius lesson, the first Nimue had ever had with Lucius, and she had had considerably more trouble fighting his curse than Severus’s.

Draco, sweating although only in shirtsleeves and also quite exhausted, scowled at her. “Careful what you say! For all we know, Voldemort might torture him!”

“Sorry, Draco, I…” She threw him a guilty look. “I really wasn’t thinking.”

“That much is obvious,” he growled and retreated to a chair at the other side of the room.

The ensuing silence was extremely awkward and heavy with tension, as each of them spun their own fantasies, picturing what might be happening to Lucius at that very minute. Severus, who was leaning on the windowsill with a glass in his hand, tried to determine whether Voldemort’s call had come so promptly because of something Avery had told Voldemort, or merely because this had been Lucius’s first day as headmaster, without Dumbledore’s presence at the castle. He rather inclined towards the latter hypothesis; not that that was much comfort. This meeting was likely to be crucial—Voldemort would probably present Lucius with a list of exigencies, one more impossible to carry out than the other, and Lucius would have to keep a careful balance between too-ready assent and too-rational refusal. Probably Draco was right. The possibility of Lucius coming back completely unharmed was almost non-existent. But what if Avery had contacted his Master…

Trying to shake off those sinister thoughts, Severus sighed and turned back to the two youngsters. Nimue was still lying on the sofa—by the limpness of her right hand that was dangling from the upholstery, Severus supposed she had fallen asleep—and Draco had curled up in his armchair, hugging his knees and staring off into space, a lost look on his face. Severus put down his glass and went over to crouch down beside the chair. “Draco,” he said, laying a gentle hand on the still-moist fabric on the boy’s back, “you’ll catch cold. Why don’t you go and take a hot shower? It might… help. And maybe Narcissa would feel better if you stayed with her—not that I want to get rid of you, but—”

Draco shook his head and gave him a weak grin. “I know you don’t mean to throw me out. And—” he got up and stretched “—you’re probably right. Mother could use some comfort.” He grabbed his wand and carelessly threw his robes over one shoulder. “Should we call you when father comes back?”

“Yes, please. I’ll be waiting up right by the fireplace.” His hand came to rest on the bundle of fabric in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. “Don’t worry too much. It might not be a piece of cake, but Voldemort knows your father has to fulfil certain obligations. Including meetings with people who mustn’t get suspicious. So he won’t do any serious harm.”

“I hope he’s sane enough to keep that in mind,” Draco muttered.

When the echo of his footsteps in the stairwell subsided, Severus closed the door, as noiselessly as possible, and went over to the couch, to put a blanket over Nimue. She was not asleep, though, but merely lying still, gazing at the ceiling. He knelt down and kissed her very gently on the lips, which were unnaturally cold. “You should have a shower as well,” he said, stroking her shoulders through the clammy t-shirt. She just shook her head but said nothing.

His hand glided down her arm, so that he could catch hold of her fingers. His other hand stroked her hair, and his head came to rest between her breasts. “What’s the matter, sweet?” he whispered, “Tell me what’s troubling you.”

Her chest rose and fell with a shivering sigh. “I’m afraid,” she said, her voice very small.

“Afraid of what?” His hand continued its soothing caress of her head.

Another heavy sigh. “Of pretty much everything.”

“And what happened to frighten you so?”

“Avery happened. Somehow I had forgotten—” she made a noise somewhere between a sob and a chuckle “—that not all the Death Eaters are on our side. And that they aren’t all stupid.” Her hand came up to stroke his shoulder. “It would be so very convenient if all the evil people were also stupid, wouldn’t it?”

“Very convenient. But unfortunately there are also the likes of Avery, and we have to try and outwit them. But—” he raised his head and looked into her eyes “—you don’t have to be afraid of him. He can’t harm you, not here.”

“I know. But what if…” Her hand clenched around his upper arm. “What if he told Voldemort about me?”

“Voldemort already knows of your existence,” he said in a feeble attempt at trivializing her fears. His own, too, because he still shuddered when he thought of Avery’s expression, the look in his eyes when he scrutinized Nimue.

“You’re playing dumb, and you know it.” She shoved him back- and upwards, her hands firmly on his shoulders. “Of course he knows that I exist. But what if Avery reminds him that he might use me for his own ends?” She sat up and motioned for Severus to join her on the couch. “Call me paranoid, but I remember what that horrible Crouch person said, and I remember what Lucius told me. So I… well, I sneaked to the library and looked up a few books in the Restricted Section…” She shot him a defiant look, daring him to lecture her.

“So I suppose you’re now an expert in Dark rituals involving virgins?” he remarked, choosing to overlook the bait.

“Let’s say that I’ve read enough to make me afraid of my own shadow,” she answered dryly. “Those rites are worse than the Unforgivables. And much more powerful, it seems. If he gets his hands on my blood, he can really control me. He won’t need that stupid potion—besides, he knows that it’s possible to fight the Imperius curse. So if he can do better, he certainly will.” She briefly buried her head in her hands; when she came up, Severus saw real fear in her eyes. “Severus, he could make me do whatever he wants, he could create as many doppelgangers as he wants, and there would be no way, absolutely no way for me to escape his clutches! After reading all that… that perverse stuff—” she gave a short, humourless laugh and caught his hand “—I would even forgive you if you had been pretending all the time, just so you might deflower me to keep me safe! I know you haven’t been pretending,” she said, shaking her head when he was about to protest, “I’m not stupid, you know? But you have to promise me something.”

He was pretty sure which promise she meant to extract from him, and raised a warning hand. “Nimue, there really is no need—”

“I want you to promise,” she interrupted him stubbornly, “I want you to swear, even, that you’ll either do it yourself, or else, if there’s no time for that, that you’ll kill me.” He wanted to stop her, but she put her hand over his mouth, and he merely covered it with his, for he recognized that, at this moment, nothing was able to stop her. “I know I’m not dramatizing the situation,” she continued, “And I am absolutely sure that you’d rather kill me anyway, if the worst came to the worst. But I want you to promise. Please, it will make me feel much better.”

“Nimue, my love…” He was feeling utterly helpless, because she was right, and they both knew it.

She smiled; it was a broken, crooked smile, not unlike the one Yelena had adopted after her husband’s death. “My mother always used to warn me of ever using love for blackmail,” she said. “I don’t know how often she told me that sentences like ‘If you loved me, you’d do this or that’ have the power to destroy a relationship. But I think it won’t destroy ours if I tell you that, if you really mean what you said…” She bit her lower lip and blindly groped for his hand. “If you really do love me, you’ll make that promise. Will you?”

He could feel her hands tremble, even though he had them firmly clasped in his own. “I swear,” he said, “I swear that, should there be no other possibility to prevent such a ritual from happening, I will kill you. As for the other eventuality—” he gave a rather shaky laugh “—I don’t have to swear, just as I don’t have to swear that I’ll eat when I’m hungry, or drink when I’m thirsty.”

“You…” Their eyes met, and there was a short, emotion-laden silence. “You want me that much?”

“More, I think.”

“Then why—”

“Because you are not yet fifteen. It’s not just some stupid rule, you know, but a very powerful magical law. Not even Voldemort would dare break it.”

“But he doesn’t know about the time turner,” she observed shrewdly.

“No, he doesn’t,” Severus admitted, “and that might ultimately prove our salvation. Although…” He released her fingers and cupped her face with both hands. “I would have preferred it to be… well, it would have been nice if we could just wait until we both feel it’s time.”

“And you called Lucius a hopeless romantic?” she smiled.

“Well, you can’t deny—”

“I don’t. And I know that I’m feeling very mature and courageous right now, and that I’ll feel very frightened and squeamish when… well, when we’ll do the deed. But sooner or later, it would happen anyway, and if sooner spares us so much trouble… Could I have a parchment, quill and ink, please?”

Momentarily puzzled, Severus shook his head. “Why would you need—”

She merely rolled her eyes and summoned the required objects by Accio. “Let’s see,” she muttered, “I added five hundred sixty-four hours—no way I’ll ever forget that number… I had to write that on so many forms…divided by twenty-four are…” She was scribbling furiously. “Twenty-three days and twelve hours. Oh, bugger!”

He raised his eyebrows. “What’s the problem?”

“Shit!” She hit the leather upholstery with her fist. “We don’t know the exact hour I was born!”

“Of course we do,” he replied, unable to suppress a rather smug smile. “Although we might damage a library window in the process…” He strode towards the window, leaned out and pronounced, “Accio Who’s Who, volume L!” Apparently, it took the heavy tome a while to free its bulk from the pressure of gravity, but a few seconds after Severus had performed the spell, they heard the faraway but distinct sound of breaking glass, and then the book came plummeting in though the window.

“A wizards’ Who’s Who?” Nimue asked when he sat back down beside her.

“Exactly. And now let’s have a look… Lancaster…Lazarus… Lennox… Lestrange. Here we are. Lestrange, Nimue Hermione: born at Monrepos, Wales , 19 September 1980, 04.23 a.m., Virgo, asc. Capricorn—that at least accounts for your stubbornness,” he said.

“Four twenty-three a.m.? All right…” She wrote the numbers down, then frowned up at him. “I am not stubborn! The eighteenth, four twenty-three p.m., twenty-three days back… twenty-sixth August, four twenty-three p.m.! That’s exactly when I’ll turn fifteen.”

~~~~*~~~~

They had both fallen asleep on the couch, legs entangled, Nimue’s head on his chest and her arm around his waist. When he woke with a start, it took Severus a moment to realize where, who and with whom he was. Then Lucius’s voice called for him again, and he remembered. Now she, too, was awake, and he gently extricated himself from under her, put a finger to his lips and went over to the fireplace.

“About time!” Lucius snapped. “Come to my study. And bring Nimue.” He broke the connection before Severus could say a single word.

“He sounds angry,” Nimue’s voice drifted towards him though the darkness.

“He’s always like that when he comes back from a meeting with Voldemort,” Severus said, searching for his wand. His shirt and trousers were in no presentable state, and Nimue was probably looking worse. “He hates being controlled and bossed around… Where in blazes is my wand?” Then he remembered that he had left it on the windowsill after summoning the Who’s Who.

“Do you think he’s been hurt?”

“No, I don’t think so. Come here, I have to straighten your clothes…” He tidied her up first, and then himself. “Your hair—well, never mind. Let’s go.”

When they stepped out of the fireplace and into the Headmaster’s study, Lucius was sitting behind his desk, feet propped up on the polished wooden surface, arms crossed behind his head. He looked tense, but Severus could discern none of the usual after-effects of magical or physical abuse.

“How did it go?” he asked when he and Nimue had sat down.

“Worse,” was the dry answer.

“Let me guess: he ordered you to change the whole faculty, and—”

“No, not the school,” Lucius interrupted him, “Although that’s bad enough. But nothing we couldn’t handle. “No—” he swung his legs off the desk and leaned forward, his crossed forearms resting on the tabletop “—this is a lot more serious. Our devoted friend Lyndon Avery hasn’t wasted his time. Of course, the sly bastard chose a very clever strategy, much as it pains me to admit it.”

“That doesn’t sound encouraging,” Severus said, exchanging a quick glance with Nimue. She was looking remarkably composed.

“It wasn’t meant to. You know what the slimy bastard did? He wrote Voldemort a letter—he showed it to me, so I know he wasn’t bluffing.”

“A letter?” Nimue piped up, “I thought Azkaban was unplottable.”

“Of course it’s unplottable,” Lucius snarled, “but he didn’t send it by post owl, silly girl. If you let the owl touch your Dark Mark—anyway,” he continued his explanation, “he described your encounter at Diagon Alley in terms of utter delight, and of course he didn’t forget to mention how very comfortable Miss Nimue Lestrange seemed to be in the company of Severus Snape and the Malfoys, and that this fact was undeniable proof of how successfully we had already manipulated her… Anyway, he managed to paint such an ambiguous picture that Voldemort wasn’t sure whether Lyndon wanted to ingratiate himself with me or denounce me. Therefore, he wants to see her with his own eyes. Her and Draco.”

“Hmm…” Severus looked down at his hands resting on his thighs, sure that there was more to come. “Did he say when?”

“Oh, yes, he did.” Lucius's voice expressed such bottomless resignation that both Severus and Nimue shot him a worried look. Reaching across the table, Lucius put his hand on Nimue’s. “I’m rarely at a loss for words. But… How can I possibly explain this to you? By becoming your guardian, I have pledged to protect you and to have your best interests at heart. Only…” He sighed and leaned back into his chair. “I honestly have no idea how to keep you safe without risking the life of my wife and children, not to mention my own. And even if I were crazy enough to refuse to take you to him, it wouldn't make any difference. He’d order Severus to drag you to Azkaban, and if he said no, it would cost him his life. I… I don't have a choice.”

“I think,” Nimue said quietly, “that you should do as he commands. I don't want to be responsible for any more deaths.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Skeeter,” Severus explained, “I told her about Skeeter.”

“Oh.” Lucius shrugged. “I couldn’t care less about Skeeter. But—anything to drink?” he interrupted himself.

“A whiskey would be nice,” Severus said. Nimue merely shook her head.

Lucius rose to get their drinks. “I wouldn’t be so worried if he had merely demanded to see you. After all—” he handed Severus a glass “—that's something we’d expected. But what makes me extremely nervous, to use but an understatement, is that he ordered to bring you to Azkaban at a rather unusual time.”

Severus almost choked on his drink. “And when exactly would that be?”

“The twenty-sixth of this month, at four p.m. precisely.”

“No.” Severus shook his head, as if denial could change what Lucius had just said. “No, that's impossible. He can't know—”

“Of course he can,” Nimue said tonelessly. “I suppose he does have informants at the Ministry, doesn't he?” Both men nodded wordlessly. “You see,” she continued, “they didn't just give me the time turner and leave me to my own devices. I had to keep a detailed record, and at the end of the school year, there was a bunch of forms I had to fill—wait!” she breathed, “Wait, I forgot—”

“What?” Lucius asked sharply, “what did you forget, Nimue?”

“Black,” she said, a triumphant grin spreading over her face.

“Black?” Lucius repeated, “What does Black have to do—”

“Didn’t Severus tell you? When Dumbledore ordered Harry and me to save Black, we had to go back in time by three hours! And I certainly didn't inform the Ministry about that! So I’ll turn fifteen at one twenty-three, not at four twenty-three!”

“Bloody hell!” Lucius muttered, putting down his glass with a shaky hand. “Are you sure nobody knows?”

“Only Sirius, Harry, Dumbledore and myself. There's no way Voldemort could have got the information.”

The two men exchanged a glance, and suddenly broke into wide grins.

“He’ll be furious,” Lucius said, hitting the table with his palm, “And I’m sure he’ll take it out on us all. But Merlin help me, this is almost as much fun as the Virgin Prank!”