The Sybil's Oracle: Book Three

Chapter 26

By Pigwidgeon37

“Of course it doesn’t open to Alohomora!” Lucius snarled at Nimue, who promptly stuck out her tongue at him.

“It was worth a try! It’s not my fault if you’re at your wit’s end!”

“I’m not—” Lucius sighed and lowered his wand. “All right, I admit it. I am at my wit’s end.” He shot the trunk he had so enthusiastically admired on the day of his arrival at Hogwarts an evil glare. “And if it’s as old as Dumbledore told us, the magic protecting it might be downright unbreakable. Damn it!” He hit his palm with his fist.

“Do you think,” Nimue began, but took a step backwards when Lucius whirled around.

“What?” he bellowed.

“Oh, calm down, for heaven’s sake! You won’t feel less frustrated if you take it out on me!”

Lucius merely growled and flung himself into a chair.

“Go on, Nimue,” Severus said, “tell us what you thought.”

She gave him a grateful smile and said, “Well, maybe it’s a stupid idea—”

“Your ideas, my dear,” Lucius said, grinning at her, “are almost never stupid, much as I hate to admit it.”

“Thanks for a lovely compliment.” She mock-curtsied. “Why don’t we ask the Grey Lady? I know she’s one of the younger ghosts, but then she’s also the Ravenclaw ghost and might know something.”

“Hmm…” Lucius drummed an impatient rhythm on the tabletop with his fingertips. “Sev?”

Severus shrugged. “I say let’s give it a try. If she doesn’t know, maybe she has an idea whom to ask.”

“All right.” Lucius got up. “Nimue, go back to your quarters. We have to adjourn to my office.”

Her hair seemed to tangle more wildly around her face when she shot back, “No way I’m going back to Gryffindor Tower! This was meant to be an evening just for me and Severus, and if I can’t have that, I want at least to share the fun!”

“Share the fun…” Lucius muttered darkly, but it was fairly obvious that her heated reply had not overly angered him. “You might want to keep in mind that Severus and myself are not Potter and Weasley.”

“That much was obvious from the absence of Quidditch talk,” she replied cheerfully. “So can I come along?”

“Merlin give me strength!” Lucius rolled his eyes. “Yes, you may come, insufferable—”

“Know-it-all?” Severus offered, grinning.

Nimue stamped her foot but then quite docilely followed the two wizards through the magical doorway into the Headmaster’s study. After lighting a few candles, Lucius cleared his throat. “Good evening,” he said and, one by one, the portraits of his predecessors awoke. The spaces between them had slightly diminished as, in a fashion inexplicable to whomever had seen it, their number had increased by one: on the day after Dumbledore’s departure, his portrait had simply been there, next to Armando Dippet’s. As if the wall had sprouted it. Clad in sumptuous crimson robes embroidered with gold—all Headmasters and –mistresses wore their house colours, which gave the array of paintings a strange kind of uniform diversity—he was represented reclining, in a very relaxed fashion, against the squashy upholstery of a wing-backed chair, with Fawkes perching on the backrest. When the yawns and wake-up noises had died down a little, Lucius said, “I need to find the Grey Lady. Would you be so kind as to search for her?”

There was a lot of “M-hm” s and “Uh-huh” s and also the occasional “Yes,” and slowly most of the Headmasters and –mistresses exited their frames, leaving behind whatever background they had been painted against. The three remained standing, silent and a little tense, half-expecting failure but hoping for success. Not too long after the mass exodus, a dignified elderly wizard, beardless and with a Louis XIV-style wig, re-entered the frame of his portrait and informed them that the Grey Lady was currently in the Charms corridor and would be expecting them there. Silent, as they had been while waiting in Lucius’s office, they descended the spiral staircase and made their way over stairs and through corridors, the rhythm of their echoing footsteps similar to the erratic beating of a fluttering heart. It eerily reminded Severus of years long gone, when he and Lucius had to play babysitters for Sybil after her suicide attempt, ordered to protect her from herself until the time had come for Voldemort to violate her mind, so that she could not see whatever was related to him or his plans anymore. They had been unwilling, impatient protectors then, obeying merely because Lestrange’s will was their law. And again, they were safeguarding a young woman, not much older than Sybil had been, but this time of their own volition and from something much more dangerous. It was in moments like this that Severus was baffled by the thought of how much time had gone by, and how much they all had changed. Constant repetition was likely to numb one’s perception of changes, he mused; but when certain situations or patterns reoccurred, slightly altered but recognizable, after so many years, they sharpened the awareness of how drastically things had changed.

He had been caught so deeply in his thoughts that he ran into Lucius, who had come to a halt in front of—or rather under—the Grey Lady. She lowered herself, until her ghostly feet were floating at little more than a foot from the floor; as she was a petite woman, who could not have been much taller than Nimue when she still walked and ran on the ground she could not touch anymore, her eyes were now level with the Headmaster’s.

“Good evening, Madam,” Lucius greeted her. “Would you be so kind as to follow us into the Charms classroom? There is a matter we—” a gesture of his right hand indicated Severus and Nimue standing behind him “—need your help with, and it would not be advisable to talk about it here in the corridor.”

“Good evening, Headmaster.” Her voice was soft and bell-like, rather similar to Yelena’s. “I hope I can be of help.”

Lucius inclined his head and strode down the corridor, unlocked the classroom door and held it open for the others to enter, first the Grey Lady, then Nimue, Severus bringing up the rear. As far as the spectre was concerned, this was, of course, merely a polite pretension, as she could have floated though the closed door, but she seemed to appreciate the courtesy. By Severus’s estimation—he had never really bothered to give the other house ghosts much thought—she was the youngest of them in every sense of the word, as she did not appear to be much older than twenty, and the style of her high coiffure and gown clearly indicated that she had died shortly before or after the French revolution. Both Nearly Headless Nick and the Fat Friar belonged to earlier historical periods. Lucius closed and warded the door, and cast a privacy spell upon the four of them, so as to prevent the portrait of Cuthbert Valandion, known as Cuthbert the Confused, inventor of the Confundus Charm which he had often accidentally cast on himself, from overhearing their conversation. Then, he turned to the Grey Lady who was waiting with obvious interest, fanning herself and playing with the tassel dangling from her fan.

“We have reason to believe,” he began, “that a manuscript we would like to consult might be stored in a certain antique trunk, currently in the dining room at the Headmaster’s quarters. We have tried a plethora of spells and charms, but it would not open. Dumbledore himself told me that the trunk was an heirloom of the Ravenclaw family. Considering that you are the Ravenclaw house ghost, we assumed that you might know where we can find the appropriate incantation.”

The Lady, obviously quite charmed by the handsome Headmaster, threw him a flirty look over her fan. Severus felt Nimue’s fingers dig into his forearm; a glance at her face told him that she was trying very hard not to laugh at Lucius’s somewhat bemused expression. “I think,” the Lady said slowly, “I think I know which trunk you are speaking of. And—” she made a coquettish little gesture with the fan “—if you would be kind enough to meet me at the Ravenclaw common room, I shall, of course, show you where to find the incantation. At least I think that's what it is, because students have been wondering about it forever, some of them thought it was a motto. Not that it would make much sense as a motto… But you had better see for yourselves.”

With these words, she turned round, hoop-supported skirts billowing elegantly, and melted through the nearest wall. Lucius, who still bore a rather poleaxed look, cleared his throat.

“That was… quite… simple,” he remarked, casting a poisonous glare at Nimue, who had finally succumbed to the urge to burst into uncontrollable giggles. “Insolent brat,” he muttered, thus urging her to hitherto unknown levels of hilarity, spun on his heel and stalked out of the room.

“She fancies you, Lucius,” Nimue panted, “That’s almost as funny as the crush Moaning Myrtle has on Harry.”

Lucius merely growled. The entrance to the Ravenclaw quarters was not far from the Charms classroom, guarded by a marble sculpture representing an eagle perching on a jagged rock. When Lucius pronounced ‘Per aspera ad astra’, the teachers’ password, the bird spread its huge wings until the tip of its right wing touched the wall, which promptly morphed into an arched doorway. Only two Ravenclaw students had returned early: Parvati Patil’s twin sister Padma, merely out of solidarity, and Terry Boot, who, during his third year, had committed the unforgivably stupid act of swapping a lock of his hair for one of Lavender Brown’s. She had kept it out of sentimentality, and thus it had been easy prey for Pettigrew the Rat. It was almost midnight now—their failed attempts at opening the trunk had cost them more than two hours—and so the students had already retired to their dormitories and the common room was empty.

Well, not really empty, Severus mentally corrected himself. It was deserted but by no means empty.

Nimue, who had entered after him, let out a squeal of delight. Yes, he thought, that really must be her idea of terrestrial paradise. Much larger than the Gryffindor common room, this one bore some resemblance to the galleries to be seen in castles; it took up the whole length of one of the tower walls, which was about a hundred feet, and every available surface was covered in bookshelves. The door they had stepped in through was in the centre of the narrow side of the vast rectangle—although ‘narrow’ was hardly an appropriate word for describing a forty-feet-long wall—there were shelves to its left and right, and set into the opposite wall, at the far end of the room, was an enormous fireplace, flanked by bookcases as well. It had to be a lovely place for studying, because the gothic windows, interrupting the array of shelves to their left at intervals of maybe nine or ten feet, all faced north, so that the room was well-lit without ever being flooded by direct sunlight.

“Oh!” Nimue breathed, “I wish…”

“You wish what?” She looked up at Severus with a rueful smile. “I wish I had accepted the Hat’s offer of sorting me into Ravenclaw! Just imagine how wonderful—I bet they’re not half as noisy as Gryffindors, and I wouldn’t have to spend hours in the library on those hard wooden chairs.”

Due to Lucius and the Grey Lady’s presence, he staunchly withstood the urge to pat her derriere, the roundness of which had not in the least been diminished by the library chairs. Instead, he concentrated his attention on the ghost, who was floating towards the fireplace. It seemed that the Ravenclaw quarters occupied one single floor of the tower. Two long corridors opening at the right side of the common room revealed a series of doors; in the flickering torch light, Severus could make out the brass plaques indicating which door belonged to which year.

Funny, he thought, to which extent the different living areas mirrored the character of their inhabitants. Students from Rowena’s house rarely had amorous relationships while still at Hogwarts, and if they did, they were usually involved with students from other houses. There were no discernible wards or other magical devices deterring the boys from entering the girls’ part of the quarters and vice versa, unlike for example in Gryffindor Tower, where the staircase leading to the girls’ dormitories transformed into a slide if boys tried to climb them. Evidently, the founders or whoever had first thought of protecting the students’ virtue had not deemed it necessary for the keen-minded Ravenclaws. They had arrived at the far end of the room and were now standing in front of the fireplace. When Severus had noticed the portrait hanging above it from across the room, he had had a strange sensation, as if something was not quite right. Now that they were so close to it, he realized what had caused this feeling: the painting was as static as one of its Muggle counterparts. This alone would have told him that the portrait had to be very old. Upon closer examination, this judgment was confirmed. The portrait had not been painted on canvas but wood; the surface had a strange sheen and texture, almost like enamel, and the colours the artist had used were surprisingly vivid and… well, almost fresh, he thought. His eye was caught immediately by the golden highlights, which reminded of Byzantine art. The witch—Severus did not doubt that she was Rowena Ravenclaw—had been portrayed in a stiff, slightly unnatural pose, the upper body almost in profile, the head turned to the left, so that she seemed to be looking at the beholder over her shoulder. The somewhat stylised representation notwithstanding, her face was beautiful. Pale and framed by a mass of long black hair—the artist had painted it as a single block, without highlights or contrasts, almost like a second background—it was dominated by a pair of straight, black eyebrows that almost met in the middle of her high forehead. Her eyes were large and dark, the nose long and straight, the sternness of the face alleviated only by a full, sensual mouth. Unsurprisingly, she was wearing blue robes. Golden earrings in the form of complicated knots and a heavy gold chain with an eagle-shaped pendant were the only ornaments in this stark symphony of black, blue and white. And—the Grey Lady, who had floated upwards by a few feet, was just indicating it—there was her wand. Probably Rowena Ravenclaw had been posing for the artist seated in a straight-backed char with relatively high armrests; the chair itself was invisible, but the position of her right arm and hand indicated as much. The fingers holding the wand were painted a little awkwardly, as in those times neither anatomy nor perspective had yet found their way into the fine arts. But is was the wand, not the hand, they were supposed to have a closer look at.

“A white wand?” Nimue muttered.

“Ivory, probably,” Lucius replied, narrowing his eyes in an effort to see it better. “Is there… something written on it?”

“Not written, engraved,” the Lady corrected him. “The words are ‘Lignum aperies ligno fraterno.’ I—” she glanced down at Lucius, eyelids a-flutter, “—have never excelled at French…”

Severus saw Lucius’s lips quiver briefly before he managed to regain his composure. He had trouble staying serious himself, and Nimue’s fingers gripping his wrist harder and harder did not help either.

“Madam,” Lucius said, bowing deeply—probably to avoid laughing into her face, “I am most grateful. But I think we might arrive at a translation between the three of us.”

Severus was sure he had heard his bones snap under Nimue’s convulsively clenching hand.

“Your advice has been of inestimable value. Thank you again.” T

he ghost giggled, curtseyed and vanished through the portrait and into the wall.

“Holy shit,” Lucius muttered before he fell into the nearest chair, buried his face in his hands and laughed so hard his whole body was shaking. “I thought—” he raised his head and wiped tears of mirth off his eyes “—I thought I’d burst. How come she is the Ravenclaw house ghost?”

“No idea,” Severus said, patting Nimue’s back because she had started hiccoughing from too much laughter. He waited until the other two had calmed down and then said, “Are you aware that this isn’t an incantation but a riddle?”

Suddenly sober, Lucius glanced up at him. “Not really. But now that you say it…”

“Maybe—hick,” Nimue said, “May-hick-be she didn-hick didn’t read it—hick properly.”

“Hmm… Maybe. But—” Severus drew his wand and summoned a chair “—that can be verified easily.” He climbed up and peered at the portrait. “No,” he said, stepping down and returning the chair to its former position, “sorry to disappoint you. She read it correctly.”

“Yes, but… it still sounds pretty vague,” Lucius said. “You will open the wood for its brother?”

“Lucius!” Severus rolled his eyes. “That’s an ablative, not a dative. By way of its brother. Not that this makes things any easier. It will be hard enough to find out what exactly it means.”

“It’s not that difficult,” Nimue objected. It came out like a reprimand, and Lucius frowned at her. “I mean,” she said, “after all the trunk is made of wood, so it will probably open if you use a wand made of the same wood.”

Both men stared at her, and Lucius shook his head. “Too smart for her own good. But we still don’t have an incantation.”

“Maybe we don’t need an incantation,” Severus said. “Maybe it’s sufficient to tap the trunk with the right wand. Or something like Alohomora will work, if performed with the right wand.”

“That still leaves the question of the core. Don't you think that might make a difference? But I’m sure—” he smirked up at Nimue “—our genius in residence is already impatient to serve us the right answer on a silver platter, aren’t you, Nimue?”

“You’re merely pissed-off because you translated it wrong,” Nimue bit back, “Remember what I said about your male ego? That’s exactly it. You simply can’t accept—”

Seeing the menacing frown on Lucius’s face, Severus quickly intervened. “Maybe we should leave the psychoanalysis for later. Besides, Lucius is right. The core might make all the difference. On the other hand…” He gazed up at the portrait, rubbing his chin, and absentmindedly noticed that it was stubbly. “On the other hand,” he continued, “the portrait seems to contain all the necessary information for opening that trunk. Are you sure the wand is made of ivory?” he asked Lucius, who nodded. “What a relief. If it were wood, we’d have to start a search for Rowena Ravenclaw's wand. I suppose we should go back and have a look at the trunk—after all we need to determine which kind of wood it's made of.”

Lucius rose, shaking his head. “I’m not sure…”

“You’re not sure about what?”

“Nothing,” he replied, “I was just thinking…” He cast a quick look at the painting and shook his head again. “There's something at the back of my mind, but it won’t come forth. Let’s have a look at that trunk, then, although I’m quite sure it’s made of oak.”

“That would be great,” Nimue said, “Because Ron has an oak wand. With…” Her forehead and nose crinkled in deep thought. “Hippogriff feather, I think.” They left the Ravenclaw quarters and stepped out into the hallway, but not before Nimue had given the library-like room a last, wistful look.

Lucius snorted. “Oak and hippogriff, eh? The very epitome of blunt and stubborn.”

“Well,” Severus said, “it could have been worse. A core of behemoth hide, for example.”

“Oh, stop picking on Ron!” Nimue snapped. She did not sound very convinced though. “He’s really been trying to be nice.”

“Now has he?” Severus raised his brows and scrutinized her face for traces of the redness that always tinged her cheeks when she attempted to lie. Their absence convinced him that she was not just defending Weasley out of some misguided sense of duty. “And what exactly did he do to… er, manifest this laudable intention?”

“Well…” Nimue smiled up at him, impervious to the irony of his words. “We’ve been talking, quite a lot even, the two of us and also with Ginny… she’s been most helpful.”

“Just as well she should,” Lucius remarked over his shoulder, “considering her past experience. At least one Weasley who doesn’t think the world is just black and white, with nothing in between.”

“Exactly. She told Ron not to be such an idiot—after all, he didn't love her less after she'd been possessed by Voldemort. Do you think,” she asked, her expression suddenly anxious, “that the—” she bit her lip and glanced around “—the you-know-what potion might have a stronger effect on her because she gave him access to her mind once?”

“Good question. Honni soit qui mal y pense,” Lucius said to the gargoyle guarding the entrance to his office. The statue frowned, cast him a puzzled look, but finally jumped out of the way.

Nimue giggled. “What a romantic choice of password.”

“Not in the least,” he replied silkily, “Merely a method of keeping the little brats from bothering me all the time.”

“Oh,” she said, “And I thought you had a weakness for mottos. What about ‘For Lucius, England and Saint George?’”

“Oh, shut up, you cheeky little brat.” They had arrived at his office, and Lucius strode across the room to the fireplace. “I’m as good as sure that the trunk is made of oak. So you’d better go get Weasley’s wand,” he said to Nimue, while lighting a fire and grabbing the bowl containing the Floo powder. “I’ll keep the connection open for you to return.”

“Get Ron's—you can’t be serious!” she blurted out. “What if he wakes up and catches me snooping through his things? Dean and Neville are there, too, what if—”

“She’s right, Lucius. That might cause more trouble than it’s worth. Shouldn't I rather send Peggy?” Lucius gave a low growl but nodded. Peggy was summoned and listened attentively when Severus explained her task. “Be careful and don't Apparate right into the dormitory. The noise might wake one of the boys. And the same goes for your return.”

She nodded, grinning. “Yes, Master Severus. I has understood.” Within two minutes, she was back, triumphantly brandishing Weasley’s wand. “They sleeps like babies, Master Severus. Is I to wait here? To put it back?”

“Yes,” Lucius said gruffly, taking the proffered wand. “Just don't touch anything.”

“I is a good elf, Master Lucius, Headmaster, Sir, I doesn't—” But Lucius had already turned his back to her and was opening the doorway leading to his quarters.

About fifteen minutes later, the three were looking at each other in frustration, barely suppressing the urge to smash the obnoxious trunk into pieces. Each of them had given it a try with Ron's wand, using every imaginable opening, disclosing, unlocking and unblocking spell or charm that had ever been invented, but the lid did not budge. Nimue had tears of rage in her eyes and was chewing furiously at her left thumbnail, and Lucius was obviously having a hard time controlling himself, so as not to take out his anger on the other two. Severus found this quite remarkable in itself, as Lucius usually was not one to refrain from letting out what wanted out, whoever the target. Severus himself was standing with his back to the other two, staring out of the window. When the compact blackness outside stubbornly refused to give him an answer, he turned round and slowly walked towards the trunk, stared at it for a few seconds and then sat down, cross-legged, directly in front of it. Instead of concentrating on finding a solution to their problem, he simply let his mind wander. Sometimes, he had found out, this was the best method. When thoughts were allowed to roam freely, they left the paths that had led nowhere but to dead ends and explored other roads, shadowy and hidden in the subconscious. He let his eyes travel over the carved surface, admiring the craftsmanship and imagination of the wizard who had made it. It was a strange mix of Roman and Celtic style, both untamed and austere, everything wildly out of proportion but harmonious all the same. Lions and eagles of the same size, men as tall as the trees surrounding them… Inspiration struck.

“What?” Lucius asked sharply when Severus slapped his forehead.

“We’ve been such idiots…”

“Kindly limit that compliment to yourself,” came the biting answer. “And why, pray, have… er, we been such idiots?”

“Because,” Severus said, scrambling to his feet and grinning like mad, “ ‘lignum’ doesn’t just mean ‘wood’. It means ‘tree’ as well.”

Nimue’s hand fell to her side. “Of course! How couldn't we have thought of that right away? So that means—” she knelt down before the trunk and brushed the relief with a fingertip “—we just have to look for an oak, and then…” Now they were all on their knees, scrutinizing the carvings, trying to determine which of the numerous trees was the one they needed.

“Here it is,” Lucius said suddenly. He drew his wand and tapped one of the trees in the top left corner. “Alohomora!” Without a sound, the lid sprang open.

~~~~*~~~~

“So we meet again.” Nathalie Pierson was leaning against the doorframe of the entrance to her house, arms crossed, her expression somewhere between hate and reluctant interest.

“Indeed.” Severus bowed lightly and brought her proffered hand to his lips in a gesture of gallant and a little old-fashioned greeting.

“I must say, I was very surprised to hear from you,” she said. “But…” Her eyes, still as alert and penetrating as he remembered them, gave him a leisurely once-over. “At least you seem to have picked up some manners.”

“I merely took what… others—” his eyes briefly flitted over her face and made contact with hers “—lost along the way.” During the brief pause that ensued—she seemed to consider whether she ought to acknowledge the veiled insult or merely ignore it—Severus had more than enough time for a closer look at the woman that had once so enthralled him. She had aged; that in itself was not overly surprising, as almost twenty years had passed. But time, he mused, had not been gentle with her. The once-fascinating intensity of her finely sculpted face had turned into something sharp, predator-like. Her lips had never been sensual, not even when she was younger. But now they looked pinched and gave her face a sour, harsh look. Deep lines running downward from the corners of her mouth and a few barely visible, vertical lines under her lower lip emphasised the impression of a sternness which, unlike McGonagall’s, knew no smiles or laughter. She had to be a little over sixty now, and she did not look more than her age. But it was evident that this woman was disappointed and bitter.

Finally, she gave an abrupt little nod and gestured towards the door. “Come in.” That was more than Severus had expected—when he had sent her an owl the other night, he had been prepared for either silence or a brusque refusal—and he followed her into the house. He had been here only once, and the tension and excitement he had felt that evening had not allowed him to take in much of his surroundings. But still, he had the distinct impression that Nathalie Pierson had changed a lot about her home, and more than just the furniture or curtains. She did not lead him to a salon or living room, but preceded him farther into the house until they arrived at what could only be her study or office. It had four fireplaces—probably a necessity for the chief editor and part-owner of Great Britain’s biggest magical newspaper, Severus thought—and was crammed with books both Muggle and magical, rolls of parchment and copies of the Daily Prophet. The few square feet of wall not covered in boards and shelves served as a kind of bulletin board, with photos, scraps of parchment and newspaper clippings attached to the whitewashed surface. There were so many of them that they overlapped—it almost looked as if the wall was covered in papery scales.

Nathalie sat down behind a large desk and waved Severus to the chair opposite hers, which she had freed of a dangerously teetering stack of books and parchments. “So,” she said, “what do you want? I don't have much time, so we should dispense with the niceties right away. Not that you’re one for niceties,” she added, leaning back and crossing her arms.

“The matter I want to discuss with you doesn't allow for niceties. So I’ll go right in medias res. We have reason to think that Black might be innocent.”

Just like twenty years ago, she was not easily thrown off balance, and if she was shocked by his statement, at least she hid it well. One salt-and-pepper eyebrow slowly moved upwards. “Is that so? And who, if I may enquire, is ‘we’?”

“None of your business,” he replied with a thin smile.

“Snape, if you expect me to look into the matter more closely, you can't expect me to—”

“Did I say that?” he asked silkily, hard-pressed not to smirk at her puzzled expression.

“No, but I assumed that, if you—well, never mind. Go on.”

“Thank you.” Time for a piece of carrot, after poking her with the stick. “Peter Pettigrew is alive.” Now he had definitely sparked her curiosity.

“What? Do you have any proof? Photos? Witnesses?”

“I do have witnesses, but you can’t talk to them, I’m sorry. But that's exactly my point. You’re the one who might… er, create witnesses.” He paused to gauge her reaction but also, he thought, to relish her bewilderment. It might be petty, but she had been so superior, even condescending, when he was just a boy, barely out of school and with no real knowledge of the world, and he enjoyed the payback. “Meaning that your reporters might get lucky, if you follow my indications.”

“My reporters…” Her forehead creased as she stared out into the garden. “I’ve lost the best I had—you don't happen to know anything about Rita Skeeter’s whereabouts, seeing as how you seem so knowledgeable?”

“Her disappearance might very well be connected to Black and Pettigrew. Or am I wrong in assuming that she was still investigating the Black story?” Nathalie shook her head. “In that case… If she found out more than was good for her… Pettigrew must be desperate, and Black… well, he's not exactly interested in having his secrets divulged by a newspaper, I suppose. So, if she spotted him and saw him transform into his animal shape…”

The dark-blue eyes widened, and Nathalie leaned forward, her fingers clenching the tabletop. “Black is an Animagus?”

“So is Pettigrew.”

“Animagi? Unregistered Animagi? Both of them?”

“Just as I said. Oh, it’s not exactly common knowledge, as you can imagine.”

“I knew it!” She got up and went over to the window, visibly agitated. “I don't know how many times I discussed this with Rita. A man like Sirius Black…” She turned back to Severus, perching on the windowsill. “A man like Black simply can’t go unnoticed for more than two years. So there were two possibilities: either he was dead—and we didn't really consider that—or he had a means of disguising himself. And it had to be a very effective means. Without a wand—believe me, I’ve paid unimaginable sums to black market dealers, so they’d alert me in case he turned to one of them… he had no wand, therefore glamours and such could be excluded. And of course Rita…” She fell silent rather abruptly. “That's why I sent her to Hogwarts—I wasn't overly keen on the interview with that half-giant, Haggis or whatever his name is. Or on the stories about Potter’s love life. But Black had been sighted at Hogsmeade, and I wanted her to talk to people, sniff around a bit…Your gamekeeper has already proved a source of valuable information. And students see more than their teachers usually give them credit for.”

Probably, Severus thought, Nathalie Pierson had no idea that her star reporter belonged to the same category as Black and Pettigrew. He briefly pondered whether to mention it, but decided that this might draw unwelcome attention to himself and maybe also to Lucius. The deal Malfoy and Skeeter had struck concerning Potter had been a private business—the Prophet had reaped the fringe benefits, but it was better to leave the topic untouched. The less evidence there was to connect Skeeter to whomever might have disposed of her, the better. And if Nathalie could be led to believe that either Black or Pettigrew was the culprit, he certainly had no objections. “You’ll be pleased then that your assumptions were correct.”

“Hmm…” She rubbed the bridge of her nose and gave him a long, assessing look. “You wouldn't know what their Animagus forms are?”

“Of course I know. But I’d rather not give that information away just yet.” He leaned back and smiled blandly.

“Ah, I see. It seems we’re finally negotiating.” She returned to her desk and sat down.

“Indeed. You are, of course, aware that Voldemort is back?”

“I doubt whether that letter was genuine. But I’m inclined to believe he’s back, yes. The Azkaban affair was too fishy—something has to be wrong. That means…” Slowly, she returned to her chair and sat down. “If Black is innocent and Pettigrew alive, does that imply that Pettigrew was Secret Keeper?”

“Everything seems to point in that direction. And knowing Black’s temper…”

She tilted her head and regarded him shrewdly from under half-closed eyelids. “Snape, I’ve been in the newspaper business for more than forty years. I know when somebody wants me to do the dirty work while they remain in the background, hands clean and reputation immaculate. Black has had that temper since he was born, so why would he have waited two years? If somebody had framed me as Pettigrew seems to have framed Black, I daresay I’d go after him immediately.”

“Who said that this wasn’t exactly what he did?”

“Ah.” Her expression became one of intense concentration. “Are you saying Pettigrew, too, was at Hogsmeade or Hogwarts?” Severus merely shrugged, and she sighed. “All right. So what’s your offer, and what do you want in return?”

Severus gave a brief nod of appreciation. “I… or rather we, want to give the Ministry a… let's say a wake-up call. Voldemort is back, and unless they acknowledge that fact, we’re facing a dire future.  Knowing Fudge, our chances of that happening are slim, however. He will do whatever he can to keep things quiet.”

“Ah,” she said, “So you mean to try a different approach? Make people realize that the Ministry's not as infallible as they’d like to make us believe? Sow doubt that will hopefully create more doubt?”

“I couldn’t have formulated it better. I shall give you enough information for your reporters to land a sensational scoop. In return, I demand a promise that the usual osmosis between Ministry and Daily Prophet be temporarily suspended. Given what I just told you, you’ll understand that we want this to become public knowledge before the Ministry starts investigating.”

“Or hushing up,” she added. “Yes, I understand you perfectly.” She snatched a piece of parchment and played with it absentmindedly, folding it this way and that. “An intriguing situation, I must say. And all the more interesting because it's impossible to determine where everybody's loyalties lie. Malfoy, yourself, maybe even Fudge… absolutely fascinating.”

“Highly fascinating indeed.” Severus uncrossed and re-crossed his legs. “So, do we have a deal?”

Nathalie nodded slowly and got up. “Yes, we have a deal. Unless—” she withdrew the hand she had already held out “—there's one point that needs clarification. I don't want to get into trouble with Voldemort and his minions.”

“If you are under the impression that I am able to give you any guarantees, I am sorry to disappoint you. I’m not acquainted with Voldemort.”

“If you say so. But you can’t deny that you are somehow more involved than most people, on whichever side. Not that I care. But I need to know more about that alleged scoop before I accept the deal.”

“Pettigrew’s dead body, for your reporters to discover?”

She whistled through her teeth. “Indeed. So Black has tracked him down… well…” She pondered the idea in silence. “That doesn’t seem to risky. You understand, of course, that I don't want to suffer the repercussions of Voldemort's wrath?”

“That,” Severus replied, looking up at her with raised eyebrows, “is quite clear, I think. You weren't exactly a fervent partisan of the resistance the first time round. But I don't think you’ll have to be afraid of retaliation. If anything, I suppose he’d feel indebted to you for making the Ministry appear like the incompetent idiots they are. Your daughter—”

“My daughter is safe,” she cut him off sharply. “She doesn't live in England and has left the magical community.”

“Ah, so you didn't print that letter because you were being blackmailed?”

“No,” she said, smiling thinly, “that was payback. After all, we know who set fire to my archives. Speaking of payback…” Her face hardened. “You’d better not harbour any illusions about forgiveness and such nonsense. I never forget an insult, and your time will come, Severus Snape. This is just a temporary truce.”

“I would have expected no less. Do we have a deal?” He offered his hand.

“We do have a deal.” Nathalie took his hand. Severus drew his wand, pointed it at their joined hands and pronounced a whispered incantation, whereupon a blue light shot out of his wand to briefly curl around their fingers before it dissolved into sparks.

“Very well.” Both sat down again, and Severus continued, “Now let me fill you in on the details.”

~~~~*~~~~

Owen and Lucius were in the middle of an animated discussion when Severus entered the Headmaster’s office.

“Ah, Casanova’s back!” Owen exclaimed, raising his glass. “So, how did it go? Did you have a nostalgia shag?”

“For heaven’s sake, Owen!” Severus sat down and accepted a glass from Lucius. “Could you use another body part than your cock for thinking? I threw the woman out of my house and my life twenty years ago, and in a manner I wouldn't call gentlemanly. So there’s nothing to be nostalgic about.”

“It’s amazing,” Owen said, grabbing the bottle and refilling his glass, “how easily you still swallow those baits. So—” he tossed back half of his drink “—how did it go?”

“Surprisingly well. She accepted all the terms of the deal, and agreed to send her bloodhounds to Stratford-upon-Avon tomorrow at sunrise. So we have enough time to kill the vermin and take him there.”

“Did you obliviate her?” Lucius asked.

“No.”

Both wizards stared at him.

“We had agreed—” Owen began, but Severus cut him off.

“I know. But we had agreed that I was to obliviate her if necessary. As things are, she’s quite happy with the idea of causing the Ministry some trouble. She made a promise, which I sealed with Fides Incolumis*. She might not have heard that it was followed by ‘Anathema’,” he added, smirking at the two wizards. “As a matter of fact, I’m quite sure she didn't. So there's no need for us to be worried. We transport Pettigrew to Stratford, and that’s it.”

“I still don't understand why you had to choose Stratford, of all places,” Owen muttered.

“Because it’s teeming with tourists at this time of year, at every hour of the day and night. If you want to go really unnoticed, keep to the crowds—surely you remember the basics?”

“I’d have revised my textbooks if I had known this was going to be a test in basic defence,” Owen shot back.

“I simply don't like it when other people make choices that concern me as well.” Lucius sighed. “The whole plan was yours, if I may remind you. We merely picked a suitable location.”

A brief staring contest between him and Owen ensued—Owen would have lost it, but masked his defeat by taking another sip.

“Who kills him and who takes him to Stratford?” Severus asked.

“We hadn't yet decided about that,” he added for Owen's benefit, smirking at him. “I would suggest that you—” Lucius waved a hand at Severus “—and I end his miserable life, and Owen takes his sad remnants to the hiding place.”

Owen’s shoulders stiffened. “Are you deliberately trying to antagonize me?” he asked, his voice dangerously low.

“Owen, this isn’t about fun, it’s about minimizing the risks. And I merely wanted to equally distribute the responsibilities. Severus croaks him, I transform him—that’s really my area of expertise—and you dispose of him.”

“I think I could kill him just as well as Severus.”

“Owen, please.” The slight tremor in Lucius’s voice betrayed that his patience was thinning. “There is no reason for you to behave like an irrational teenager. Or do you think I proposed this division of duties because I tossed a galleon?”

“Then,” was Owen’s icy reply, “I would really like to hear more about your reasons, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Of course not. Are you sure you can transform a dead body into an empty paper bag and time the spell’s duration?”

“You know that I can't!” Owen glared at him, eyes blazing.

“And neither can Severus, so I’ll have to do it. And now tell me: whom is a potential witness more likely to remember? You or Severus?”

For a few moments, Owen remained silent. “What kind of ridiculous question is that?” he finally said.

“It’s not ridiculous, quite the contrary, I’d say. Minimizing risks, remember?”

“He could put on a glamour.”

“Yes,” Severus said, as calmly as possible, so as not to increase the tension any further. “I could cast a glamour. But you know that the best laid plans have gone awry for the most futile of reasons, don't you? Some wizards can see through glamours, so what if—”

“This is preposterous!” Owen slammed his glass down on the table. “You want me to take the greatest risk, merely because there might be a wizard—and I don't even want to see the number describing that probability, something with five hundred zeros after the comma, I’m sure. I’m the one who has to expose himself, merely because there might be a wizard in Stratford-upon-Avon at three o’clock in the morning, which in itself is highly improbable. And not just any wizard. One who has the ability to see through glamours… that’s paranoid!”

“Maybe.” Lucius gave him a twisted smile. “But better paranoid than busted. We can’t be careful enough, not in a situation like ours.”

In the end, Owen grudgingly accepted his part of the task, but Severus was left with a very uneasy feeling. Maybe they had been too insouciant. Maybe they should have involved him more—on the other hand, he had not been too enthusiastic lately. Up till now, he had seemed quite content with taking on as little responsibility as possible. Being in two was already a risk, Severus thought, but three might be one too much. Sure, Owen wanted to get rid of Voldemort. But neither did he have a family to protect, nor did he have to fear for somebody he deeply cared for. He was merely fed up with being at Voldemort's beck and call, but Severus began to doubt whether that was sufficient.

“So,” Owen said after a short pause, “How are the kids getting along?”

“They’ve been in the library since breakfast,” Lucius answered. “But we can’t expect them to finish the translation before the weekend.”

“Are you sure it’s worth the trouble?”

“You must be joking,” Severus said. “Of course we’re sure. De sylpharum potestatibus magicis seems quite clear, doesn't it?”

“I suppose so. Are they up to translating it?”

“Without any doubt,” Lucius said, a note of pride creeping into his voice. “Draco has started Latin when he was four or five**. And Nimue isn’t bad, either.”

The conversation had come to a standstill. Something important was still lingering in the atmosphere, not quite threatening but not quite right, either. Severus felt it, and he was sure that Lucius did as well. Something unspoken, the weight of which was quite tangible. He was just not sure whether it had to do with Owen's evident dissatisfaction. Neither was he sure whether this dissatisfaction was limited to their plan concerning Pettigrew. Had Lucius’s rather peremptory manner of deciding things that concerned them all been the last straw or merely a source of momentary disapproval? He could not ask now—the problem being that he did not think it was possible to ask the question at all, and if he did, he was sure he would not get an honest answer—and to wait until Owen left, so as to discuss the matter with Lucius did not seem like a good idea. If Owen had doubts about their collaboration, such behaviour was likely to make him even more suspicious. So Severus decided to leave before the uneasiness reached a point where something would have to be said. Lunchtime was over, and at three o’clock Ginny Weasley was to report to his classroom for her first Potions tutorial.

Time enough to go to the library, to have a look at Draco and Nimue’s work; then he was going to have a light lunch in his quarters before descending to the dungeons. “You already had lunch?” he asked, and Lucius and Owen nodded. “I’ll leave you then, to continue the discussion I interrupted. I have to get something to eat, or I won't make it through my afternoon classes.”

“Don’t mention classes!” Owen groaned. The lurking tension seemed to have dissipated. “I spent the morning casting Imperius on Brown and Patil.”

“Oh.” Severus, whose hand was already resting on the door handle, looked back over his shoulder. “And? How are they doing?”

“So badly that I’m sorely tempted to give them some really embarrassing orders. Just as an incentive to try harder.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “You know that you’re an absolutely lousy Obliviator, Owen. You’d better think twice before ordering them to do something they ought not to remember.”

On his way to the library, Severus heard shouting and laughter from outside; due to the strong wind, the noise seemed to ebb and shift, sound waves frayed and blown about like loose threads. He halted and looked out of the window. Down in the main courtyard, Sybil and Flitwick were sitting on a stone bench in the shadow of a few high oleander shrubs, chatting and watching the four Weasleys, Terry Boot, the Patil girls and Dean Thomas, who were playing a very strange version of Quidditch, the main goal of which obviously was to parade the males’ flying skills while the girls squealed and applauded. Shaking his head, Severus continued his journey, smiling at the thought that Draco was probably itching to join the players outside, while Nimue felt perfectly happy where she was. Their respective reactions this morning certainly justified his assumption. After they had opened the trunk and found a veritable treasure—manuscripts and incunabula of unimaginable worth, among them Bede’s treatise on the magical powers of elves—it had taken both Severus and Lucius’s persuasion skills to convince Nimue that she must go to bed, instead of starting to read and translate immediately. The manuscript had been safely locked away in Lucius's office, and in the morning, before breakfast, he had summoned Draco and Nimue. Severus had been there as well, and watched with amusement how Draco’s face fell while Nimue looked as if she had just been given the key to eternal happiness.

They were bending over the manuscript when Severus entered the library, engaged in a muttered discussion. “Well?” Severus said, and both jumped. “How are you progressing?”

“Fine,” Draco replied, “Except for a few differences of opinion. She’s not very good at medieval Latin.”

Nimue bristled. “It’s not my fault that I’ve read mostly classics so far. I’m doing my best!”

“Any results as of yet?” Severus positioned himself behind them, putting his left hand on Draco’s and the right on Nimue’s shoulder. The fingers of his left remained immobile. Under the thick curtain of frizzy brown hair, he gently caressed Nimue's throat and ear, invisible to Draco. Nimue gasped slightly, when his forefinger brushed her earlobe, turned her gasp into a rather exaggerated sigh and frowned up at him. Her eyes were glittering, though, and so he continued.

“N-no,” she said, “So far, we’ve done the preamble and the first part. Just history, nothing of interest.”

“I told her we should just read it through and then translate only the important bits, but will she listen? No, she won't. Big surprise,” Draco added crossly.

“Hmm. You know, Nimue, he’s probably right.” Severus lightly squeezed her shoulder. “Why aren't you using translation spells?”

“Because little Miss Perfect here said they're inadequate.”

Severus snorted. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact they are. But I suggest that you duplicate the manuscript, cast a translation spell on the copy and work your way through the English version. If a passage seems important, look it up and translate it yourselves. That would save you time and trouble.” He felt a little like Solomon having pronounced one of his famous judgements—both parties were smiling triumphantly, each convinced that they had been proved right. Severus straightened up and patted both shoulders. “I’m going to have lunch now, and after that, I’ll be down in the Potions classroom.”

Draco grimaced. “Weasleys?”

“Yes, but the girl. So I consider myself relatively lucky.” He had to bite his lower lip to keep himself from smiling when he noticed the faint blush on Draco’s face. Nimue, who had noticed it too, winked at him. “You’re of course welcome to take a break and watch,” Severus added, “We’ll be covering antidotes today, and I planned on adding a few that weren't on the third-year syllabus.” Both nodded enthusiastically, if for different reasons. When he left the library, he heard them argue about the merits of different translation spells.

*Fides incolumis = Unbroken Faith

**This isn't as far-fetched as it seems. In the 17th and 18th century, the children of aristocracy started learning Latin and Greek that early.