Chapter 2
They Apparated, as they always did, into the estate's conservatory, and not a second later Snape was leading her inside, deeper into the house than she had ever been before until they reached the nigh-windowless library. The room was easily high enough to cut into the second floor, and still contained seemingly endless shelves of books, most first editions, and all coated with cobwebs and dust. Sinistra admired the sight only for a moment -- the reason they were present at the potions master's family home was far more imperative than the home itself. When they had fled the school, both had been gripped by the act-now-think-later mentality. Later had arrived, and it was time for some serious considerations.
"Your students will be wondering what's become of us," Acantha murmured, her wits finally beginning to return to her in the temporary shelter of the battered mansion.
"Yes," Snape agreed, his expression grave and darkening by the second. "If what you claim is true, Dumbledore will no doubt provide them with an explanation that will likely reap us no benefits."
"It is true," she snapped. "My headache will attest to that."
He glared at her, and after a moment's hesitation, closed the short gap between them and tilted her head to the side with a finger to her chin so that he could examine the wound. He frowned at it, and without a word stalked out of the room, returning a minute later with a glass of water, a roll of bandages kept at the house for emergencies and a musty-smelling pink towel. Sinistra wondered if he had chosen that colour specifically for the joy of soiling it as he dipped the towel in the water and began to clean what blood she had missed with the handkerchief from her temple. It stung, and she bit back a hiss. Snape seemed to sense her discomfort, and attempted to work a little more gently at the gash.
"It's not deep," he muttered, sounding somewhat agitated. "Do you feel tired, nauseated?"
"Yes and yes, but I don't think either are from this," she replied, tentatively brushing her fingers against the swollen cut.
He tossed the towel on a low mahogany endtable that was seated next to a sheet-covered sofa and began to cut a small square of gauze from the roll of bandages using a severing charm.
"...Severus?" she hesitantly asked as he dressed the injury. "What are we going to do?"
He was silent for a long while, and she was about to address him again when he finally answered her, "I don't know." He didn't know, but he would. He only needed time to think, though time appeared to be one of the things they currently lacked. "Are you certain he attacked you because of your knowledge of the child?"
"Pretty damn certain. Although..."
"Although what?" he demanded, now finished playing nursemaid and stepping away from her tersely.
"It doesn't seem enough. There is no doubt that far more people than the Death Eaters will learn of the child eventually. He cannot possibly curse them all. So why me?"
Snape narrowed his eyes in thought, tilting his head and frowning slightly. "Then perhaps it was not your knowledge of the child's existence itself. Perhaps it was your knowledge of its purpose. You said it yourself that it was unlikely that Dumbledore knew of the prophecy concerning it -- but if he did, then chances are you are the one not meant to know of it."
"But that makes no sense -- nearly every culture knows some equivocal version of it, the birth of some evil thing meant to bring about the destruction of the world. Even Muggles---"
"Perhaps it's the equivocalness of their versions that makes them irrelevant," he cut in. "They are unaware of the specifics, the dates, the true signs. Their ignorance keeps them safe -- for now -- but you knew. You know precisely what this child means to the world, and you shouldn't -- not in Dumbledore's eyes, at least, which makes you a threat."
"A threat to what, for God's sake?!" she exclaimed. "What does he want with it?"
"Any response to that question cannot be a positive one." Snape shook his head, and might have looked disbelieving if it weren't for the deep scowl on his face. "If he did indeed know of the importance of this child before you spoke with him about it, efforts would have been made to stop it before it ever came to be. Providing, of course, that he was ever truly on the side of Light."
"It is not yet too late; something can still be done. We can tell the Ministry---"
"No. They would never believe us. Dumbledore holds Cornelius Fudge in the palm of his hand, and against his word, ours is worth nothing."
There was quiet between them for a long while following that, each caught up in their own ruminations.
Dumbledore had turned Dark -- though 'turned' was something of a variable. Snape could not say with total honesty that he was surprised. Extremely disquieted, yes, but not wholly surprised. His employer -- perhaps former employer now -- was a wizard of immense power and influence, and even the noblest of men have their limits. Dumbledore had turned Dark. The only question was when. How long had the headmaster been keeping up the façade of righteousness that had gained him the trust and confidence of the wizarding world throughout Europe, and quite possibly beyond? Did he ally himself with anyone, and if so, whom?
The thought that Dumbledore could very easily be collaborating his efforts with Lord Voldemort was dreadfully plausible to the potions master, and it gave him cause to wonder how many times the Dark Lord had turned a blind eye to both he and Acantha's treachery, how many of their so-called 'great risks' were in vain. Perhaps they had not been spies at all, but messengers; not merely pawns, but deaf and blind court jesters, humiliated and laughed at behind their backs as the white and red kings cordially corresponded through them. The thought of it made Snape's blood boil. He did not take being made a fool of lightly, and a degradation on a scale such as this, he refused to allow to escape retribution. To others, vengeance was a duty -- to Severus Snape, it was an inspiration, something to be crafted carefully and utilised artfully, and already the gears were turning in his brain on how to bring his displeasure to the attention of the guilty parties.
Acantha's mind was running along similar lines, namely those concerning Dumbledore's persuasive capabilities over the wizarding world. She swallowed, her throat burning dry, and sat unsteadily down on the sheet-covered sofa as a hushed "Oh..." escaped her.
"What is it?"
"We can't return to the school, either of us. Dumbledore controls Fudge, therefore he controls the Ministry, and I sincerely doubt he pleased about two of his employees -- both of which know things he believes they should not -- escaping his grasp. Forget Obliviating -- he's not going to want us alive at all." She looked up at him, trepidation plain to read on her face. "Severus...when all is said and done, we are Death Eaters. Dumbledore was the only card we had to play against prosecution. Without his support...we're branded, and that is all anyone will see. Everyone will know our names, our faces....They'll come for us, and..."
"And if Dumbledore is in league with the Dark Lord, they'll be coming from both sides," he finished for her, and she nodded. There was another quiet spell, this time broken by the crack of the palm of his hand on the endtable that caused her to jump. "Damn it," he hissed, not bothering to conceal his frustration. She would see through him in a second if he tried. "Well then, I suppose we're fugitives," he sneered, voice dripping with sarcasm and false enthusiasm, "and with nothing but our wands and the clothes on our backs."
"No." Sinistra shook her head. "We have each other to trust."
"Oh, do we?"
She stood abruptly and advanced toward him, forcing him to take a step back. "Don't you dare question my fidelity, Snape, not now, or so help me I will kill you myself! It was you who said we would not survive unless we trusted each other, not I, and don't you even think about going back on that word!"
He matched her dangerous glare and did not apologise, but did not argue with her, either, and she took it to mean the same -- there was no time for stubbornness over something so trivial as spoken words when actions told far more, and far more vociferously.
"We have to go," she muttered, turning away from him and pacing cagily back over to the sofa.
"Where?"
"Anywhere but here. It's too obvious."
"Are you suggesting we hide?"
"Oh no," she said gravely, "not in the least. No. I was frightened before, but now I'm just pissed off. I worked long and hard to build my life, and I'll be damned if I am going to let anyone -- anyone -- take it away from me without a fight, especially not a couple of duplicitous, megalomaniacal old men. We are going to find this Dark Heir and, if need be, destroy it, expose Dumbledore, clear our names, and return to our lives after being welcomed back as heroes with open, bloody grateful arms by our acquaintances, colleagues and students!"
"...while I admire your...fortitude," he said slowly, "I'm afraid you've stumbled across a slight problem: Potter. As much as I may dislike the boy, I...do owe his father a life debt, a debt which I now must pay through the son. With Dumbledore having turned to the Dark---"
"Potter is in no danger," she interrupted. "If Dumbledore wanted the boy dead, he would have killed him long ago. I don't yet know what it is, but Potter has a part to play in all of this, and until he performs that part, Dumbledore will not harm him."
Snape looked reluctant. They did not have time for reluctant.
"Trust me, Severus," she whispered forcefully, "Potter can wait. First we save the world, and then we save the boy. Your debt will not be left unpaid."
After an apprehensive moment, he nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and in that moment, their quest had begun.
+++
The soft scratching sound of quill against parchment filled the room, little taps as he dotted the I's, longer almost-rips as he crossed the T's, or scrawled out an especially curvy letter. Dumbledore had made a mistake in his approach to Sinistra, one that he would, in due time, rectify. The woman had startled him with her knowledge of the child's true purpose; his decision had been rash, but not wholly unwise. She and Snape would have had to have been cut out of the picture eventually, and perhaps it was better that that happened sooner rather than later.
There was no doubt in his mind that Acantha had gone to Severus after she had fled from him, and he had not followed her beyond the spiralling staircase leading to and from his office. If he had learned but one thing in his many years of life, it was that people were predictable. She trusted the potions master, and Snape was far more likely to believe an equal than a superior, regardless of the history between them. They would have left by now -- he was quite certain of that.
He glanced up at the sound of someone rapping at his office door, the second time he had heard the sound that day, and he responded to this one the same as the first.
"Come in."
The door opened, revealing a most concerned-looking deputy headmistress. "Albus," she greeted him, her anxiety making her tone more formal than usual. "I received your summons; what is it?"
He quickly signed the letter, and rolled it up as he spoke. "Minerva, if you would be good enough to go down to Severus' classroom and tell his students that they are to return to their common rooms until further notice?"
McGonagall frowned, a puzzled expression on her face. "And what of Severus himself?"
"He will not be there. Please, Minerva. When you return, I shall inform you and the other faculty members of the reason why." He held a cube of red sealing wax up to a candle's flame to melt it before pressing it against the parchment roll, which he then stamped with the Hogwarts seal. McGonagall's befuddlement only amplified.
"Albus, what's happened?" she persisted, to which he held up a silencing hand.
"The students, Minerva, please."
The witch looked apprehensive, but turned and left to do what was asked of her. Once she had gone, Dumbledore rose and tied the parchment roll to the leg of a tawny owl waiting patiently on the windowsill. "To Cornelius Fudge," he instructed it. The owl hooted once in acknowledgement, and took flight. That took care of the Ministry, and he had other means of contacting his more...malevolent...associate.
The two spies-cum-fugitives would quickly learn that they were no longer welcome in this dangerous game. This was too big, too important to be foiled by a mere two insubordinate, lowly school professors. This child was power, Dark power in its rawest form, and young enough to be harnessed, moulded into a shape of his would-be fathers' choosing -- namely, their own.
Some would say that Dumbledore had lived too long. They were wrong -- he had not lived long enough. The Philosopher's Stone would ensure that he would not die, yes, but it would not bring him youth, and youth was what he needed, what he craved. The Flamels had been of no help in that department, nor would they ever be; the Imperius Curse was a handy little tool. An order for the centuries-old couple to tell the world that the stone had been destroyed, and a short, believable time later, an order for their hearts to stop and their lungs to stiffen. Dumbledore had amused himself for a short while following their deaths as to whether they had been homicides, or suicides. He still wasn't entirely sure.
But this child would bring him youth, youth that he could gain without sacrificing any of his hard-won power. It had been a difficult decision, many decades ago, when he had contemplated where his ambitions would reap for him the most benefits -- in Darkness, or in Light. His defeat of Grindelwald in the 1940s had been the chisel that had finally carved that decision in stone. He had followed the Dark wizard's rise to power most carefully, studied the chinks in his defences, and in his aggressions, and had found many flaws -- too many flaws. They were always innate in evil. And so he had put those flaws to his advantage, had made a name for himself as a hero, someone to be respected, admired. He had gained power, and the strength of that Light power had endured just as he'd known it would.
Evil is a sprinter; it comes on quickly, bursting to life at top speed, but it rapidly exhausts itself, must stop and rest for some time before it is prepared to start again. Good was different -- a steadily-paced marathon runner, persevering progressively along in an eternal race. Like the Tortoise and the Hare in an eternal competition on a circular track -- but good does not always triumph over evil. There is a balance, with evil surging ahead and then falling behind as good plods alongside -- the same distances are reached, the same times accomplished, only through different methods and means.
He'd waited patiently, over thirty years, for the next Dark Lord to rise, this one just as obsessed as the last with eternal life. But this one was different -- not just a bloodthirsty tyrant, as Grindelwald had been, but a man of intelligence, a most dangerous intelligence. Dumbledore had always had a feeling about young Tom Marvolo Riddle, and apparently, that feeling had not been unsubstantiated. Tom, unlike Grindelwald, had had the fiercely cunning mind necessary to not only gain power, but keep it.
Over his numerous years, Albus Dumbledore had learned a great many things. He had travelled the world, absorbing every piece of information that had crossed his path, every rumoured prophecy, every vague reference to power and youth, and how both could be infinitely attained. In the year 1868, two years after he'd graduated from Hogwarts, he'd run across a band of wizarding Gypsies living in Romania. Astea se plimbe cu Balaur, they'd called themselves, the Dragonwalkers, for they travelled and lived amongst the Romanian Longhorns, followed their migration routes, studied them, even befriended them at times, if one dragon was particularly good-natured and feeling sociable. He'd come across the tribe while fulfilling his own desire to examine the magical creatures -- they often met outsiders who wished to speak with them regarding the dragons, how they interacted with the beasts and other such things. One girl in particular -- Sabina, that was her name -- had taken a fancy to him, and had managed to convince her father, the Rom baro of the tribe, to allow the young foreigner to stay with them for a few days.
The girl couldn't have been more than thirteen and was a giddy little thing, but her knowledge of her people's ways was extensive, and she told him much about the Longhorns, and the customs of her tribe. More than that, she seemed to possess an uncanny knowledge of the stars -- she had been taught by her grandmother, she'd said, to read the skies, to look for signs. "What sort of signs?" he'd asked her, and that was when she'd told him about the prophecy of the fiu de dracului. It was not anything he had not heard before -- prophecies of Armageddon are never uncommon -- but something about this particular version struck him, stuck with him long after he'd left the tribe, much to Sabina's disappointment. He began to research everything he could get his hands on concerning the signs she had told him of, took to studying both magical and Muggle astronomy texts and reports, everything relating to the scientific exploration of outer space and its phenomenons. In time, his calculations had given him something that the Gypsies did not have in their possession, something that had all but caused him to completely forget about them entirely: In 1953, both his efforts and the world's advances in astronomy, especially the Muggle space program, had awarded him with not only a date, but a location as well.
The date, location and prophecy had been the olive branch he had extended to Voldemort early on in the Dark Lord's reign. After careful scrutiny, the Dark wizard had agreed, and the secret alliance, covered up by rumours that the Dumbledore was the only person the Dark Lord feared, had been cemented. Between the two of them, they had come up with the Denuogero Spell -- a complex and difficult spell that would transfer their minds into the Dark Heir's body once they felt he was ready, when he could wield enough power to ensure their safety after the transference and thus, their longevity. Dumbledore would have his youth again, Voldemort would have the Muggle eradication he so richly hungered for, and with their keen minds and a powerful young body, eternal youth would be an easy task to accomplish. It was the perfect plan.
It had nearly been ruined by a one-year-old boy. Lily Potter's sacrifice had all but killed Lord Voldemort in a moment of the cruellest irony, and though Dumbledore had not truly thought the Dark Lord dead, that time of celebration had afforded him very little time to search for whatever might have been left of the other wizard. It had, however, afforded him a great deal of time to think.
He knew that when the child was born, there would be no question in regards to its Dark power. Its eyes would reflect that much -- red eyes, blood eyes, found only in the blackest of hearts, the Darkest, most powerful of wizards, and even then, it was a gradual progression into such a bleak madness. This child would be born with these eyes, and the side of Light, no matter how indebted to Dumbledore they might have felt, would likely kill the infant three times over before they would consent to protect it. He had needed Voldemort and his Death Eaters to be certain that the child would be cosseted until he could perform the reincarnating spell. With the Dark Lord temporarily indisposed and with no way of knowing when that matter might turn otherwise, Dumbledore began to think of ways to realise his vision without the other wizard's aid. None of the options were very appealing, each of them promising great risk to his credibility. But then, thirteen years later, the solution presented itself in the most unlikely of places -- Harry Potter.
Potter, who had unwittingly reduced the Dark Lord to a mere shell of himself as an infant. Potter, with whom Voldemort became obsessed, nearly as much as returning to a corporeal form. Potter, who, along with his two meddlesome sidekicks, had discovered the Philosopher's Stone in their first year at Hogwarts, and had nearly destroyed Voldemort for a second time.
Dumbledore had been rather displeased about the last, though it had brought the Dark Lord's continuing existence to light. It wasn't until the supposedly dead servant Wormtail, who had been hiding under his nose for seven years, had returned to his master that the headmaster was able to make amends with his wicked ally. Bartemius Crouch, Jr.'s defiance of his father had only made things easier. Crouch's gift to the Dark Lord had been the deliverance of Potter at the TriWizard Tournament, and Dumbledore's gift had been to turn a blind eye on the young man's activities as Alastor Moody -- until, of course, the boy escaped, and the need to point a finger was greater than the need for Harry's death -- as well as a few well-placed clues regarding the morphing of the Denuogero Spell into something that could restore Lord Voldemort to his proper body. Potter's blood, meant to bring back to life the same person his mother had died to protect him from. It had been the perfect plan, and this time, it had worked. Potter had unwittingly proven himself useful more than once to Dumbledore's plans, and he had a feeling that there was still a bit of worth left in the boy's life. When that worth expended itself, then and only then would he again give the Dark Lord the freedom to do with Harry what he pleased.
He walked over to the fireplace near Fawkes' cage, lit a fire in it with a wave of his hand and tossed in a handful of glittering violet powder to summon the other professors to his office by a burst of purple flames from the fireplaces in their classrooms, the signal that he needed to see all of them at once, and that they were to dismiss their students to their respective common rooms. It had not been difficult to cook up a story to give them regarding the sudden absence of the Potions and Astronomy professors, and he would keep the lie consistent -- the other professors, the students, the Ministry and the Daily Prophet would all receive the same sordid tale. The first and the third group were well aware that Severus had spied on Voldemort on Dumbledore's behalf, but they did not know that he had return to the Dark Lord's fold, nor that Acantha had joined him this time around. What he would tell them would take but a small leap of faith for the others to believe in days as wrought with doubt as these.
With a brief sigh, he reached into the pocket of his robes and withdrew his gold pocketwatch. For all intents and purposes, it could be considered broken now -- the planets had all stopped ticking into place at precisely 12:00 a.m. the night before, the precise moment the Dark Heir had been born.
He was debating whether or not to keep it for sentimental value when another knock resounded through the door -- the faculty members had arrived. Grave expression set firmly in place, the headmaster replaced the watch back in its pocket, bade them entrance, and prepared to let the turncoats' sentence be known.
+++
"I still can't believe it," Harry mumbled to himself with a shake of his head. He, Ron and Hermione sat in a shadowy corner of the Gryffindor common room, whispering conspiratorially amongst themselves after returning from the assembly in the Great Hall that Dumbledore had called that afternoon not half an hour after McGonagall had shown up in the Potions classroom when Snape had not returned and ordered them to their dormitories.
"I do," Ron muttered back, his blue eyes squinting suspiciously. "I always knew that greasy git wasn't really on our side. At least with him gone, Slytherin's definitely out of the running for the House Cup this year."
"I'm inclined to agree with Harry on this one," Hermione said, sounding almost apologetic. "It just doesn't make any sense. Snape believed in Dumbledore's cause enough to risk life and limb to spy on You-Know-Who for him. A couple tups from Sinistra is all it took for him to give up those beliefs? I don't buy it."
Ron grimaced as though he was about to be ill. "Oh, nasty, Hermione -- you kiss your mother with that mouth?"
"All right, so it's not the most pleasant thought in the world, I'll admit, but that doesn't make it any less ridiculous," she maintained. "I mean, let's review: Sinistra's a Death Eater -- that much at least has to be true, lest she could simply turn herself in and have her name cleared from the lack of the Dark Mark burned into her arm, right?" The boys nodded. "Right. So she and Dumbledore are walking up to his office, she trips on the stairs and hits her head. The sleeve of her robes gets pushed up, and he sees You-Know-Who's mark on her arm. He doesn't have his wand on him, so he can't stun her, and she gets away, runs down to tell Snape she's been found out, and they run off together."
"Yes, Hermione," Ron agreed, giving her a patronising pat on the head. "That is the story. Good to know that giant brain of yours has its limits and you're slow on the uptake on something."
She swatted his hand away, annoyed. "No! Honestly, were you either of you listening to a word of what I just said?"
She was met with two mute stares, one puzzled, one blank, and sighed in exasperation.
"Professor Snape. Running off with Professor Sinistra. Running off with anyone, for that matter, because of some romantic inclination. Professor Sinistra, a Death Eater, who presumably was carrying her wand at the time of Dumbledore's discovery. Death Eater. Wandless Dumbledore. And she runs away. It's completely illogical!" she exclaimed, nearing the point of hyperventilation.
Harry tilted his head thoughtfully. "The theory does have some holes in it---"
"For instance, a woman actually finding Snape attractive," Ron put in.
"---but," Harry continued, "Hermione, it's Dumbledore. It's a far-fetched story in places, yes, but...these things do happen. He wouldn't -- I mean, what reason would he have for..." he trailed off, an uneasy frown settling on his features.
"Look," Hermione sighed, "I'm only saying...these are suspicious times, Harry, and the world is filled with shades of grey. People aren't always what they seem. In our first year, we thought Snape was trying to kill you, when he was actually trying to save your life---"
"Save it for who? You heard Dumbledore -- Snape's gone back to Voldemort. We always thought he was Dark -- well, now he's proved us right. Dumbledore is not evil."
"That's not what I meant---" Hermione started, but he didn't let her finish.
"Yes, it is. You want to know why these are suspicious times, Hermione? Because people like you don't know what to trust," Harry snapped, then stood abruptly and headed for his dormitory.
"Harry..."
"No," Ron sighed as he watched his best friend depart. "Let him go."
"Ron, you believe me, don't you? I mean, you don't think I...that I think Dumbledore's..."
The boy sighed again and shook his head. "I don't know what to believe. I think there's definitely more to this than meets the eye, but that's true of everything these days. You just...you need to understand where he's coming from, Hermione. Dumbledore's practically family to Harry. I'm not saying you're accusing him of anything, just...watch what you say about him -- about all of this -- especially in front of Harry."
She nodded, but looked no less worried. "You're right. It's just so hard sometimes. I get so scared for him, and it's so infuriating...I only want to examine every angle and possibility, because if I don't, and everything we know turns out to be wrong..."
"I know. He'll come around eventually. Just give him time to think things through. That's always been the one thing he never gets, when it comes right down to it."
Hermione stared at him as though he had a Flobberworm crawling out of his nose.
"What? Have I got a bogie or something?" he asked.
"When did you get so insightful?"
He gave her wry, lopsided grin and shrugged, his face reddening. "It's just logic," he mumbled. "You know."
She smiled, sniffed a haughty "Of course I know," but sobered almost immediately. "I wonder what they're doing right now. Snape and Sinistra, that is."
Ron made a face. "If the story Dumbledore fed us is true, I do not want to know."
"Oh, honestly, Ron," she scoffed at him, leaning back against the wall. "If they Apparate to get wherever it is they're going, the Ministry's going to be able to track them."
"Yeah..."
There was a short silence between them, until Ron leapt up from his slouch against the windowsill. "We need to think about something else for awhile," he said. "At least, I do. Come on, you can lose to me at chess again."
"How thrilling," she dryly remarked, but started for the nearest table regardless. "All right. But only one game. Then I'm going to kill you at exploding snap."
"Bring it on."
End chapter two. To come in chapter three: The journey begins. [insert melodramatic music here]
Denuogero - from the Latin denuo, meaning 'again', and gero, meaning 'birth'. I think. I mean, I'm almost sure of it.
Rom baro - lit. "big man"; chief
Astea se plimbe cu Balaur - roughly translated, "those who walk with dragons"
Endnotes: Thank you's must go out to bosch, Atheis, Helena (even though she was semi-obligated to ;), and Masala the Great for reviewing. Hope you lot (as well as any others who may be reading this) enjoyed this chapter as much as the last, and I hope that Dumbledore's past wasn't too confusingly-worded. It got a bit muddled in my head for short spell, but I think it sorted itself out all right...