NINETEEN.

'I will not go.'

'You will go, you first-grade idiot. You are bleeding all over yourself.'

Severus shoved the man into a chair. Ludvig was breathing hard. His shoulder was splayed open, each wound the memory of a claw.

'I will go to a muggle hospital later.'

'In a coffin, maybe,' Severus mocked.

'I will not go to the healer.'

With shaking hands, Severus rummaged in the cabinet. The glass vials clinked. He could still hear the bear's roar in his ears. It would have woken up by now, confused by the blood marks on its paws.

'Drink,' he ordered, pressing a bottle into Ludvig's hand. 'If you won't go see the healer, you will drink what I give you.'

The squib hesitated. When Severus uncorked another bottle and made to pour it over the wounds on his chest, he winced away.

'I don't have time for this. Drink or I will make you.'

Ludvig shut his eyes. His mouth was twitching. 'I will do it myself.'

'Fine.'

Leaving him to it, Severus made his escape. He rushed down the corridor, passing empty classrooms and arches stained with time, and ran into the nearest bathroom, where he was promptly sick into the toilet bowl.

The nausea passed through him in waves. His skin went cold and clammy with it. The moment the instinct to retch had passed, another wrenched his stomach and pulled at his tongue. It felt like a thing that would never go away; a thing that could never end.

He wanted to believe that he'd been right. That he had allowed Harry to have too much and so had caused all this to happen. But if he believed that, he would need to accept the inevitable conclusion that Harry was now either dead or dying, driven as he'd been into the open arms of a murderer.

He saw now, playing over and over behind his eyelids, the remembered image of Sirius Black putting himself in front of Harry's body when Severus aimed his wand at them.

If Severus had been wrong, then Harry might be alive.

He slouched on the floor, resting his temple against the cool edge of the toilet. What did it matter if he'd been right or wrong? It changed nothing. He had been one spell away from killing a man Harry had been desperate to protect, and he had been renounced very plainly. Karkaroff might have been a fool, but he had been right in one respect: it seemed to Severus decidedly suspicious that the white-out had come just as Harry was taken and eased off when they had caught up to him.

If Harry did not wish to be found, Severus would not find him.

Albus's words rang in his ears. I don't think Lord Voldemort will allow himself to be found unless he wishes to be found. It almost made Severus laugh. Even now, he was helpless to resist surrounding himself with those more powerful than he would ever be. Considering that Severus despised feeling inferior, he wondered what self-destructive deviance this was evidence of.

What did it matter, then, if Sirius Black was innocent or guilty? It made no difference anymore to Severus. As he sat there, he decided piteously that nothing made a difference to him anymore, and immediately despised himself for how pathetic this sounded.

Not a peep out of him.

Despite himself, he straightened. He tried to recall the exact wording of Lamotte's letter. He had found it bizarre then, but maybe he should not have written it off as either whimsy or early-onset dementia. He'd had the distinct sense that he was being taunted; perhaps he'd been right.

What was it that Harry had said? That Pettigrew was an Animagus like Black? Severus had assumed Black would have picked up the skill from a helpful inmate, but what if the whole merry gang of them had experimented with transfiguration long before James Potter's death, perhaps inspired by Lupin's deviance? A rat, Harry had said. Ron Weasley's rat, which Severus knew had gone missing back in October. Harry had been adamant Severus promise to report to him any rats he saw running around the dungeons.

It was a mad tale. But if Black was telling the truth and Pettigrew had been the one to betray Lily and Potter, did it not make sense that he would have run once he knew Black was coming for him? And if he ran, where would he have gone to seek protection if not Lucius Malfoy, whose past as Death Eater was a secret so poorly kept Severus could not imagine anyone not knowing about it?

He pushed himself to standing. He went to find Ludvig again.

'I need to get to England,' he said. 'You cannot take me. How do I get there?'

Ludvig did not interrogate him. He shut his eyes for a moment as he thought through the pain. Severus noted that some of the worse wounds on him had begun to close over. 'Can you put charms on your body to keep warm?'

Not ones effective enough to fight off the arctic air completely, but Ludvig would have understood as much. 'Obviously.'

'Then go see Viktor Krum.'

Severus did not teach Viktor Krum and Severus had never really spoken to Viktor Krum, aside from earlier today, when he'd come to report Harry missing. He had only what Harry had told him of the boy to work with, and he found himself stupefied with hesitation at the door to his dorm, entirely unsure of what strategy would win him his aid.

He did not have the luxury of time. He rapped on the door with his knuckles, taking that moment to observe his hand and ensure it had stopped shaking.

The boy that appeared on the other side of the door did not much look like the boy from Harry's stories. He was already in his nightclothes, loose and stained. His black eyes struck Severus as hollow.

'Any news?' he asked evenly. He sounded like a grown man. The depth of his voice made Severus uneasy.

'Potter's alive,' Severus said. 'But I have failed in bringing him back. May I come in?'

Krum darted a glace over his shoulder. He hesitated. 'Yes.'

As Severus drew the door softly shut, he surveyed the room. It would have been a large enough space for one boy but clearly not if the boy in question was Viktor Krum. Bags and parcels piled in rickety towers wherever you looked, some torn open and left empty but others apparently untouched. Clothes lay strewn around the room. The far wall flickered gently with magic due to what Severus assumed was a cleverly placed enlargement charm, more space forced in between the corners. School books sat on the low table by the fire among half-empty mugs that smelled strongly of hops and mould. Severus could not imagine how the boy ever did any work; there was no room to lay out a scroll of parchment, never mind sit.

'You might consider allowing a squib in here to clean from time to time,' Severus suggested before he thought better of it. 'I am sure many would keel over at the offer.'

'I don't like people to touch my things.'

Severus forced himself to take on an amiable tone. 'Bogdanova was correct when she suspected Sirius Black might have taken Potter. I cannot go into detail, but I am not able to retrieve him at this moment in time. There is something urgent that I must take care of in England that should allow me to persuade Black into returning the boy.'

Krum nodded. His expression was inscrutable. Severus felt entirely out of his depth. He was struck with the suspicion the boy had been taught Occlumency. It was not entirely unheard of among pureblood families.

If he was a trained Occlumens and he felt Severus palming at his mind to check, he would most certainly refuse to help him. Severus had thought it had been undignified to play nice with Amelia Bones, but it was nothing at all compared to having to be so bloody careful around a teenage heartthrob hoarder with raging depression.

No. It would take too long to continue beating around the bush. 'I need you to take me to the south-side harbour. Ludvig is unable to accompany me, and he claims you are the second-best musher in Durmstrang.'

'You can't drive the boat.'

Again, Krum showed no emotion. Severus tried to decide in himself if he would say please if he had to.

'I'll take Potter's Nimbus with me,' he explained. 'I will fly south-west until I get close enough that I am able to apparate the rest of the way.'

He was not looking forward to any of it. The older he got, the less Severus could be bothered with flying.

Krum was shaking his head. Severus's throat seized. He needed to go. He had not the time to convince him—

'You should take my Firebolt,' Krum said. 'It is faster.'

Severus watched him scutter around the room, socked feet stepping carefully around hills of rubbish as he tried to locate the right broom. Severus had spied four different models already, and there was no telling what else lay buried in the mess.

'This one.' Krum handed it to him. The polished wood was cool in Severus's hold. He waited for a warning to be careful, or a demand to promise he would return it intact, but none came. He was quickly discovering Viktor Krum was not the talkative sort.

Severus registered little of the way to England. He was used now to the cold and to the descending dark, used to the smell of dog breath and to the guilt and anxiety seated deep within his chest; used, even, to the thoughts of manoeuvres and contingencies running through his mind in the silence of the wilderness. It was only when he'd first kicked off the ground, that first moment of jarring propulsion and the world thinning itself around him, that he felt he was there—that his breath knotted in his throat in a facsimile of rabid joy, that his eyes watered as the wind struck his face.

He cut it a little close with apparition, too impatient to wait, and splinched himself rather badly, a substantial chunk of the flesh on his shoulder disappeared into the rolling waters of the ocean. He'd lost three fingernails, too, and a further two on his toes. The lack of those especially burned like hell. Grinding his teeth together, he pulled off his shoes and poured a vial of Dittany straight over the sock, glued to the wound with bubbling blood.

As he produced the other two bottles he'd brought with him and took care of his shoulder and hands, Severus admired the building that rose in the distance. It had been many years since he'd visited Lamotte's residence. He'd been a little worried he would no longer be allowed in, but no barrier had interrupted his apparition and no furious house elves had manifested to curse him into oblivion.

He had been fond of this place, once. Unlike Malfoy Manor, it looked less a castle and more an overgrown house, glittering bloody orange in the setting sun and so overwhelmingly old you could smell it. Lamotte hated how simple it was and worked tirelessly to add glamour where he could: tall fountains rose among the luscious gardens, the water molten crystal and the statues all black marble and gold; a glass dome had been added over one of the tall dining rooms to let in starlight as his guests ate; streams of gold crisscrossed the stone path that led from the apparition point to the house, glimmering fishes and water snakes moving whisperingly under your feet as you stepped between the bubbling gaps. Lamotte's dedication to rendering this stunning bit of wizarding history a monument to excess and poor taste was a running joke in pureblood circles. Severus had always made sure to smirk with them, though privately he could not look at the house and muster any feeling except childlike wonder. This was how he'd dreamed the wizarding world to look like when he was a little boy: as far removed from his drab everyday in Cokeworth as possible.

A house elf welcomed him at the door and led Severus to a reading room to wait. Severus eyed eagerly the biscuits, cheeses and wine he'd been presented with—he had not had the time to eat much today, and his foot still ached in a way that a glass of wine could only help dull—but he was strangely wary of eating anything in the house. He suspected it had something to do with tales of faerie kingdoms and the fear of giving in.

'Severus,' Lamotte exclaimed when he appeared a half-hour later. Severus had not allowed himself to grow impatient: he was well aware it took Lamotte upwards of an hour to get dressed for entertaining. He must have rushed tonight. 'How lovely.'

If he'd rushed, then he must have been eager to see him.

Severus could think of only one reason why this would be.

'He's still here,' he said. 'The Malfoys left Pettigrew here. Is that right?'

There was the barest twitch in Lamotte's cheery expression. He was a man well-versed in stretching out inanities, not in cutting to the chase. 'Won't you have some wine first—or whatever else you would like, perhaps—'

The relief Severus felt threatened to overwhelm him. He'd been wrong. He'd been entirely, completely wrong—and Harry was very likely still alive.

'Quentin,' Severus said. 'I want to see Pettigrew.'

Lamotte examined him closely. 'I am not sure that is such a good idea, Severus. Lucius has entrusted me with the poor man's wellbeing—they had Draco coming over for Christmas, and you know how overprotective Lucius gets, they did not wish to keep him there—and I would hate to put him in an uncomfortable situation. He's already so on edge, what with Sirius Black on the lam and our dear Harry having tried to drown him in his dorm—and you do not sound entirely as though you wish for a pleasant reunion.'

'I wish to violate his mind with Leglimency or Veritaserum, if need be, until I get my answers. And if my suspicions are correct, I wish to tear him limb to limb until he is only a brain and a spinal cord, unable to see, hear or feel anything but the pain of death.'

Lamotte nodded sagely. 'That is as I feared,' he said sadly.

'I will not touch him. It would bring me great satisfaction, but it would be of little benefit to the boy. Or to you.'

A grin split Lamotte's lips. 'I was wondering when you'd come to see me about this matter, Severus. I am surprised it has taken you so long. I began to feel a little offended that you were at best skimming through my letters.'

Severus thanked the stars that Quentin Lamotte had no loyalty at all to any cause except his own.

'There is no benefit to hiding Pettigrew,' he spoke slowly, choosing carefully each word. 'But if an esteemed auror were to capture him and present Amelia Bones' department with evidence of Ministry stupidity, he would most certainly be hailed a hero of justice. Sirius Black would be exonerated and given the child he is owed as compensation for the years he'd spent in Azkaban. The boy would become the Black heir. It is a rather special heritage, is it not? Even now, the name means something, and it would mean so much more still if the beacon of pureblood tradition were to be passed into the Golden Boy's little hands.'

'An inspiring tale,' Lamotte agreed. 'It would certainly be to the benefit of young Harry. Perhaps to the benefit of the entire magical society. But you mentioned my benefit, Severus.'

Severus swallowed down the anger. He was weaving exactly the future Lamotte preferred for the boy. What more did the nightmare want? What would satisfy him?

'No need to face off against Albus Dumbledore,' he bit out. 'No debates with Amelia Bones or Charlene Cress. If you wished to help guide the boy along his future path, you would need to speak solely to him or to Sirius Black—the man you have saved from the claws of injustice.'

'I am not sure the boy likes me. He has sent back my Christmas present. I am not sure Sirius Black's good word will be enough to convince him.'

He locked eyes with Severus.

Severus imagined the outrage on Harry's face if he ever learned of the hypocrisy he was about to commit.

'You do not need Sirius Black's good word,' he said. 'All you need is mine.'

To hell with it. The boy was unlikely to ever speak with Severus again, and if he did, Severus would explain the difference between entering into a bad alliance for a new broom and entering into one to save a man's life. Fuck Sirius Black.

'Well.' Lamotte said. 'I suppose I've made you wait long enough. I am sure you're eager to speak to your old friend, Severus.'