That morning, it was not only Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Supreme Mugwump et cetera, who had no chance of peacefully drinking his morning tea or getting a single bite down—every mouthful stuck in his throat. A nearly identical physical reaction seized practically everyone who wore the known Mark: some choked on their drinks, some on their food. Yes—a newspaper at breakfast could be a dangerous thing. This applied, naturally, to those with access to the press, not to the inmates of Azkaban.
But oh, how the halfblood had outmanoeuvred them all. In a way no one could have imagined. Of course, Snape's move produced different reactions among his former associates, but the majority—as graduates of Slytherin and Ravenclaw—awarded his performance in the current situation the highest possible mark: Outstanding. And were not at all averse to adopting his approach. Because it was simply breathtaking.
In practice, that phrase, repeated among themselves rather too often, concealed burning curiosity—because how? How had he managed, without money, without connections, without patrons, to surface so brilliantly that even approaching him now felt like a delicate operation?
Approach him he must, and the sooner the better—decided Lucius Malfoy, sitting down to write a letter.
* * *
"Reviving the Dark Lord? You're—certain?" Augusta Longbottom's voice dripped scepticism. "Don't you have enough problems?"
"Where on earth did you find that ritual?" Walburga Black turned to Hagrid. "Bone, flesh, and blood, honestly! I couldn't find anything like that even in our library. Rubeus—did you perhaps dream it?"
Andrei merely raised an eyebrow.
"We are certain that we need a Parselmouth," Severus said flatly.
He had no intention of abandoning the idea of obtaining basilisk venom—Hagrid's suggestion—particularly since his instincts were practically screaming that this was precisely the missing ingredient in his current work. The Mark was entirely unwelcome, even in its legalised form. And if he removed it, the prospects that opened up were rather promising. In the end, had he survived all of this for nothing? The Aurors, the Order— Brr.
Last week he had been foolish enough to relax and go out to Malperber's for supplies, and then onto Diagon Alley. There he had been forced to deploy every evasion technique he possessed to avoid former classmates, their mothers, and several completely unknown women—escaping with nothing worse than autographs on the newspaper in question. Though when someone suggested he autograph their— no, he refused to think about that. It was precisely then that he had perfected the technique of imitating a bat in flight and slipping past three deranged women who had, for reasons entirely unclear to him, decided they were his admirers, and were apparently not shy about announcing it to the full length of the alley. Where was this world going?
Since then he had moved freely only in his own house or at Grimmauld, and people had taken to recognising him by his distinctive rapid walk and billowing robes—but fortunately, thanks to that same walk, no one had caught him yet.
"If you prefer not to participate, very well—we'll manage on our own," he said.
After comparing the Black and Prince libraries from a potioneer's perspective, the latter had come out firmly ahead, so Lady Walburga's threat of exclusion held no particular weight. And he had been frightened by worse for long enough.
"You'll manage yourselves straight into an early grave!" Augusta brought her fist down on the table.
"As long as it isn't our own," Snape replied, a syllable ahead of Hagrid.
"Who raised you," Walburga muttered.
"The streets, ma'am," Severus said, with a mild shrug.
"You think I should have thrown my sons out earlier? Both of them?"
"I couldn't say, ma'am. But I appear to be grateful to mine."
"For what, exactly?"
"For teaching me to rely on myself."
"And not to overreach?" Andrei cut in, watching both ladies draw breath simultaneously for what promised to be a grandmother-scale detonation.
"That too," Snape said, quite calmly.
And to adapt quickly, Andrei thought, watching him. Look at him—perfectly at ease with both grandmothers, as if they were family, and still maintaining his distance. And he's not easily pushed around anymore. Hard to believe this is the same material that once voluntarily put his neck under Dumbledore's boot—and then spent years learning to hate himself and everyone else. And got rather good at it.
The discussion of obtaining an early copy of Voldemort from the diary Malfoy was holding continued, while Andrei watched the two ladies with a slightly detached sense of wonder at how alike and how different they were. Lady Black's aristocratic manner and serpentine sharpness, and Augusta's blunt directness with its flavourful turns of phrase—the combination was so peculiar and yet so unexpectedly harmonious that it was hard to believe the women had been feuding since practically childhood. Perhaps opposites really did attract.
"Master Severus, your post," said the house-elf—in a neat toga fashioned from what appeared to be either a pillowcase or a bedsheet—extending a tray of envelopes to Snape. A fairly weighty tray.
Snape nodded, set the tray in front of him, and began methodically checking for curses, scanning the senders' names as he went.
"Oh—from the Headmaster."
"Here, give it to me," Walburga said.
"Loyalty charm," Snape diagnosed, handing it over.
"Primitive," Walburga said, passing her wand over it.
"How ungracious," Augusta observed. "Were I in Severus's position, I might actually take offence."
"My account with the Great and the Light is of rather a different nature," Snape said grimly, cancelling the charm, opening the envelope, and running his eyes over the contents. "He writes that he wishes to congratulate me. Hmm."
"Write back that you're grateful for the congratulations and the kind thought," Walburga suggested.
"And that you wouldn't dream of taking up the time of someone so very occupied with genuinely important matters," Augusta added.
"I would rather like to see him," Severus said, with a thin smile. "From a distance. At considerable distance."
"And what is there to see?" Hagrid asked.
"Nothing, in fact." Snape nodded. "Lipsy—did you take note of the reply? Write the same to everyone whose letters contain similar words and sentiments to this one"—he handed the elf the letter—"in my handwriting. Only be careful with the names—they need to change. Let me show you. Did you write to Dumbledore? Good. Copy it. Now remove his name and titles, and substitute them from the next similar letter. Like this. You see? You understand? You'll manage—you're clever, a proper assistant."
The house-elf, blinking away what appeared to be tears of joy, nodded repeatedly and flew off to carry out the instruction.
"Original," Augusta observed. "You've decided to make a secretary of your house-elf?"
"Why not? I've already discovered that the key is simply to do something together with him once, and then he follows the algorithm perfectly. And, unlike a person, I can actually rely on Lipsy."
"Indeed…" Walburga looked as though she had something worth thinking over.
"And here is an invitation to Malfoy Manor," Andrei interrupted, waving an envelope. He extracted the thick, gold-edged paper from inside.
"No charms."
"As is proper," Walburga informed him. "Poor form, to charm an invitation. For those who understand these things. Well then—shall we prepare our young gentleman for the occasion?"
"No—this is a private invitation."
"Straight to that…"
"Lucius Malfoy was Head Boy when I was a first-year."
"So you're acquainted?"
"More than just through school." Snape glanced at his left forearm.
"How are things with that, incidentally?" Andrei asked.
"Why do you think I need basilisk venom?"
"Oh—" both grandmothers said in unison, in perfect two-part harmony. "And the antidote?"
"How exactly would one make an antidote without a measure of the venom itself?"
"Hm—our little Harry hasn't had any encounters with snakes recently, by any chance?" Andrei enquired, just in case.
"It's not the season," Walburga said, with a smile. "They don't tend to crawl around the house, unless they walk on two legs"—she glanced at Snape, who straightened slightly. "Snakes are properly the province of the Gaunts, the Pereverells, and Slytherin. Oh—do you think Harry will speak it?"
"Who knows. The Potters do descend from the Peverells, don't they?"
"I keep being astonished—" Walburga stopped herself. Admitting that the knowledge of some gamekeeper and half-giant about the most distant family connections of old houses frankly astonished her was still beyond her.
"The invitation—is it for tomorrow? What time?" Andrei asked, and immediately explained: "Just in case I need to be on hand."
"But it's Malfoy Manor! The protections—"
"But it's a half-giant!" Severus reminded both grandmothers, not without a hint of pride.
"Yes—with all that entails. Magic does not affect half-giants, as it turned out. Confirmed by a dozen Death Eaters in Godric's Hollow. If you doubt it, I'm happy to give you the opportunity to verify the point personally." Hagrid spread his arms, revealing a formidable expanse of chest in the open collar of his shirt.
Walburga looked faintly displeased, but her mind was already calculating. A genuinely useful quality, when all was said and done. If they managed to bewitch whoever they could bewitch, then whoever they couldn't—or hadn't got to in time—Hagrid would simply flatten. On balance, and all things considered, this was not a bad alliance. And the ancestors, strangely, had not said a single word about the half-giant's presence in the house. Had there been something of the kind in the family history? She should reread certain things.
* * *
It was becoming increasingly difficult for the Auror Office—specifically for its head—to suppress the catastrophe in the Third Department. Primarily because many of its employees had families, some of them quite good ones. And now numerous relatives were quite literally besieging the Ministry, demanding the return of husbands, children, fathers, nephews, and grandfathers from an unexpected extended assignment—or at least permission to contact them.
Scrimgeour was wriggling like a worm on a hot stone, fantasising about hiring only orphans, and trying to construct at least a vaguely plausible account of where and why he had sent twenty Aurors and their department head—not even field operatives—and what remarkable achievement was supposed to justify it. Because telling the honest truth—that someone had cursed the entire department simultaneously—was equivalent to admitting his own incompetence. Followed immediately by tendering his resignation. No: Rufus Scrimgeour was not a man who surrendered.
Salvation came from a modest Muggle-born secretary, who introduced him to the peculiar word quarantine. Half an hour of discussion later, he was ready to call a press conference—for trusted journalists only, naturally—about a strange and hitherto unknown magical virus that had struck the Third Department. Which was done without delay.
The wizarding community gasped, shuddered, and descended on St Mungo's for check-ups. Needless to say, this did not delight the Healers—particularly since an entire wing of the hospital was still firmly occupied by patients who really should not have been released. Or shown to anyone. And now letters were arriving for them.
Though when parcels started arriving, the Healers reconciled themselves somewhat to having to write replies—dictated by patients using gestures, through the glass door, and gestures, as is well known, have limited range. Direct contact was forbidden. Virus. The frightening unfamiliar word had shaken the public, and the queues at St Mungo's even shortened somewhat. House calls were now made only in cases of extreme necessity.
The dog-Aurors showed no reaction whatsoever to sheets of writing held up against the glass. Except for their heads.
He had not become department head for nothing. His thoughts moved slowly, but they moved—and among them, a particular memory was growing brighter: how they had caught Sirius Black, and how Black had behaved. The task was somehow to communicate this insight to the Healers—after all, they had sent Black here in the first place. And by all appearances, they had treated him here.
He gave a masterclass in self-training. He became the favourite of Healers and orderlies alike—the cleverest of the lot. When he had failed on the hundred-and-something-th attempt to pronounce the word Black, he simply pointed to a Healer's black boot. Then to a pattern on his own pyjamas. Then to the black ribbon in a trainee's hair.
They brought him a collection of black objects, at which the poor man howled in despair and nearly lost faith in humanity. He was rescued by a young but very promising trainee who simply said the word aloud: Black.
"Woof!" the department head said—and nodded vigorously.
He nearly rolled onto his back with joy when the excellent young man suggested that a patient by that name might have been admitted and might know something relevant.
Records at the hospital were meticulous, so the Transfiguration Complications ward was identified quickly. And then—disappointment. Sirius Black had not been cured there; he had been taken away by—Hagrid.
The only ray of hope was the same trainee's suggestion that Hagrid might have treated the others too. But things turned out to be more complicated. In Sirius Black's case, his brother had given permission. Releasing a ward full of barking Aurors would require permission from each of their relatives individually.
* * *
Andrei was stirring the well-known porridge—Severus clearly still needed a little more, a spoonful or two, and the grandmothers wouldn't have objected to a portion each; the bulk, however, was intended for Sirius. But he was drawn out of his meditative stirring and his thoughts by a knock at the door. A polite one.
Surely not the Headmaster? He tensed, removing the pot from the heat and covering it. He briefly contemplated what might happen if Dumbledore were offered a bowl, but quickly reconsidered—the rare ingredient was not to be wasted. He was prepared to act according to circumstances.
When he opened the door and found a delegation of Healers in yellow robes, something relaxed in him. Then tightened again immediately. What had happened?
Hagrid waved the visitors in with a broad gesture, remarking that it was no good standing about in the snow.
The visitors, warmed by Hagrid's proprietary herbal tea—the recipe was recited, and no one refused—thawed out, and then asked about Sirius Black. Andrei had to admit that yes, he was well—technically in partial remission, but overall stable.
At this, the Healers looked at Hagrid with large beautiful eyes, and a couple of them appeared to rub those eyes. Then one of them began speaking in the customary medical terminology, Andrei replied, and the emissaries from St Mungo's were obliged to confess that they had an absolutely identical case—twenty-one of them, in fact—and no one could do anything about it.
Hagrid allowed himself his own large-eyed expression. And when it emerged that those twenty-one cases constituted the entire Third Department of the distinguished Auror Office, he had a strong suspicion. And when it was further revealed that it was to this very ward that Sirius Black had been brought after Azkaban, Andrei had considerable difficulty not bursting out laughing.
"This is what comes of disregarding safety protocols! He must have bitten a lot of them."
"Could the curse have been transferred via bite?" one of the Healers ventured.
"Naturally! Though wait—let me verify with him first."
"Could we—come along?" the promising trainee asked, with transparent eagerness.
"Just one of you," Andrei said.
* * *
"Sirius—honestly now—did you bite all those Aurors?" Hagrid asked, after a brief greeting, having inserted his head through the famous door of Arthur Weasley's workshop.
"How did you find out?" Sirius Black stared, and went very red. And actually stopped working on the new motorbike, which he and his brother, Remus, and Arthur were all bending over together.
"They've admitted the entire department to St Mungo's. Your diagnosis."
"Meaning what, exactly?" he said, thrown.
"Barking. Biting. At least they're not marking territory, apparently."
At this, the trainee went red and turned away—fortunately no one noticed. Medical confidentiality, after all. Sirius, on the other hand, burst out laughing—with genuine enthusiasm—but on receiving a Healer's look that boded nothing pleasant, fell quiet.
"So you're confirming it?"
"Yes," Sirius sighed. "That's… how much will I owe?"
"You're prepared to contribute to their treatment?"
"Well—someone has to bring them back to themselves. You know how, don't you?"
"I have a theory. All right—write a cheque for three hundred Galleons to start. We'll see from there."
"I got off lightly, I think."
"You haven't got off anything yet. I'm not letting you go until every last one is treated—bear that in mind. Running a charity is not something I can afford, so you bite them, you take responsibility. I won't report you. And he"—Andrei nodded at his companion in the yellow robes—"won't either. Will you?"
"I swear!" the trainee declared, with great fervour, watching Sirius Black with unconcealed fascination. "I swore an oath! May I observe you?"