Subplot

12 - Varlerta

I know I am breaking a stylistic rule by abandoning the third person perspective, but hey, that's what rules do to me. Some, I concede, are necessary. Many, I argue, are not. When confronted with one of the latter kind, I feel an itch in my fingers. A rule, I think. A pointless rule. Then I smack my lips. Breaking rules makes me feel in charge of my life, as opposed to feeling somebody else is controlling it. So here I am, turning first person narrator on you in the chapter assigned to me instead of hiding behind a semi-detached 'she'. At least I can warrant for the truth of most things I will tell you. Satisfied? Then let's plunge into the narrative.

The night after I took the kids to the stone circle, I went to bed early, because I needed to make up for the loss of sleep. Teaching is a physically demanding job, and if you don't believe that, try it yourself one day. Be that as it may, on Thursday afternoon a sense of duty, if not to say curiosity, caught up with me, so I went to see how the Spellsearchers were doing. As it turned out, they were not doing much. Lupin, I was told, was recovering in his bed from the stressful experience of being a wolf, while Black was playing chess with Our Supposed Hope for the Future, namely Harry Potter. (No sign of any pawn Ensouling yet, I'm afraid.) Godfather and godson sat on opposite sides of the desk, deeply immersed in their game. Disappointed of the utter lack of Atmoglisae Magicae in the Spellsearchers' lab, I made my excuses and left.

On the way out of Hogwarts' gloomy west wing, I mused how I should spend the evening. The options included refining my preparations for next day's lessons (rather than spontaneously making something up), practicing my skills at the drum set (they really need it), using my temporarily enhanced magical powers for audio research, or writing letters to my band mates back in New York City. While I was still trying to make up my mind, I suddenly remembered something. An innocent white Muggle envelope, or rather the considerably less innocent powder inside of it, was still waiting to be given to someone. I went to get it and climbed down to the dreary dungeons Verus has made his lair. His lairs, I should say, because his sub-earthly kingdom comprises a high-security office, a classroom in which horrible things are rumoured to happen, and a storage room for cauldrons, garrottes and the like. Moreover he has a cosy little rat hole of a personal potion brewing room, and, I suspect, a room in which he sleeps. If he ever sleeps.

Knowing that after the Icy Fingers Event, large numbers of the crucial potions are needed, I have concluded that his potion brewing hole would be my best bet. Like the Potions classroom, it has a side door that leads to the small, central room for storing equipment (though not, I dare say, his precious ingredients). However, in spite of this proximity I do not expect many students have ever been in there. The brewing room has a very private atmosphere, though I can't say why. It contains no personal belongings, no closets that might hold private notes, no naughty calendar with shapely nudes draped over shiny cauldrons. Perhaps it's something in the air, or maybe the thick dungeon walls themselves warn you that whenever you enter this room, you step into the core of the Potions Master's territory. That is where I am going, now that I have knocked on the door with the ancient and forbidding wooden carvings of reptiles and demons.

His face stony but his hair a neutral black, Verus opens. For a greeting, I get nothing more than a curt nod, but at least he lets me in without demanding a written petition of me. He is not likely to be satisfied with the information I am willing to provide, I realise. For reasons of my own, I am not eager to make his mood hair turn green again tonight, so I need a strategy.

"Verus, I've got something that you want," I tell him straight away. "I'll give it to you if you agree to ask no questions."

"What kind of nonsense is that? Do you expect me to buy a cat in the bag?" he spits at me, unexpectedly polite. In the background, I can see two large cauldrons merrily boiling away. One of them is emitting a greenish-blue steam, and neither of them smells pleasantly. On the worktable, piles of ingredients like dried foxglove leaves and pickled bat testicles are awaiting a Potions Master's hand. I put a hand in my robe's pocket and feel the papery envelope.

"Do you want it or not?" I ask. I know my behaviour classifies as really mean, because he will hardly be able to resist: He does not know what is being offered to him. The fine wrinkles on his forehead twitch, betraying an inner conflict. I bide my time, knowing this is not only about Potion Spoiler powder or about the promise I made to my frightened, red-haired apprentice. Most of all, this is about Verus and me; it is about mutual trust.

He turns to his cauldrons, deftly stirs the left one and transfers some chopped ingredients into the right one. I remember that watching him work is a treat which even beats attending live gigs of many good rock bands, so I take his worn wooden stool and sit down in a gloomy corner.

"Alright, what have you got?" he asks after a few minutes while throttling the right cauldrons' fire, never looking up at me.

"You mean you agree to my terms?" His hair is no more than slightly green yet. I lean back on the moist, uneven bricks of the dungeon wall and try to get comfortable on the only seat the potion brewing room holds.

"I suppose a talent for blackmail is handed down in the blood," he replies with a sneer. It is not a kind thing to say. When people refer to my ancestors or the traits I may or may not have inherited from them, usually my carefully controlled choleric temper gets the better of me. Strange enough, when Verus says something of that kind, I do not mind it that much. Taking his reply as an agreement, I put the envelope on his worktable.

"I was informed that the students refer to this substance as 'Potion Spoiler',"I tell him. He practically snatches the envelope from the work surface, quickly opens the latch and lets a tiny quantity of the powder fall into his palm. The light in the dungeon is quite dim, so he takes a small magnifying glass out of his robe's pocket and moves up to one of the few torches to scrutinize the crystalline powder. Then he further examines it by smelling and even tasting it. Inwardly shuddering, I am reminded of one of the chief philosophical questions of poisoning, namely whether the frequent intake of small doses makes you immune to a poison, or whether it slowly kills you. About twenty-one years ago, Verus and I had one of our blazing fallouts about this question. His point of view was that even wondering about such trivial matters was unworthy of a Slytherin.

"Chaos." His whisper, although barely audible, makes the dungeon walls shake ever so slightly. If such a thing were possible, I would say that he is a bit paler than usual. "Whatever fool brewed this powder, he used an ancient formula to put chaos into matter. It has not been attempted for a long time, and though this substance is surely the work of a genius, I wish that genius had never been born."

Great. I might not be able to keep my promise to Ginny after all then.

"Does this classify as serious Dark Magic?" I ask anxiously. I know I should be better acquainted with current British regulations, but when it comes to potions, my knowledge is very limited, to say the least. Verus shakes his head. He pours the powder onto a battered marble plate without spilling a single crystal, turns to give his cauldrons a stir and cleans out a small mortar with a wave of his wand while answering me.

"The inherent problem of Chaos is its uncontrollability and unpredictability. Dark Magic is defined by its power to control people. The power of Chaos, may it prove to be destructive or creative, is nobody's servant, so it is termed dangerous but not Dark Magic."

He has got a point there, I decide while he is rummaging his storage room for further equipment. When he re-enters the potion brewing room, he is carrying a stack of small retorts and tiny cauldrons. Obviously, he is going to analyse the Potion Spoiler straight away. I expected nothing less. He neatly arranges his equipment on the worktable, gives his cauldrons another good stir, then asks me if I would watch them for a moment while he is getting further ingredients from his office.

"If they threaten to boil over, tune down the fire," he says. "Be careful; if you splash these potions onto your skin they may prove to be rather harmful."

I do not like to be alone with the cauldrons, which suddenly look like fuming monsters to me, but am loath to admit it. Wand raised in self-protection, I stand watch over them while he is away, praying to Fortuna that the cauldrons will be kind and peaceful. Brewing potions is not my cup of tea and never will be. With a slight feeling of disgust I turn my eyes away from a large jar of dried rat tails standing on the work surface; some hardened root of asphodel is lying on the surface, waiting to be sliced. I can't for the life of me remember what it is used for. Verus would really hate to hear that, as he spent so much time pounding information like this into my memory, I think. When I hear him at the door, I move to open it for him, but of course he doesn't need that: Used to entering the room carrying something in both of his hands, he has a spell word for it. He puts a wooden crate on the table and starts unpacking: Large vials, small vials, linen bags for dry ingredients, glass jars, all in all more than thirty items by a rough estimation. Awed as usual, I notice that he did not make any list of the things he needs. I would bet money that in spite of this he will not have to go back to his office, that he hasn't forgotten a single ingredient. Moved by a personal weakness, the need to communicate, I state the obvious:

"So you are going to analyse this stuff and then cook up a neutralizer?"

Verus sifts grated bilberries into the right cauldron, then weighs up five tiny portions of the Potion Spoiler on a miniscule scale and fills them into various vessels. He takes his sweet time to answer.

"If you would only consent to tell me who the culprit was, we could do more than 'cook up a neutraliser,' as you so fittingly term it," he tells me, slicing the tough old asphodel root with magical precision. Every geek that ever felt the need to indicate quotation marks with his or her hands during conversation should take a page out of Verus' book some time. His use of voice inflection is very similar to his potion brewing - a tiny splash of this or that ingredient, and simple things like quotation marks are perfectly audible. I feel a stab of envy, because his skill of verbal exactness is such a perfect tool for a putdown, another art I have not mastered to my own satisfaction. Verus sneers on:

"I suspect that you know not only who is responsible, but also whether this person merely owns, sells or even produces this 'Potion Spoiler.' If you did your duty of sharing your knowledge with the whole staff, we could completely eliminate the danger; we could remove this person from the premises and thus limit the devastating powers of this substance of chaos. I know your personal need to be loved by your students causes you to protect the culprit. But please take into consideration that you are not only obstructing the path of justice, but that you are also permanently endangering the entire potion production of this school."

He pours griffin tears from a large, heavy bottle into a tiny, silver measuring cup. His hands, pale and thin, are nothing but bones covered with a zigzag of protruding veins; between thumb and index finger, the left one sports a large, greenish scar of a burn. When I was a teenager, I used to fantasize about Verus' hands on the strings of a double-bass because of his extraordinarily long fingers. But of course he would not hear of it, nor of any other kind of occupation he considered useless. Never, I am sure, have these hands held a spade or an axe, or any tool that is not of his trade; they have not been touched by the sun in decades. Yet, while pouring from the heavy bottle, his hands do not tremble in the least. I can't help but notice that he manages to fill the small cup exactly to the brim without even really looking at what he is doing. One more drop would have caused it to overflow. I hold my breath until he has set cup and bottle safely back on the table, then I say:

"Don't be ridiculous, Verus. Of course, we could expel a student or two, but if we want a school without Potion Spoiler, we would have to expel every single student of Hogwarts. Potion Spoiler is a commercially marketed joke product. My informant tells me that virtually every student in this school owns some. I'm afraid you will have to live with it from now on, because it is not unlikely that Zonko's will sell the stuff before the year is over." I watch him grate some decomposing bones in a discoloured stone mortar with one hand, check out the consistency of one of the remaining skulls with the fingernails of his other, while his third hand occasionally stirs the cauldrons. He is definitely brewing something up now.

"Your informant doesn't happen to be ... Ginny Weasley?" I see this look in his eyes again, a look I know so well. It is the look of greed, of someone craving knowledge. If it wasn't such a trivial expression, I'd call Verus the most curious person in the world. Except for me, perhaps.

"My informant happens to be ... none of your business," I reply, hoping he will drop the subject for now, if only because he is so busy. The potions in the two large cauldrons still demand the occasional stirring and, I infer from the amount of ingredients lying on the table, are far from complete. At the same time, he is preparing the set-up for five different methods of analysing the Potion Spoiler. As I only supplied him with a small quantity, he is using some very small vials and palm-sized miniature cauldrons for this. In one of the dungeon's four grates, he sets up a neat metal rack no higher than a hand span. The tiny fires underneath are purely magical, as wood fires might get out of control too easily. In a matter of seconds, three of the small cauldrons are set up on the rack to heat, one containing water, two containing solutions he has brought from his office. Kneeling, Verus adjusts the small fires with a movement of his wand, then rips a hair from his head and puts it into one of the cauldrons very quickly, hoping that I didn't notice. 'Never underestimate a man's vanity,' is my motto. Of course, if Aisha could hear that, she'd reply: 'A bit rich, coming from you!' Meanwhile, Verus gets up to add seven drops of something to one of the larger cauldrons.

I sit back on my uncomfortable stool, secretly enjoying myself. Watching him do a number of things at once is a pleasure, because he moves so quickly but never seems in a hurry. He reminds me of a dancer, sometimes even of a drummer, because his hands seem to work independently of each other, which may be the secret of his merciless effectiveness. His hair, I notice, has reassumed its normal pitch black, though at its ends and roots I can see a few red sparks now and then. In an odd way I feel proud, because I do not suppose many people have seen him like that.

They say he is a lousy teacher. It does not surprise me. I try to imagine him teaching a pack of us ordinary mortals, who always forget what a bezoar is for, whose asphodel roots are never cut into exact pieces, and who do not spontaneously grow an extra arm just because a cauldron is threatening to boil over. I remember his frustrations at my inadequacy, back then when I was a thirteen-year-old wallflower with a terrible crush on him, when I would do everything for a morsel of thin-lipped praise from him. 'Not as bad as last time.' Succour from Heaven!

To further distract Verus' attention from the thought of Ginny Weasley, and maybe also to get back at him for bringing my parentage up, I say: "So how's teaching Potions now with all your little favourite Slytherins gone?"

Verus is giving a bottle of Armadillo bile a controlled shake. I'm rather fond of those cute little animals when they are alive, but I know he'd scorn me for being sentimental if I pointed that out. "Think what you like, but according to my own observation, a gift for the Art of Potion Making is not only a traditional Slytherin trait, but also one that seems to coincide with certain affiliations of the students' parents. It is a two-fold pity that the best were sent away to Durmstrang. Not only do I miss the talented students in my classes, but I also dread to think what will become of them. Even though there was never much hope for someone like Lucius Malfoy's son to turn from the path his father has chosen for him, the hope dwindles to nothing in that institution." He pours some Armadillo bile into a shallow china dish. Then he opens a jar of mummified pixies, which smell as dreadful as I remember them, takes one out and expertly crumbles it with his right hand (yuck!). After he has reduced the dainty dried limbs to powder, he suddenly looks up at me, his eyes narrowing. "You didn't like it there, did you?" he asks.

This is the understatement of the year. While I am still groping for words which might adequately express my feelings without sounding uncool, he posts a follow-up question:

"Or would you say it's what Death Eaters' kids deserve?"

I have to admit, he has brought the score up to two to one, in his favour. "My parents were no Death Eaters," I reply stupidly, which he answers with a short laugh, a rare occurrence as it is. I pretend not to notice. To overcome my tongue-tiedness, I answer his first question.

"I didn't benefit too much from the teaching at Durmstrang, maybe because I never even remotely mastered the language. They have harsh punishments there and encourage students to fight among themselves. Probably all I ever learnt there was to fight mean and to improve my skills at lying, cheating and forging - useful skills in themselves, but I suppose getting some OWLs or even NEWTs would have been helpful, too." I expect him to be shocked, because I don't think he knows I never acquired any formally accepted magical qualification, but maybe he didn't listen.

"You never sent a single owl," he says very softly, while his hands, still covered with pixie-crumbs, are hovering idly over the dish with the armadillo bile.

"They kept tabs on them. I wasn't allowed any contact with the outside world, neither with my mother nor with anyone from Hogwarts," I reply. He keeps his face blank, and I wonder whether he believes me. They had cursed traps keeping students out of the owlery, and man, those curses hurt, I want to tell him, but while I am still trying to decide which words to use, there is a knock on the door.

Before Verus can reach the door, it opens and closes again. Just like me, he must have realised who has just entered, maybe because they are the people most likely to run around invisibly in this castle. "Remus, Black, what can I do for you?" he says, his hatred as formal as a letter from the tax office.

Lupin appears, head and shoulders first; then with a swing of the cloak he reveals the rest of his body, the stack of old books he is carrying, and the large dog into which Black can Transform. I can see the dog's hair stand on end. Then suddenly his snout shrinks, the hair recedes from his eyes, and the black fur turns into black robes. As soon as he is standing upright, he snarls:

"Snape, what the shnirk do you think you are doing?"

I see Verus and even Lupin flinch. I am not usually offended by bad language, and as a teacher I have to keep a constant watch on my own mouth so I don't swear in front of students. Shnirk, however, is another matter altogether. It's a wizard world swearword and means ... no, I'd rather not tell you, because it's really quite offensive. Verus certainly does not look like he appreciates being spoken to in such manner. No more read sparks in his hair for tonight, I suppose. Eyes flashing, his arms crossed before his chest, he asks:

"Did I do something to offend you, Black?"

Lupin puts a restraining hand on Black's arm, something I've seen him do quite a few times since they have arrived. With his bushy, dark eyebrows and firmly set mouth, Black looks rather impressive in his anger. Well, to be honest, he usually looks impressive. Yet, he is nothing you could put into a gilt frame and hang over your sofa, if you know what I mean. If he talks to me he is usually very polite, but I can't help thinking that his good manners are just another cage that keeps something locked up inside.

"You are sabotaging our research, Snape," Black hisses, the artery on his neck throbbing with restraint. "You want us to fail, even if that means risking the lives of everybody in this castle. Nothing is as important to you as your pride and vanity, is there?"

Blue is for confusion, I think as I look at Verus' hair. His face a wooden mask, he asks venomously: "What am I supposed to have done, then?"

Lupin sets his stack of books on the table, accidentally crushing a few dried fireflies. "Stop jumping to conclusions, Sirius," he tells his friend quite firmly. Then he turns to Verus, his eyes narrow in his lined face. "Thanks for bringing us the library books we asked for, Severus. We really appreciate your help, but we have encountered a problem. Look at this."

He opens the book on top of the pile. By the ragged edges sticking out in the middle, I can tell that a large section of the pages has been cut out. "Curse attack and counterattack," Lupin comments and puts the tome aside into a pile of Deadly Nightshade leaves. Then he opens the next book which has been vandalised in the same manner. "Magic of cold and heat," he says. The missing section of the third book appears to have been called: "Modelling curses within the Atmoglisa Magica."

"Alright, I get the picture," Verus replies. "You are implying that I cut out the relevant passages of all those books before I gave them to you." Because his face is so immobile, I once more observe his hair colour. Still his confusion appears to be almost as large as his anger. I try to picture him vandalising ancient and valuable books, but can't.

"I am not implying anything right now, Severus," Lupin answers, his eyes rather sad than angry.

"This is no time for politeness, Remus," Black thunders, somehow managing to look down on Verus, who is about two inches taller than him. "Sabotage and betrayal, isn't that what we can expect from him?" Oddly, he turns to me. "Professor Varlerta, just look at the evidence in front of your eyes. I gave him a list of books we need from the library, because neither Remus nor I must be seen there. The books he brought us all miss exactly the section or chapter we need most. Who else could have known that we are here, could have known what we are doing, and what books we asked for? And who else in this castle is desperate enough to want our research to fail?"

"Don't ask me for my judgement before I know more about the matter," I reply while Verus is checking on his potions. I admit the evidence looks bad, and I would not go as far as putting sabotage beyond Verus. If you are his enemy once, you are his enemy forever, and I know he is not one to relish in his enemies' successes. Angrily, Black throws the violated tomes onto the floor, while Verus is pretending neither of us is in here at all.

"Whoever did that knew what we are doing, and knows enough about the matter to sabotage us effectively, that much is certain," Lupin says calmly. Probably he is the only sane person in this dungeon right now, I think, because I know my own mind is reeling. After he has completed his cauldron round, Verus comes back to us.

"Accuse me of what you will, but I am truly offended you think me so stupid," he snarls. "Of course I am your most obvious suspect for this -" waving a hand at the books lying on the floor like a pile of trash - "but I assure you, had I meant to sabotage you, I would have thought of something less grossly obvious. I never even opened a single one of these books when I fetched them for you. For all I know they could have been damaged years ago. You could even have cut out what you needed back in 1980, or maybe your brilliant friends Lily and James did it."

Before Lupin or I can hinder him, Black slaps Verus in the face. "Never mention Lily and James in front of me, you traitor! Your Death Eater's mouth sullies their names," he screams.

Snape takes a step back, his wand in his right hand. "Don't push me over the edge, Black, I am warning you," he says in a dangerous whisper and wipes the trace of mild nosebleed across his face with the back of his left hand. Like in a kindergarten fight or a bad Western movie, I move to calm down Verus while Lupin is restraining Black.

I have to admit I am getting rather angry with both opponents myself now. "This is not very helpful for either of us, so you'd better get yourself together," I tell him. "By the way, you should watch your potions." That does the job. In less than a second he is kneeling in front of his low mini cauldron rack, throttling the fires and stirring with some tiny spoons. Two of the small cauldrons he sets aside to cool; then he assures himself that the remaining fires are sufficiently low for a slow and harmless simmering of the potions. Meanwhile, Lupin is telling Black off in no uncertain terms. Apparently, my friendly and patient predecessor is not much less angry than I now.

"Let's sit down in my office and talk this over in a reasonable and civilised manner," Verus coldly suggests to Lupin, blatantly ignoring Black as well as me. I wonder whether I should leave the schoolboys to their brawling. Black's gaze rests on the floor; when he looks up and sees me watching him, he flinches. Only at the last moment, I can stop myself from giving him a sympathetic smile. Keeping a neutral position in a fight can be a real pain, and besides, I can't claim that I have never reacted rashly or regretted some of my actions in my life.

Verus holds open the door for all of us, an unmistakable way of telling us to get the shnirk out of his potion brewing sanctuary. While we walk along the underground passageway to his office, I can hear that old Clash song in my head: 'If I go there will be trouble, if I stay there will be double. So you gotta let me know ...' I try to fall back behind the group, to sneak back to my peaceful soundproof building, but right outside his office door, Verus turns to me.

"Valerie, it might be good if an impartial person was present at this interview."

Am I impartial? I look at the three wizards and see Lupin and Black nod their assent. In Verus' blood smeared face I cannot discern the faintest trace of appeal, but, well, supposing he has feelings like a normal person, he would want a friend with him now, wouldn't he? Shn ... er, shoot, what have I saddled myself with?

Even for a potion ignoramus like me, Verus' office is a fascinating place. In the glass jars on the shelves there are some of the rarest and most revolting potion ingredients you can find in this world. Large cupboards look like they are hiding more than just ingredients, and the neat bookshelves are a promise of secrets within secrets. In spite of Verus' obvious tendency to acquire objects that can only be described as bizarre, the office betrays an eye for beauty in the bizarreness.

We sit down in chilly room, which at least holds enough chairs for all of us. Lupin lights a fire in the cold grate, and both he and Black push their chairs as closely to the source of warmth as possible. Verus has taken the high-backed, richly carved chair behind his desk, of course, a seat that offers little comfort but much authority to its occupant. Trying to sit by nobody's side, I place my chair in a corner, shivering in the icy underground air. He does this on purpose, of course.

All of us are silent. I wait for someone to say something, but then I realise their eyes rest on me. Am I supposed to lead this debate? I don't really want to, but after a while I lose my nerve, feeling outsilenced.

"I think we've got three problems here, not one. One is the practical problem at hand, the vandalised books. Mr. Lupin and Mr. Black need the pages that have been cut out, but we do not know whether they are destroyed or hidden somewhere." Black frowns at me, and I realise that he does not agree with me, that he believes one person in this room knows very well what happened to the missing pages. I don't want to get into that debate yet, so I continue.

"I do not know whether there is any chance to get these books from anywhere else, as most of them are old and rare. If I am not mistaken, the magic library of Hogwarts is the biggest in Britain, so the destruction of those books may prove to be an irreplaceable loss. However, as a teacher I could talk to Madam Pince and see if any of these books could be re-ordered." Lupin nods while Black scowls. As none of them moves to interrupt me, I go on:

"Problem number two is that of the culprit. You believe Severus responsible for the pages' disappearance. He claims his innocence. As far as I can see, both points are difficult to prove. So where do we go from here?"

"There may be a way, if not to prove my innocence, then at least to put your 'evidence' into perspective," Verus says, looking stiff but calm on his high-backed chair, his face impassive as if the matter did not concern him personally in the least. "If you took the invisibility cloak and went into the library now, Remus, you could examine the books there at your ease. Then you could at least see whether this violation of library books is limited to the books I brought you, or whether many more books have been damaged." I look at my watch and nod; it is way past Madam Pince's bedtime. It would be safe for both Black and Lupin to have a look now.

"That wouldn't prove a thing, Snape," Black comments dryly, his gaze betraying not only scepticism but also revulsion with the addressee. "The only thing your suggestion proves is that you have run amok in the whole library and planted many more damaged books for us to find there."

Involuntarily I sigh. All three wizards turn to me. Ignoring a surge of longing for the cosy peace of my building if not my bed, I tell them:

"I suppose all of this is immensely difficult to prove. Maybe you should go to Dumbledore and have your problems sorted out, if he is willing to spend time on this. But I think as long as you so deeply mistrust each other, you will neither accept any kind of evidence on good faith, nor will you be able to cooperate on the task at hand, the counter curse."

Their silly enmity is problem number three, of course. For a moment, I am tempted to discuss it. I visualise myself as the bringer of peace, as the person who turns a schoolboys' grudge into a wonderful friendship. The look on their faces tells me I needn't bother, though. I'm no therapist or miracle worker; neither am I Albus or Minerva, who have the skill of ordering these three to keep a momentarily truce.

"Of course you could also drink some Veritaserum in front of us to prove your innocence, Verus," I suggest offhandedly. Verus gives me a look that makes me flinch. Ok, ok, so it was a bad idea. Nobody would like to drink Veritaserum even in a situation like this. Imagine yourself turned inside out, the dirty laundry of your soul hung out to dry for everybody's entertainment. All of us know this; still, Verus' snarled refusal succeeds in making him look even more guilty than before. "My apologies - I know that's illegal," I weakly state. Wearily I rub my eyes, thinking that dealing with real children is so much easier than sorting out the childish hatred of these men in front of me. While Black and Verus stare at each other, Lupin gives me a look of sympathy.

"I think we should still take a look at the library and assess the amount of the damage done," he says to Black. "We need to talk this over with Dumbledore anyway. The destruction of valuable Hogwarts library books is a matter that concerns him. And maybe," he gives Verus a meaningful look, "he will find a way to sort out the question of guilt or innocence as well."

Verus' reply is limited to his usual scowl-in-a-green-frame. I compliment Lupin on his insight, namely that the problem is presently unsolvable, because as much as I like Lupin and Black, right now I would be glad to be rid of them. I feel I have failed my part as mediator and fervently wish for a kind of Sherlock Holmes ex machina to suddenly enter the room and put some kind of unambiguous evidence on the table. May it prove this or that, may it even show that Verus is guilty - I think we could handle that, solve things out somehow. It's the distrust among our own side that is one of our worst enemies.

"We will find out the truth, Snape," Black snaps before he Transforms into a dog.

"As long as you also find time to search for the counter-curse," Verus replies softly.

With one more growl, the black dog disappears under the cloak Lupin is wearing. After nodding a goodbye to me, Lupin pulls the hood over his head and disappears completely. Then the door opens and closes again.

Verus stays on his chair, his head bowed ever so slightly, ignoring me. I suppose I should leave now, but somehow I can't. I have never hated anyone in the way that Black and Verus hate each other: As a schoolgirl I hated some schoolmates and teachers that tormented me, but I the minute I escaped from them, I forgot them. They could only scratch my surface, maybe they hardened me, but were not worth my eternal hatred: I learned to reserve that for Voldemort. Hating Voldemort is an abstract thing to peruse at leisure, though - it's not like I have to face the Dark Lord over breakfast everyday, if you know what I mean. Likewise, I don't know what it's like to be hated in the way that Verus is hated, not only by Black but also by many of his students. It does not usually seem to bother him, but right now I think he looks quite miserable, even though I could not pin this impression on any one point of his facial expression or body language.

Before I can check myself, I have walked over to him and have put a hand on his shoulder. Of course, he shakes it off. Veritaserum, his eyes say accusingly. I might as well get it done with. "Are you guilty?" I ask, though why he should tell me I do not know.

"Do you believe me to be?" he replies, his gaze as cold as stone.

"I can't see you butchering books. You'd hide them or something," I reply truthfully. He nods, but looks away. To allow his face a moment of privacy, I turn and sit down on his desk, which is kept so orderly that I can sit without disturbing anything. On the left of me, there is a completely neat stack of parchments, students' essays as far as I can see; on my right there is a small magical lamp and a few items I am tempted to call ornaments. Next to the delicate skull of an embryo unicorn stands the Jade Serpent of Slytherin, which I remember from Professor Malgam's desk, the head of Slytherin house in my schooldays. The palm-sized gilt cauldron is engraved with Verus' full name and the year he must have left school with top NEWTs; maybe it is a gift from his proud parents. A finger-sized crystal phial filled with a black liquid strikes my fancy; I take it in my hand to examine it. Suddenly I hear him get up; violently he pries the phial out of my fingers and pockets it.

"What do you think you are doing?" His wrath is tangible, but, oddly enough, he also looks scared. I get up from the desk and take a step back. My fingers hurt a bit, and I feel I am getting quite angry again. Before I can think of a fitting reply, he hisses at me:

"So you think me guilty, don't you? You think I am a traitor? Why don't you go to the library to help your friends with their search for evidence right now?" He points his bony finger at the door.

Hurt by the venom in his voice, I retort rather loudly: "I never called you a traitor. How am I supposed to know whether you are guilty or not? You wouldn't confide in me anyway. By the way, I'm sorry I tainted one of your precious possessions with my touch, it won't happen again. And I'm also sorry about bringing up the subject of Veritaserum. Ok, I made a mistake. Write it into the record you are probably keeping, the one where you note all the wrongs people do you. Trust me, I won't ever try to invade your mind's privacy again!"

"Keep my private life out of this," he says in a dangerously soft voice, his right hand clawing his robe's pocket from the outside. Like a seething cauldron, his hair is emitting green fumes.

"Your private life? I will if I ever come across it," I hiss back, walk out of his office and slam the richly carved door behind me. Even as I hear its bang, I realise that my temper has once more gotten the better of me, that I shouldn't have said that no matter how angry I was.