Though This Be Madness

Hamlet: I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players...
Polonius: My lord, I have news to tell you.
Hamlet: My lord, I have news to tell you. / When Roscius was an actor in Rome,—
Polonius: The actors are come hither, my lord. — Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2

Part XI: Duty

We proceed to my new rooms in silence, but I gasp softly once Dumbledore has opened the door. Boxes of my things litter the stone tiles, and even the portrait that hung over our fireplace in Liverpool is here on the wall above the bed, though the frame is empty for the moment.

"I thought you said all my things had been sold?" I ask, after looking around the room and gaping for a long moment.

Dumbledore merely smiles again. "They were sold, Severus. It just so happens that I purchased as many of them as I could afford."

I simply stare at him again. For the longest time, I wanted so much to hate him, to believe the worst of him, but this ... I have never been rich, or even comfortable, truth be told. I even retained my mother's habit of not bleaching my whites—which rots the threads—long after I began to work at the Department of Mysteries. I have to admit that the thought of losing everything I owned came as rather a large blow, but apparently I haven't lost it all. Granted, those boxes cannot contain all my belongings, but this is vastly preferable to starting over from nothing.

If Dumbledore had an ulterior motive, I imagine he would have mentioned that he'd done this earlier, when he was attempting to convince me to spy. Instead, he waited until after I'd agreed to work for him against the Dark Lord to spring this on me, rather than using his display of charity to show how sympathetic he was to my plight. Or perhaps convincing me of the hopelessness of my situation was his aim? I'm still not certain what he really wants, and I'll need some time alone to think before I can be sure of his intentions.

"Thank you, Headmaster. I ... I'm touched," I finally manage to say in a barely audible whisper. That much is true. If nothing else, I'll have some creature comforts until I've decided for good and all what I am going to do.

"Think nothing of it," he answers with a cordial clap on my shoulder. "I am sure you will be able to repay me in time."

I am not certain whether he means the actual gold or the spying I have just agreed to do, but I suppose the distinction doesn't actually matter at the moment. A second later, Dumbledore clears his throat, his hands again clasped together nervously in front of him.

"Well ... I am afraid that I must leave you now."

"Where are you going?" I ask, and surprisingly, my voice sounds rather tense, even to my own ears. I want nothing more than to be alone, but I also find myself imaginging that if I let the headmaster out of my sight, he'll return with a legion of hit wizards. From the way he smiled earlier—satisfied, and even a touch proud—I do believe he sincerely wants me to spy, however, and I cannot very well do that from inside Azkaban. I suppose I knew that he would have to leave eventually, but I thought ... well, I don't know what I thought, exactly. That he might give me more instructions, perhaps.

"Hogsmeade. I have an appointment." He pats my shoulder once more and smiles. "I shall return soon enough, Severus, and there are many protections on the castle and grounds. You will be quite safe in my absence."

I nod, and he turns to go, but he stops after a few steps and turns back to face me, his bushy white eyebrows contracted in a frown.

"I do not imagine you would wish to go out in this weather, but I must ask that you remain inside the castle whilst I am away, unless there is an emergency. Should something happen, come to the Hog's Head inn at once and find me. If anyone intercepts you, however, you are not—I repeat, not—looking for me. Make any other excuse you can think of, but no one must know your real intention. It is vital that we be seen to have no dealings whatsoever."

My stomach begins to churn even more uncomfortably at his words. If I asked about all this secrecy, I have no doubts as to what he would say: we cannot risk the Dark Lord's learning of our conspiracy against him. And yet, I wonder if the Dark Lord is truly the one he wishes to deceive. He has assured me that I am safe for the moment, but if I fail to deliver information he deems valuable enough or otherwise displease him, how can I be certain that he will not simply have me carted off to Azkaban, with my own memories as the only evidence needed to condemn me? Again, I have no choice. I must play the part that he has given me to the best of my ability—at least until I know where I stand.

Despite my considerable concerns, I do my best to make sure none of them show in my expression as I nod. "I understand, sir."

"I must also ask that you not tell anyone what we have discussed today. I think it would be best if this were to stay between us. With one notable exception," he adds, with another small smile. "If you feel the need to apologise to Madam Pomfrey, I think we can make allowances for that."

"Yes, sir," I say, nodding, and I am a bit surprised to find myself smiling as well.

After I've closed and locked the door behind him, I decide to unpack, still mulling things over. I daresay Dumbledore is a talented enough wizard to have altered my memories, but I cannot imagine he would have created the scene I witnessed in Macnair's cellar. He is too kind a man, too gentle in nature, to have imagined something like that. And, of course, I do remember parts of it—such as attacking Black, and now the woman's pleading—so I am sure what I saw was the truth. I still have trouble believing that I would ever do such a thing, but now I've seen it with my own eyes ... I still don't know what, precisely, I should think.

And if I do go back into the Dark Lord's service, I shall have to act that way again. I shall have to kill again. Without hesitation. To keep him from becoming suspicious. I don't know if I can do that. I may be an exceptional Occlumens without effort, but can I be a convincing Death Eater?

I turn to place a framed photograph of my mother holding my sister on the mantel, when I stop cold at the sight of the potion bottles already sitting there. My medications. The ones Madam Pomfrey has prescribed. The ones that keep me from degenerating into that monster I saw earlier. Those are another thing I had hoped not to see again, but it appears that I shall never be free of them.

I realise now that I am my own prison. Or rather, my brain is. I will remain locked inside these walls of grey matter for the remainder of my term on Earth. The only real difference between this and a stint in Azkaban is that I would not have to take the potions if I were incarcerated. And if Dumbledore changes his mind one day and decides to send me to Azkaban, at least I won't have to take them any longer.

It must be getting close to suppertime, and though I haven't the slightest interest in food, it seems that I may have missed my noon dose of the Draught of Peace. Since I don't feel up to facing Madam Pomfrey just yet to inquire if she administered it whilst I was unconscious, I take a teaspoon anyway. I don't think I could take too much, and at the moment, I have anxiety and agitation to spare. An extra dose won't go amiss.

No sooner do I reach up to place the potion back on the mantel than a searing pain rips through my forearm, causing me to drop the flask, which shatters on the stone. I push up my sleeve and hope against hope that the Mark on my arm hasn't turned black. It has, of course, but at least it is no longer bulging and talking to me the way it used to.

I know Professor Dumbledore said I shouldn't leave the castle, but I cannot imagine a more pressing emergency than this. If I am to go back empty-handed, the Dark Lord will kill me in an instant, and if I do not return, he will send somebody to dispatch me, just as quickly.

Again, I have no choice, and so I pull on my cloak, close the door to my room, and quickly walk down the stairs, setting out from the castle in this storm for the Hog's Head inn.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The weather is unseasonably cold for July, I imagine because the dementors have abandoned Azkaban, except for a few that remain to keep up the pretence of Ministry control. Alas, the Impervious Charm I have cast on my cloak can do nothing about the biting wind, which seems to have only increased in speed since my departure. Nor can it keep the chilled raindrops from blowing up underneath my robes and hood. And so, but the time I arrive at the inn, I am quite soaked.

"Evenin', Albus," the enviably warm and dry landlord bids me as I remove the garment and hang it on a peg by the fire.

"Aberforth," I answer with a nod and a smile, despite my soggy state. "Is Miss Trelawney in?"

He nods, wiping dry a glass that scarcely looks as if it has been washed, but my brother has never been one for fastidiousness. "Up the south stairs ... 7B."

"Thank you." After drying myself with a charm and warming my hands briefly before the hearth, I make my way upstairs and find the lady's room with no trouble. Sybill Trelawney answers quickly and smiles as she stands aside to allow my entrance.

"Sherry, Headmaster?" she asks, waving a bangled hand toward a chipped decanter on her small table.

"Thank you, no," I answer, seating myself close to the fire. She looks rather disappointed at my refusal, but her breath indicates that she has already drunk more than enough for the both of us. "Why don't we get down to business, as it were," I suggest, crossing my legs and folding my hands in my lap.

Nodding, Miss Trelawney reaches for a small box on the table and, unless I am very much mistaken, removes a deck of tarot cards. Apparently she is intent on telling my fortune in lieu of presenting me with her curriculum vitae. She shuffles the deck and slides the cards across the table for me to cut, so I go along with the charade, tapping the top card somewhat impatiently with my index finger. After she turns over the first card, she positively beams.

"The Hierophant!" she announces in a theatrical, misty voice. "And I must say I have never seen a more fitting representative of a major arcana!"

A strong image of Severus' blasé "You flatter me" comes to mind just then, and Miss Trelawney evidently takes my smile as approval. Well, I suppose there is no harm in allowing her to think that for the time being.

"In the house of Aries, this card signifies that your focus is on an organisation which will further your aims, and perhaps new opportunities for that organisation."

I only nod, and she turns over the next card.

"Death," she breathes in a dramatic whisper, and I can only imagine this is one of her favourite cards. "Contrary to popular opinion, the Death card does not always refer to physical death—although it can mean that, as well—but rather a stark change or transformation. In the house of Taurus, it would indicate that you are worried about your finances because of a sudden loss."

Trying not to sigh, I nod again.

"But not to worry—the Star! In the house of Gemini, this says you may expect money in the post or from friends or family. The four of swords in Cancer tells me that you feel irritated, or perhaps have had an unpleasant confrontation at home." She turns over the next card. "Justice in Leo ... this deals with romance, and it means that your love life is exactly how you want it at the moment."

Now I have trouble repressing a chuckle. Romance has not been a priority in my life for nearly seventy-five years.

"The nine of wands in Virgo ... you will soon be making money and promoting yourself or your business successfully." After she has said this, she frowns for a brief moment, apparently just now coming to the realisation that as the Headmaster of Hogwarts, I am no entrepreneur. Instead of amending her statement, however, she quickly continues to the next card. "The king of cups in the house of Libra. You may feel abused in a relationship and are perhaps looking for a diplomatic way to end things...?"

Ah, yes—the fishing for information employed by many a charlatan to prey on the vulnerable. Those who come for such a reading are frequently discontent, especially in matters of love, and are easily hoodwinked by such methods. I try to keep my face impassive, and she continues.

"The ace of swords, in Scorpio, means that you will have an opportunity to expand your business or improve your finances, so you needn't worry about the Death card in Taurus." After clearing her throat, she turns over the next card. "The Moon in Sagittarius ... you have made or will soon make an unpleasant journey fraught with many problems or delays that will make you wish you had not bothered."

Such as this excursion, I think, and now I do sigh, but softly.

"The Chariot—I must interject that I have rarely seen so many trump cards in a single reading. The matter at hand is undoubtedly important to you. Yes, the Chariot in Capricorn would indicate that you do not know how to proceed at the moment—afraid to force a solution for not knowing how—but you must soldier on, despite obstacles, and the Mage in Aquarius signifies that you will receive much needed counsel from a friend as to how to achieve your goals."

I nod once more, quickly losing my patience. She seems to have sensed that, as she is now turning the cards over much more rapidly, or perhaps this is simply her idea of a dramatic conclusion.

"Pisces represents a blind spot that may hinder you, and the Lovers say you will be troubled by things that aren't going according to plan ... or perhaps that you will be separated from your sweetheart, but unable to put her out of your mind. And finally, the Hanged Man. Problems will be resolved, one at a time, and a tempestuous period will soon draw to a close." She sits in silence after that, with a hopeful expression.

"Thank you, Miss Trelawney," I say, rising. "That was most enlightening ... but I do not think you will be suitable for the post."

"Wait! I haven't read your palm!" she answers, her voice rising, almost hysterically, as she stands and follows me toward the door. "Or the runes, or I Ching. I could even read entrails—I saw some goats out back—"

"No!" I say, a bit more loudly than I intended, whilst raising my hand to quiet her. "Thank you ... but no. I think I have heard quite enough." I have already placed my hand on the doorknob when a harsh, hoarse voice from behind me stops me dead in my tracks.

"THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES..."

"Begging your pardon?" I ask, turning back to face her. Miss Trelawney has gone rigid, her eyes wide and staring, with one of her hands clenched tightly on the bedpost, fingernails digging into the wood.

"...BORN TO THOSE WHO HAVE THRICE DEFIED HIM, BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES..."

Although I have never set much store by prophecies myself, at once I recognise two very important implications of this prognostication. The first is that we now have the bargaining chip Severus so desperately needed in order to return to the Death Eaters unscathed. The second, alas, is that if Lord Voldemort ever discovers Sybill Trelawney was the one who made this particular prophecy, her life could be in very grave danger.

A sudden commotion outside the door startles me, and not in the least because of the voices involved.

"Here! What are you doin'?" Aberforth shouts.

"Get off me!" Severus retorts.

"...AND THE DARK LORD WILL MARK HIM AS HIS EQUAL, BUT HE WILL HAVE POWER THE DARK LORD KNOWS NOT..."

Miss Trelawney continues, seemingly unaffected by the scuffle occurring right outside the door, which grows progressively louder. This, I perceive, is no parlour trick. The trance she is in appears to be very real.

"...AND EITHER MUST DIE AT THE HAND OF THE OTHER FOR NEITHER CAN LIVE WHILE THE OTHER SURVIVES ... THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD WILL BE BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES..."

Once she has finished speaking, her eyes flutter, as if she is about to faint, and without stopping to think, I fling open the door.

"Aberforth! Help me!"

In an instant, my brother is at my side and helps me to lower her limp body onto the bed. Severus seems to have understood the implications of this prophecy himself, because he is still standing there, hovering just outside the threshold. I can tell that he also wishes to help, but he is thankfully obeying the order I gave him earlier: no one must know of our dealings.

"Get me some of that sherry," I tell Aberforth, nodding toward the rickety table by the fire.

He immediately moves to the table and shortly returns with a glass, whilst I lift Miss Trelawney's head to pour a bit into her gaping mouth. Soon she swallows, coughs, and struggles to sit upright. When she has finally come to her senses, Aberforth appears to remember what he was doing before I enlisted his help, and he charges toward the door, taking hold of Severus by the neck of his robes.

"Get out of it!" he shouts. "Listenin' at the keyhole! I oughtta box your ears!"

"I told you, I came up the wrong stairs!"

As he attempts to fight off Aberforth's grasp, Severus looks to me, his eyes pleading. I am afraid that I cannot rescue him without giving away our involvement, but in the split second that our eyes meet, I do risk sending him a mental directive: Meet me in the stables. No one will see us there. The structure of his brain precludes my reading his thoughts, of course, but perhaps this message got through. Before Aberforth finally manages to haul him away, his expression seems to clear ever so slightly, so I can only hope it has.

"Dear me, did I faint?" Miss Trelawney asks me, rubbing her temples.

"I'm afraid so," I say gently, affecting an expression of deepest concern. "Perhaps you should wait until tomorrow to bring your things to Hogwarts. The current weather is unpleasant, at best, and if you are already feeling unwell..."

She regards me with a bemused expression. "But Headmaster ... I thought ... you said ... that I wasn't suitable for the post."

"On the contrary, my dear lady," I answer with a jovial grin. "I find the talents that you have demonstrated this evening to be most satisfactory. With your leave, I shall call tomorrow afternoon to escort you to the castle."

Miss Trelawney only nods, still looking perplexed. "Very well." Once the realisation that she has in fact secured the post dawns, she smiles. "Yes, indeed, Headmaster. I am most pleased to accept the position."

"Then I shall bid you a good evening, Miss Trelawney, or should I say Professor? Until tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow," she answers, still smiling as I close the door.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Meet me in the stables. No one will see us there.

The words came unbidden into my head, but the voice undoubtedly belonged to Professor Dumbledore. That is the only reason I am here now—drenched to the skin, pacing through mud and straw in a stable, my nostrils filled with the stench of goats, as their infernal bleats assault my ears.

"So soon..."

That voice is the headmaster's, as well, which is the only reason I don't shout as I wheel about to face him. Before he spoke, I hadn't realised I was rubbing the throbbing Mark on my arm. Dropping my hands to my sides, I step closer and nod. "I'm sorry—I hadn't counted on the barman—"

Dumbledore shakes his head, raising a hand to quell my explanations. "No need to apologise. You followed my instructions to the best of your ability, under the circumstances."

"Do you think he bought my excuse?"

Again he shakes his head, but much to my surprise, this time he smiles. "No. But you are new to this. I imagine your stories will improve with time. Besides, I know my brother: Having the opportunity to throw you out of the building will no doubt be enough to satisfy him. Now ... how much did you hear?"

I glance quickly around the visible perimeter before leaning closer. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches," I whisper, "born to those who have thrice defied him, as the seventh month dies."

"That will do to be going on with," Dumbledore replies with another smile. "So, deliver those tidings to your master, and return to Hogwarts as soon as you are able. I imagine the hour will be quite late, but do take care that you are not observed."

"Certainly, Headmaster."

"And be careful, my boy," he says, gripping my upper arm before I have the chance to step away. "You could very well be walking into an ambush."

With a soft sigh, I answer, "I know."

Do I ever.

At last, I step away from him, take a deep breath, and pull my wand as I prepare to Disapparate. After I've touched the tip of my wand to the Dark Mark, to home in on the Dark Lord's location when he summoned us, I depart.

"Well, well, well ... what have we here?"

No sooner have I lowered the hood of my cloak to take in my surroundings than I find a wandtip pressed firmly into my throat. I recognize this voice instantly, as well, and though it is a battle, I swallow and manage to fight down the thrill of panic as I force a smile. "And a very good evening to you, too, Bellatrix."

"Shut your filthy half-blood mouth!" she hisses, now stepping back, but with her wand still pointed at my face. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you where you stand."

Though the irony of her telling me in rapid succession both to shut up and then to tell her a reason why she should let me live strikes me as quite amusing, I fight to keep the smirk off my face. That isn't as difficult as it might be normally, considering that my skin has begun to sting, thanks to the shower of red sparks erupting from the tip of her wand. Bellatrix has never been anywhere near as intimidating as she imagines herself to be, however, much to her chagrin. But this does serve as a poignant reminder of why I ought to apologise to Madam Pomfrey without unnecessary delay.

"And where have you been all this time?" she demands.

"Hogsmeade," I answer without hesitation. "I was taken ill, but I am feeling much better now, and I do thank you for asking." Dumbledore was right. Telling the truth makes things much easier.

Her face contorts in anger, but not more than a second later, she looks over my shoulder at somebody who approaches from behind me. This, too, is eerily familiar, and a chill washes over me, as though I have been doused with ice-water, but I resist the considerable urge to turn and draw my wand. If my charade is to work, I cannot appear to be nervous or harbouring any sort of guilt.

"That's enough, Bella," Lucius says, clapping his hand to my back and smiling. A second later, however, he draws a monogrammed handkerchief from the pocket of his robes to wipe his hand dry, turning back to face his sister-in-law. "Instead of snarling at company, why don't you make yourself useful and take his cloak?"

Now I do smirk, and as I strip off the drenched garment, Bellatrix glares, one hand balled into a fist on her hip, but she holds out the other.

"Hello, Severus," Lucius says, once more turning to me and smiling. "It's been a while. How are you?"

"Fine," I answer with a nod and smile myself.

His smile then falters ever so slightly. "But I thought you just said you'd been ill?"

"You see? He's lying!" Bellatrix snaps, turning and pointing at me with her wand after she has hung up my cloak. "Even you don't believe him, Lucius."

"Now, now, Bella ... be polite," he admonishes, his grin firmly back in place. "Severus is our guest, after all."

Lucius stretches out in his armchair, surveying me over the tips of his fingers, which he has pressed to his lips. Bellatrix continues to glare, fists on her hips, and suddenly I wonder where the Dark Lord is. He did summon us, after all, and I thought I was Apparating to his side, but I see no sign of him in Lucius' sitting room.

"Where is the Dark Lord?" I ask him calmly, making no move to sit. "I have important news."

Lucius gives a small shake of his head. "He is occupied, for the moment. He requested that Bellatrix and I greet you ... if you deigned to join us tonight, that is."

Interrogate me, more like, I think, but I quickly repress that thought. My prolonged absence has evidently been noted, but I feel confident that knowledge of this prophecy will soon allay any doubts my fellow Death Eaters may have as to my loyalty.

"Have a seat," Lucius says then, waving an elegant hand toward the settee behind me. "Would you care for a drink?"

With a quick sidelong glance at Bellatrix, I sit. "Ah ... no, thank you."

Lucius' forehead contracts into a frown. I daresay he has never known me to abstain before—and especially not from the expensive spirits he tends to keep on hand. "Not even a splash of port to take off the chill?"

I shake my head. "That's quite all right, Lucius, though I do appreciate the offer."

"Very well." He casts a glance toward the coat rack, where Bellatrix still stands, glowering at me. "Bella, don't hover."

Now she shoots him a venomous glare, but nonetheless, Bellatrix walks to the other armchair and sits on the edge, with her wand clutched in her lap. Her back is straight and her posture stiff, poised to spring up again at a second's notice, but at least now I can observe her directly, instead of having to rely on my peripheral vision.

"The Dark Lord finds himself concerned about your absence, Severus, and reports we've had of your consorting with Muggles."

"And with the recent deaths and disappearances—" Bellatrix cuts in, and Lucius silences her with a glare of his own, but it is too late: the newt's out of the cauldron now.

"Deaths?" I ask, frowning.

Lucius turns back to face me, the merest shadow of a glare remaining upon his features. "Rosier and Wilkes are dead. They were captured by Aurors and regrettably decided they would rather die than go quietly. Apparently they never considered that we have the means to spring them from Azkaban with the dementors on our side."

Raising one hand from the chair's arm, I gesture—casually, I hope—toward myself. "But what does that have to do with me?"

After another quick glance at Bellatrix, apparently to warn her to keep quiet, Lucius clears his throat. "Nothing, really, but both you and Regulus Black happened to vanish around the same time, and the Dark Lord thinks the events may be connected. He wishes to ferret out any traitors in our ranks. I'm sure you can understand that, can't you?"

I give a quiet snort and turn to Bellatrix. "Well, if it's traitors you seek, it would seem that you need look no further than your own cousin."

Bellatrix jumps to her feet, this time pointing her wand at my chest, and I smirk once more. She really is too excitable for her own good. "You sold Rosier and Wilkes out to the Aurors, didn't you?" she screeches. "Didn't you?"

"Stop it, Bella!" Lucius barks.

"No!"

"I said, stop!"

Now he is on his feet, as well, and reaches out to take hold of her wrist, but she wrenches her arm from his grasp. I suppose blaming me is a less unpleasant option than admitting a member of her family isn't quite up to scratch.

"It's all right, Lucius," I say, still smirking, and then I turn my unflinching gaze on Bellatrix. "If you would prefer that the Dark Lord not hear the prophecy that concerns his downfall, then by all means ... kill me now."

She continues to glare at me, her breath coming in rapid bursts through her nose, but then—still looking as though she wishes me naught but ill—Bellatrix lowers her wand. Her fanatical devotion to the Dark Lord would never allow her to take even the smallest risk that he might be killed. In fact, manipulating her this way has been absurdly easy.

I know the headmaster was concerned about my coming here tonight, but I have been a Death Eater long enough to know how to deal with each and every one of my "comrades." If things go even half so well with the Dark Lord, I imagine I can safely put Professor Dumbledore's fears to rest.