Though This Be Madness

I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is / southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw. — Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2

Part XII: Deception

Waves almost rock me to sleep as I float on a bed of warm ocean in this isolated cove, without a care in the world. Or almost no cares. Thankfully I remembered to coat my nose with a Sun-Blocking Potion to keep the skin from blistering. That is unfortunately a necessity with hair and beard as white as mine, as I am uncomfortably reminded when I open my eyes little more than a crack. The light reflecting off my own chevelure assails my poor pupils with a sudden stab of pain, and I close my eyes again almost immediately.

This too shall pass, however, as the sun has now almost sunk beneath the top of the palms that crest the horizon. Only a few more minutes now, and I can drink my surroundings visually, as well as floating peacefully and inhaling the hearty salt air. What little waves traverse the reef are gentle, not jarring, and I can ease in and out of consciousness, completely unconcerned with anything outside this room. Shaking my head, I sit up in my chair, wondering if it was my snoring that woke me. Pity, too, I think as I wipe away a line of drool trickling down my right cheek. I was having an exceptionally pleasant dream.

It takes me a moment to differentiate the low rumbling of thunder in the distance from the soft knocks on my office door. The storm has evidently moved on, but I shan't be too hasty to call that a good omen until I see that Severus is safely back at Hogwarts. I rise slowly, deciding that giving my legs a stretch would do me no harm, and make my way to the door. When I open, standing outside is a still pale but otherwise unharmed Severus, and I exhale in relief, smiling.

"Talk of the devil..."

He scowls at my words, obviously hurt, which was not my intention. Not at all. I suppose I shall have to measure my words more carefully in the future. At the very least, the remark was ill-timed.

"Forgive me, Severus," I soothe, stepping back to let him in. "It is simply an expression. I meant no offense."

Rather than bother with saying "None taken," because I clearly did offend him, he simply nods, walks inside, and takes a seat across from my desk.

"You look as though you could use some refreshment," I add, conjuring some tea and cake, and pouring us both a cup before I resume my seat.

Severus nods again, a far-away, haunted look in his eyes, as he lifts the cup and saucer and takes a sip. Rather than question him too strenuously for the moment, I cut the cake and hand a slice over across the desk. I suppose I could state the obvious: "You look troubled, my boy," or something along those lines, but I decide instead to let him eat. I am certain, after all, that he will inform me how things transpired before long. Of course, that does not keep me from wishing, once again, that I could read his mind.

Thankfully earlier, in the Hog's Head, he was receptive to my instruction and was not actively blocking my thoughts. While I have no substantive doubts that Lord Voldemort will also be unable to successfully penetrate his mind, I am also glad that Severus did not hear the remainder of the prophecy. At the moment, his situation is precarious enough. Best to not leave anything to chance.

At a clink of china, I look up. Severus had finished his cake and brushes the crumbs unceremoniously from his lap before taking one last sip of tea and setting down his cup.

"How did it go?" I ask finally, able to contain my curiosity no longer.

"Well enough," he answers with a seemingly uncaring shrug. "I'm still alive, after all."

I cannot help smiling at that. "So I see. I am pleased to have you back here, safe and sound. I was dreadfully worried."

He raises an eyebrow. "And you show your concern by snoring, do you?"

I have already opened my mouth to answer back, but just then I notice the fleeting smirk that dances across his lips, and instead, I give a soft chuckle. "So, you've found me out. When you are my age, Severus, we shall see how easy you find it to stay awake all night. Speaking of which..." Once again, I lean back to retrieve something from my desk drawer, and both his eyebrows rise this time as I present him with the tiny hour glass on a delicate gold chain. "Somehow, returning this to the Ministry all those years ago must have slipped my mind."

Despite having used the thing only once prior to tonight, Severus recognises the Time-Turner immediately. Nevertheless, I cannot resist teasing him a bit when he asks, "What's this for?"

"It allows you to travel backward a set increment in time," I reply, feigning a frown, but then I grin.

"Yes, I know that," he answers with a snort. "I meant, why do I need it this time?"

"To make certain you get enough rest," I answer shortly. "Schizophrenia and sleep deprivation do not mix."

He nods, slipping the Time-Turner into the pocket of his robes. Instead of rising to go, however, he sighs. Now I feel uncomfortable, as if I am reading his mind. He appears to be wrestling with the idea of confiding some aspect of tonight's events to me. I have no wish to force his confidence, but I can hope he knows that I will be willing to help him cope with his new role as spy in any way I can.

"I worry," he says after a moment and another sip of tea, "what the Dark Lord may do, in light of this new information."

"The Prophecy?" I ask, and he nods. Evidently he fears that we have just set Lord Voldemort on some unsuspecting couple. "Well, Severus ... I do not think we need to concern ourselves with that."

"Why not?" he asks with another scowl, and again, I cannot help smiling.

"Do you know how many prophecies the Ministry has on record?"

This time, he shakes his head.

"There are literally hundreds of prophecies in the Hall of Prophecy, Severus. Only a handful of them can in any way be considered to have been fulfilled. And if that weren't quite enough, the number of couples who have thrice defied Lord Voldemort comprises an even smaller list. The odds are, I believe, very much in our favour."

That seems to have allayed his concerns, more or less. He nods again, shortly thereafter, although he still looks a mite troubled. I suppose I could continue in this vein and assure him that I do not believe in prophecies in general; nor do I see Miss Trelawney as exceptionally talented—or indeed, as having any talent whatsoever. On the other hand, that last option may not be the wisest course of action, considering that I only just today agreed to hire her. Regardless, even if Lord Voldemort takes this prophecy to heart and manages to find a singular couple who qualifies according to its terms, we should have more than ample time to formulate our next course of action.

And speaking of impending courses of action, I realise now that I shall have to teach Severus to send a message via Patronus without delay. Although tonight it was unavoidable, we cannot risk his sneaking back to the castle in the wee hours for much longer. I do realise the tremendous burden I have placed upon his young shoulders, but I have no doubts that he is equal to the task. I wouldn't have sent him off to perform it if I thought otherwise. Nevertheless, the more safeguards I can give him, the better.

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

"Here," Lucius says kindly, pushing open the door to my former residence in Spinner's End. Once he's extracted the key from the lock, he hands it to me. "Though I cannot imagine why you have any wish to dwell in this Muggle area..." His grey eyes rake the dreary interior of the dwelling, and I cannot help being somewhat amused at his obvious distaste for his surroundings. Ironically, this gives me a wistful reminder of that time when I was drunk and vomited on him, but I try to keep that from showing on my face.

"It makes a good hideout," I answer with a shrug. "Not too many wizards ferry 'cross the Mersey."

I didn't expect him to understand the allusion to the Muggle song, and I am not the least bit disappointed. Lucius' silver eyebrows contract in confusion now, in addition to the earlier revulsion. I must confess that I enjoy these little revenges of having one over on him. They allow me to revel in being superior to him in at least the knowledge of things he will never understand, even if I am often poignantly reminded that I am his inferior in every other way. It is a pity Lucius isn't familiar with the Muggle precept that the first rule of war is to know one's enemy. This lack of familiarity with Muggles may well prove his undoing.

After I've closed and locked the door behind us, I turn to take in his expression, nose still crinkled in disgust. That, however, I think is a small price to pay, considering that he Imperioed me into taking a woman's life. Again, however, I repress my feelings and give him a small smile, gesturing around the sitting room. "So ... how much do I owe you for this?"

"It's not about the money, Severus," Lucius answers, drawing his wand. He gives the thing a quick wave, and immediately a sofa, an armchair, and a small, unsteady looking table appear, making the sitting room look even more cramped than when empty. "I thought you might need some furnishings. Narcissa wanted to send these to the Triple S, but I convinced her that we ought to support friends before strangers."

At that, I cannot repress a small snort. Apart from attempting to hire one as the occasional nanny, Narcissa has never struck me as harbouring an especially soft spot for Squibs. I can only take her reluctance to give the furnishings to me—opting for a charitable organisation such as the Society for the Support of Squibs instead—as an indication that she has not yet forgiven me for hurting Draco. Not that I had expected her to, as yet. That will take time. Lucius, on the other hand, seems to have forgiven me, but I cannot help being a touch suspicious as to why.

Whilst I am pondering that very question, he waves his wand again to conjure a crystal decanter of Ogden's and two glasses. He pours a splash into one automatically and offers the glass to me. "Shall we drink to old times?"

I shake my head, holding up a hand, and he frowns. The pleasures of drinking ourselves into a stupor together are apparently difficult for him to give up. "I'm afraid I can't, Lucius. My recent illness ... I, ah, managed to drink enough that I've damaged my liver beyond repair. I can take potions that replenish the enzymes on a daily basis, but if I were to ingest spirits—even a little ... it would kill me."

He frowns worse then, eyes darkening. "I'm ... I don't know what to say." He breaks off and swallows, then takes a sip from the glass and shakes his head, licking his lips. "I'm sorry, Severus."

I give an uncaring shrug, just happy that he bought the story. Thankfully Madam Pomfrey was able to supply me with a plausible excuse that not only explains my sallow complexion but excuses my daily regimen of potions, in addition to exempting me from the temptations of social drinking.

"It's all right. At least I can brew well enough to keep myself alive."

"There is that." He nods with a wan smile and then sinks into the armchair. "I did want to talk to you about your drinking, now you mention it."

One of my eyebrows springs up as I settle myself on the sofa. "What about it?"

"Well..." He takes another sip, frowning again, as if searching for the right words. "Sometimes when you were drinking heavily, you didn't ... act like yourself. Actually, you quite worried me on more than one occasion."

"Oh?" I ask, feigning innocence, as if I have no idea what he means at all. "How so?"

"It's hard to explain," he answers, exhaling with a sigh. "Sometimes you'd say things that didn't make any sense—"

I snort, cutting him off. "Everybody does that when they're pissed."

"Not like this," he maintains, shaking his head. "You'd mutter about beetles and Muggles trying to control you, and all sorts of mad things. One time, you were even doing that when we were waiting on the Dark Lord to arrive. I was ... I was afraid he'd kill you if he heard you talking like that. That he'd think you were a security risk." Lucius swallows again, now positively scowling. "So, I put you under the Imperius Curse to calm you down. I'm sorry—that was a horrible thing to do you, but I was terribly afraid of what might happen to you if the Dark Lord had witnessed your ravings."

A shiver runs down my spine, and my limbs erupt in gooseflesh, when I realise how close to the Killing Curse I probably came. That would also explain why Lucius wanted to be the one to greet me when I returned not so long ago. He wanted first crack, to feel me out and see if I was in my right mind. As grateful as I am for knowing that he protected me, I still find it difficult to reconcile this Lucius with the one that had me impale that woman in my memory. But to him, she was less than human—a mere beast put on this earth for his enjoyment.

She likely would have died anyway, even if I'd had my wits about me, and I probably would have, too, for attempting to save her. Besides, as the headmaster said, I can dedicate my life to assuring she did not die in vain. Of course, Dumbledore worried that I would be placing myself in danger repeatedly. That really is the least of my worries, at the moment. It is this charade that concerns me: nodding along and pretending I agree with the vilest ideas I've ever heard. I can do it, of course, but at what cost?

I feel every time I say that pure blood is better than not, that blood traitors are no better, that Muggles ought to be crushed under our boots, a part of my soul withers and dies—whether I believe such things or not. And I do not believe them. My father was no prize as far as human beings go, but I am not enough of a simpleton to consider him representative of all Muggles. In a way, though, if I don't keep up the act, if I am not convincing, I will be putting myself in danger. That knowledge is as good a motivation as any. Thankfully, I have my natural Occlumency to fall back on, when it all gets to be too much.

"Thank you, Lucius," I manage to whisper at last. "I know I can never repay you."

He claps me on the shoulder and smiles warmly. "I'm just glad to have you back. And I can always console myself with the fact that I'll have you sober to clean me up when I'm three sheets to the wind."

I nod and cannot help smiling myself. "Indeed."

Lucius drains his glass and stands, raising his eyebrows. "We have two spare bedroom suites, as well, if you're interested?"

"Certainly," I answer, standing myself, and I lead him through a door in the far wall, hidden behind a bookcase, to the stairs.

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

Although Minerva wished to confront me regarding this matter in the staffroom, I thought it best to adjourn to my office to discuss our new Divination teacher, far away from overly curious ears. To say she is angry would, I fear, be a dreadful understatement. Be that as it may, we likely will be unable to resolve this matter to her satisfaction. I cannot terminate Sibyll Trelawney's employment without endangering her life; nor can I explain the situation fully to Minerva without placing her in unnecessary peril. I am, as they say, damned if I do and damned if I don't.

Once I've closed and locked the door, I turn to face her, steeling myself with a sigh. "Now, precisely what is the matter, Minerva?"

"What is the matter?" she repeats, faintly, as if she cannot possibly believe I have just asked her that question. "She told Caradoc Dearborn that he was going to die, that's what is the matter! On the first day of term! That's a fine thing to hear when starting your seventh year!"

When my lips twitch as I attempt to hide a smile, I hear something akin to a growl issuing from her throat, and indeed, just then she rather resembles a lioness that has scented a limping antelope. Nodding to hide my expression in my beard, I step around her to proceed toward my desk. Of the two evils between which I am now forced to choose, I would much prefer the lesser one of a subpar grounding in Divination for Hogwarts pupils. I have never considered the subject to be of much use, after all, so her lack of talent does not strike me as much of a loss. I would rather have Sibyll here and safe, even if Minerva will never forgive me for employing her.

"I don't suppose you considered, Minerva, that Miss Trelawney's style tends toward the dramatic?"

I stop in mid-step, attempting to make out the black blur I can only just see through my office window, trudging up the drive to the castle through the freshly fallen layer of snow. Freezing rain this past summer, and now snow drifts a foot high in September. One would think, if Tom were bent on controlling the wizarding world, that he might do something to improve the weather. Surely such an effort would win more followers to his side than espousing blood prejudice.

After another second, I notice the shoulder-length black hair framing the figure's face, and I myself cannot help sporting a scowl. I thought the boy understood that we were to be seen having no dealings. Once Severus left the castle to resume dwelling in Liverpool—thanks in no small part to Lucius Malfoy's considerable generosity, no doubt—I thought the matter quite settled. Seeing him here at Hogwarts, however, unleashes a ball of dread in the pit of my stomach. It is also with some trepidation that I realise I haven't the foggiest idea of what Minerva has just said.

"Really, Albus!" she snaps, and I turn away from the window at last to regard her. "If you cannot see what a monumental mistake it was to hire such a person, I don't know what to say!"

I give a small shrug, tilting my head to the side with an apologetic smile. "I am sorry, Minerva, but I fear we must agree to disagree. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other matters to attend to."

After throwing her hands into the air in exasperation, Minerva presses her lips into a thin white line and leaves. I am certain it took all the resolve she had not to slam the door behind her. Alas, I was correct: she will never forgive me for this—or at least not any time soon. I cannot say that I entirely blame her. Thinking back to when I myself was deputy head and tried to convince Armando Dippet to keep Hagrid on as the Hogwarts gamekeeper, I imagine I would have been in a similar state if he had stubbornly refused. Therefore I shall certainly excuse her anger, even if at the moment, it is to my advantage. She has a brisk walk even when she is calm, so this little spat will undoubtedly carry her far away from my office long before Severus reaches the gargoyle that keeps watch.

I take a seat, awaiting his knock, as my trepidation steadily grows. "Come in!" I am relieved to call at last.

His head snakes around the door, and his eyes sweep the perimeter, before he finally decides it is safe enough to step inside. Those suspicious instincts will serve him well as a spy, but that is, in part, why I find it so perplexing that he chose to visit Hogwarts in broad daylight.

"Headmaster—I'm sorry to disturb you—"

"It's all right, Severus," I answer with a dismissive wave and then gesture toward the chair across from my desk. "Come in, come in."

Once he has closed the door, I wave my wand to engage the lock and then clear my throat, clasping my hands in my lap. "Severus, I thought you understood that our association must be kept secret..."

I trail off, however, neglecting the remainder of the tirade when I notice that he is smirking. "I might be worried, Professor, if I weren't here on the Dark Lord's orders."

I return his smile, shaking my head. I should have known. "That is a thestral of a different colour. Well, then ... what does Lord Voldemort want with me?"

"Not with you, exactly ... the Dark Arts job..."

"The Defence Against the Dark Arts job, you mean?"

"Yes," he answers, with an impatient sigh at being corrected. "The Dark Lord wishes me to apply for the position."

This, I must admit, I find troubling, for an altogether different reason. Rumours abound that the Defence Against the Dark Arts position is cursed. The reason for this, of course, is because the rumours are true: the position is cursed. I have spent several years attempting to work out what manner of spell was used, or failing that, a viable counter-curse. So far, I have not had much luck. One thing I can say for certain, however, is that the position has been cursed ever since I turned Tom Riddle down for the job.

The problem with Voldemort's appointing Severus to apply does not lie with his skill level; he is undoubtedly proficient. Nor does the problem lie with his, in my opinion, rather unhealthy fascination with the Dark Arts themselves. What troubles me is that I have not been able to keep a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher for more than a year since I refused to hire Tom. This would mean, of course, that whatever ulterior motive Lord Voldemort has—and I have no doubts there is one—whatever task he wishes Severus to perform whilst at Hogwarts, he must be able to accomplish in under a year. Either that, or he wishes for the boy to die trying.

The larger part of me fears it may well be the latter possibility, and the whole of my being dreads it. I imagine this is Lord Voldemort's idea of punishing Severus for his previous absence—in spite of the bargaining chip that allowed Severus to return and live. Riddle has always been petty and vindictive, despite showing a charming facade to the world. Nevertheless, I do have a trick or two up my sleeve still, and I may yet confound his plans without arousing his suspicions unduly.

"I have a counter-offer, Severus," I say, finally, fixing him with a cheerful expression. "Professor Slughorn has expressed his intention to retire at the end of the year. I think if I were to discuss the possibility with him, he might be willing to take you on as an apprentice of sorts ... to show you the ropes, as it were, since you do not appear to have any teaching experience. Am I correct?"

For the first time since the boy entered, a flicker of fear passes over his features. "You want me to teach Potions?"

"I do ... and I seem to recall that you earned Outstanding NEWTs in both Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts—"

He swallows. "But—the Dark Lord—"

"Unfortunately, Lord Voldemort is a bit behind the times, Severus. I filled the Defence Against the Dark Arts position only this morning." And a good thing, too, considering that term has already started. I had to take the fourth years' lessons myself today.

He goes a little pale but then nods. "He won't be happy. What should I tell him?"

"Tell him that I absolutely refused to give you the Defence job. He should be able to understand that the best laid plans do not always come to fruition."

Severus nods, but I can tell that he is not yet convinced.

"Potions would be better, I think, for the following reasons. For one thing, it will allow you easy access to the ingredients you need to brew your medications. For another, it will cast doubt on how much I am willing to trust you. If Lord Voldemort has even the tiniest suspicions that we are in cahoots, you will be in danger all over again. I imagine he sent you here in order to spy on me?"

He nods.

"Well, then—spy you will," I continue, waving a hand in his direction, before raising my index finger to emphasise the next point. "Only we have the advantage in this situation, Severus: Lord Voldemort will learn only that which we wish him to learn. And quite apart from that, your teaching here will help minimise the future horrors you must endure. Voldemort is not yet willing to come out into the open. Therefore, he will not expect you to murder people right under my nose." I think, but do not add, that if Severus can stay at Hogwarts for longer than one short year, I can protect him.

Finally, that convinces him. He will no doubt have to explain things to his master in similar terms to those I have just outlined, but Riddle is no fool. He will see the value of having a spy at Hogwarts. Of course, now I have a niggling suspicion that learning my movements is only the tiniest part of Tom's aims.