Brave New World Book Three Chapter

Neither one of us could speak for a very, very long time. And when I could, the first words out of my mouth, delivered through nearly hysterical giggles, were, "But the third bowl was just right."

The Brothers Grimm et al were evidently persona non grata in the Wizarding World. (Who needs mundane Muggle fairy tales when you live with boggarts and garden gnomes -- and when the Magicals in those Muggle stories are almost invariably wicked?)

Severus was absolutely flummoxed. He simply turned his attention back to the rat and stared at it, and then raised his wand and tried Cruciatus.

"Bloody hell," Severus breathed, and raised shocked eyes to mine. "I never.... I knew that theoretically it could work, but...."

Suddenly he leapt to his feet and went back to the Elixir, grabbing several flasks and gently decanting the potion into them.

"Almeida needs to see this now," he muttered as he stoppered the flasks, and then set about destroying the remaining potion in the cauldron.

"Oh, Severus, you're not -- you're exhausted, you can't Apparate all that way --"

"Have to. I'll do it in stages," he assured me as he sprinted to the other counter and hastily gathered up his research journal and notes. "He needs to start working on the modifications as soon as possible -- assuming we can duplicate these results."

He paused only long enough to replace and ward his dark wand, and then shooed me out of the lab before him, extinguishing the lights and flipping the tapestry back down over the door when he stepped through.

"Don't worry about them, there's an automatic feeding system, and they've plenty of water," he said. "And they've served their purpose, in any case." He pulled a thick cloak from his wardrobe and slung it over his shoulders, carefully stowing the flasks in its voluminous pockets.

Then he pulled me to him roughly and kissed me with all the considerable passion in his nature.

"Get some sleep," he instructed me sternly, lips brushing against my temple, "and see Poppy first thing for some Pepper-Up and willow bark -- you're going to need it. Tell Minerva I'll be gone for a few days. And stay on the grounds."

And then he released me and turned abruptly, striding into his sitting room; unwarded a hidden door tucked in beside the fireplace; and was gone.

There was no way I could get a message to him -- Patty wasn't up to trans-Atlantic trips -- so unless he took the time to contact me, I'd no way of knowing that he was all right. And if his reaction was any indication, he'd be totally immersed in working with Almeida. I might as well not exist.

I returned to my rooms and took a very short and grumpy shower, and went to bed; it was nearly two-thirty.

And all the willow bark and Pepper-Up that Poppy dosed me with the next morning couldn't totally cure my excruciating hangover.

Severus didn't return for four bloody days, and I didn't hear so much as a peep from him. Even Lenore was frustrated with his absence (evidently she couldn't sense him, once he'd crossed the Atlantic), and spent a lot of time in my rooms, alternately sulking and shredding one of the throw pillows to bits. I couldn't blame her, and the damage was already done anyway by the time I discovered it. She behaved in an alarmingly dog-like manner, following me about and alternately attempting to groom me and nestle close for comfort.

I only knew he'd returned the day she suddenly shot to the window and impatiently cawed for me to let her out. He'd made it back to this side of the ocean, at least. But it was another six hours before I got a floo-note.

Of all the.... I'm only your wife, for God's sake, you'd think you'd have the decency to let me know in person....

If I'd been thinking straight I'd have considered that it must have gone well, or he'd be in my rooms taking out his frustration on my ears and patience.

I'm afraid I wasn't thinking straight. I'd worried constantly, and hadn't gotten much sleep. (I didn't stop to consider that he'd probably felt much the same in December, when I'd gone haring off to Lancashire and London. That was an entirely different situation, I'll have you know.)

But I dutifully reported to his sitting room -- via the corridor, not our doorway -- after supper. He called out an "Enter," not moving from his desk or pausing in his scribbling away at a parchment; Lenore was perched on the back of his chair, shifting impatiently, waiting to take the missive.

He noticed my pointed choice of entrance, but confined his commentary to an arch of his eyebrow.

"You're not the only one with a right to worry," I retorted. "I had the decency to send Patty back to you when I'd made it to Lucy's safely."

He tossed the quill down and glared at me -- not the more restrained one, either -- the "you're treading on very dangerous ground," one.

"If you hadn't noticed," he said very deliberately, "you are bound to someone with a rather less straighforward job than tending a shop or milking cows. I should have thought a woman of your intelligence would have considered that."

"I did," I said icily, ignoring the insult. "It didn't help me sleep any better, unfortunately. Even Lenore was upset, and she nearly drove me mad."

"Lenore, at least, does not hold grudges," he said, returning venom for my ice, and returned to his parchment. "I take it my presence won't be welcome. I shan't inflict it on you for a while."

"I wouldn't go that far," I said (grudgingly -- he was quite correct on that point). "I know I'm behaving badly, but I'll have calmed down in a bit."

"Well?" I asked indignantly, and plopped down in one of the easy chairs. "What now? How is Almeida going to fiddle with it? How are you going to deliver it to Voldemort?"

"I can't tell you that," came the laconic reply; he didn't even look up. "Or more accurately, I won't."

"You already know too much," he said, obviously mustering every ounce of patience, and speaking to me like I was a particularly dense First Year (probably justified, given my emotional state). "I shouldn't have involved you in the brewing to begin with -- my fault, but I needed the extra pair of hands. Frankly, if I thought you'd ever forgive me for it, I'd Obliviate you."

It was undoubtedly a demand, and invested with every bit of arrogance and command at his disposal.

I'd like to tell you I resisted, but I didn't. I surprised him, though, by deliberately walking over to the desk; he hastily pulled a fresh sheet of parchment over the one he'd been writing upon.

"I am not so much worried about the Death Eaters," he said quietly and deadly calm, "as I am the Ministry, at least so far as you are concerned. If this goes wrong I won't have you involved and brought up on conspiracy charges. As it is, if you're called on to testify you're to tell them you had no idea what the potion was: I doubt Protheroe would allow them to administer Veritaserum, given what happened last year. Understood?"

I nodded. As I couldn't keep my tongue on a leash it was the best response I could make.

"I'll tell you later, when this bloody mess is over with," he conceded, and tiredly rubbed his forehead as a silence stretched between us.

There wasn't anything else to say, and I knew I'd angered him to the point of his rejecting any offers of apology or truce. So I left so he could finish his work -- through our private door, at least, hoping he'd take it as a conciliatory gesture.

I got as much work done as I could -- berating myself for behaving like a shrew all the while -- and then took myself to bed. Alone.

When I woke around 2 am Severus hadn't joined me. So I slipped back into his rooms -- hoping he hadn't warded the door against me, considering how angry I thought he was -- and cautiously slipped under the covers beside him in his bed. Cautiously, because I knew better than to startle him out of sleep; he went for his wand first, understandably, and asked questions later. Thankfully he'd Transfigured a larger bed, so I didn't immediately risk a forearm across my neck and a wand pointed at my heart.

He wasn't asleep, and wasn't in the mood to allow me to snuggle. But at least he groped for my hand and kissed it tiredly, before rolling over and finally drifting off. And when his usual nightmare woke both of us a couple of hours later, he reached for me and curled up against me, his ragged, panicked breath heating my neck until he calmed down and fell back to sleep.

Sirius Black went missing shortly after that. I didn't connect it with Severus' return at all at the time, though I noted he was a bit more relaxed in the absence of "Valentine Jonson."

Minerva announced "Jonson's" leave-taking one morning at breakfast -- a family crisis, apparently: I shot an uneasy look at the Gryffindor table, to gauge Harry Potter's reaction. Expression still guarded, as it had been since the run-in with Ron Weasley, but no alarm or surprise.

And I thought no more about it, other than to note Minerva's tension and strain.

Black's replacement arrived that afternoon -- a stocky woman with iron-grey hair and a distinctly no-nonsense air: Arabella Figg. She looked me over with sharp, shrewd eyes when we were introduced -- it was rather unnerving, a feeling very like that I'd felt at Severus' first assessment of me -- and then she relaxed marginally, seeming to approve of my sensible shoes and non-witchly trousers, and murmured the bare minimum courtesy before turning away.

I guessed she was about Minerva's age, and I was proven correct: she, Minerva, and Alastor chatted together, forming their own little clique within the faculty.

(All right, I admit it: I asked the Deputy Head, who -- after deploring my curiosity -- consented to consult the Alumni Rolls, and informed me she was two years ahead of Minerva and Alastor.)

"I should stay away from her unless approached first," he said flatly. "She'll guard her privacy well, and she's nearly as paranoid as Moody. She won't appreciate your interest, and will make no bones about it."

"Worse. And no, I shan't tell you -- it'll only get you in more trouble if you slip."

Damn it. I hated it when he flatly refused like that -- there was absolutely no possibility of prying even a hint out of him. It wasn't even worth trying a sulk.

"Unspeakable," Goyle grunted out around a mouthful of chocolate biscuit, and I started and slopped tea over the edge of the saucer, smearing the ink on the scroll in front of me.

I cursed as I mopped at the scroll (by now Goyle was used to my occasional swearing over the essays), and then asked, "What did you say?"

"An Unspeakable." And with that helpful comment, Goyle crammed the last two bites of the biscuit in his mouth and studiously went back to marking the quiz in front of him (suspiciously -- Goyle could never be characterised as studious, under any circumstances).

I couldn't blame him for the cramming. Sweets were now few and far between from the Hogwarts kitchens: these were from my private stash, thoughtfully sent by Lucy (she would send Kimberleys too, however, which I detested). But Goyle had already polished those off last week with no complaints, and now we were working on the chocolate digestives. (I was and am a firm believer in saving the best for last.)

"Well, not since the beginning of this year, at least," I amended. "I mean, you are my assistant, now, and you've behaved yourself admirably this year." And I unsubtly pushed the biscuit-plate closer to him.

"They're like Aurors, but... worse. They can do things the Aurors aren't allowed. Kill people, if that's what the Ministry wants."

"Yeah." And shoved one of the biscuits in his mouth, effectively stopping the conversation for a moment.

"You're telling me," I said in horror as he finally washed the biscuit down with a gulp of tea, "that the Ministry uses paid assassins?"

"It's a secret branch of Magical Law Enforcement," he actually volunteered before he demolished the second biscuit. "'S not all they do -- they guard people, too, stuff like that. Why'd you ask?"

"Something I read in A Brief History of the Wizarding World," I said vaguely. I doubted he'd read it, and probably wasn't intrigued enough by my curiosity to bother to do so.

Holy Shite. So it's possible, if I take Severus' description at face value, that Figg is a government assassin. Holy Shite.

Brave New World

Book 3, Chapter