The Serpent and the Sorceress - Book 1: Shadows Rising

Chapter 6

The summons had occurred Friday afternoon, marking the end of the first week of classes for both students and Severus Snape alike.

The prickling sensation growing more and more relentless had signaled that the Mark was being burnt through, black, and that he was expected to join the ranks of the Death Eaters as they met.

Without time for further consideration, Snape plucked one of the ready Polyjuice vials from his locked store cupboard, and the bag he'd been storing bits of his hair in, tucking them both within his robes. He walked over to the fireplace and lifted the lid of the small earthenware pot, pulled out the Floo powder and cast it into the flames. Since he was only using the fireplace for communication, it was not necessary to waste a large amount, and leaning over he called into the blaze, "Arabella!"

No answer.

Snarling angrily, Snape stepped back from the fireplace and strode out of the Potions classroom, wondering where in Merlin's name the woman had gone to. She'd been disappearing quite a lot recently, but this was hardly the time to be suspicious of the person risking herself to aid his plan.

That summer, after the re-grouping of the Order of the Phoenix, a collection of trusted individuals who opposed Voldemort, established by Dumbledore himself, Snape had been put in contact with her after no suitable stand in for himself could be found. They'd practiced since then, and he grudgingly admitted that she could do his mannerisms nearly flawlessly - when she knew to keep her temper reigned. True, his temper could be fiery, but it was not as quick to so visibly flare. That had been the one area she'd fallen short - that, and the fact that she was a Squib.

Fortunately, the Polyjuice Potion still allowed her to transform, but if someone ever came after her, believing her to be Snape himself, she would be as helpless as a child. Or perhaps not. His lips quirked into a grimace as he recalled a scene when he'd Apparated to her house and frightened one of her favorite cats up into a tree for nearly two days. He doubted she'd forgiven him for that, but thankfully, being away from that house near Potter's, teeming with felines, had allowed her to regain a firmer grip on her sanity. Needless to say, she had her ways of protecting herself, and Dumbledore would certainly have an eye open for her.

On the second floor, Snape found himself facing Minerva McGonagall, and, because he was so short on time, he stopped her.

"To what do I owe this honor?" she asked, clearly amused that he'd stopped after nodding to her. He rarely paused for idle chitchat in the halls.

"Arabella Figg," he said through clenched teeth, "where is she?"

McGonagall's amusement didn't falter, if anything, she seemed even more so. "Down the corridor, to the left," she said finally, her lip still twitching as if she itched to smile. "But -"

Snape didn't bother to let her answer. He swept off in that direction; glaring darkly at several students he passed by before reaching the large oak door. Of course, no one but Dumbledore knew about the plan that would allow Snape to escape from Hogwarts undetected. To anyone else, it appeared that the very unlikely two had become amiable towards one another, friends of sorts. Snape snorted before pushing open the door, and nearly stepped back once he had.

Draco Malfoy had been towering above the class, a head on a perfect sphere, only a blink before. The woman...Professor Jacobs...looked at him with surprise from where she stood beside Malfoy, who was staring at her in disbelief. Before he could say anything, the woman spoke.

"Now, with thanks to Professor Snape, you can see why the Chimera only lasts for short amounts of time. The spell is linked to not only the caster's ability but to their concentration. Take your seat, Mr. Malfoy."

The last instruction had been a command, and Malfoy had obliged almost instantaneously. Most unsettling, however, was the fact that the woman's eyes had not left Snape's face. With cold composure, she folded her arms, and directed her next words to Snape himself.

"May I ask the reason for this intrusion on my class, Professor?"

Snape sneered at her attempt at condescension and replied coldly, "I was informed that Arabella Figg would be here."

Movement behind the woman diverted his eyes from her, and he caught sight of Arabella slowly setting her teacup onto the desk in front of her. The woman visibly paused, however, glancing back at Professor Jacobs before slowly rising. Angry that she even thought to hesitate, he snapped, "In your own time, of course," and then turned on his heel, aware that he was being watched, but knowing full well that every second that slipped away was another strike against him.

He strode purposefully down the hallway, and thought he'd burst until he heard a quick scuffling behind him. Ducking into an empty classroom, Arabella followed after him and shut the door quietly. He opened his mouth to reprimand her, but closed it again, knowing that there was no time. After. If.

Quickly he pulled out the vial and the package of hairs. "You know where there is more," he said briskly as he handed her the ingredients, "I do not know how long I'll be gone. You have 5 hours, remember that." Arabella nodded slowly and then unstopped the vial.

Deftly, she added the hairs and then, with a shrug, she tilted her head back and swallowed. The effect was immediate, and Snape watched with satisfaction as the woman began to grow. She'd worn extremely baggy robes that day, concealing the fact that she'd donned Snape's long coat and trousers beneath them. Seconds later he was standing next to a perfect replica of himself. Nodding when he saw that nothing had been confused or unchanged, he turned to go, but froze when Arabella grabbed his arm. It was strange, seeing what appeared to be yourself holding on to your arm, with an intensely grim expression. "Be careful," was all she said before letting him go and straightening. He eyed her coldly for a moment, and then said, as he turned to leave, "I would never say that."

~~***~~

"Ophyres, what I've learned has... greatly unsettled me. I'll give you leave to explain why, but lie only once, and any thoughts of mercy will be forgotten."

In the midst of the spasms that caused his body to convulse, words flew through his mind, as he fought for the ability to draw a breath. At times the Cruciatus curse appeared to subside, only to pick up at full force once again. His consciousness began to slip away, and something somewhere wondered if the distant screams were his own.

"The girl, my Lord," he said slowly, "was one of them -"

"Indeed? How could you tell?" There was a warning in the voice. Lie only once.

"I entered through her window. I'd been about to paralyze her when I suddenly felt myself grow... heavy, as if weights tied me down."

"And?" Voldemort's thin, pale lips were pursed as he regarded the man in front of him through disbelieving eyes. For a brief moment Snape felt as if another presence had entered his mind, watching, peeling layers off every spoken word in an attempt to determine what was truth. With an impatient gesture, Voldemort waved him to continue.

"She healed me, my Lord." There was a sharp intake of breath somewhere in the darkness behind him, and a poorly concealed "impossible".

Irritated, Voldemort spouted a curse from his wand without so much as looking in the direction, and there was a thud of body hitting ground that resounded through the chamber shortly after.

"Proceed."

"After we'd gone through the window, she'd touched my face...and I felt...fire. Afterwards the blood was gone. I'd healed."

Voldemort sat forward noticeably in his chair, his pale face and sharply pointed features visible in the dim light. His dark eyes seemed lit as well, but with excitement. "And the girl? Afterwards?"

This had been the part Snape was dreading. "I believe she died, my Lord. I could not make out any breathing, and the Aurors had already begun to arrive. I was unable to be thorough... but...it seemed so."

"You fool."

It was hissed, but not at Snape. Lucius Malfoy's lips tightened, but he did not flinch under the angry glare. The presence in Snape's mind quickly vanished, and he wished he could breath a sigh of relief, but remained kneeling before the Dark Lord.

Voldemort leaned back into the shadows, his hands clenching the arms of the chair as he sighed with restrained fury. The next words spoken were icy calm, but sharp, deliberate pauses punctuated his speech, revealing the anger beneath. "You were all aware that Selenai powers do not usually become evident until the late teens, linked in some way with coming of age. But by no means did that allow you to simply discredit the child. Certainly, I have no time to baby-sit," several in the room had the audacity to chuckle, too many to die with a single curse it seemed, so Voldemort continued after a lengthy pause, "but that did not give you leave to kill in ignorance. It's that same ignorance that blinds you from the severity of your blunder... a mere child, Lucius."

Lucius flinched then, after he heard his own name spoken with such malice.

"She would have been... malleable," Voldemort continued, heat creeping into his tone. "She could have led us to -" and then he stopped abruptly. After a slight hesitation he finished, nearly shouting, "victory! And now ruined because of your blindness!"

Snape felt he would have wagered a large sum, perhaps even his life, on Voldemort thinking of something else...but what? The Brotherhood was tangled with webs of mystery, workings far too complex to discern single plots, but all intertwined. It seemed that their Lord had other ideas as well. He would need to keep his eyes and ears open if he wanted to learn of whatever Voldemort sought. He turned his attention back, then, to what was unfolding before him.

Voldemort's voice dropped lower now, but Snape, still kneeling beside the other man, could hear every syllable laced with venom. "I had such hopes for you, Radanisaar. I called you friend with reason." Soft, soft was his voice, but deadly. "Your failure here has proven much greater than your accomplishments, and now I must seriously consider the possibility that you, like many here," he threw a contemptuous glare around the room, "are...expendable." With that final word, Voldemort lifted his wand and directed another curse directly at Lucius's chest.

A fresh scream was cut short when the horrible twist and pull of Snape's nerves subsided. The meeting chamber of the Brotherhood was silent, and cloaked figures stood around, watching to attest his loyalty or wait to see if they were called upon to decide how he should die. Traitors were not blessed with Avada Kedavra.

Snape was lying face down on the cold, stone floor, his eyes closed as the twitching slowed. His breaths were shallow and wavering, but he would not allow himself to break down further than that. Strength was rewarded, weakness punished, he'd had that engrained in his mind many years ago. Sensation began to surge through his limbs as his body recovered from the shock, and he became aware of a slow river trickling from the side of his mouth and pooling beneath his cheek. Blood, most likely. His stomach fought to churn out food he fortunately hadn't eaten, but his body was still racked with dry gagging.

"Get him up," an almost ethereal voice said, sounding bored. It was so cold though, like ice over the earth on a midwinter night.

Snape felt two pairs of arms hoisting him up from the sides, and his body was turned towards a platform. His head lolled to the side, he could not find the strength to look up. Someone else moved forward, then, and gripped his hair tightly before yanking his head up to face a large, thick chair, reminiscent of a throne. It, and the person sitting in it, were cloaked with shadows, and only the moonlight glinting off the gilded designs worked in at the top cast any sort of light. Had night come so soon? A large snake had curled itself lazily at the foot, leaving no question as to who would be sitting in that chair.

Snape was then pushed forcefully to his knees, his head still held by the fierce grip that had not lowered with the rest of the body, causing him to wince as his movement was jarred.

"You see, Brother Ophyres, it is not wise to try my patience."

"No, my Lord." Snape's voice was hoarse, but steady.

"Very well, I believe you have indeed learned the price of hesitation. It is on this night that I welcome you back to the Brotherhood. Beware your fate if you should ever falter in serving me again. My arms may appear to be open at this moment, but know that in the darkness, you cannot see the daggers in each hand. They will always remain there, but will not be used unless you give rise to such an occasion." Voldemort raised his hand and spoke to the congregation of Death Eaters, "so it has been said, so it shall be sealed. Leave now, and await your instructions."

Immediately the chamber was filled with sharp cracking sounds, and soon only Snape and the three holding him were left.

Mumbling his thanks to the vacated throne, Snape felt the arms at his side release him, but the hand in his hair did not move. "Welcome back indeed, Brother," Lucius Malfoy's voice hissed into his ear. The fist holding his hair tightened. "Perhaps it will be like old times again, yes?"

With a violent thrust, Snape's hair was released, and he fell forward, barely having time to throw his hands out in front of him to stop the fall. "You have made a good friend, in spite of appearances," the man said coldly, "do not make me prove that I can be an even greater enemy." With a final icy glare, Lucius Malfoy, flanked by his henchmen, Crabbe and Goyle, Disapparated, leaving Snape alone in the heavy darkness. So, he was still bitter then. After the story of the Selenai girl's death had been revealed, Lucius had toiled for years to gain back the Dark Lord's approval while Snape had moved ahead.

Perhaps the transition would not be as difficult as he imagined. He was already thinking like a Death Eater again.

Feeling anger surge through him, strengthening him, Snape stood and muttered his own Apparition spell and found himself inside the basement of the Three Broomsticks. Feeling his knees begin to buckle, Snape stumbled forward, barely having time to reach for the Floo Powder and mutter, "my chamber," before the flames enveloped him.

~~***~~

By the light of the blazing fire that the House Elves had started in the hearth, Albus Dumbledore sat reading.

Every so often he would reach the iron poker into the flames to keep the fire roaring merrily, and warmth quickly seeped into the room that was the Headmaster's office; he welcomed it into his very bones. It was an uncharacteristically cool September, as if nature was providing foreshadowing for what was ahead. Placing a mark on the page where he'd stopped reading, Dumbledore reached past the letter he'd received from the Ministry and grasped the mug of warm cider. Perhaps he was just getting old.

Chuckling, something he'd only done rarely that summer, he drank deeply from the mug and then set it aside, careful not to spill on the Ministry document. He'd never seen such a useless waste of paper, and was half tempted to throw it into the fire as extra fuel.

After he'd requisitioned for additional guards around Hogwarts (he'd demanded, but even Fudge saw the need and could not call him down for that) and had voiced, yet again, his concerns about Voldemort, they'd sent him that letter - or rather, had had Fudge's secretary respond.

He was well aware that he'd been slighted, particularly because he was in direct correspondence with the Minister himself (at least had been until June), but would not rise to whatever bait Cornelius Fudge was laying for him.

In the letter, the secretary had implied that the Ministry, while always on the alert for Dark activity, saw no need at the current time to employ more force, as that would only result in a growing unease amongst the population. Cedric Diggory's murder was dismissed as the work of a renegade Death Eater, trying to scare the masses, perhaps even believing himself to be Voldemort. Voldemort was not back, the incident on the Express was an accident, Diggory's death a misfortune that should have been prevented, and oh yes, how was the weather at Hogwarts, was it as bleak as London?

Frowning at the rolled parchment, Dumbledore turned back to his book. He had no more time for the Ministry if they insisted on believing him a paranoid old fool. There it was, old again.

Indeed, he'd lived through two wars, two villainous wizards searching out power and domination, and he'd always steeled himself for the possibility that there may be a third. Sadly, he would not be disappointed. He wagered it would not be soon, but it was happening, and he positively refused to expend effort on a group of dunderheads who could not see beyond their own little boxes. Let them deal with the bodies when they started showing up.

Dumbledore blinked then, startled at his own anger. He certainly did not wish for anything of the kind, the reason he had called the Order together again. Looking fondly at the phoenix on his right, sleeping with one head tucked under its wing, Dumbledore nodded to himself. He'd been hesitant, almost afraid of placing people in such direct danger, the reason he had not attempted a reformation before that summer. He'd realized, then, at the expense of the life of one of his students, that failing to do anything meant that he would be just as guilty as Fudge when Voldemort began his attack.

Several of the Order walked the halls of Hogwarts, Arabella Figg and Remus Lupin among the group selected as guards. Others, like the Weasleys, retained their positions in the real world, listening, learning, and if the opportunity presented itself, recruiting. That had to be done with great caution, the reason the Order's numbers were slow to grow. Any breath of this to the Ministry, and Fudge would be upon him like a thunderhead. With a weary sigh, equally spurred from politics as from the time of night, Dumbledore forced himself back to the book.

This particular volume was written in Polish, and it had taken him nearly an hour to rifle through another several books to find the correct spell that would allow him to translate the text. Translation, however, did not make the book more accessible. Certainly, he could read it now that it was English, but it was written carelessly, jumping from one point to the next, and so abysmally indexed that he almost wished he could launch it into the fireplace as well, which had begun to dim.

He paused to stoke the fire, (he could have easily conjured up a flame, but magical fire did not carry the same quality as real, nor did it seem to warm him like real), and then decided to give up on the fifth chapter, inappropriately labeled, "Magic Through the Time." Time, in that chapter, had been a span of two years, when several remarkable finds in Curses were documented in Poland. Interesting, surely, but nothing that even hinted at what he was after. Nearly 50 books lay on the Headmaster's bookshelf, each a rarity in its own field, and each with more or less potential of containing information he was looking for, and he would not be discouraged because he could not find what he was looking for in the third he'd pulled from the shelf.

To start, he wasn't even quite sure of what he was looking for.

Since the events on the Hogwarts Express, many of the Professors had mentioned their...curiosity...about the new Defense teacher. No, that was not exactly true. There had been adamant demands that whatever secrets were hidden from them be revealed, cautionary warnings, and even a prediction of grave danger because of the woman's aura. Sybil Trelawney's input had only goaded the Professors' unease, which had risen after Dumbledore had explained he could not give them any definite answer. The students' stories reached him, too, but they seemed far more at ease with their new Professor after their introductory classes with her.

Awed tales of invisibility and Chimeras had caused him surprise. But given Arienne Jacobs's past affiliation with the Ministry, he was not caught completely unaware, nor believed that the woman would be an ordinary witch. He had not, however, counted on her being able to heal.

Madam Pomfrey, Hogwarts' nurse for too many years to count, was a healer as well, but relied on herbs and potions for her remedies. She also required her wand, and according to the stories he'd been told, Arienne had needed none. It was a puzzle, certainly, and there was no need to cause alarm, but at this time most of all, it seemed that any sort of deviance was closely scrutinized until full information could be given.

Luckily, the ordeal, and the clever "excuses" thought up by Arienne had been swallowed by the main body of Hogwarts, and no matter what the reservations held by each Professor, they were all capable of not letting it hinder their ability to be professional with the woman. He feared it might border on standoffishness, but if Arienne felt anymore than a slight tension, she had not come banging down his door to speak to him, and he always took that as a good sign.

Come to think of it, he had not spoken with her either. Once Arabella (the woman had taken to her, it seemed) had explained that Arienne had no knowledge of her "power" and seemed as frightened of it as anyone, Dumbledore had decided to stand back and watch how the woman would handle it. If problems had grown he would have stepped in of course, addressing the school, but he felt it would only set her back further if the Headmaster were needed to step in. So he'd waited, and was thankful for it.

But that did not mean he was about to dismiss it entirely. He did not exactly doubt Arabella's assessment, but particularly with the reactions Arienne's talent (he insisted it was so, even when other Professors claimed it a warning - what else would she be capable of, then? What would be the repercussions?) being what they were, he too, would have been closed-mouthed. He was also skeptical of the possibility that this sort of thing would only happen once, at this point in life, so unexpectedly.

His only choice then, without coming out and demanding the woman explain herself, was to look into it himself. Giving her gift a name would set the foundations, and would speak to normalcy. People tended to fear the unknown, to fear difference, and a name would be the first step in resolving their fears. It would give him piece of mind as well, however much he doubted that she posed any threat.

He returned his attention to the book yet again, and while reading the tiny print reached in front of him for a chocolate wafer from the plate that the House Elves had been kind enough to provide him with. He'd barely lifted it to his mouth, however, when there came a soft knock on the door.

"Come in," he called, torn away from the book once again. Perhaps it wasn't meant to be. He did, however, take a bite out of the wafer, and held out the plate when Remus Lupin walked into the office. It was politely declined.

Motioning for the man to sit, Dumbledore reached across that blasted letter from the Ministry and picked up the pot that held the cider. This Remus accepted, and in moments the two both held steaming cups of spiced cinnamon drink. The other man watched Dumbledore quietly over the rim of his mug, clearing waiting for him to start, and Dumbledore decided that there was no point in putting it off any longer.

"I have a favor to ask," he said, after he'd taken a sip. "This is completely separate of...your other obligations, but you seem to be the best person to ask. That, and Arabella has her own agenda that she must attend to, otherwise I would not place this on your shoulders."

If any of that puzzled the man, no change showed through his patient demeanor, and only his eyes gave away a hint of his curiosity. Remus Lupin had the makings for a very powerful man. His intelligence was profound, and his abilities to observe and reevaluate any situation, any words spoken to him, seemed to surpass even an Auror's. The fact that he was so patient and at times soft spoken made him the unsuspected, but it was his own deviance that held him back.

He was a werewolf.

This meant that he lived each day of his life, alienated from the rest of the world. A creature of myth used to scare children was not exactly something people were capable of welcoming with open arms, a truth that had caused him to resign from Hogwarts after only a year of teaching. The loss had been the students', despite what the parents believed, because he had been the best Dumbledore had seen in a very long time. And now, even though he'd found another with the promise of being a good teacher, she too had something that followed her. It was because Remus was so acutely aware of the repercussions of difference, and because he had a fine eye for detail, that Dumbledore needed him to say yes to the task.

"Have you spoken with Professor Jacobs during her time here?" Better to safely know where they stood before sending the man off.

Remus leaned back then, smiling as though something had been confirmed for him. Likely, he saw where this was going...would he see why?

"Only a few times. Our paths don't cross often, and when they do, she and Arabella are usually discussing, or more precisely, arguing," he said with a small laugh, "about something or another. I figured it safest not to get involved."

"Then I'm going to have to ask you to risk your safety," Dumbledore said lightly. He quickly returned to serious. "Many are still not quite convinced that Professor Jacobs poses no threat to them, or the school. And I myself am curious as to what her particular talent is."

"And you wish me to..."

"Two things. One," Dumbledore gestured to the bookshelf, "is to help me sift through these when you have a spare moment. I'll give you several to take to your room and let you work on them there."

"And the second? Concerning Professor Jacobs directly?" Remus's eyes were uncertain on the books behind the Headmaster.

"I need you to watch her, closely. I don't doubt that she is in need of the companionship, but more importantly, you need to watch for anything that will help us narrow our search. Arabella is adamant that Professor Jacobs knows nothing other than she has managed to miraculously heal children, and you've seen the uprising it has caused. I do not suggest you press her for details...just observe. It will be best for everyone, I think, when a name is placed on her gift."

Remus met his eyes then, and gave him a bitter smile. "Names," he said softly, "do not always provide comfort."

Dumbledore inclined his head, then, understanding, but feeling inadequate about the gesture. Remus was right, and he himself would never know the feelings running through the other man. It also occurred to him that by an ill twist of fate, a name for Professor Jacobs's gift might be just as destructive.

"If you need time to think it over," Dumbledore said finally, "by all means, take what you need."

There was a hesitation from Remus, and then the man shook his head. "I understand the urgency, Albus, for both Hogwarts and Professor Jacobs. I will begin right away, since that seems to be called for, and I will do my best."

With a grateful nod, Dumbledore rose, turned to the shelf behind him, and began selecting books. Once a pile of five had accumulated on the corner of his desk, he paused thoughtfully, added a sixth one covered in faded red hide, and then turned to Remus who had been watching the pile grow.

"You'll need that one," Dumbledore said, gesturing to the red one. "It has spells in it that will allow you to translate these books into English". He glanced at the book Remus had already opened and was thumbing through with incredulity. "I believe that one," he said with a smile, "is written in Troll. From the arches it appears to be Valley script. How a troll managed to write a volume when the vast majority of them are illiterate is beyond me, but it promises an interesting read at least."

Remus looked at him dubiously, but closed the book and added it back to the pile.

"Thank you," Dumbledore said quietly, minutes later, after Remus had gathered the books into his arms. Remus smiled, "Perhaps I should thank you for the bedtime reading. Here's hoping for a good name." Dumbledore smiled then, too, and watched the man disappear out of his office. Despite the lighthearted way he'd left, Dumbledore knew the man would tackle the task with every effort he could muster. "A name," he repeated to the fire. Good or not, it would change everything.

With a small grimace, Dumbledore eased himself back into his chair and set the open book aside. A great many things were changing now, and with so many plots in motion, he especially had to be careful of the way they unraveled. String easily knotted if it was not watched carefully, and the way tasks and assignments were folding in on each other, he had to be even more aware so that they would not end in a tangled mess.

Years and experience had wizened Voldemort, and only a fool would doubt otherwise. Only a fool would not see that Dumbledore had changed too. Harry was maturing as well, and although he would undoubtedly play an enormous role in future events, he was still just a boy, only a single thread unraveling. Many people would be pulled into the struggle before the war began, and many would die before it was finished, fighting for good or evil, even when battle obscured the line between.

Inside the office, the light of the fire flickered and faded, and shadows rose slowly, creeping out of the crevices and painting the objects and the man within.

Truth, it seemed, held as much darkness as lies.