Chapter Seven

Dumbledore had made himself comfortable on my favourite settee, the one Black had occupied, and seemed to feel it behoved him to direct the conversation, something that, whilst it annoyed me a little, also drew some of the more reluctant admissions from me, the ones I had even denied to myself. He pretended not to notice that Ethel had slipped out of her picture again.

I was uncomfortable, in quite a different way to the unease I had felt at Malfoy Manor, but every bit as troubled, as my muddled brain unfolded difficult truths to me, just keeping abreast as the talk became deeper and deeper. Black said little, seemingly content to sit back and listen to the conversation between Dumbledore and me, peppered by the occasional remark from Ethel. I didn't resent Black's presence, surprising to me as that was, in fact if anything, I welcomed it, sensing him to be less judgemental than the old man who was questioning me so intently that it felt more like an interrogation, which, of course, it was.

Dumbledore moved forward in his seat, his blue eyes as unreadable as they always were. 'Let me see the Mark, Severus,' he said at length, having got me to the end of my story, to when I was about to leave Riddle in the library of Malfoy Manor, as a Death Eater.

I drew back at that point; I wasn't ready for that. When I had shown it to Black I had done so proactively, on my own terms, so to speak.

'What's the big deal, Albus?' Black put in quickly, as if he sensed my discomfort. 'It's just a Dark Mark.'

'Hush, Sirius,' Dumbledore chided him, as though he were still a favoured Gryffindor schoolboy, before turning again to me, to where I had rearranged my mental defences and come to terms with showing him the accursed Mark anyway. 'You said Riddle said Mordestone rose, Severus. I need to see that Mark.' He paused for a moment. 'Unless there is some other reason why you do not want to show it to me?'

'Such as?' I asked, bridling at the veiled suggestion.

'I have to know, Severus,' he replied. 'I have to know if your true allegiance lies with Riddle.' He held up his hand to stifle both my and Black's expostulations.

I noticed that Ethel was the one who sat back now, watching me carefully, and it took me a moment to realise that she had not spoken aloud when her words slipped softly into my mind. "Show him, Severus. We need him to trust us the way Sirius Black already does. Only he has the power over the white stone."

That brought me up short, yet another play on the old man's name, Albus, the white stone, and some sort of hope flooded through me that he had indeed the power. I rolled back the sleeve of the white silk shirt, wincing as the Dark Mark reminded me of its physical presence with an angry sting, like a wasp that has been suddenly freed to wreak its vengeance.

Dumbledore just nodded and turned away. 'Cover it up,' he said shortly, failing to disguise what I took then as disgust.

I can't remember ever feeling so ashamed, so small and worthless and weak, and I didn't care for the feeling. Nor did I care for the fact that I wasn't even alone, so that I could crawl into a corner and lick my self-inflicted wounds. At least when I had so upset Lily Evans, and latterly Andromeda, I had had that righteous indignation of one who sees himself slighted to back me up; but now I had nothing but my own weakness, my own folly, and my own vanity at having assumed myself able to withstand Riddle's power. I found I had nothing to say, no defence to what I had brought upon myself, and perhaps those who deserved it least.

I took my time rolling my shirtsleeve back down, and forewent buttoning it with the quick spell I usually used, going through the painstaking ritual of closing the six tiny buttons by hand instead. It took much longer than it should have, as my fingers fumbled clumsily on the fastenings, and I was grateful for the time I had given myself. When I looked up at last I found that all three of them were watching me, but instead of the reproach I had assumed in the old man's demeanour, I saw challenge, and welcomed at least that much as something I could grasp. All I needed was the courage, and perhaps a reason, to reach out for it.

'I am going to ask you again, Severus, in front of Sirius and ... Ethel,' Dumbledore said, as though trying out an unfamiliar name for the first time. 'But not where your allegiance lies, this time,' he said, holding up his hand to stifle any reply I might have had. 'Loyalties can change, they can be forced and coerced and purchased, and even tricked out the unwary; I have seen that much in my years on this earth. What I need to know, Severus, is where your heart lies.'

My heart, that leaden weight in my chest, that traitor to me, and yet, had I but known it before then, it would have served me better than my head had done thus far. 'Not with Tom Riddle anyway,' I replied. It was the only honest answer I had, and it seemed to satisfy Dumbledore more than any false declarations of fealty to the Order of the Phoenix. I almost gasped as I realised that Black had pulled himself up when he had spoken earlier, had only said, "the Order of ... something else", and that Ethel was watching me even more intently than usual, almost warningly.

'Has the Order of the Phoenix something more to offer wizardkind than more of the same under a more benevolent master?' I asked, deciding to play my own game. I saw Ethel give me a shrewd look that I ignored; if she were intent on messing about in my head, I intended to give her her money's worth, after all, she had paid for it so far.

Dumbledore seemed to assume that Black had told me about the Order, and Black just gave another of his little frowns and appeared to be content to let the matter pass.

'The Order does not brand its followers like cattle, nor expect them to follow like sheep,' the old man said firmly, nodding to where I found I was holding my left arm behind my back. 'It is called freedom of choice, Severus. Not the "think as I think, and do as I say" politics of Tom Riddle.'

He was harder than I remembered him to be, I saw that then, maybe as a result of the intervening years since I had left Hogwarts being so politically turbulent; or perhaps that was the real Albus Dumbledore, and the façade was the benign Headmaster. I couldn't tell which. He wanted an answer from me, not a smart retort, or a carefully contrived barb. I saw the expectancy again, the same speculative look he had drawn me several times in my later student days; it seemed to be the only trace of the man who had tried to mentor the progeny of the wizarding world. Maybe it was then that I realised that he had done just that, slipping in the back door of my mind, like a thief in the night, but leaving his valuables behind, and stealing nothing, and I found myself wanting to prove that I had cherished what he had left.

'What do you suppose I have to offer your cause?' I asked, swallowing my pride, where it stuck in my throat with the knot of humility which was trying to pass it. 'I am neither your meat, nor Tom Riddle's poison.'

'My point precisely,' Dumbledore countered. 'And as Tom Riddle does not know that much, you are all the more valuable to us.'

I almost laughed. For someone as worthless as I had felt myself to be over the last few days, I wondered why everyone suddenly wanted a piece of me ... except for Andromeda, I thought, with a pang of self-pity. 'You want me to act as your spy?' I asked. 'Why should you have faith in a man who has taken the Dark Mark, when I am sure there are many more worthy of your trust?' I looked towards where Black was sitting back and watching us, wondering why he had not been offered the position, or whether he had turned it down. He was a Black, after all, a likely candidate for Riddle's cause, and yet perhaps his sexual proclivities and his Gryffindor heritage had already excluded him.

'But none better equipped for this particular challenge, Severus,' Dumbledore replied.

I thought about that for a moment, about just what he was asking of me: to don Riddle's cloak and all that brought with it, accept the glitter and pretend I didn't see it was fool's gold, all the time remaining faithful to my own ideals, just realising then what they were. The old man was asking me to be a voluntary pariah, to accept being the outcast I had always pretended I wanted to be. And he was right; I could think of no one better fitted for the position, no one with the practice I had had; after all, I had been rehearsing since I was eleven years old. I found I was nodding, as though he were offering me some sort of unexpected salvation, which in fact he was; perhaps I should have checked the price was one I could afford to pay.

He sat back, looking pleased with himself, and on reflection I know he had expected no less of me, and I had only confirmed to him what he thought he already knew: that in some way, whatever happened in the future, I was his man and always would be.

'Who will know?' I asked, instead of all of the other questions I should have thought of.

'Sirius, obviously,' Dumbledore replied. 'Ethel, me ... one or two others as I see fit. However, Severus, the fewer people who know, the less likelihood there is of your cover being broken, and apart from we three,' he said, nodding to Ethel and Sirius, 'and perhaps Andromeda Black, I prefer no one else was in this particular confidence for now.'

I felt something shift in my chest, and I didn't even bother to attempt to fool myself that it was anything but relief that, if I went to Riddle, she would know I was not what I purported to be.

'Why Andromeda?' Black asked, breaking his silence for the first time. 'Is that not putting Severus in unnecessary danger?'

Dumbledore said nothing for a few long moments, and I fancied he was rehearsing his lines, as though what he was about to say was so important that it should be said only once, and thereafter engraved on the hearts of his listeners.

'There are certain bloodlines that run back to Ethel,' he said, inclining his head to where she sat smiling to herself, and it was as though his previous remarks to and about her had meant nothing, and the greater truth was about to unfold. Whatever it was, he had dropped any show he might have had of disregard for her, and nodded to her in what I now recognised as something deeper than respect. 'Oh, I know I said we all went back to Ethel, but there are a few of our families that run in such a straight line that they are indeed Ethel and Godric's direct descendants. There are very few people who know this,' he said. 'Phineas Black was one, Ethel, of course, and myself. These straight lines, for want of better description, run through the Dumbledores, the Blacks, the Princes, and the Potters. But for all that, it is a little known fact that every Gryffindor is in some way a descendent of Godric Gryffindor.'

'Even the Muggle-borns?' Black scoffed.

'There are no such thing as Muggle-borns, Sirius, in our world; half-bloods, yes, but no truly Muggle-borns,' Dumbledore replied, making me rather glad that Black had beaten me to that particular punch. 'All witches and wizards have magical blood somewhere in their veins,' he went on. 'Just because witches and wizards in the middle ages, and other times of crisis for our people, were driven to deny their roots, doesn't mean that their blood was diluted,' he said, as though that were something every self-respecting wizard should know as a fact.

'So how come I was put in Gryffindor and Reggie was put in Slytherin?' Black asked.

'Because every Slytherin is a descendent of Salazar Slytherin,' I replied, quite pleased with myself for having bided my time until I understood what I found I knew. Ethel's doing again, I supposed. 'It just depends on which is the more dominant streak. Really, Black,' I added unkindly, failing to notice I had cast myself in the other camp again. 'What did you think the Sorting Hat was thinking about when it went through all its babble?'

'Are you telling me it traces everyone's bloodlines back to the founders?' he asked.

'Of course it does,' I replied, making no attempt to take the superior tone from my voice; it was a short lived victory though. I saw Ethel glance to the window and then turn to Dumbledore, and my blood seemed to freeze in my veins.

'Albus,' she said urgently, 'get on with it. Time is drawing short. The Dark One is approaching, and it would be wise if he is not denied entry.'

Dumbledore seemed to push his mind outside and satisfy himself it was still safe. 'As I said,' he went on quickly, 'the bloodlines of the Blacks, the Potters, the Princes, and the Dumbledores mean that the children of all of these families would be ideal candidates for the task Riddle has set you, Severus, and they must be protected. Now we have an advantage over Tom Riddle here; he believes, of course, that the Gaunts, his mother's family, were descended directly from Salazar Slytherin, but what he does not know is that his father, Tom Riddle senior, the very Muggle he despised, was also descended from Godric Gryffindor, although neither man knew that truth ... but the Sorting Hat knew.' And then Dumbledore nodded to the woman who had called herself my aunt. 'And so did Ethel. But Riddle would not have looked at his father's background, feeling it beneath him. He does not realise the importance of these children of that particular mixture, Severus, whoever they will be, and probably thinks any half-blooded child will satisfy the demands of the preparation of Aqua Vitae.'

'You're wrong, Dumbledore,' I said, shaking my head, remembering again Riddle's chilling "we are the same". 'I think he does know; in fact, I know he does.'

I started and glanced around the room, not understanding what I was seeing, or wasn't seeing as the case was, because there was no Dumbledore, no Sirius Black, and no Ethel, just a faded photograph of an old woman talking to two men; all three had their backs to the photographer's lens. The old woman turned once to me and gave me an anxious nod.

And someone was knocking on my front door.

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