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Part 2 of Of a Linear Circle
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2017-07-07
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2017-07-19
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Of a Linear Circle - Part II

Summary:

In September of 1971, Severus Snape finds a forgotten portrait of the Slytherin family in a dark corner of the Slytherin Common Room. At the time, he has no idea that talking portrait will affect the rest of his life.

By December, Nizar has been free of a portrait's boundaries for a little over a month. Just in time for things to start to get interesting: he is less than impressed by Death Eaters, agrees with Sirius Black that 12 Grimmauld Place should possibly be burned to the ground, and learns a few things he'd really prefer to avoid.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for other works inspired by this one.)

Chapter 1: A Prophecy Learned

Chapter Text

Tuesday morning dawns, which is immediately confusing, as there are no windows in Severus’s quarters. The impression of light is followed by beeswax and a hint of sandalwood. Severus opens his eyes to see Nizar lying next to him; he’s pushed the bed pillow aside during the night and is sleeping with his face pressed into the mattress. It’s oddly endearing.

Severus glances up at the wall to find the clock that was hung after his first sight of this bedroom in November. Seven minutes until seven o’clock. “Nizar.”

“No,” Nizar says at once.

“It’s almost seven o’clock.”

Nizar grabs the discarded pillow and pulls it over his head. “Mornings are stupid.”

Severus laughs and prods Nizar’s bare shoulder. “Is this why I rarely saw you in your portrait frame before class in the morning?”

“Yes.” Nizar releases a muffled sigh. “Breakfast?”

“If I eat nothing before class, I want them all dead by noon.”

Severus watches Nizar dress while pulling on his own clothes. It’s a swift economy of movement that he finds fascinating—or perhaps he’s simply enamored. The knee-length green vest is embroidered with hints of silver and has a full line of silver buttons, but it’s not decorated to the same extent as the black one. “You have more of those, too?”

“I do, but one of them isn’t mine. It’s Salazar’s.” Nizar pulls the black vest with its large swaths of gold embroidery out of the wardrobe. “He liked this much flare far more than I did. I think he took mine and left this behind.”

“A reminder?”

Nizar shakes his head, smiling as he puts the vest away. “We wore the same size clothes. Things sort of wandered back and forth. The only thing we couldn’t share were boots; his feet were longer.” He glances over as Severus finishes buttoning his shirt. “You could Apparate downstairs and get clean clothes.”

“Refreshing Charm,” Severus replies, finishing the row of buttons on his sleeve. “Besides, except for a few shirts, everything I own is black. I could wear the same outfit for a month and no one would ever notice.”

“The house-elves would expire in offence.”

“Possibly,” Severus allows as Nizar places a sheathed knife into each of his boots. “Arming yourself against the students?”

“I know you carry a knife, Severus.” Nizar tucks his wand into his sleeve. “It’s habit. Besides, Helga wanted me to use her gift, not treat it like a relic.”

“That does explain the quill’s presence in your office. And the wand?” Severus asks.

Nizar frowns. “I don’t know. It’s an excellent dueling wand, but I don’t need one. I imagine there is someone it’s meant for, but ash is tricky to pass down.”

“Current wandlore states that it’s impossible.”

“No, just insanely difficult.” Nizar opens the bedroom door. “We should probably space this out. I don’t want to give that walking fucking corpse another reason to harm you, and since I’m already known to hate mornings even more than you do…”

“Wait.” Severus brushes his fingers down the side of Nizar’s face, watching in amusement as the man’s eyes flutter in response. “No regrets?”

“Absolutely not,” Nizar replies. “I just don’t handle mornings well.”

“That is why tea exists.” Severus kisses him, which elicits a purr. “I’ll see you in a few minutes,” he says, and Apparates to his quarters before he’s tempted to skip the morning meal. His clothes are fine, but he has a dire need to shave before presenting himself in the Great Hall.

He also needs a few minutes to mentally review last night. He didn’t expect any of his scattered feelings for Nizar to ever be reciprocated beyond friendship. Perhaps they still haven’t been.

No; that would be Severus lying to himself. Last night hadn’t been that simple. He has known simple entanglements and wanted to escape them immediately afterwards.

Severus does not want to escape. He would rather Nizar…stay.

His lips twitch. Hopeless romantics, indeed. He is nothing of the sort.

Nizar doesn’t make it down to breakfast until seven-thirty, where he joins Minerva in scowling displeasure over the early hour. Tea improves both of their outlooks; Nizar does an excellent job of not appearing to be completely distracted. If Severus were not aware of last night, even he would be fooled.

Minerva scoots her chair back to stand up and then pauses mid-motion. “Why, Severus. You look very well today.”

Severus glares at her. “I look no different than I usually do.”

Minerva shakes her head, studying at him in a way that suggests she’s still peering over her old glasses. “You have dressed as usual, you are as well-groomed as ever, and you scowl like a terror, but you look…” She frowns, as if searching for words. “Less beaten, Severus,” she says quietly. “I haven’t seen you appear this well-rested in years.”

“I still have no idea what you mean.” He doesn’t; his face in the mirror was the same as always. He didn’t linger over his reflection, but—

No. Minerva is imagining things, or fishing for gossip that she is not getting.

The fourth-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs are rambunctious that morning, which causes Severus to strip them of points and hand out detentions that he knows Argus will enjoy overseeing. Then he blisters their ears with the reminder that a classroom full of volatile ingredients, open flame, and bubbling cauldrons is no place to act like imbeciles.

The Gryffindors and Slytherins must have been warned by the fourth-years. They spend most of the class period in a state of quiet, proper behavior that is so rare it makes Severus suspect a plot.

Neville Longbottom approaches Severus’s desk at the end of class without Severus needing to pin him down. “I…I think I have an idea, sir.”

“That is the nature of a hypothesis, yes.” Severus scowls at the Gryffindors remaining behind until they gain wisdom and turn to leave. They’re probably going to wait in the stairwell, once again convinced that Neville Longbottom is in mortal peril.

“Y-yes, sir. I…” Longbottom lowers his head as he hands over the scroll. “Don’t laugh, okay? I mean, it’s you, and you’re…you, and I know you haven’t forgiven me for the boggart—”

“Unbelievable as it may seem, I blame Professor Lupin for the boggart incident far more than I blame you.” Severus puts the scroll down on his desk. That damned boggart from Longbottom’s third year keeps coming back to haunt him. He is also not fond of the fact that Nizar’s boggart was himself, no matter that Nizar claims it to be symbolic. “I asked you for a theory. I will read this later; present the basis of it now.”

“O-okay, s-sir.” Longbottom fidgets in place. “It’s—I think it’s my fault. With the plants.”

“Go on,” Severus prompts.

“Well, it’s—Professor Sprout says that plants grow really well around me, better than anyone she’s ever seen. I like plants, even when they’re not alive anymore.” Longbottom sucks in a nervous breath. “IthinkI’moverpoweringtheplantsinthepotions,sir.”

Severus frowns as he interprets that last sentence. “Consciously?” Longbottom wildly shakes his head. “Well, then. What do you propose to do about it, Mister Longbottom?”

Longbottom freezes in place. “Do? I—I guess not brew potions with plants in them anymore, sir.”

Severus narrows his eyes. “And that would serve what purpose, Mister Longbottom?”

“I—not melting cauldrons, sir?”

“Longbottom, if that were my only concern, I would have ejected you from this classroom after your first year and left you to cope with your O.W.L.s this year on your own.” Severus slides a piece of paper across his desk. “Take it.”

Longbottom picks up the paper as if it’s toxic. Absolute rubbish; the only thing Severus did was saturate it in the fumes from a brewing Calming Draught so that the young man could view it without passing out. “Potions for the Magical Gardener,” Longbottom reads, his eyebrows drawing together in perplexity. “What’s this book for, sir?”

Severus glares at him for overlooking the obvious. “That book, the scroll I gave you, and your hypothesis—which is astoundingly correct, by the way, something I didn’t think you capable of—are the answer to your cauldron-melting difficulties. It is now your job to think, and to use the resources provided to solve this problem. I will not coddle you and point it out for you any more than I already have.”

Longbottom blinks several times as he folds up the paper and slides it into his bookbag. “Er, uh, y-yes, sir. Th-thank you, sir.”

“Get out,” Severus says in dismissal. “There are first-years coming into this classroom momentarily who do not need to emulate your fumbling example.”

Severus has no idea how he gets through the rest of the morning. The first-years of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff are their usual, disastrous selves, which is normal. Severus watches the third-year Slytherins and Gryffindors like a loathsome, vile hawk, waiting for blunders. They come, but never from the direction he might wish. Mister Black of Gryffindor has a deft hand with potions, when he’s not overdoing it and creating noxious clouds. Miss Sibazaki willingly pairs with him to keep their mistakes to a minimum, which earns the pair cross-eyed looks from both of their Houses. Miss Suri and Miss Vane of Gryffindor focus like the fate of the world depends on their potion’s success. Mitcham and Newbourne fail, spectacularly so, to create a bruise paste and instead produce something that might fell a dragon if ingested. Severus can’t decide if he’s impressed or horrified.

It’s the bloody Carrow twins who are giving him trouble, and it makes him want to tear out his hair. He can’t alienate the twits, not with Alecto and Amycus’s placement in the Dark Lord’s inner circle. He can fail them with impunity for not completing their assignment, given that they spend the entire class period loudly gossiping in cruel fashion about every Gryffindor in the room, some that aren’t, and even a few of the Slytherins who are present—all those who aren’t Pure-bloods.

If Severus has one consolation in life, it’s that he was never this much of a raging twat about blood purity.

He skips lunch, finding his appetite lacking. Instead, he catches up on paperwork, grading homework and essays straight through until five o’clock. He uses enough red ink to paint a wall, and there is no lack of scathing commentary. However, he is always stridently fair, if brutally so, as he well remembers when Horace Slughorn was not.

He forces himself to put down his quill, clean his hands, and then walks from the dungeons to the Grand Stair, proceeding to the seventh floor and glaring death at every student he encounters. The Defence classroom door is ajar, though the room is empty. Nizar is in his office, frowning in concentration as he traces something out with ink and quill while seated at his desk. Severus thinks about it for a moment before pushing the classroom door shut.

Nizar’s head jerks up at the sound, and then he smiles at Severus. “Good afternoon.”

“Is it?” Severus asks, not sure he’s convinced.

“Possibly. Come here,” Nizar invites him.

Severus walks into Nizar’s office, taking a look down at the piece of paper. It’s covered in curling lines—

That’s all he sees before his vision blurs and he stumbles backwards, catching himself on the doorframe. “What the hell is that?”

“Pictish maze magic,” Nizar explains, flipping the paper upside down to hide the ink. “I’m starting to remember it, to my relief. I put a lot of time into learning it; I’d hate to have lost it for good.”

“Does it always have such an effect on someone?” Severus asks, shaking his head to dispel lingering dizziness.

“It depends on the spell. This was only meant to disorient anyone but the one who crafted it, and is otherwise harmless,” Nizar explains. “It’s a distraction spell.”

“Ingenious. I’m certain your enemies must have been too busy vomiting to be overly concerned with fighting afterwards,” Severus says dryly.

“Sometimes.” Nizar looks up at him. “What’s wrong?”

Severus stares at Nizar, and wonders that it’s so easy to say. “This has no bearing on last night, but I…there are too many days when I truly despise myself.”

“No,” Nizar says at once, surprising him. “Do you despise who you need to be in order to brilliantly deceive those who must be deceived, or do you despise who you are when you’re alone with me?”

“Why does it make a difference?” Severus asks, scowling.

“Because any time you’ve taken pleasure in another’s suffering, they’ve usually done something to deserve it,” Nizar points out with a wry smile. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re not,” he grits out.

Nizar stands up and wraps his arms around Severus. “And that’s why it matters.”

Severus sighs and hugs a Slytherin idiot. “It isn’t that easy.”

“Of course not.” Nizar steps back and gazes at him. “But if you were truly a vile person, Severus, you’d never once contemplate hating yourself. It wouldn’t even occur to you.”

Severus nods in stiff acknowledgement. God knows it’s never occurred to Voldemort to be displeased with himself.

“This really is about last night, though.” Nizar takes Severus’s hands. “I thought I was going to be the one to have some sort of mental snap over this.”

“You tend to linger over yours. I prefer to suffer all of it at once,” Severus says, reassured by the feel of warm fingers interlaced with his own.

“That’s accurate,” Nizar murmurs. “Severus: you are a kind, vicious Slytherin, and a good man. I do not suffer fools, and neither do you.”

“No,” Severus admits, “I don’t.”

“Speaking of fools: I’ve had time to hide everything breakable in the sitting room. Do you want to view that Pensife memory now?”

Severus desperately wants a distraction from unwanted introspection, but the suspicion he’d felt during his class of fifth-years returns. “I’m not going to like what I see, am I?”

Nizar stands up on his toes and kisses Severus, a swift, dry peck that is still filled with affection. “Probably not.” He closes the door to his office, flips the cast-iron S, and opens the door to his quarters. The Pensieve is resting on the old wooden dining table. Even knowing its purpose, it’s still a beautiful use of the red sandstone of the Highlands.

Severus watches as Nizar retrieves his wand; he frowns as he concentrates on the memory he plans to share. “Minerva said something intriguing at breakfast.”

“About your looking well-rested?” Nizar pulls forth a bright silver mist of concentrated memory from his temple and lowers it to the Pensieve. The bowl catches it, but instead of the wilder swirling Severus is accustomed to seeing, the memory settles into place with perfect stillness. It looks as if a gentle fog rests in the Pensieve. “What did you think removing nineteen years of fucking curse damage would do? Nothing?”

Severus glares at him. “I hadn’t concerned myself with it beyond enjoying the benefit of not being in pain afterwards.”

Nizar glances at him as he puts his wand away. “I do understand why that would be your only concern. Cruciatu hurts like hell.”

“You’ve experienced it, then?”

“Yes.” Nizar dips his hand into the memory fog, eyes half-closed. “A long time ago. I enjoyed killing that bastard. Here, I’ve gotten it right. You can view the memory any time you like,” he says, withdrawing his hand from the Pensieve.

“You’re not coming?” Severus asks.

Nizar shakes his head. “This was yesterday for me.”

Severus reminds himself that he’s already been warned that he won’t like the memory. He dunks his head and lets the Pensieve’s magic pull him in. The descent is far kinder than Albus’s Pensieve, which tends to fling one about.

Seeing Nizar and Albus seated in the Headmaster’s office should have been a second warning. He does take the time to note that there is no difference in the visual spectrum for him within the Pensieve, which is a minor disappointment.

By the time he realizes exactly what’s going to be said, it’s too late to distance himself from what he hears.

He lifts his head when the memory ejects him, staring down at the still layer of mist in the Pensieve. “Nizar. Come and collect this, please.”

Severus waits until Nizar has retrieved the memory before he picks up the Pensieve and smashes it against the wall. Then he stands in place, trembling. If he does not master this rage, he’s going to murder his employer.

“Almost everything breakable, then.” Nizar tilts his head at the pieces of broken Pensieve, appearing remarkably calm. “I needed to be able to put that back.”

“Then you can put the pieces back!” Severus yells, and then clenches his jaw. Nizar is not the person he’s angry with.

“That does answer my question as to whether or not Dumbledore ever told you the whole of the prophecy,” Nizar says.

“No. He didn’t. I imagine he was aware of what my response would be.” Severus digs his fingernails into his palms. “I did not promise to safeguard that child only for Potter to be sent off like a lamb to the slaughterhouse!”

“Well, obviously that plan has changed.”

Severus whirls on Nizar, a snarl on his lips that he restrains by the barest margin. “Changed how? You stated the outcome of their meeting yourself!”

“Yes, I did, though most of my horror in that moment was grounded in the fact that Albus Dumbledore hadn’t thought to try anything else.” Nizar bends down and picks up one of the broken pieces of Pensieve, giving it a curious look. “I did say that Potter and Voldemort would have to kill each other when speaking to Dumbledore. I didn’t say that if Voldemort were to use the Killing Curse on Potter with that Horcrux still in place, Potter might survive it a second time.”

Severus draws in a harsh breath and lets it out slowly. “Explain, please.”

Nizar puts the first broken bit of Pensieve on the table and picks up another one. “Soul jars—Horcruxes—are living things. It’s part of what makes them so fucking dangerous, and so very offensive to those of us who understand their nature. If anyone else were to hit Potter with the Killing Curse, Potter might die, but the shard would still be alive. We should all hope that never, ever happens. One Voldemort is annoying enough.”

That is a sobering, blood-chilling concept. “And if the Dark Lord were to do so?”

“A Killing Curse cast by Voldemort would be more likely to destroy the soul shard first, not the person, as the two magics would recognize each other.” Nizar adds more pieces of broken Pensieve to the growing pile. “Granted, then Mister Potter had best be able to get the fuck away from Voldemort, or a second hit with the Killing Curse would definitely make him dead.”

“More likely,” Severus repeats. “Not a certainty.”

“No. That’s why Mind Magic is the preferred manner of removing a soul shard. The result has much less chance of causing death.” Nizar rises with the last pieces of the shattered Pensieve in his hands and drops them onto the scarred wooden tabletop. “And I say the plan has changed because I suspect someone else figured out that bit about Voldemort and Potter being pitted against each other.”

“Potter’s removal from his home.” Severus frowns. “I doubt Dumbledore has ever told anyone else about the prophecy.”

“Which makes me wonder why he told me.” Nizar lines up the pieces of the Pensieve. “Granted, if he thinks I’ll find Potter just to give him back a chess piece, he’s out of his fucking mind.”

Severus looks at Nizar in surprise. “You don’t trust Albus.”

“I don’t trust anyone who tries to read my thoughts without permission when I haven’t even known them twelve hours yet.” Nizar gets out his wand and touches the largest piece of red stone. “Confracta reparabit id.”

Severus watches the pieces of the Pensieve draw together and mend, but even to his senses it doesn’t feel the same. “I don’t think it worked.”

“Once the magic in a Pensife is destroyed, it’s gone forever. I can at least put a repaired bowl back where I found it, though.”

Severus feels an uncomfortable pang of guilt that is as unwanted as the earlier introspection. “I’m sorry. I haven’t gotten you in trouble, have I?”

Nizar picks up the Pensieve and tilts it from side to side, searching for any lingering damage. “I only told them I’d bring the Pensife back. I didn’t say it would work when I did so.”

Severus smiles at Nizar. “I do adore your way with words.”

“Blame myriad Courts.” Nizar places the Pensieve under his arm and grins. “It’s fun to mock people and have them be entirely unaware of it. I need to put this back, since it’s now useless. Better to do it before the sun sets.”

“Company?” Severus offers.

Nizar nods and holds out his arm. “Excellent. I’ve never gone grave-robbing with someone I’m attempting to court before.”

Severus waits until the Apparition is complete, just within the bounds of an older cemetery. The fencing is made of stone with cast-iron spikes pointing towards the sky. “This isn’t grave-robbing. This is grave-returning.”

“Picky, picky. Next time, I’ll take you with me for the first part.” Nizar turns in a circle while Severus glances at the monuments, which are worn with age or still sharp-edged from remaining hints of old Preservation Charms. Dates are worn, but the earliest he can find on a preserved stone is from the 1400s.

“Where are we?”

“Somewhere north of Aberdeen.” Nizar points at a low hill, which is just as covered in grave monuments as everything else. “That way.”

“How did you know this was here?” Severus asks while Nizar walks around the mound, his eyes following the line of something Severus can’t see.

Nizar gets out his wand and points it at one specific spot, which causes a hole to open in the earth that is as wide and as tall as a man. “This is the barrow of Gedeloc, last magic-worker of the Venicones.”

“How do you know?”

Nizar checks their surroundings before lighting his wand without speaking the word. “Because I helped put him in here. Always a good idea to go grave-borrowing from someone who’s less likely to curse you from the afterlife.”

“Oh, so now it’s borrowing.” Severus rolls his eyes. “Hurry up and put it back before he changes his mind.”

Severus waits, crossing his arms to keep from any telltale sign of impatience beyond the expression on his face. It’s getting dark, and he has no desire to find out if this cemetery hosts a ghoul pack. All it takes is an older crypt or a barrow, combined with just the right amount of forgetfulness, and a pack will move in.

He’s wondering if he’ll have to dare a barrow, after all, when Nizar emerges from the hillside once it’s fully dark. “Sorry about the wait. Gedeloc designed his own barrow’s magical maze, and it likes to play tricks.”

Severus holds out his hand to help lift Nizar out of the depression in the ground. The doorway is promptly swallowed by the earth until the hillside looks undisturbed. “How did you know this Gedeloc?”

“I can’t remember.” Nizar brushes cobwebs and dust from his sleeves. “Rowena was right that the Preservation Charm would start to fill in the blanks, but they’re entirely out of order. Half of it is useless for lack of context, and I still don’t know my own birthday. Let’s go back to the place we came in. It’s never a good idea to Apparate this close to a protected barrow.”

“You have cobwebs in your hair,” Severus observes when they’re back in Nizar’s sitting room.

Nizar reaches up and makes a face when his hand encounters the first web. “Just in time for dinner.”

“I dare you to go to the Great Hall exactly as you are.”

Nizar brushes off the cobweb on his robe front. “You do realize if someone asks me what I’ve been doing, I’m going to be honest.”

Severus smiles. “I was counting on it, actually.”

He Apparates down to his locked office and leaves from there, if only to continue this necessary, irritating illusion, and is first to the Great Hall. Nizar has seven flights of stairs to cope with and arrives a few minutes later. The students give Nizar a few curious looks, but apparently they consider cobwebs and dirt to be entirely in character for their new Defence teacher. It’s the staff who do not disappoint.

“What on earth have you been doing?” Aurora asks in dismay when Nizar sits down.

“And could you not have bothered with a cleansing charm afterwards?” Charity adds, staring at the cobwebs in alarm.

“I was visiting a barrow,” Nizar says, which causes Minerva to choke on her tea but not strangle herself on it.

Pomona stares at Nizar. “A—a barrow. Why?”

“How else is one to visit the dead unless one goes to where they happen to live?” Nizar asks innocently.

“I don’t believe it,” Charity says after a moment of narrow-eyed disapproval.

“I’d believe it,” Filius murmurs under his breath.

“Not even you would be that rude,” Charity continues.

“Rude?” Nizar blinks at her in confusion. “Why is it rude?”

“Tell us what you were really doing,” Pomona says, smiling.

“Oh, all right. I was exploring far too many of Hogwarts’ abandoned back passages,” Nizar replies.

Aurora and Minerva lean in close to Nizar after the biddies go back to clucking their disapproval over the cobwebs. “It was actually a barrow, wasn’t it?” Minerva asks.

Nizar smiles at them. “One of these days, the others are going to realize that the truth is far more entertaining than a lie.”

 

*         *         *         *

 

Nizar looks up as motion gets his attention and catches the slip of paper that floats down. He unfolds it to find Severus’s delightfully close-set, spidery handwriting: Can I see you before the madness descends again in the morning?

He smiles and lifts his quill from the page he’s working on to write a response: You don’t even have to ask.

He’s waving ink dry when Severus Apparates into his quarters. “Much like knocking, I’m not going to cease asking anytime soon. What are you doing?”

Nizar looks at the two books in his lap. “Learning Old Welsh in hopes that it helps with the Cumbric interpretation.”

Severus drops down onto the sofa next to him. “You’re teaching yourself a new language while attempting to translate another.”

“They’re closely related, though close is definitely a relative term. Old Welsh is not really the same thing.” Nizar closes both books. “Besides, I don’t exactly assign a lot of homework to grade.”

Severus frowns. “Why not?”

“Because I give them five essays per term. Students have their choice of well-researched subject matter as long as it’s relevant to their year level, uses at least four resources that are not those stupid textbooks, and oh, it has to be sixteen feet.”

Severus stares at him in what is either awe or remembered academic horror. “I’m surprised I’ve not heard them whinging about it in the hallways.”

“The first one is due before the winter holiday begins. I’m expecting the whinging to begin any day now from those foolish enough not to begin last month.” Nizar smiles. “Of course, a quarter of my Ravenclaws, Miss Granger, Miss Parvati Patil, and the Weasley twins are done already. I’m looking forward to reading those on Friday.”

“Fred and George Weasley. Completed an assignment early.”

Nizar nods. “Too many people treat those two as if they’re incompetent, despite their O.W.L. grades—and who named those stupid testing standards, anyway?”

Severus smiles. “I don’t know. I do know they got an O in Potions, or I wouldn’t be putting up with them.”

“Os in every subject they took an O.W.L. for, Severus,” Nizar says. “I asked Minerva. Despite that, most of the school, teachers included, treat the twins like they’re blithering idiots. I refuse to do so, which is baffling the hell out of Molly Weasley.”

“You met the Weasleys?” Severus asks.

“Mm. Arthur does a very good job of playing it off like he’s hapless, and it’s always fun to see that type be underestimated.” Nizar puts his work aside so he can slump down against Severus’s shoulder. “Did Molly lose anyone in the last war?”

He can feel Severus tense up at the question before making himself relax. “Yes. Her twin brothers, Fabian and Gideon, among other close relatives. Fred and George’s middle names are Gideon and Fabian.”

“That would be the other part of it, then,” Nizar says. “She’s going to alienate her children if she doesn’t stop letting those old fears guide her decisions when it comes to the twins.”

“I’d noticed similarly. The Prewetts are exceptionally stubborn; the twins will either prove her fears groundless, or there will be yet another Weasley child estranged from that family.”

Nizar winces. “Oh, dear. Who?”

“Their son Percival, two years older than the twins. I’m not aware of all the details, and I don’t want to be, but Percy Weasley has made it clear that he stands with Fudge and the Ministry,” Severus says in a tone of evident disgust.

Nizar sighs. “That poor idiot, and I don’t mean Cornelius Fudge.”

“Please. You would use far more interesting vocabulary if you were to insult Minister Fudge.” Severus pauses. “If you tell Fred and George that they’re my best students in seventh-year Potions…”

“Your secret is safe,” Nizar assures him dryly. “No one would believe it.”

Severus wraps his arm around Nizar’s shoulders. “I could announce it from the bloody towers myself and no one would believe it. Do you have any plans for Friday aside from grading the essays from overenthusiastic academics?”

“Don’t mock them. You’re an overenthusiastic academic.” Nizar grins when Severus swears under his breath. “I want to go to London on Friday evening. That device Dumbledore crafted pointed at someone in London, but not to Potter’s blood relations in Surrey. I want to know why.”

“I’d wondered about the lack,” Severus murmurs. “I’ve also been thinking it time to go hunt down that interesting Underground again. They might not have had answers in October, but it’s now December. Things change.”

“That they do. The last time I was in London, it was a foul-smelling medieval fortress,” Nizar says.

“Get close enough to the Thames, and I’m sure it will immediately seem familiar.”

 

*         *         *         *

 

Severus awakens Wednesday morning with a start. At least this time he knows he’s in Nizar’s bed, but at first he can’t figure out what roused him. Then his left arm burns with the increased pressure of a Summons from the Dark Lord.

Twice in a week. Severus wonders if Voldemort has a point to this early morning meeting, or if he just likes to remind Severus that he is on a short leash.

As if he could forget.

He doesn’t realize that Nizar is sitting up at his side, awake, until he speaks. “If you die, I won’t be forgiving you anytime soon.”

“My death is not that likely for a random mid-week summons in December,” Severus replies, leaning over to rest his head on Nizar’s shoulder. His bare skin is cold, as if he’s been sitting up for a while. “You didn’t sleep properly.”

“I did, actually. I’ve just been awake since he started increasing the blood magic he uses to manipulate that fucking Mark.”

“I must be used to such a thing.” Severus doesn’t feel it as a gradual increase; it isn’t, and then it is.

“He’s family. It’s loud,” Nizar mutters. “Go. He probably wishes to gossip over Hogwarts’ Defence teacher again.”

Severus scowls in the early morning darkness. That’s probably accurate. “Will I see you later?”

Even without the candles lit, he can see the edge of Nizar’s mouth turn up. “It’s a school morning. If you’re back in time for breakfast, of course you will.”

Severus rolls his eyes and grasps Nizar’s chin long enough to kiss him. “You are truly, wonderfully irritating.”

“I do try.”