From Hell

Chapter 5

By Pigwidgeon37

Lucius Malfoy discovers biological warfare, and Snape makes a Joke.

My loved ones and my friends stand aloof from my plague; And my kinsmen stand afar off. (Psalm 38:11)

Ottery St. Catchpole might be a charming spot, but it definitely had its adversities. Shopping, to give but a prosaic example, was nothing short of an ordeal. This was true above all for the Muggle inhabitants of the village, who either had to take what the local grocer’s whim would offer them or to drive fifteen miles to the next supermarket. In terms of transportation, Ottery St.  Catchpole’s only wizarding family was certainly at an advantage—when Molly Weasley had to purchase the tons of food her beloved ones needed, she simply Apparated to Hogsmeade, London, or wherever there was a wizarding community numerous enough to be endowed with a magical supermarket. But whereas Muggle parents could simply stuff their children into the back seats of their cars, it was not only impractical but straight-out dangerous to Apparate with a wriggling toddler in one’s arms. If Mrs. Weasley could manage, she never took the children along for shopping, even when they were older. The thought of having to retrieve their limbs or eyeballs after a splinching accident didn’t appeal to her.

In times like these, however, she always felt uneasy when she had to leave the house, even when she did so on her own. There were wards, but nothing strong enough to deter anybody who really wanted to get in. True, Arthur was at work, and none of the children was currently living at The Burrow; but when Molly Weasley decided, three days before the big onslaught of redheaded offspring, that it was time to raid the shops for Christmas, she had a distinct sensation of doom looming over her house. Considering that no family member, not even her slightly crazy husband, would have accepted this as an excuse when facing an empty dinner table, she had to overcome her gloomy sense of foreboding and provide food for the famished all the same. With a sigh, triggered equal parts by her dire presentiments and by the meagre contents of her purse, she left the house, closed and warded the door, took a few steps into the courtyard and Disapparated.

She had only just popped out of sight when a lazy voice drawled, “Oh, for Merlin’s sake! I thought she would never leave! You must be shivering, ma petite.”

“Well,” an unmistakeably female timbre answered, “I must admit that I have already felt more comfortable in my life. But let’s not waste time.”

“Of course not. But allow me to carry you—this courtyard is disgustingly muddy.”

A silvery giggle bubbled up, then there was a swish as if of fabric brushing against fabric; and had there been somebody watching the front yard of The Burrow, they would have seen invisible feet leave very real and visible footsteps in the aforementioned mud. Had the imaginary bystander tried to calculate the weight of the invisible, but by no means ethereal, being he would have arrived at roughly two hundred and seventy pounds, which was remarkably close to the combined weights of Mr. and Mrs. Lucius Malfoy.

“Light as a feather,” said the lazy voice. “Now let us have a look at these wards.”

After a series of mumbled incantations, the front door of the Weasleys’ humble abode opened with a piercing screech.

“Oh, but this is appalling,” the female voice said in a whisper. “I swear that I would rather commit suicide than live in such a… such a cochonnerie!”

“Although there is something to be said in favour of cochonneries, only of a very different nature,” the lazy voice responded, provoking another bubble of silvery laughter.

“Don’t be naughty! I mean, do be naughty, but not now!” said the female voice, now in a definitely husky tone.

“I can’t believe that you would say no to a quickie on Arthur Weasley’s battered kitchen table!—Shush, ma petite! Don’t laugh out loud—we can’t risk being heard.”

The owners of the two voices (whom the astute reader has by now recognized as Invisibility-Cloaked Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, thanks to a few subtle hints by the author, who may hence put an end to the “lazy voice” and “female voice” mannerisms) had arrived in the kitchen.

“Very well,” Lucius said, “now to the important part: shall we put it into the water supply or into the… er, comestibles? ‘Food’ somehow doesn’t seem an appropriate name for the substances whose stench is hitting my nose.”

Meanwhile, Narcissa had walked over to the ice box and took the handle between her thumb and index finger. “I think I have just found what we need,” she said.  “Why not put it into the milk?”

Her husband crossed the kitchen and bumped into her. “Sorry, chérie, but for obvious reasons… The milk. What a brilliant idea.”

A still half-filled milk bottle made its way through the air towards the table to have its lid unscrewed by an invisible hand. An invisible nose sniffed the contents. Evidently satisfied, Lucius pulled a small vial out of his pocket and poured a minuscule quantity of an opalescent liquid into the milk, swirled the bottle a few times and put the lid back into place.

“If you would be so kind,” he said, holding the bottle out to where he supposed his wife to be standing.

The bottle floated back to the ice box and exactly to the spot where it had been before. The invisible couple swiftly left the premises, without forgetting to lock and ward the front door.

“Happy Quarantine,” Lucius drawled. Two faint plops, and the muddy courtyard of The Burrow lay again in wintery silence.

<><><>°<><><>

To Madam Pince, everybody who entered the Hogwarts Library was an intruder per definitionem. There were, however, subtle differences between various kinds of intruders. Hermione Granger, for instance, was tied with Minerva McGonagall and Severus Snape—if in a more human mood—for top-of-the-list of favourites. The top of Madam Pince’s list of favourites was so small that it was almost non-existent. Translating the catalogue of intruders into a geometric form, the result would not have been a pyramid. It would rather have resembled a solid, trapezoid, almost rectangular block, the slightly narrower upper side of which sported a small wart. The wart represented Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape, Hermione Granger and, occasionally, Albus Dumbledore. Due to the Headmaster’s habit of leaving sticky fingerprints in most of the books he borrowed, Madam Pince usually regarded him as more of a block- than a wart-person.

The two young men, who were currently invading her sanctuary, definitely counted as block. This categorization was not influenced by the fact that one of them was The Boy Who Lived. In her heart of hearts, Madam Pince would have preferred Voldemort to Harry Potter, as far as handling her books was concerned. She shot Harry a vicious glare, which he ignored. As did Ron Weasley, who came cantering into the library after him. They had no sinister intentions regarding her precious tomes, though. They had come to disturb poor Miss Granger.

Hermione knew the sound of Harry and Ron running so well that she didn’t have to look up from the Transfiguration text she was reading to learn the identity of those who had come to annoy her. “Give it to me,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Give you what?” Harry asked, startled.

“The guinea pig, or whatever you transformed it into,” Hermione snapped and finally lifted her head.

“We didn’t come because of the guinea pig,” Ron panted. “We just wanted to show you this!” He flung a small roll of parchment on the table. Frowning at the two boys, Hermione took it.

Dear Mr. and Miss Weasley,

It is my duty to inform you that, for reasons still unknown to us, your parents Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Weasley, have fallen victims to a disease that, to judge by its symptoms, can only be identified as—

Hermione lowered the parchment and stared at her friends, jaw sagging. “The plague? But that’s… that’s impossible!”

Ron fell heavily into a chair opposite her. “So far, this is the only positive aspect of the whole story,” he said. “Hermione is clueless. To say the truth,” he continued in an almost-whisper, “I had expected you to comment something like ‘Yes, I supposed it would happen. Or don’t you remember what Professor Binns told us…’ Something along those lines, anyway.”

“Don’t be absurd, Ron!” she snapped. “You know as well as I do that the plague is practically extinct. It’s a disease of the Middle Ages, not of the end of the twentieth century. Of course, there’s an infinitesimal possibility… that’s how epidemics start, anyway… now let me see…”

She rose and walked over to the section on herbs and mediwizardry.

“How long?” Ron asked.

“Thirty-two seconds, from the moment she started reading the letter. Blimey, Ron, you won again. I thought the shock would last a little longer.” From the depths of his robe, he dug out a galleon and handed it to his friend.

“Here it is,” Hermione said, returning to the table. She was carrying a tome so large and heavy that it almost made her keel over. “The plague, also known as Black Death, bla, bla, bla… most common form… bubonic plague… yes, we know that… Ah, here it is: remedies. ‘The lethal effect of the illness may be delayed by administering a combination of Pepperup Potion and Purisanguis Draught. A complete recovery is possible only through the Contrapestis Elixir, discovered by…’ ”

She closed the volume with a sharp, whip-like noise that made Harry and Ron jump. While they were still coughing—a lot of dust had been propelled into their throats and noses—Hermione already scurried towards the Potions section. This time, she didn’t return to the table. Obviously, she had forgotten that her two friends were sitting there, eagerly awaiting the result of her search.

“Pity we didn’t bet on this one,” Harry muttered to Ron, who snorted. Then, he called “Hermione!”

After the third attempt, she lifted her head. Her eyes slowly coming into focus, she said “I’m afraid this is going to last rather long. The Contrapestis Elixir isn’t difficult to prepare, but it takes more or less two weeks. And I’d bet my wand that no apothecary, however well-stocked, does have any. They’ll have to brew it at St. Mungo’s.”

Ron gave a short, barking laugh. “Are you kidding? Or are you pretending you don’t know who brews each and every rare potion for St. Mungo’s?”

“Of course I don’t… oooh!” Hermione covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, Ron! It’s not… not…”

“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Provoked. Exactly. Meaning that I should probably go down to the dungeons…”

“Yeeeees!” Harry said, in a would-be hollow voice, “So he can snatch your twitching body, to cut out your heart and use it for the elixir—”

“I think I would prefer to eat it, Mr. Potter,” came the Potions Master’s cold voice, “Preferably accompanied by fresh fava beans and a bottle of vintage Chianti.”

Both boys had turned very pale. Severus Snape saw it with relish. Those stupid brats—they really had the gall to joke about something as serious as the disease that had befallen the Weasleys. He was deeply worried. Not about Mr. and Mrs.  Weasley, certainly not. But his instinct told him that this wasn’t just a case of an allegedly extinct virus suddenly flaring to new life. No, this was definitely Voldemort’s doing. Or Malfoy’s, for that matter. If that was the new strategy Lucius had alluded to, the situation was worse than he had thought. In the wizarding world, there was no Geneva Convention outlawing biological warfare.

“I’m s-sorry, Sir,” Ron stammered, “It won’t—”

“Indeed, Mr. Weasley. It certainly won’t. Twenty points from Gryffindor apiece, and a detention for both of you. 8 p.m. at my office. Kindly bring the Tabasco.”

He snatched the book from Hermione’s hand and, with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

“Holy shit!” Harry muttered with feeling. “I didn’t hear him come. How the hell does he do it?”

Hermione was still staring at the open door through which Snape had just vanished. “I can’t believe it!” she said, more to herself than to the other two.

“Can’t believe what?” they asked in unison.

“Didn’t you notice? Snape just made a joke!”

<><><>°<><><>

While returning down to his dungeons, Snape pondered his possibilities. This was a very tricky situation indeed. St. Mungo’s had already owled their request; in fact that had been the reason for his visit at the library. Not even he knew the recipe for the Contrapestis by heart. Of course, that annoying Granger brat had already jumped at the occasion to show off. Not difficult to prepare… Snotty, supercilious know-it-all. But that certainly wasn’t his biggest problem now. The real dilemma was whether to do something or to simply wait for something to happen. Reaction was always less dangerous than action.

He was a spy, granted. But one of the secrets of his success was that he never asked questions. There was enough information buzzing through the air as it was; no need to unnecessarily stir up things. Only this particular information would not simply come to him. Lucius had seemed very uptight last time they had met.  Usually, he opened up after the fourth whisky. Well, he had opened up, in a fashion, although not concerning this mysterious new strategy. So what was he to do? Search for or make up a credible pretext to see Malfoy and ask? As far as he knew, that would only serve to give Lucius his trademark smug look. He would be none the wiser, and Lucius would have a triumph to savour.

Even less promising but far more dangerous was the option of attempting to worm it out of Voldemort himself. First, he would have to wait until he was called.  No one, not even the most foolish or reckless Death Eater, paid their Master an unasked-for visit. It was unthinkable. He had to fight hard against an irrepressible chuckle at the thought of Apparating at the Riddle House, to disturb Voldemort’s current Power-Enhancing ritual by inquiring more or less casually whether it had been his idea to start a Plague Renaissance in Great Britain. He wouldn’t live long enough to close his mouth after uttering the last word.

The best, and least dangerous, procedure was doubtlessly to get the potion started right now, and then go straight to Dumbledore. Not that the old man could possibly give any useful advice, but he had no intention of carrying this burden all by himself.

<><><>°<><><>

“Ah, Severus! Come in, come in!”

There was already a visitor in Dumbledore’s office, and a nervous one at that.  Minerva McGonagall was standing at the fireplace, showing the entering Potions Master her profile, so that he could see immediately that her lips were pinched and her hands clasped a little too firmly behind her back. It warmed Snape’s heart to see that he was not the only one to be at times extremely unnerved by the Headmaster.

“Should I return later?” he asked. Usually, he didn’t retreat just because there was somebody else, but right now he could almost see the sparks of tension in the air.

“No!”, the other two said in unison, if in very different tones of voice.  McGonagall’s ‘No!’ had been a scantily veiled ‘Don’t abandon me!’ while Dumbledore’s was more of a ‘Two playthings are better than one’.

Snape’s guess, at least as far as the Headmaster was concerned, had been right on-spot, for the old wizard continued, “I was just telling Minerva about a most interesting discovery I have made.”

McGonagall’s hands clenched a little more, and she drew an audible breath. She said nothing, though.

“I am curious to hear about it,” Snape said politely, thus provoking a dagger-like glare from the Head of Gryffindor. He stared back with equanimity.

“You know about my ambiguous feelings about these,” Dumbledore said, holding up a glass jar filled with Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. Snape understood why McGonagall had almost skinned him with her look. This was definitely going to be a long, long patience test. The worst of it was that the old man knew. He was doing his fool’s act—the more bad-tempered and impatient his victims, the better—he knew that they knew it was only an act, and he knew equally well that none of them would ever work up the courage to yell ‘Stop it!’ into his face.  Snape folded himself into one of the armchairs and resignedly prepared himself for a long afternoon.