From HellChapter 9By Pigwidgeon37Our protagonists are looking into various kinds of abysses. Surprisingly, a Gryffindor manages to throw a Slytherin off balance. We were under great pressure, far beyond our ability to endure, so that we despaired even of life. (2 Corinthians 1:8)
Hermione Granger, lying face down on her bed, was staring into the abyss of adulthood. She supposed that a snake having shed its skin had to feel more or less like this: the old one gone, the new one still oversensitive. She wasn’t sure what exactly had done it—Snape’s attack or the discussion with Dumbledore—but she felt that she had been propelled out of a universe, which maybe she hadn’t enjoyed, but which she had at least known. Her boring, work-and-pressure-filled, varying-shades-of grey universe. Where there had been constant demands but constant safety as well. And then she had realized that safety didn’t exist. It was a utopia at best, and a cheap lie at worst. She had believed herself protected—now the thought almost made her laugh, although not with mirth. There was no protection, whether magical or Muggle. She had to take care of herself, because nobody else was able to do so. To a certain extent, yes. But not completely. And with her trust, her childish, stupid, damned trust, she had allowed herself to become so vulnerable. It was bad enough that you had to take care of yourself, but it was far worse to believe others could protect you and thus to depend on them. Did she feel sad? No, not really. Maybe there was a tinge of sadness at the thought that not even Dumbledore… No. Not even he. A couple of hours ago, the thought would have seemed pure blasphemy to her. Now it was barely enough to tug at her heart. Was she desperate? Well, she thought, that was a better guess. Desperate. Perhaps. It depended on the circumstances, though. She would have to give in to despair if she didn’t find a way out of her dilemma. At first sight, there didn’t seem to be any, though. Neither Dumbledore, nor any other staff member, nor any of her friends were going to help her. Speaking of friends… “Who is it?” she called, hearing a knock at the door. “It’s me, Ginny,” came the muffled reply. Hermione groaned into the pillows. Not exactly the person she wanted to see now. Not that she wanted to see anybody, for that matter. Seeing as how she couldn’t avoid the girl forever, it was better to get over with it right now. “Come in!” she called. “Where have you been?” No, that was not what she needed. Hermione felt rage flooding through her—an entirely new sensation, and not at all unpleasant. “Good morning to you too, Ginny,” she said icily. “And kindly close the door.” With a nonplussed look, Ginny did as she had been told. “Where have you been?” she repeated, crossing the room to sit down on Hermione’s bed. “I’ve been worried sick, you weren’t in your room, you didn’t come down for breakfast…”
“So what?” said Hermione, staring at her out of narrowed eyes. “You could at least have told me! I was beside myself with worry—” “Yes, I believe you already said so. May I remind you, though, that I’m almost eighteen and free to do whatever I want without previous notice?” Ginny stared at her in disbelief. “Hermione! What’s the matter with you? I didn’t mean any harm, I just… Why are you treating me like this?” Her eyes filled with tears. “Strange that you’re only talking about how you are feeling, if you are so concerned about me,” Hermione said, now barely controlling her voice. The redhead didn’t answer and merely continued staring at her. “Cat got your tongue?” “N-no… It’s just… You’re so… so different, Hermione.“ “Yes I am. And I’m not going to apologize for being different, if that’s what you’re expecting. And no, I can’t tell you what happened. Not yet, anyway. I need to be alone and sort things out. I have to do a lot of thinking.” Ginny nodded and swallowed. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I just wanted to tell you that I got an owl early this morning. From St. Mungo’s. They don’t know how or why, but my parents have miraculously recovered. Just like that. So I’m going back to The Burrow for the rest of the holidays. You…” She hesitated. “You wouldn’t like to—” “No.” Then, a little friendlier, “No. I think I’d better stay here.” <><><>°<><><> Lucius Malfoy, prostrated in front of the Dark Lord, was staring into the abyss of humiliation and failure. “Gone, Lucius? That is all you have to say?” “My Lord, I cannot explain it to you. I only know for sure that Severus has been banished from Hogwarts without delay and that he left in the small hours of the morning. Why he didn’t come to us immediately I cannot say.” “Did you search for him?” “No, My Lord, not yet. I… I thought we might wait—” “Wait?” Voldemort hissed, red eyes ablaze with anger. “Wait for what? For him to leave the country?” “We will find him wherever he goes, My Lord…” “What makes you so sure?” “We have friends and allies all over the world, My Lord; one word to them, and he will be hunted down immediately. Besides, unless he shows up soon, we have the irrefutable proof that he is a traitor.” “Yes,” Voldemort replied, “that is true. But then, you know what I do with traitors.” Malfoy, still kneeling and avoiding his Master’s eyes, nodded. “Of course, My Lord.” “And you are aware that he will remain unpunished unless you find him.” “Yes, My Lord, but—” “No buts!” Voldemort hissed. “You failed, Lucius. Miserably. Have you forgotten that I do not tolerate failure?” Was he still too weak to cast Cruciatus? Lucius hoped so. But then, he could always summon one of the others to step in for him. Come to think of it, it was ridiculous. On the other hand, it might all be nothing more than a show. A carefully put-up show to make them all believe he was still weak, while in reality he was just waiting for the first to disobey. The risk was simply too great. They ought to have reacted when first they became aware that Voldemort hadn’t regained as much strength as they had thought. But they had been thoroughly shocked by the realization, too shocked for too long. Until they couldn’t be entirely sure anymore. “But I will give you twenty-four hours.” Lucius almost wept with relief. “Tomorrow at noon, I want to see Severus Snape at my feet. Preferably alive.” “Yes, My Lord. Thank you, My Lord.” “You may go now, Lucius.” <><><>°<><><> Severus Snape, sitting in his room at a dingy B&B near Brighton, was staring into the abyss of hopelessness. He had been defeated, and he knew it. Having been exiled from Hogwarts, which he had considered a safe haven despite his many reservations, he had immediately made his choice. He was not going to rejoin Voldemort. Which left only one possible path, and that led straight into the Muggle world. It was his best-kept secret, unknown even to Dumbledore, that he wasn’t completely alien to the non-magical part of the world. Not only had he read every book on Muggle studies in his father’s library—there hadn’t been many, but of excellent quality—he had also studied the matter during his time at Hogwarts. Teachers were allowed to take the books they needed without bothering with Madam Pince’s tedious formalities, and thus his interest in this particular field had gone unnoticed. Not to mention that he took a stroll through Muggle London whenever he visited Diagon Alley. He was well-prepared. But he would never have chosen to live in the Muggle world were it not in order to save his hide. Right now, he didn’t have another possibility, though. Location spells were performed on wands, not on persons, and thus he had Apparated to Paris, transfigured his wand into a stone and thrown it into the Seine. It was a ridiculous red herring, but it might buy him precious time. For the moment, he had to remain in England. Even though his knowledge of all things Muggle was considerably vaster than most other wizards’, he would need some time to adjust. And he preferred to do so in his own country where at least language and customs were familiar to him. Money wasn’t really a problem—to access his anonymous Gringott’s vault he didn’t need to show up at the Goblins’ bank. He had sent them an owl immediately after leaving Dumbledore’s office, requiring that, on the tenth of every month, two hundred galleons’ worth of pounds be owled to a hidden spot on the Cornish coast. He didn’t have a wand anymore but he could Apparate and get the money. But that was the least of his worries. What preoccupied him a lot more was the question of other indispensable Muggle paraphernalia. He could do without an insurance card, as he was enjoying excellent health. Minor ailments like the flu could be cured by simple potions, the ingredients of which—or rather their substitutes—were easily available in the Muggle world. If the worst came to the worst, he was well able to pay for medical treatment. After all, he didn’t expect this situation to last for the rest of his life. But he needed an ID card. There was virtually nothing you could do without an ID card. Whether for opening a bank account or staying at a hotel, you needed that damn piece of paper. So he had to procure himself one, knowing that this wasn’t going to be easy and required to make contact with people he would rather have avoided. There was no time for petty idiosyncrasies now, though. He had no intention of spending more time than absolutely necessary in this pathetic excuse for an accommodation, where only a not-so-small pound note had granted him a roof to stay under for this and the next few nights. He gave the room a cursory glance. It was hideous. Threadbare and lacklustre. The furniture chipped, the tapestry peeling off the wall, the mirror above the sink—there was no bath—almost blind. If, in his more desperate moments at Hogwarts, he had ever thought that things couldn’t get worse, he had been wrong. Fortunately, he had at least possessed the presence of mind to put an unopened bottle of Laphroaig’s Very Ancient into his bag. That, and all his robes transfigured into Muggle clothes. Underwear and a few toilet things. His books… That was, surprisingly, what hurt most. He had had to leave his library behind. Snape got up to fetch the glass sitting on the edge of the sink; after a closer look, he put it back, though, with a disgusted expression and automatically wiped his hand on his trousers. He’d rather drink directly from the bottle. Somehow it figured perfectly. Back on the bed, he uncorked the bottle and took a deep gulp. The liquor burned down his throat, pleasantly warming it and spreading warmth throughout his body. Another gulp, and he felt his muscles relax a little. He was in dire need of relax; all the time since he had entered Dumbledore’s office he had been so taut that by now his limbs and his back hurt like hell. Dumbledore… so his suspicions had been right. The old man had never really trusted him. And McGonagall… his face was disfigured by a grimace of disgust. What a bunch of hypocrites! As if they hadn’t thoroughly abused the girl they so fondly called their star student. Turned her into a soulless learning machine. Poor girl, he thought. She must have gotten the shock of her life. He couldn’t even do anything about that spell he had put her under. The thought hadn’t occurred to him earlier, and even if it had he doubted whether they would have let him anywhere near her. Poor, poor girl. Right now, he was unable to help her. But she was Muggle-born, which in this particular case might prove an invaluable advantage, for he only had to wait for her to go home after she had finished school, so he could present himself at her home and undo the spell, using her wand. It wasn’t going to be easy—he had never achieved outstanding results with other wizards’ wands—but it could be done. Until then, she would have to wait. Probably she was desperate, envisioning herself as an eternal old spinster. He snorted. Honestly, if that girl didn’t change her attitude, she was going to remain exactly that, spell or no spell. <><><>°<><><> “I’m not going to leave,” Narcissa repeated stubbornly. “I am staying here with you. Besides, it would be completely pointless if I simply went back to France. He could find me there, as you well know. Almost as easily as here. And then there’s Draco as well.” Lucius interrupted his feverish pacing for a moment. “Draco is safe as long as he is at Hogwarts.” “You know exactly that this is not true. The Hogwarts grounds can be entered through the Forbidden Forest. It’s dangerous, but do you truly believe that there is any monster, beast or whatever that might prevent Voldemort from using that path if he wants to get to Draco?” “Probably not,” Lucius conceded, “Mostly because he won’t go himself.” “You see,” Narcissa said. She got up from her chair and walked close to her husband. “I will not leave you, chéri.” Standing behind him, she put her hands on his shoulders and rested her head on his back. “You are going to need me when you return.” His hands came up to cover hers. “If I return.” Narcissa squeezed his shoulders and shook her head. “When, Lucius. When.” For a moment, they remained in this position, both immobile. “You know,” Narcissa broke the silence, “We still have twenty-three hours.” She took Lucius’s hand and pulled him with her, out of the library and towards her own small salon. “You must be starving and, frankly, so am I. Let us have some tea and consider what we can do.” The House Elf that served their tea was the same unfortunate creature that had brought the Christmas pudding on the previous evening. It still smelled slightly of smoke, and its left ear was scorched. Lucius’s barely contained, furious frustration did nothing to ease the creature’s fear of its master, and had Narcissa not put her hand on his, frowning and shaking her head, the Malfoy household would surely have counted one less House Elf. When they were alone, Narcissa poured the tea and said, “So the location spell yielded no result?” Lucius shook his head. “Believe me, it didn’t.” “Which means,” Narcissa said pensively, taking a sip of tea, “that his wand isn’t within the reach of the spell. He could be, though.” Lucius swallowed a bite of sandwich. “Yes, that seems fairly obvious. Only if that is the case, we have already lost. But I sincerely doubt that Severus would have separated himself from his wand. He can’t do wandless magic.” “So I suppose it would be best to alert your contacts abroad.” “I will certainly do that. But we don’t have enough time unless he went to France or Belgium. You know how long it takes for an owl to—” He glanced sharply at the door and the House Elf that was poking its nose inside the room. “I think I made it clear that we do not want to be disturbed,” he hissed, drawing his wand. “I knows, Master, but there is somebody who wants—” The elf couldn’t finish the sentence, because it was shoved aside none too gently. The door was pushed open, and in came a young woman, clad in black Hogwarts robes, bushy hair pulled back in an untidy ponytail, face pale but set in an expression of adamant determination. Lucius stared at her in disbelief. “Miss Granger!” he said, trying to sound as calm as possible. “What do you want, Mud—Mademoiselle?” After Ginny had left her, Hermione had decided that it was time to do some serious thinking. No more useless regrets, no wallowing in self-pity. She had to act now. She had to make a choice, possibly a wise one. All on her own. What were her possibilities? She could go straight back to business as usual, pretending that nothing had happened and hoping that Professor Snape would still be alive after her graduation. Which was, to say the least, absolutely ludicrous. Whether he rejoined Voldemort’s ranks or not. Maybe her chances were even better if he decided to change sides again, provided that Voldemort didn’t kill him as soon as he set eyes on him. Of course, she might also resign herself to the thought of remaining under that spell—although by now she thought of it rather as of a curse—for the rest of her life. But she felt that neither waiting nor resignation were options anymore. She had to do something, and quickly. Either Snape had gone back to Voldemort or he was now on the run. Which meant that, unless he was already dead, he was to be found in the company of other Death Eaters either hunting him or celebrating his return. She had to contact the Death Eaters, then. Which was, if truth be told, a brilliant conclusion but by no means an easy thing to do. Mostly because she didn’t know any Death Eaters. Or did she? When Harry had finally been able to speak about the terrible things that had occurred at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, he had mentioned that Lucius Malfoy had been among the Death Eaters assembled around their resurrected leader. There had been other names as well, but she had forgotten them, probably because she had never seen the people they belonged to. Malfoy she knew. Well, not really, but at least she had seen him… how many times? Once or twice, but that wasn’t important right now. Next step then. How should she contact him? She had immediately dismissed the thought of sending an owl. It took too long, and he could simply throw her letter into the fireplace. No, she definitely had to speak to him. The sooner the better. There was one problem left, though, and certainly not the smallest: How should she get to wherever he lived? From what Ron and Harry had told her in their second year, after their successful—and her not-so-successful—adventure with the Polyjuice Potion, she knew that the Malfoys lived in a Manor. Its location was unknown to her, so that going there by broomstick was definitely out of the question; besides it was bitter cold, and she would probably catch her death if she covered a longer distance flying. No Apparating, because she was still under age. Thus, her only real option was to use the Floo network. Not exactly an appealing thought, mostly because she wasn’t sure whether a manor belonging to the Malfoys was necessarily called Malfoy Manor. But she had to try. So Hermione Granger, epitome of The Good Girl, had snatched her winter cloak, left her room, sneaked out of the castle and through the grounds towards Hogsmeade, entered the Three Broomsticks—as she had expected, the pub was so crowded that nobody noticed her—surreptitiously threaded her way through the masses towards the fireplace; a pinch of Floo powder, a last deep breath to overcome the fear—and she honestly didn’t know what she feared more: to hit the right destination, or to be chucked out of some random fireplace. To her immense surprise, it had worked. A House Elf, not less terrified than the unexpected visitor, had told her to stay exactly where she was in the Manor’s grand entrance hall and scuttled away to announce her to its master. Hermione had simply followed the creature, determined not to let admission be refused to her. And now she was standing in front of Lucius Malfoy and his wife, irrationally astonished that Death Eaters did something as prosaic as having afternoon tea. Then there was also Mrs. Malfoy. Not quite as haughty-looking as she had been when Hermione had last seen her more than three years ago, at the Quidditch World Cup. At closer scrutiny, both Malfoys appeared to be rather distressed. Hermione doubted whether that dismay was due only to her arrival at their house. But right now, she had to answer a question. She knew that she wasn’t playing in the same league as Malfoy, as far as diplomacy and verbal fencing was concerned. If she wanted to score points, she had to try on her own terms. “I want to see Lord Voldemort.” Blunt obviously did it with the Malfoys. Narcissa broke out into a hysterical giggle, and Lucius turned so pale that his hair seemed almost dark against his skin. “You…” He pulled himself together. “Miss Granger, have you by any chance gone mad?” So she had taken them by surprise. “That’s hardly your business, Mr. Malfoy. But I know that you’re a Death Eater, and thus you have to know a way for me to see your master. Believe me, had I been able of thinking of another possibility of contacting him, I would have done so.” “Miss Granger.” Now the voice was cold and composed again. “Supposing I were a Death Eater, why would I comply to your wish? It might be a trap—a very simplistic one, if I may say so, but that makes the Ministry’s involvement all the more probable.” “Not even the Ministry would send an as yet not fully trained witch, Mr. Malfoy. Least of all a Muggle-born. Look, I know you’re a Death Eater. I haven’t told anybody, mostly because Harry already did so and nobody believed him. I’m not going to pretend that I don’t desire Voldemort’s downfall, but neither am I foolish enough to believe I could be the one who might defeat him. My business with him is of an absolutely private nature.” “Miss Granger,” said Narcissa Malfoy, “Why don’t you sit down for a moment and have a cup of tea with us? I assure you it is not poisoned,” she added with a malicious smile. Come to think of it, she hadn’t eaten properly for almost twenty-four hours. The sandwiches and cake looked very alluring. “Yes, I think I will. Thank you.” Lucius Malfoy, who seemed anything but pleased at having to share his tea with a Mudblood, obviously had no intention of making polite conversation. “What private business can a Gryffindor Mudblood possibly have with Lord Voldemort?” “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you,” Hermione replied. “It would put me at too great a risk. I may be a Gryffindor, but I’m not stupid, you know?” And that was still an understatement. There were twelve uses for dragon blood. The blood of a virgin could be utilized in many more ways, and none of them was pleasant. While Hermione was restoring her tired and famished self, Lucius Malfoy tried to do some quick thinking. Had the girl put two and two together? Maybe. Could that knowledge do him any harm? No. At least not now, and probably neither when she returned to Hogwarts. Snape was bound to have told Dumbledore about his suspicions, and if he hadn’t succeeded in convincing him, what could the little Mudblood do? Although what she might want to discuss with Voldemort was a mystery to him anyway. That, however, was not what really bothered him. He was a lot more uneasy about the short interval that separated Snape’s departure from Hogwarts and her visit at Malfoy Manor. It couldn’t be simple coincidence. She had come here because Snape had been sacked. And the only explanation was that she wanted him back. Maybe they had a relationship? The thought hadn’t occurred to him before. Not that it was a problem in itself; on the contrary, if the girl was in love with her teacher, she could become a most valuable tool for finding him and bringing him back. Or did she hate him so much that she yearned to tell Voldemort that her ex-teacher was in reality a traitor? Both possibilities weren’t that bad, come to think of it. In the person of Hermione Granger, he had something he could offer to Voldemort. A sacrificial animal that might buy him time—which was exactly what he needed. “I might be able to… establish a contact between you and Lord Voldemort,” he said. “Of course you are. Rumour has it you’re his second-in command.” Not only did he feel unaccountably flattered—after all, if a Gryffindor knew that, it had to be true—but he had to admit that she was using her Gryffindor bluntness to her best advantage. Clever girl—he appreciated people who preferred fighting well with their own arms to borrowing and clumsily handling those of others. “Regardless of whoever they are and whatever they say, Miss Granger, I might arrange a meeting. But you will certainly have heard enough about me to know that I will not do you this favour without demanding that you return it. I am not known for my charitable character—”
“Really?” Hermione retorted, batting her eyelids, “And I thought you were such a good person, what with all those donations…” Hermione say Narcissa Malfoy bite her lower lip in what seemed to be a desperate struggle against a smile. Her husband’s reaction was totally devoid of amusement, though. “Miss Granger, if you have any faith in the rumours concerning myself, you should know better than to try and play games with me. I will now inform you of the terms of our bargain, which you are free to accept or refuse. Both entirely at your own risk, of course.” Even with her stomach pleasantly filled with tea and sandwiches, Hermione began to feel very weak in the knees. Had she really claimed to be the only non-stupidly-reckless Gryffindor? As things were, she very much doubted her own assertion of five minutes ago. What had she got herself into? Certainly she had bitten off more than she could chew, and simply spitting out that mouthful didn’t really seem to be an option. So she had to try and swallow, at the risk of suffocating. “I’m listening,” she said, as coolly as she could. “Very well. First, you will have to hand me your wand.” That was more or less what Hermione had expected, so she nodded, if not enthusiastically. “Second, you will let me do the honours. If you as much as move a hair to contradict me, I assure you that you will regret it.” Hermione was puzzled. “Meaning what?” “Meaning that I am going to tell Lord Voldemort how I got hold of you.” “You didn’t get hold of me,” Hermione said indignantly. “That,” Malfoy retorted, “is exactly what you are not going to tell Lord Voldemort. You will simply nod to everything I say.” She shook her head vigorously. “I certainly won’t. Not unless you give me at least an idea of what you intend to tell him.” One blonde eyebrow shot upwards. “You seem oblivious of the fact that it is I who am dictating the conditions of our bargain, Miss Granger.” Play cool, Hermione, play cool. “Of course you are, Mr. Malfoy. But don’t you think that someone with as little skills in dissimulating as I might spoil your performance by showing undue surprise at what you say?” How anybody could smile, making you feel that the point of a very sharp knife was expectantly caressing your throat, she really didn’t understand. It must have taken him years to perfect that, Hermione thought. “Very nice move, Miss Granger. Very nice indeed. But I would not recommend you to pursue this thought any further. Besides, I am absolutely sure that you can control your emotions, if necessary. You will abide by my rules or not play at all. In case you decide to give up now, you will leave my house immediately. Your departure will be followed by that of two owls, one going to the Ministry and one to the Headmaster of your school, and the letters will contain a very detailed description of your deranged state and of the preposterous accusations you uttered against me.” All Hermione could do was nod in silent acceptation. What had she been thinking? That she was a match for Lucius Malfoy? Considering that this was the first choice she had made entirely on her own, maybe she should just have stayed where she was. Right now, the quiet atmosphere of her room and the routine of a day at Hogwarts seemed to be a very alluring alternative to the tangle she had got herself in. The only problem was that she couldn’t get out without increasing the damage. “I am pleased to see you are a reasonable young woman, Miss Granger. I am leaving you in the company of my wife, for I have to write some letters, and then I will see what I can do for you concerning Lord Voldemort.” The door closed behind him. Narcissa, who had followed her husband’s exit with a look the fondness of which disturbed Hermione more profoundly than Lucius’s complete lack of scruples, refilled her guest’s cup and offered her the plate of sandwiches. “So,” she said, “did you have a nice Christmas?” |