From HellChapter 12By Pigwidgeon37Hermione has a very sensitive nose. Snape socializes, and Lucius’s future seems rather gloomy Instead of fragrance there will be a stench; instead of a sash, a rope; instead of well-dressed hair, baldness; instead of fine clothing, sackcloth; instead of beauty, branding. (Isaiah 3:24) While many of the protagonists of this story were thinking of themselves as very unhappy and pursued-by-bad-luck indeed, Hermione was having difficulties thinking at all. Snape was well into the bottle of Odgen’s Very Ancient he had brought from Hogwarts, Dumbledore was musing on his past and present errors, Ginny was worried and hurt, Harry had just discovered the impressive dimensions of his godfather’s genitals, and Lucius was almost despairing for his life and sanity. Beside him, thoroughly shaken and afraid as she had never been in her whole life, stood Hermione Granger. Her brain was short-circuiting with screaming fear, and with the realization that she had dramatically overestimated herself. Only because she hadn’t been able to imagine that a creature like that might exist, it didn’t mean that it couldn’t exist. He was hideous. Well over six feet tall, taller even than Malfoy in whose company she felt paradoxically safe, he had a skeleton-like body the thinness of which made her wonder why he didn’t creak and rattle with every movement. His skin had a greenish, decidedly sick hue, and was pale to the point of being almost translucent. Plastered tightly over an oblong skull was…not a face, no. Hairless, brow-less, red eyes like those of a snake under lids without lashes, a small hump where the nose should be, with two narrow, diagonal slits and no nostrils. His mouth, gaping, almost lipless, revealed uneven, small teeth like battered tombstones in a black graveyard. Head and hands were the only visible parts of his body, all the rest was covered in robes of preposterous pompousness that matched the throne he was sitting on: a hideous piece of decoration from a Muggle horror movie. Before she could have a closer look at the strange, wriggling forms adorning Voldemort’s seat, she felt herself being pulled downwards and landed painfully on her knees. Beside her, Malfoy was prostrating himself in all the magnificent pageantry of his scarlet robes, the executioner worshipping his devil. “My Lord,” he spoke, his voice muffled, “I bring you Hermione Granger.” Voldemort drew a rasping breath and turned his head slightly, his eyes now resting upon her. “You ought to have prepared her better, Lucius,” he said. “She doesn’t seem to know that nobody must look at me unless explicitly allowed to do so.” If anything could be more disgusting and terrifying than his appearance, it was Voldemort’s voice. It was a hissing, keening sound, cold as ice and sharp as a razor. It chilled her to the bone. But she was certainly not going to prostrate herself in front of him. It was bad enough that she was kneeling. And Malfoy… the man was pathetic! But it made her feel slightly better that he was lying flat on his belly and she wasn’t. Small comfort indeed… “Rise, Lucius,” Voldemort commanded.
Malfoy scrambled to his feet and shook out his robe. Hermione found him extremely undignified. She moved to stand up, but was held firmly in place by a very elegant white hand. “Stay down, Mudblood!” Malfoy hissed. Feeling that it might be a little unwise to make not only the Dark Lord, but also his second-in-command angry, she bit her lip and remained on her knees. “And now tell me why you brought the little Mudblood.” Malfoy cleared his throat. “My Lord,” he began cautiously, “Miss Granger was caught on the grounds of Malfoy Manor, where she was obviously trying to spy on—” “This is ridiculous!” Voldemort spat. Hermione felt the hand that was still resting on her shoulder twitch slightly. “Are you trying to convince me that Dumbledore would assign such a task to that…girl?” “I have to admit that I had difficulties believing it, My Lord. But she was a little too insistent about wanting to meet you, and a little too vague about her motives. So the possibility occurred to me.” “Vague about her motives, you say. So what were her motives?” “I—” Hermione began, but the hand lashed out and hit her across the face. It hurt, because Malfoy was wearing a heavy signet ring. Her cheek burned, and she felt a trickle of blood run down over her skin. “She insisted in disclosing them only to you, my Lord. Otherwise I would never have dared to bother you.” “You could have insisted as well, Lucius. Usually, you enjoy questioning prisoners. The more stubborn, the better.” Voldemort rose from his throne and approached Hermione. “What is it you wanted to tell only me, little girl?” Hermione’s head began to swim and she felt her stomach heave and rile. She was very sensitive to every kind of smell, whether pleasant or unpleasant. Smells she disliked could give her headaches or even make her throw up. But this… this stench was unbearable. Voldemort smelled unwashed, and old, sour and stale and of rotten flesh; it was acrid and disgusting. In a mere reflex, so as to avoid retching at, or worse, all over the Dark Lord’s feet, she turned towards Malfoy and buried her face in the rich folds of his robes. Oh relief! He might be a villain, a sadist and a murderer, but he smelled wonderfully. While she was taking deep, steadying, sandalwood-and-lime-scented breaths, she heard Voldemort cackle. “How endearing!” he said, “I was not aware that you inspire such feelings to damsels in distress. Most exhilarating.” “My Lord, I certainly did nothing to—” “Enough, Lucius. No need to babble, it is highly boring. She cannot bear the look of the Dark Lord’s eyes, but she will have to. Look at me, Mudblood!” The look of your eyes, you bloody, stinking pile of bones, she thought. I could stand that, and your voice, if only I didn’t have to endure your smell. But she had to leave the aromatic depths of Malfoy’s robes, that much was sure. A last deep intake of breath, and she reluctantly turned to face Voldemort once again. But if she was a damsel in distress, she could… yes, that might work. Quick as lightning, she grabbed Malfoy’s hand, the one that had hit her, and squeezed it tightly to her chest. And it worked! He had, of course, dabbed the cologne on the pulse points of his wrist, and even though it didn’t completely drown out Voldemort’s stench it helped her a lot. Enough to raise her head and look at him, at least. “Did Dumbledore send you, Mudblood?” She shook her head. “No.” “You will address me in due form!” he hissed. Malfoy tugged to get his hand free, but she clung to it. Another deep breath. The creature hadn’t yet cast Cruciatus on her, even when she hadn’t prostrated herself. Strange, wasn’t it? Maybe it was true, after all… some people—of those who believed that he had returned—reckoned that he didn’t strike because he wasn’t strong enough. From what she had read, she knew that casting Unforgiveables required a lot of strength and drained a wizard’s energies. So maybe… “What would the due form be?” she asked, amazed by her own recklessness, “Considering that I’m not one of your followers?” Malfoy’s hand went limp. Hermione took a deep breath and looked back up at Voldemort. He seemed more taken aback than furious. After a pause, he said, “My Lord will do in any case. Now answer my question.” Gritting her teeth, she repeated, “No, My Lord, Professor Dumbledore didn’t send me. I’m here out of my own volition.” “And what do you want?” “I want to meet Professor Snape, My Lord.” Oh, no, oh, no, she didn’t like his laughter. They hadn’t yet killed him, had they? And to top it all off, Malfoy’s hand balled into a fist. “Meet him? This is not the pub round the corner, Mudblood,” Voldemort said, still chuckling. “Why would you want to meet him?” Which was exactly the tricky bit. “I… have to ask something of him.” “I am growing impatient, Mudblood. You better tell me or you might regret having come here.” Think of something, Hermione, and think quickly! And stall for time! “Is he not here with you, My Lord?” “That is none of your concern. What business do you have with him?” “It is of strictly private nature, My Lord.” To her surprise, she wasn’t the target of Voldemort’s ire. Malfoy was. Maybe he needed his hand? So she let go. “I allowed you to infest my abode by dragging a vile Mudblood over the threshold,” he hissed into Lucius’s face, “because you made me believe she had useful information. Not only is she completely useless, you are also wasting precious time! Time that could be used to find that bastard of a traitor!” The realization hit her harder than Malfoy’s hand-cum-signet ring. They didn’t know where Snape was! He had been gone for almost twelve hours, and they still hadn’t found him, let alone that he hadn’t returned to his master! But that meant… that meant… she couldn’t finish this thought, because Voldemort’s boot made painful contact with her kneecap. “Take that piece of filth away!” he shrieked, “And don’t you dare return without the traitor!” “Yes, My Lord, I… I regret—” “Go!” Voldemort yelled, turned round and returned to his throne. Grabbing her upper arm, Malfoy hastily pulled Hermione to her feet and dragged her outside. “We will settle our account once we are home, Mudblood,” he said, while obviously preparing to Disapparate. All she knew was that she had to get away. Now. An escape from Malfoy Manor would be impossible. He wasn’t likely to kill her, but he could torture and then obliviate her. Not a scenario she particularly liked. She felt the magic vibrate through Malfoy, saw his lips move in concentration, waited another fraction of a second and yanked her arm loose from his grip, exactly at the moment he Disapparated. And then she ran for her life. <><><>°<><><> No, Snape decided, to let himself be beaten up by four Russians was definitely not what he had intended. He hadn’t yet eaten his main course, and if there was any violence involved in any event of his life, he preferred it to be exerted by himself, not by others. His situation was a little difficult, though—not only had each of them more muscular mass than an average bull, he was also without his wand. When the first blow made his ribs crack in protest, he decided that he had to resort to Mr. Obi Wan Kenobi’s tricks once again. He only hoped he could pull it off twice a day. Bugger, and he could only do one at a time. So he concentrated deeply and, when number two approached him—number one was still rubbing his knuckles in apparent satisfaction—he looked deep into his eyes and muttered, “You don’t want to hit me.” Number two staggered, blinked, looked at his balled fist with an expression of utter astonishment and returned to his table, where he slumped down on a chair, shaking his head. Number one frowned, shrugged and prepared to step in for his comrade. Snape repeated the procedure—he was getting exhausted, he could feel how this variant of Imperius was draining his energy reserves—and number one shook his head, scratched his scalp and wandered off towards the table where he joined number two in what probably were dire musings about their fate and the ways of the world in general. Seeing this, the other two, who had been holding him, loosened their iron grip. Snape wriggled free, turned round and, in a last effort that almost made him faint, looked at both of them—later on, when he thought back to this scene, this bit always struck him as the oddest of all, because he certainly didn’t have a squint—and told them in kind words that they neither wanted to hit nor to hurt him in any other way. They staggered towards the table and, while their impressively broad backsides were still on their way towards the wooden chairs, they were already holding on to their grappa bottles like oversized toddlers to strangely shaped teddy bears. Almost succumbing to fatigue, Snape simply joined them. He couldn’t believe his luck when he realized that they talked English, even though their accent reminded him of Igor Karkaroff (R.I.P.) This was definitely one of the perks of the illegal weapon trade having gone international—there had to be a lingua franca. Snape was gratified. Giuseppe, eyeing him now with the same degree of worshipping veneration he usually reserved for the Holy Virgin, brought his Bollito Misto and, at the imperious wave of number one’s hand, a fifth bottle of Grappa. Snape, who wasn’t sure how long his handmade Imperius Curse was going to last, decided to accept without further ado in order not to lose time. To do things the hasty way was not what the Russians had in mind, though. First, they introduced themselves. Number one, the Rib-Crusher, was called Vassilij. He was native from Georgia—or at least that was what Snape thought he was saying—had a very lovely wife and three equally lovely children. Fortunately, at this point Snape had ingested enough alcohol to be able to smile at the picture of a rabid Acromantula; the three kiddies were a piece of cake. Number two’s name was Yevgenij. He apologized very prettily for having almost, but not quite, punched a hole in Snape’s abdomen with a fist of truly epic dimensions. Snape told him in well-chosen words that this was not a problem, that he hadn’t taken it personally anyway, and that—concentrated stare—Yevgenij didn’t want to repeat the experience in any case. To this, Yevgenij didn’t have any fundamental objections, and so it was Vladimir’s turn to introduce himself. Vladimir was a kind-hearted man whose only flaw—but of course you could also call it a lifestyle—was that he had a certain soft spot for prepubescent boys. Snape, who had downed half the bottle of Grappa by now, inebriatedly agreed that this was a very nice hobby indeed. Mikhail, the former number four, was born in a small village near St. Petersburg. All in all, they were sympathetic fellows, Snape decided. He treated them to a brief outline of his life, and was rewarded by a chorus of invectives against Dumbledore, which made a very shark-like grin appear on his face. Then he told them about the passport. Vassilij grinned at him, almost blinding him with the bundles of light that reflected off his golden front teeth, opened his briefcase and extricated a notepad and a golden biro. “Vell, Sevverus,” he rumbled, “Just tell me who you vant be, and I make you.” “We-ell,” Snape said, trying to gather his wits from the corners where they were drunkenly lurking, “first the name. First things first, right, Vassilij?” “Off course,” the Russian agreed, “Very vise, Sevverus.” “Okay. So. What about…” He wracked his brain, but there simply was no Italian name, and if it was there, it was hiding in the murky shadows. Then his look fell upon the bottle of Grappa. “Thassit!” he exclaimed. “My name is Grappa. Severo Grappa. Sounds good, doesnit?” “Very good. Very Italian. Ven are you born?” “Mmmh… let me see. I would always have liked to be a Libra…” “A vot?” “A Libra. Zodiacal sign.” “Vot has passport got to do vith zoo?” Snape laughed so hard that tears were running down his alcohol-flushed face. “Not zoo! Zodiacal. Your sign, when you’re born. I’d say 15 October, that sounds fine.” “Perfect. Vere vere you born, Severo Grappa?” “Uh… Catania, I’d say.” “Viva la mafia!” Mikhail hollered, raising his bottle. Giuseppe, the landlord, grinned and gave a small wave. <><><>°<><><> Lucius Malfoy was livid with fury when he materialized in the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor. His mood didn’t improve in the least when he saw who was standing there, apparently engaged in a rather intense conversation with Narcissa. “Lucius,” Dumbledore said in a voice so cold that few people would have recognized it as his. Narcissa was looking harassed, but relieved, which was doubtlessly due to the fact that he had returned without the Mudblood. For the briefest of moments, he felt something like gratitude for the bushy-headed nightmare. “Albus,” he responded, his voice a frozen razorblade. “To what do I owe the honour of your visit?” “I am afraid that the reason is rather unpleasant, Lucius. A student is missing.” “Ah,” was all Lucius deigned to utter, a world of bored indifference in the nutshell of a syllable. “Indeed. The student in question is Miss Hermione Granger.” “Really? Do I have the honour of knowing Miss Granger?” “Lucius,” Narcissa chimed in, “Shouldn’t we rather move to the library? Maybe Headmaster Dumbledore would like a drink?” “That is very kind of you, Narcissa, I think I could use a drink.” Preceded by Narcissa, the small procession moved to the library. When Lucius strode past her on his way to the side table holding the bottles, she gave him a minuscule smile and nod. He returned the smile and felt himself relax considerably. When everybody had their glasses, Lucius turned to Dumbledore and said, “I believe you were saying something a bout a missing student?” “Indeed. Miss Hermione Granger. One of Harry Potter’s friends.” “Of course. Now I remember. Quite the star student, isn’t she? I seem to recall that Draco told me about her astonishing performance.” “The very same. She went missing today, and we performed locating spells.” “Albus, I do believe that this is something you ought to tell the Law Enforcement. I am, of course, one of the school governors, but I really cannot see how I might help you.” “I am coming to the point, Lucius. The close-range spells yielded no result. Then we did some wide-range spells, and they clearly indicated that Miss Granger, or rather her wand, is here at Malfoy Manor.” Looking utterly unimpressed, Lucius uttered another “Ah.” “That is, in very few words, the reason for my visit here today.” “How very interesting,” Lucius observed, inclining his head. “And have you found her?” Dumbledore’s voice had a pronounced edge of impatience when he answered, “No, I have not found her. Lucius, this is an important matter. So I need an honest answer. Have you seen the girl?” “No, Albus, I have not seen her. Maybe the location spell was faulty.” With a grim smile, the Headmaster drew his wand and pronounced “Inveniatur Hermione Granger!” The result was, as Lucius saw with the smallest of smiles, nil. “We-ell,” he drawled, “How unfortunate indeed. To own the truth, I was sure that the spell had not worked properly, but it utterly displeases me to see your hope thus destroyed.” Dumbledore looked at him pensively. “You know, Lucius,” he said, his voice calmer than Malfoy would have expected, “I really admire your dexterity. That was a piece of prestidigitation you may be proud of, and nobody can accuse me of not giving praise where it is due. Of course,” he continued, draining his glass, “we know both what you are playing at. And if my guesses are even remotely correct, you are in a scrap the tightness of which surpasses even that of your smile. I think I will leave you now to an undisturbed evening of matrimonial bliss. Good evening, Lucius, Narcissa—” he bowed slightly “—and thank you for the whisky.” With these words, he Disapparated. “Finally!” Narcissa said with a sigh of relief. “You can transfigure her back, Lucius. How did it go?” “Don’t even ask!” he choked out through clenched teeth. “There is nothing to transfigure back, because I lost her, and now she will be far from where I last saw her. Damn Dumbledore! That barmy old—”
“Lost her? But… but Lucius, that is terrible! We could have used her to find Severus and—” “I know!” he said, “I know! No need to remind me of that! What did you do with her wand, by the way?” “Oh,” she said, trying in vain to hide the smile of pride that was tugging at her lips, “I transformed it into an old woollen sock and sent it to the Weasleys’ house by Floo.” He nodded grimly. “Excellent. But however well you accomplished this task, I think it is time to pack and go to fetch Draco. I daresay that a change of climate is in order.” <><><>°<><><> Much to her own surprise, Hermione wasn’t desperate in the least. Malfoy hadn’t come after her, and when she finally had stopped running for sheer lack of strength and breath, she had used this forced break to do some serious thinking. She had no wand, which maybe wasn’t the tragedy it might seem at first sight. After all, location spells were done on wands. Being located was the last thing she wanted to happen right now, and so maybe it was all for the better. Come to think of it, she had nothing but the clothes she was wearing. And, by no means negligible, the key to the back door of her parents’ house. It was going to be hard, but certainly not unfeasible: she had to get to Oxford somehow, sneak into the house, get some money and warm clothes, and then… Then she had to find Snape. This was certainly not going to be easy. In fact, she doubted whether it was possible at all. Because the facts were these: firstly, he hadn’t rejoined Voldemort. Secondly, the Death Eaters were after him but hadn’t caught him. Maybe not all of them were as clever and shrewd as Malfoy—although her opinion of him had plummeted considerably during the last few hours—but they doubtlessly knew how to perform a location spell. They hadn’t found him, which meant that he, too, was probably without a wand right now. Thirdly, if the Death Eaters hadn’t been able to trace him, the Aurors’ luck couldn’t have been much better. Conclusion: Snape was free, wandless, and probably lost somewhere in the Muggle world. Impeccable deduction so far, Granger. But how are you going to find him? Well, she would have to think of that later. Right now, the most important first step was getting to her parents’ house. The problem was that she had absolutely no idea of where she was. Which meant that if she simply started walking, she might go in the wrong direction and lose precious time. On the other hand, it was too cold to stay out here without moving—she might catch her death despite the warm sweater she was wearing. So she would have to start walking anyway, the consequences be damned. The thought that she might not even be in England was ruthlessly shoved away. The robes would have to go, though. She was capable of performing very basic wandless magic—which was why surviving didn’t seem too big a problem, for she could simply summon what she needed by Accio, which seemed a very refined and thus more acceptable form of theft—but she certainly couldn’t transfigure the robes into something suitable without a wand. So she shed them and carefully hid them under a large stone. The best strategy was to search for a street first. Fortunately, there didn’t seem to be any mountains or steep hills nearby, so that wandering across country wasn’t going to be particularly strenuous. All of a sudden, she felt the irrational urge to jump and dance and sing. She was free. She had done it. For the first time in her life, Hermione Granger was free! |