From Hell

Chapter 14

By Pigwidgeon37

Dog-days in Brazil. Harry and Draco have a Talk. Rabbits’ paws are not made for moving on parquet.

Therefore my people will go into exile for lack of understanding (Isaiah 5:13)

Lucius was definitely not amused. More so as his adorable—and very much adored—wife was obviously flirting with the charming Mr. Black. As the seconds ticked by, he grew more and more uncomfortable, shifting incessantly in his chair, only half listening to the conversation between his—HIS!—wife and the intruder. Now they were talking literature. Lucius was very well-read, so surely he was a more than sufficient partner for erudite discussion. Or was he? What if… He brusquely got up and fetched himself a glass of whisky, ignoring Narcissa’s raised eyebrow. What if she thought him insufficient? What if his insufficiency extended to other departments than that of literature? Would Narcissa ever… cheat on him? After all, he was almost twenty years older than she, and they had been married for a very long time. His mood was gradually growing gloomier. It had reached an all-time low when Narcissa’s voice suddenly pierced the Black clouds —sorry, but the author was unable to resist the pun—like a bolt of lightning.

“Where are the boys?”

Black didn’t seem overly preoccupied. “Still hunting for that Snitch, I suppose.”

How strange, Lucius thought. Black was Potter’s godfather and surely knew that the two young men were each other’s nemesis. True, they had seemed peaceful enough when, in a kind of Olympic Truce, they had decided to do a bit of Seeker practice together. He himself wasn’t particularly worried about Draco’s health or life—the boy would stand his ground against a worthier adversary than the Gryffindor mascot—but Black all-too-obvious insouciance slightly alarmed him.  Did he want the boys to spend as much time together as possible? Maybe he had instructed Potter to worm some information out of his arch-enemy. Not that this thought was giving him a headache; Draco was shrewd enough not to disclose anything. It was more the general atmosphere, this eerie feeling that something was afoot, that began to trouble him.

“Lucius?”

His head shot up. “Yes, my dear?”

“Don’t you think it might be a good idea to have a look what the boys are up to?”

Lucius almost fell off his chair. This simply couldn’t be happening! His wife, his Narcissa, was clearly prompting him to leave the house, to search for the two troublesome adolescents, even though there was no apparent reason for him to do so. Except for one… She wanted to be alone with Black. She was sending him to go play in the courtyard, like a troublesome child, in order to have him out of her way while she intensified her acquaintance with that Gryffindor stud. For a moment, he was speechless, then he cleared his throat and said, “Well, if you think it is necessary, my dear…”

Oh blessed moment! His world that had been momentarily shattered was made whole again, merely by a small wink and imperceptible tilt of her head. “Yes, I think it would be better, chéri, just to be sure, you know?”

Narcissa, queen of wives, marvellous crossbreed between bedroom fantasy and wicked saint, ally, accomplice… He would have smothered her with kisses right there and then, had such an outburst of conjugal enthusiasm not been bound to annihilate her subtle attempts at spinning a cocoon of female cunning around her unsuspecting prey. So he schooled his face into an expression of cool disapproval and replied, “As you wish. Excuse me, Mr. Black.”

Black’s baleful grin expressed better than a thousand words that not only did he excuse his host but would gladly have kicked him out of the house, so as to be able to make advances to his wife. Lucius rose, gave the would-be cicisbeo a short nod, a smile and a wink of understanding to his wife, and left the terrace to go get his broomstick.

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In the meantime, the boys—who would have been very indignant indeed had they heard Mrs. Malfoy refer to them in this way—enjoyed, if not each other’s company, so at least the possibility to be exactly that: boys. Boys, who whizzed about on their vintage broomsticks, performing daredevil stunts that would probably have made Draco’s mother really anxious, hunting a very capricious Snitch.

“You may be an arrogant, snotty prick, Malfoy, but you’re not a bad flyer,” Harry said when Draco had caught it only millimetres in front of his nose.

Draco did a breakneck dive and a triple loop and pulled upwards again. “I’ve seen you do worse as well, Potter,” he drawled. “So, what are you doing here of all places?”

“It’s the Christmas holidays, and I’m spending them with my godfather. That’s all.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I know what time of the year it is, Potter. I meant why here? In Brazil?”

“Because refugees aren’t extradited, dumb-ass.”

“Black lives here all the time?”

“I suppose so. Not bad, is it?”

Draco had to admit that it wasn’t bad at all. From what his father had told him, the unexpected neighbourhood might last a little longer than just for the Christmas holidays, but he certainly wasn’t going to tell Potter that.

“And you, Malfoy? Weren’t you supposed to remain at Hogwarts?”

“Mmh.” Draco tried to sound as noncommittal as possible. “But after Granger’s… well, accident, my father decided that it was better for me to spend the holidays with them.”

“Granger’s…” Harry grabbed Draco’s sleeve and forced him to slow down. “What are you talking about? What happened to Hermione?”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Would you kindly let go of me, Potter?” Harry, staring daggers at him, reluctantly released his arm. “Thank you very much. I don’t know what happened. She went missing yesterday, and Dumbledore organized a search. We didn’t find her, but when we returned inside the castle, McGonagall told us that they had found out her whereabouts. Didn’t show up for dinner, though, the little Mudblood.”

Harry was so anxious that he didn’t even comment on the insult. “Are you sure you don’t know anything else?” he finally asked, almost choking on the question—he hated having to beg tidbits of information from Malfoy, about his own best friend to boot.

Draco shrugged, grinning inwardly. Playing Sticks-and-Carrots with Potter was simply fun. Time for a carrot, though. “I think I heard McGonagall mention at dinner that she had gone home to her parents, if without authorization. Seemed she was worried about them.”

Harry nodded slowly. Yes, that seemed plausible. Hermione had to have been agonizing about her parents after that Death Eater attack. Albeit not a rule-breaker, she might have succumbed to her anxiety and simply gone home, more so as she must have known that Dumbledore would never have allowed it. After all, she wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing.

Draco watched the rapid succession of emotions on Harry’s face with relish. The Boy Who Lived By Sheer Dumb Luck had bought it. Father would be proud. “Well,” he said, “We might just have another go at the Snitch before they fetch us for dinner, don’t you think so?”

He released the golden ball from his fist, watched it buzz off and, after a few seconds, went straight after it, closely followed by Harry.

They were now flying rather low, their feet almost grazing the treetops. “What are you going to do after school, Malfoy?” Harry asked suddenly.

Draco gave him a nonplussed look. “Do? What should I do?”

“Well, you’ll have to do something. You can’t just fly around all day long, can you?”

“Of course not. But that doesn’t mean I have to work.”

“Oh…” This concept was quite new to Harry. He knew he wasn’t poor. But the thought of actually not having to work had never crossed his mind. “Don’t you think you’ll be bored?”

“Try to look over that bourgeois garden-fence, Potter. There’s a lot more to life than work, and I certainly won’t be bored.”

“I bet that there’s more for the likes of you,” Harry retorted with a smirk.

“And what, pray, does that mean?”

“Come on, Malfoy, you know exactly what it means. Your career is practically made. You just have to follow daddy’s footsteps.”

Draco brought his broom to an abrupt halt, and Harry, who had not immediately realized this, shot forward by a good hundred yards before slowing down, doing a U-turn and flying back towards the other boy.

“Malfoy, this is pathetic. Everybody knows what your father is, and it’s common knowledge that your life has been plotted out for you the moment you were born.  Probably even earlier. Don’t tell me that’s not what you want!”

“How would you know what I want, Potter? All you think of is the best way to vanquish Voldemort. That and your pathetic little sidekicks. Not that you are particularly successful with the former. And the latter only works because you’re famous. The redheaded mendicant and the bushy-haired Mudblood. That’s all you got. Not much, is it?”

That stung. Come to think of it, it stung a lot. “And you, ferret-boy? What about your so-called friends? They suck up to you because your father is rich and influential and they hope that one day you’ll be the same. You can buy everything you want, but you have to buy it. Do you call that desirable?”

“At least,” Draco retorted, his face frozen with fury, “I have parents who love me. I don’t think I ever saw the inside of a broom closet in my whole life. Not bad for a beginning, is it?”

For a while, they hovered, face to face, engaged in a staring contest. Then, without detaching his eyes from Harry’s, Draco released the Snitch again. The tiny golden ball remained immobile for a moment, as if pondering whether it was safe to leave the two opponents to their cockfight. All of a sudden, it was gone, and with a last growl at each other, Harry and Draco tore off in hot pursuit. Neither of them felt he had won, though, and both were rather deep in thought.

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“Mr. …uh, Grappa, right?”

Snape nodded. He didn’t like the young lady in the least. She was over-professional, over-cheery and, most of all, over-stupid. From years of painful experience, he could tell at first sight whether he was facing an intelligent human being. In this case, he could clearly tell he was not. And she had a voice like a barbed glass sword. Hermione, sitting in the small carrier he had bought for her, gave a sharp ‘whack!’ to its bottom with her hind leg. It sounded like the detonation of a Barbie’s pistol.

“Shut up, stupid animal!” he hissed and, aloud, said, “Indeed. Miss Laura, I presume.”

“Yes, that’s me. We talked yesterday, on the phone.”

“Your voice was… different,” he said, putting as much irony as he could into his words. To no avail. On the contrary, it made her giggle, and he really could have done without hearing that sound.

“Really?” she cooed, batting her eyelids, “And which one did you like better?”

“I have yet to decide. Now, do you think we might have a look at the apartment?”

“Of course,” she said, back to business-like, and produced a bunch of keys.

The house looked a little tattered, but quite inviting. He had been searching the ads together with the obnoxious Miss Granger, who claimed that she was entitled to have a say in the matter, too, considering how he had bungled her life. Secretly he agreed with her, but would never have openly admitted it. So they had had a blazing row—it had been quite comical, for they had been forced to keep their voices down at a mere whisper, so as not to betray her presence in his room to anybody—and in the end he had given in. Mostly because she had turned into that ridiculous rabbit in mid-argument and begun to attack his shoes with unexpected voracity. The satanic grin on her face when she transformed back had been priceless. To tell the truth—and he didn’t tell it to anybody but himself—he was rather enjoying the whole experience.

Away from school and its constrictions, she was a quite pleasant companion. Recent events seemed to have triggered a change for the better, as she seemed less austere and determined, a trait that he had always found most unpleasant in young people, although his classroom manner seemed to suggest the exact contrary. There was nothing to be said against serious application to one’s studies, but youngsters were youngsters and should behave accordingly, though certainly not during his Potions classes. He knew, of course, that much of this do-or-die attitude was due to the incessant whip-cracks of her teachers—not least of all himself—but he found it quite relaxing to see that Hermione Granger was, after all, a teenager and able to act like one. Shoelaces were easy to replace, after all, and thanks to the Coelibatus Spell, they were absolutely no danger of developing inappropriate feelings for one another.

So they had gone over the ads together the morning after he had taken her to the hotel with him, and she had proved to be quite a helpful ally. He did know more about the Muggle world than most of his fellow purebloods, but she had grown up there. And, although not a Londoner, she knew enough about the city to be able to make a sensible choice when it came to deciding which area they should prefer. She had suggested Camden Town and insisted on accompanying him. His smirking hint that she would have to do so in a carrier had been scowlingly accepted.

Miss Laura preceded him –well, them—up to the second floor where she opened one of only two doors. This was already a point in this apartment’s favour: the fewer neighbours, the better. Rabbit Hermione gave another sharp twack! with her hind leg.

“Stop it, Miss Granger,” he hissed.

But Cheery Laura had heard it. “How sweet!” she trilled, “You call your rabbit Miss Granger? You must be a very sensitive man, Mr. Grappa.”

Not that he cared about that leap of logic more than about the contents of Voldemort’s chamber pot, but he had to concede that it was astonishing. “My teeth certainly are,” he retorted dryly and followed her into the flat.

The shutters were closed, and while the overzealous estate agent went to open them, in order to show the flat to its best advantage, Snape sniffed the surroundings. No trace of mould or humidity in the air. And the walls had to have been recently painted, for there was still a lingering, acrid smell. One by one, the shutters were pushed aside, and light flooded the space. Snape quite liked what he saw. Whitewashed walls, the ceiling rather high, parquet floor… yes, that seemed acceptable. He began his tour through the rooms. Hermione the Rabbit started fervently scratching the walls of her prison.

“Miss Laura,” he called, “Would you mind if I left the rabbit out for a moment?”

There was the sound of quick footsteps—Snape inwardly groaned at the thought of what the woman’s stiletto heels probably did to the floor—and Zealous Laura appeared in the doorframe. “Is it… I mean she… is she house-trained?”

“Absolutely,” he responded gravely.

“Well…” she said, a little helplessly, “Then I guess it’s alright.”

He nodded and opened the carrier. The tiny rabbit rose on its hind legs and pricked its ears. Snape’s face transformed into a mask of baleful glee when he heard Soft-Hearted Laura’s delighted squeal.

“Ooooh! Isn’t she cute! Such a tiny, tiny thing! May I touch her?”

He snorted. “Sure. At your own risk, though. Miss Granger can be quite…vicious at times.”

Hermione patiently endured Delighted Laura’s long-nailed touch for a while, sneeringly looked at by Snape. Finally, he decided to have mercy on her and put the carrier down on the floor so she could get out. Her attempt to run off as quickly as possible was rather hilarious, for she hadn’t considered that a rabbit’s paws aren’t exactly made for acceleration on parquet. The lack of friction caused her to remain on the same spot for some seconds, paws flailing, in a convincing imitation of a car stuck in deep snow. Settling for slower speed, she lolloped off, as dignified as possible for a minuscule rabbit with striped fur.

<><><>°<><><>

“Mrs. Malfoy—”

A pale, long-fingered hand, slender and with perfectly shaped almond nails, came to rest on Sirius’s forearm. “Please, do call me Narcissa.”

He looked into her eyes, fascinated by their glacier-like quality that seemed to be there only to encourage the beholder to make them melt. “Only if you call me Sirius. After all, we are almost the same age.” Purring emphasis on the word ‘we’. True, Malfoy had those slightly inbred, wicked good looks, but he, Sirius Black, Hogwarts heartthrob extraordinaire and reckless heart-crusher, was fifteen years younger. And the exact opposite of that bloodless, pale Slytherin maggot.

“Sirius. With the greatest pleasure.”

What a smile! The face of a fallen angel, framed by platinum blonde hair… After more than two years spent in Brazil, he was beginning to grow tired of all those dark beauties. A flirt—an affair maybe?—with this arctic statue would be like a bite of Roquefort after an oversweet dessert. Not to mention that cuckolding Lucius Malfoy would certainly be the apex of his gallant career. Knowing himself, he’d have that block of ice melted into a shivering puddle very soon, and maybe said puddle would also give him some valuable information. To garner a bit of background information about the pallid coven’s stay here in brazil was, after all, the true purpose of his visit.

“Narcissa… you will have to be very careful with the sun, you know? Your skin seems so… sensitive.” Last word a mere husky whisper, accompanied by a caress of her wrist with the tip of his index finger.

She shivered appropriately. It was enough to imagine that it was Lucius touching her instead of this conceited, vainglorious Gryffindor stallion, who obviously thought he was the deities’ gift to womanhood. Dear gods, did the man have no idea just how ridiculous he was being? However, it suited her perfectly. Her face was brightened by a fond smile when she thought of the look on Lucius’s face upon noticing her flirtatious behaviour towards Black. “I am not much of a sun type. But I suppose that even in the shadow…” She batted her eyelids.

“Do you prefer shielding charms or tanning lotion?” Sirius asked, trying to sound as off-handed as possible.

To prevent herself from laughing into his face was all Narcissa could do. Trust a Gryffindor to use the most trodden-on, worn-out, obvious, clichéd path possible. The tanning lotion. How utterly unoriginal. However, if it served her goal… “That,” she said, and even managed to blush, though more from the mirth bubbling up inside her than from modesty, “depends entirely on the hands applying the lotion.”

“Of course,” Sirius agreed, rejoicing inwardly. Such a cute little woman, landed with such an aristocratic bore who probably used fork and knife to open the fly of his trousers. And in such need of something different, a real man, someone who’d blow her off her feet with his daring virility and down-to-earth, healthy good looks. Probably she was dying for the scent of leather and sweat, and for a solid mat of black chest hair to cling to in the throes of ecstasy. “I think I saw a boat attached to your landing-stage?”

Good Boy. Like a big, easy-to-entertain dog who rejoiced when you threw him a juicy bone, regardless of whether it was poisoned or not. Yes, the man definitely had something of a dog. A Newfoundland dog, slobbery and shaggy and always wagging his tail. “Ye-es,” she purred, “My husband loves sailing.”

Malfoy on a boat… drifting somewhere in the middle of the atlantic… drooled after by a school of sharks… Sirius definitely liked the idea. “Really? I take it this is a common… passion?”

Did Mr. Veni-Vidi-Vici have the last idea of how annoying those suggestive pauses were? Of course, Lucius made suggestive pauses, too, but they didn’t really allow comparison to Black’s. In fact, they belonged to a different planet. The difference between being hit by a Bludger or being spanked… Narcissa quickly banished that thought. “Not really, to own the truth. I do cultivate other… passions.” If he could do it, so could she, couldn’t she?

She probably thought she was hiding her frustration well, poor dear. Whereas it was so blatantly obvious that she was in desperate need of a lover. Not Lucius Malfoy the Lecherous Maggot. Well, here he was, all ready and compassionate, prepared to offer her the ride of her life. “Anything I might be interested in sharing?”

Another sentence right from Sirius Black’s Guide to the World of Sickening Cliché. Narcissa took a deep breath and wracked her brain for a sufficiently unimaginative answer.

<><><>°<><><>

Mr. Grappa and his parquet-skating rabbit moved into no. 10 Ferdinand Street on the following day. There was little furniture, but Snape had wanted to leave Oxford as soon as possible—you never knew. These words of wisdom had saved his life so many times that he had no intention of disregarding them now.

Hermione had had to endure the voyage stuffed into the pocket of his overcoat, as it was virtually impossible for him to ferry two suitcases and the carrier without major hand damage. So she had reluctantly agreed to this undignified mode of transportation, begging him to be careful not to sit on her accidentally. Seen from the perspective of a small animal, even though riding three feet above the ground, public transport was terrifying. Her sensitive tympana were almost split by the noise, and her olfactory sense was everything but pleased with the smells. It was a good thing, she thought, that rodents couldn’t throw up. It made them easy targets for poisoning, but herself less likely to vomit into Snape’s pocket.

During their journey, she had ample occasion to reflect upon the recent past.  Not only did she feel it was necessary to get some order into her jumbled thoughts, it was also an effective means of distracting her from the rumours and smells. He had almost frightened her to death two days ago at her parents’ house. In the beginning, at least. Of course she knew rationally that the man who had assaulted her—and by now, that really seemed to belong to another lifetime—had been under the influence of some mind-altering substance. All the same, it had been a shock, and she had had no opportunity of getting over it properly. On the other hand, she was a very brain-dominated person and well able to keep her more irrational reactions in check by explaining them away. Then, there was the relief of having found—well, rather having been found by, to be honest—the man who could take the spell off her.

He had acted almost nice. As nice as Snape could get, probably. But it was nowhere near as hellish an experience as she would have thought. On the other hand, to judge by what she knew about him, he had been a trapped, lonely man at Hogwarts. Like herself, he was now free. And just like herself, the consciousness of this new freedom, if not in the most ideal of circumstances, seemed to have liberated him quite a lot.

“Here we are,” he said, setting down the two suitcases. He locked the door and then pulled her out of the pocket. “Are you okay, Miss Granger? You look a little shaken, difficult as it is to be sure, considering your lack of facial expression.”

He briefly scratched her behind the ears and then put her onto the floor. She transformed and almost fell; the travel had made her rather giddy. “Yes,” she answered, giving him the best smile she could muster. “I guess I just need a little rest…”

“Of course. I will leave you alone for ten minutes. There is absolutely nothing in the house, and we will need something to eat. There is that… er, Superstore a few hundred yards down the road. Anything you need?”

She crinkled her forehead in concentration. “Mmmh… no, I don’t think so. Will we have cold or warm dinner?”

“Miss Granger, last time I checked I was a Potions Master and not a House Elf. Unless you feel like cooking, we will have a cold dinner.”

“I don’t see why I should play the House Elf instead of you, but the answer is no. I certainly don’t feel like deploying my haute cuisine skills tonight, I’m way too tired.”

“A simple no would have been sufficient, insufferably verbose rodent. Any favourite food?”

“Well,” she said, raking her hands through her hair to eliminate the knots, “unless they have Malfoy’s balls in jelly, I don’t think… Wait! You are going to the superstore, you said?”

“Yes, Miss Granger, that was what I said. Thank you for conjuring a most disgusting mental image, by the way.”

“My pleasure. Have you ever seen hair colour?”

“Not in albinos.”

She snorted. “Very witty. Okay, no more niceties. Go buy some hair colour for me. Pick some nice shade of blonde, not too light. Better take two packages. Oh, and scissors.”

“You are going to dye your hair?”

“Elementary, my dear Watson. Great thinking. Of course I’m going to dye my hair, and cut it. Or did you think I was going to stay in here forever, as a rabbit to boot?”