From HellChapter 15By Pigwidgeon37Harry develops a new strategy of neutralizing enemies. Wine and olive oil flow in abundance. I come and take you to a land like your own, a land of grain and new wine, a land of bread and vineyards, a land of olive trees and honey. Choose life and not death! (2 Kings 18:32)
Dear Ginny, First of all: Happy New Year. It was fun celebrating New Year’s Eve here, what with the dragons doing all kinds of fiery tricks Charlie taught them. It’s not exactly what he’s expected to do, but they seem to like it, and so who cares. Would you believe it’s freezing round here? I mean, this is southern Europe, well south-eastern, but anyway. But there’s snow and wind and—well, winter. Real, cold winter, the kind we never have in England. It took poor Pig four days to arrive here and I had to let him rest a whole day before sending him back. So you’ll probably get this just before going back to Hogwarts. We really should have at least one stronger owl. Or live somewhere near a post office where you can hire them. I’m so glad to hear about mum and dad. Although I can’t imagine mum with less weight, but as I won’t see her before the summer holidays, chances are that she might have re-put it all on when we next meet. Poor Ginny, you must be feeling rather lonely, even if Gred and Forge managed to get out of their lab in the meantime. You made me splutter my tea all over the table, because I laughed so hard about them—not that it was a great loss, the tea here is awful. The rest of it went right after the first gulp when I read about Hermione. Ginny, this is crazy! I mean, there’s a far better explanation for that whole missing-and-searching mystery. Her parents’ house was attacked by those Death Eater bastards not even three weeks ago, and I suppose she simply went home to see her mum and dad. There are times when even Hermione does break rules—or can you imagine that you or I would stay put at Hogwarts if something similar had happened at the Burrow? As for the smug look on ferrety Draco’s face, that’s easy to explain: we all know that Malfoy Sr. is a Death Eater, so of course Draco was beside himself with satisfaction when Hermione was anxious about her parents. They’re a bad lot, Ginny, and always rejoice when others suffer. But I’ll have a closer look at the whole business, together with Harry, once we’re back at Hogwarts. I haven’t had any news from him, by the way, but considering they’re in Brazil, I suppose that’s only to be expected. Oh, there’s something I have to tell you before I finish this letter: I decided that I’ll work with dragons once I’ve finished school. It’s absolutely the best thing I could imagine doing for a living! It’s hard work, but so fascinating. Always outside (wouldn’t Percy hate that?) , no schedule to follow, no dreary paperwork (I mean there is, but you should see how Charlie handles it and nothing happens). OK, now I really have to go, there’s a Hungarian Horntail due to hatch any second now. (I begin to understand Hagrid) Bye, Gin, and till soon. Love you Ron <><><>°<><><> In her rabbit form, Hermione could hear Snape’s footsteps long before he actually arrived at the door. But she remained where and as she was, just to be safe. Besides, being able to curl up right under a radiator wasn’t bad at all. She now definitely understood Crookshanks’ predilection for sleeping on the mantelpiece. “Miss Granger?” He closed and locked the door. “You can transform, I’m alone.” “Well,” she said, back in her human form, “I didn’t really expect you to bring anybody, you know? You don’t seem the type who makes friends at the supermarket and immediately invites them to see his empty flat and his pet rabbit.” He smirked at her. “How incredibly perspicacious, Miss Granger.” “Thank you so much for your compliment, Professor.” She gave him her sweetest fake smile and then tilted her head to eye him pensively. “You’re being too nice. So I suppose you fucked up your mission, didn’t you?” “I did not fuck up anything, Miss Granger, as you so vulgarly phrased it. ‘Botched’ would be a far more appropriate term to use for someone your age and gender.” “Gender? Does that mean women can’t say ‘fuck’? Bloody macho!” Snape cringed. “Miss Granger, please. This little show of teenage rebellion utterly fails to impress me. You will keep a civil tongue in your head as long as you live under this roof.” “So you decided that we’ll play father and daughter? In that case you might consider doing something about your hair colour, too!” “We will play uncle and niece, Miss Granger, and I will not do anything about my hair.” “Uncle and niece…what florid imagination, Professor. So very original. That’s what dirty old men always tell the porter when they drag underage prostitutes into shady hotels.” “I am forty years old, Miss Granger, and object in the strongest possible terms to being called a dirty old man. What would you suggest then, Miss Know-It-All, if being uncle and niece does not meet your approval?” “That I’m your girlfriend, of course. That’s much less suspicious. And you’ll see that I’ll look a bit older once I dyed my hair and got the contact lenses. Which brings us back to the former topic. Did you get the colour or did you botch it, uncle?” Snape wasn’t sure whether he was more infuriated or amused. Sure that Granger girl was quite a nasty piece of work. On the other hand, it was incredibly refreshing to have somebody stand up to him, finally, after so many years of intimidated looks, trembling hands and terrified stuttering. “I see with pleasure that you are able to learn from your mistakes. Just so you know, not only did I not botch it, I also brought you contact lenses. Two pairs, to be exact. One blue and one green. And two packages of colour. Quite a nice shade of blonde. You’ll look like Narcissa once you’re done.” “So long as you don’t look like Lucius… did you bring the scissors, too?” He rolled his eyes. “Miss Granger, as I already said, I am not old, and my memory is still in excellent working order.” “Wonderful. And I suppose you’ll be delighted to cut my hair.” “To cut… Why should I cut your hair?” “Because I don’t want to only dye it. I’ll look a lot more different when it’s not only blonde but also short. Come on, do your worst. Never mind if it looks awful, we’re in Camden Town, anything goes here.” “Would you deign to forgive your humble hairdresser if he dared to put the food in the fridge first, before dedicating his whole attention to cropping that bushy outgrowth you call hair?” Hermione snorted. “You know, you are truly a sarcastic bastard, Professor. But I’ll grant you that you’re an extremely witty, entertaining bastard. Which makes at least for good company.” Snape shot her a deadly glare and went into the kitchen. Hermione followed him. “What did you get us?” “You will see that in due time, Miss Granger. And, just in case you misbehave, you will only get carrots.” “And shoelaces,” she said, giving him another saccharine smile. “So, what did you buy?” With a long-suffering sigh, Snape put the paper bag on the kitchen counter—fortunately, at least the kitchen was furnished—and pulled out lots of small packages, wrapped in white paper. “Olives. Pickled pepperoni. Parma ham. Mozzarella. Tomatoes. Olive oil. Basil. White bread Tuscany style. Salt. Pepper. Taleggio.” Hermione, whose mouth was watering, started peering into the parcels. “Taleggio? What’s that?” “It is a very creamy Italian cheese, Miss Granger. Wine. Coffee. Orange juice. Mineral water. Ah, and the hair colour. The contact lenses are—” he fumbled in his pocket “—here. As well as the scissors. Come on, let’s get that hair done.” He fetched a chair from the living room and carried it into the bath. “Sit down.” Hermione sat down obediently. “Don’t cut it too short,” she said, when he had already grabbed the first strand. Snape made a noise that made her think of Sirius’s animagus form and started to… well, sever. She found this so funny that she had difficulties fighting a fit of the giggles. But giggling wouldn’t do—it might distract him, and that was the last thing she needed now. Hermione felt a little anxious when she saw the masses of brown hair accumulating on the tiled floor. “Is there any left?” she asked. “Yes, now shut up and don’t distract me.” “Of course, Uncle Severus. How sweet you are!” “Miss Granger, I—” “You should stop calling me Miss Granger, you know? That’s not a common way of addressing one’s niece.” “Very well, Hermione. Now have a look.” She got up and stepped over the pile of hair to look at herself in the mirror. “You won’t be able to see much, dearest niece, unless you open your eyes.” “You’re one to talk! I’d like to see your face if I had cut your hair!” “In that case, Miss—Hermione, you would see the pavement. Directly under your nose, which would be reduced to a pulp of blood and bone splinters after falling from the second floor.” “No need to go into the gory details.” She opened her eyes. “Oh… that’s not bad… maybe a bit straggly, but okay. Thank you.” “You are most welcome. It will look more straggly still once you’ve applied the colour. I noticed that it contains hydrogen peroxide, which damages the hair structure, so it the hair gets even more frizzy.” “I know. But I might try some gel…” “Try olive oil. It works lots better and doesn’t contain alcohol.” “Olive… is that what you—” “Yes, oh brilliant daughter of my favourite sister. That is what I. Or did you think I never wash my hair? Apart from being naturally oily, it needs the protection. Otherwise, I might already be bald.” Hermione snorted. “That’s something I wouldn’t really care to see. Do you think you might prepare dinner while I put on the colour?” “Of course, ma’am,” he said, mock-bowing to her. “Does madam have any other wishes I might endeavour to fulfil?” “No,” Hermione retorted, eyes alight with glee, “That would be all. Thank you James, you may retire.” “That alone would cost Gryffindor one hundred and fifty points,” he muttered and left her to her beautification project. <><><>°<><><> “What the hell…” Lucius muttered, searching the surroundings for his son and the Potter brat. What were the two boys doing and, above all, where? Not that they were really boys anymore, Draco was going to be eighteen in less than three months, and probably The Boy Who Lived To Annoy The Hell Out Of Voldemort would live to celebrate his eighteenth birthday, too. Hopefully Draco hadn’t overreacted and done something inconsiderate to Mr. Lightning-Scar. Sometimes, he was still too childish and impulsive for his own good. Lucius was a very good flyer. But he was a little distracted by his worries about his son, and also by the thoughts of what exactly might be going on at home—if one could call that shabby four-bedroom-cum-pool hut a home. It would have to do, though, until he found something— “Hello father!” Lucius jumped, and at the same moment turned… Oh shit, he thought while falling, So this is it… But maybe ten feet above the treetops that were growing less like broccoli and more like amazingly hard wood with fiendishly pointed ends at preoccupying speed, he felt himself slow down and then float back upwards, until his broomstick was hovering in front of his nose. He grabbed it frantically and scrambled onto it. After turning by 180 degrees, he saw Draco, eyes wide open, face as white as a sheet, and… Potter. Potter, grinning madly at him, holding his wand and ending the levitation spell. While Lucius’s heart slowed down, and he regained possession of his wits, said wits told him a most unpleasant truth: Harry Potter had just saved his life. There was no way around or out of it. Draco had not even drawn his wand, for he was too shocked at the effect of his own words. Flattering as this show of filial devotion might be, a bit of filial presence of spirit would have been far more gratifying. Because now he owed his life to Potter. And the implications of this deplorable fact were only too clear. Lucius almost fell off his broom a second time, by mere exasperation. Draco rushed towards him; apparently he, too, had overcome the shock by now. “Father, please, I’m… I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—” “I know, Draco,” he said wearily, “I know. Mr. Potter?” Harry did an elegant loop-the-loop and came to hover alongside Lucius. “Ye-es, Mr. Malfoy?” “Mr. Potter, I owe you my life. I… er, suppose I have to thank you.” “No problem, Mr. Malfoy. I only wish I could see your face when you tell Voldemort. If I keep going at that rate, he’ll have to come after me all by himself, sooner or later.” Draco snorted, and Lucius gave him a glare that would have extinguished the breath of a Hungarian Horntail. “What exactly does that mean?” he asked Harry. “Oh, I saved Pettigrew’s life, a little less than four years ago. Didn’t he ever tell you?” Lucius slowly shook his head. “No, I had no idea. Neither had Lord Voldemort. What a very interesting little anecdote. Would you care to tell me the whole story?” <><><>°<><><> Not that Narcissa cared a lot about the Ministry of Magic and its guidelines. In her opinion, all those stupid regulations would best be stored away up Cornelius Fudge’s ample posterior. However, thousands of miles away from British jurisdiction, her scruples had drastically diminished, and that was saying something. The second pot of tea was heavily laced with Veritaserum. She poured a cup for Black and watched him drink with an expression that should have made him feel very uncomfortable, had he not been completely inebriated by his hormones. “So, Sirius,” she said after a while, “what brings you here?” “You mean here, to your house, or here, to Brazil?” “To Brazil, of course.” “Oh, well,” he said, “Nothing special, really. It’s been my hiding place since I escaped from Azkaban, with a short interruption during Harry’s fourth year.” “Ah, I see. And don’t you have any intentions to return to England?” Black shook his head. “Not really. At least not now. Not until my name has been cleared, and considering how things are going right now, I might have to wait until I’m old and grey-haired.” “We-ell,” she drawled, “If you could manage to get your hands on Pettigrew…” This was the moment. If things had really gone as Lucius had told her they might have, he had to spill the beans right now. “Do you honestly think I didn’t try?” he asked gruffly. “I was that close—” he held up his right hand, thumb and index finger an inch apart “—some years ago. To be honest, I didn’t want to catch him. I fully intended to kill the bastard.” “Kill him? Why would you have killed him? He is of much more use to you if he is alive, so he can tell the authorities what really happened.” Black raised his eyebrows. “Why would he need to do that? His mere existence is proof enough that I’m innocent.” “Ah,” she said, tilting her head and giving him a flirtatious smile, “So you are innocent?” “Of course I am,” he retorted indignantly. “What kind of questions are you asking here?” “You know how women are, Sirius. Always more interested in the… well, human aspect of things. I’m not implying anything here, mind you. Just curious. Because you might have told Pettigrew—” “What should I have told him, Narcissa? He was the secret keeper, not I.” That was settled, then. Black was not and had never been a sympathizer. He was nothing but a pathetic, all-too-trusting Gryffindor. No danger there. Which meant that they could simply stun him, take Potter, go back to England and serve The Boy Who Had Already Lived Too Long to Voldemort on a silver platter. Lucius would be back in the Dark Lord’s graces, and she would not even miss the appointment at her hairdresser’s. All in all, this wasn’t a bad day. If only Lucius would return with the boys… “Good afternoon, my dear,” his voice that still made her shiver after twenty years of marriage resounded from behind her. “Lucius! Did you—” she turned round. “Oh, you did find the two young gentlemen.” Then she saw the somewhat devastated expression on her husband’s face. “Lucius? What happened? You look distressed…” “Distressed?” he repeated wearily. “Distressed does not even begin to describe it. Mr. Potter here just saved my life.” <><><>°<><><> Blue or green? Hermione hesitated in front of the mirror. She had taken a bath while the colour was eating away at her hair—the stuff smelled abominably—and then rinsed and carefully washed her hair. Her scalp itched a little, but apart form that she was feeling quite jaunty; warmed, scented, dried and, most of all, with a new hairstyle and colour. The cut wasn’t the work of a world champion, but it was okay, she thought. Of course, it helped that her hair was so curly. Almost like a sheep’s fur. And he had been right, the hydrogen peroxide, apart from almost burning holes into her mucous membranes, had emphasized this tendency. She had even thought of dabbing some of that vicious substance on her eyebrows with her toothbrush and was very proud of having had this inspiration. However, the question of her eye colour remained to be solved. In the end, she opted for blue. It was simply less unusual than green, and to attract attention was the last thing she wanted. Wrapped in a large bath towel, she padded out into the kitchen. Snape was sitting on a chair, sipping a glass of wine and reading the newspaper. “Uncle Severus?” His head shot up and he was obviously about to retort something exquisitely vicious, but too taken aback by her change to do anything but move his jaw. “I take it you are satisfied,” she grinned. “May I have the olive oil?” Wordlessly, he got up, grabbed the bottle and handed it to her. “How much should I use?” “Only a few drops. Miss—bloody hell, Hermione… this is amazing. You look completely different.” “Thank you for stating the obvious. Can we have dinner when I’m finished? I just have to apply the oil and get dressed.” “Insufferable brat. Yes, it is ready. Should I write an invitation card?” “Dearest Uncle, by now you should know that I’m analphabetic. But I’ll join you immediately.” The oil had really been a good idea, she thought while rubbing it into her hair. Of course, his hair became completely lanky, but hers looked really good. Curly, but not frizzy anymore. She put on jeans and a jumper and, after a last look into the mirror that caused her to grin at her image in satisfaction, she switched off the light and followed the siren call of dinner. Snape was sitting at the table, still reading his paper, and acknowledged her presence by a short nod, grabbed a piece of Parma ham, stuffed it into his mouth, and returned to his reading. Hermione was very hungry, so she helped herself to Mozzarella and tomatoes and a piece of white bread. When she stretched out her hand to take the wine bottle, his hand clamped around her wrist. “No,” he said, “No drinking. You’re under eighteen. There’s orange juice and water.” She shot him a withering glance, though without any effect, because his eyes seemed to be glued to the paper. Obediently, she moved her hand towards the water bottle, but in the last moment switched goal and tried to pick up the wine. He was quicker. “I believe I made myself clear, Hermione. No wine.” “Why not?” “Because, as I already said, you are under eighteen.” “That’s my chronological age. In reality, I’m older. I used a ti—” She stopped in mid-sentence, looking at him anxiously and hoping he hadn’t realized the glitch. After all, the time turner had also served the rather illicit purpose of saving Sirius… Maybe Snape didn’t know… Not that it was of any real importance now that they were both far away from Hogwarts—maybe the distance measured in miles wasn’t that big, but in her head, and probably also in his, it couldn’t have been bigger, had they taken up residence on the moon. Of course he had noticed it. Stupid indeed to believe even for a moment that this not-so-subtle slip might have escaped him. “I know,” he said, his tone of voice at least as sardonic as his sneer, “But we have January now. Unless my memory betrays me, you are born in September, and it is impossible even for an overachieving nerd like you to have added eight months to your age. No wine. And this is final.” Hermione harrumphed and poured herself some orange juice. When the first voracious bites had taken away the worst hunger, she slowed down a little. After some minutes she became very bored. “I thought we were playing uncle and niece,” she said. “But this is very much married couple. And to tell the truth, I don’t like it.” He sighed and put down his newspaper, giving her one of his best scathing glares. To no avail. “That’s better,” she said cheerily. “Come on, say something.” “You are the one who wants to talk, so you say something.” “Okay. What do we do next?” “You wash the dishes,” he answered dryly, pouring himself another glass of wine. Completely ignoring her expression of surprised outrage, he took a piece of bread, cut himself a piece of Talleggio, broke a piece off his slice of bread and spread the cheese on it with obvious relish. “First, we’ll wash the dishes together, and second, that’s not what I meant. What are our plans for the future?” “First, you wash the dishes, just as I said, and second, we must get wands for both of us as soon as possible.” “First, either we take it in turns to wash the dishes or they will grow surprising amounts of mould, and second, where can we purchase wands without being caught? Ollivander’s is out of the question, and that Russian fellow… what’s his name again… Petrovitch—”
“First, agreed. Second, the fellow is Ukrainian and his name is Gregorovitch. Third, Gregorovitch isn’t an option either, because he makes wands for all the Durmstrang staff and students. News travels fast, and I am sure that the news of you and me waltzing into his workshop and buying wands would reach Voldemort’s ears before we have Apparated back home.” “Oh,” she said feeling rather sheepish. “So, how can we get wands?” “Not in any legal way—I saw that, Hermione!” he snarled, half laughing, when her hand sneaked towards the wine bottle again. “What’s so fascinating about that damned wine that you want it so much?” Hermione shook her head in exasperation. “I’m a human being and thus have human taste buds. Would you drink water or orange juice with the Parma ham?” “Certainly not, but—” “Exactly. So why do I have to spoil this heavenly taste with something acrid-sweet?” “All right!” he snapped, evidently giving up. “So you’ll have your wine. Merlin’s bloody haemorrhoids, you are being a pain in the…er, neck.” “Arse would have gone better with the haemorrhoids, though,” she said, batting her eyelids. “There’s nothing worse than a mismatched simile.” “There is, Hermione, there is. Female teenagers. They are worse than almost anything I can think of.” |