From Hell

Chapter 16

By Pigwidgeon37

Narcissa throws a very strange tea party. Hermione’s wand shows up, and Snape gains some insight into his part-time pet’s character.

Truthful lips endure forever, but a lying tongue lasts only a moment. (Proverbs 12:19)

Whichever heavenly or chthonic deity—and Narcissa strongly suspected it was the latter—had sent Harry Potter to this earth had especially designed him to be a thorn in the flesh of every Malfoy. That was what Mrs. Malfoy thought upon her return from the kitchen where she had given orders to a sweating House Elf to bring more tea, sandwiches and cake. Because Potter, that idiot, had conjured—or summoned, but that really didn’t matter, given their contents—more teacups, poured tea for everybody so that, when she stepped out on the terrace, her eyes beheld a scene right out of a nightmare: her husband, her son, Potter and Black sipping a mixture of tea and Veritaserum. Oh, Gods. Oh, dear Gods. This was going to be awful. They had all already drained their cups, and Potter, grinning like the imbecile he was, especially at Lucius in whose obvious discomfort he seemed to take particular pleasure, was liberally pouring a second round. Into her cup as well. Narcissa sank into her chair with a sigh of despair. Fully aware of the cataclysm that was going to break loose, she took a sip, and then another one. All of a sudden, the comic absurdity of the situation came to her mind, and she had difficulties suppressing a fit of the giggles.

Black was looking extremely pissed, and Potter was glancing at him in a very subdued way. Only too understandable, she thought; after all, Black had been terribly upset when he had heard his own godson had saved a notorious Death Eater’s life. Narcissa herself was torn between gratefulness and annoyance, because now her beautiful scheme was impossible to carry out. Lucius couldn’t take Potter to Voldemort anymore, and they would have to stay here, rotting away in the humid heat. Her complexion was going to suffer, she’d age and whither… If the Boston Tea Party hadn’t been a screaming success, the one at Fortaleza was a prelude to Apocalypse.

“So tell us, Lucius,” Black said in one of the most preposterous attempts at making conversation recorded throughout history, “how’s Voldemort?”

Lucius looked at him, very obviously annoyed. “Better than any of us would wish for.”

“Any of us?” Black repeated. “Well, that certainly doesn’t include you. You must be rejoicing if he’s gaining strength.”

“I am not so sure whether he is gaining strength. He hasn’t cast a Cruciatus Curse in ages…” That was exactly when Lucius realized that something was definitely amiss. He looked at his wife, who had been trying to catch his attention, in order to warn him without attracting the others’ looks. Now she simply stared at him, exasperation clearly written all over her face, and shrugged helplessly. He narrowed his eyes and shook his head imperceptibly to signal he hadn’t understood. Narcissa answered with another, desperate shrug.

“I see,” Black said, “It’s more or less what I had suspected. After all, he’s been back for two and a half years, and, except for his rather flamboyant entrée, he hasn’t done much since his…well, rebirth.”

“Indeed. But that’s what you get when you use a piece of that Pettigrew idiot for your resurrection. Not that I would have given my right hand, but if he had used mine he might be a little tougher now.”

That was exactly when Sirius Black realized that something was definitely amiss.  “Er… Malfoy,” he said, “Are you sure you didn’t fall off that broomstick and bump your head on some stone or tree? You just spoke ill of Voldemort!”

“Now listen, Black,” Lucius said, “What would you say if Dumbledore suddenly took to collecting broomstick models and didn’t give a fuck about what happens outside his office? I used to believe in Voldemort, even though that was long ago, and it makes me angry to see him like that. Besides, even though it is a sordid and undignified detail, he stinks.”

Harry choked on his tea and had a coughing fit that neatly turned into a laughing fit. “Voldemort… collects… broomstick models?” he panted.

“Of course not, silly boy!” Lucius snapped. “I just needed some random but futile pastime. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t do anything.”

That was exactly when Harry and Draco realized that something was definitely amiss. “Father,” Draco ventured, “don’t you think you are a little… uh, careless in your choice of words?”

Narcissa, who had been listening with increasing horror, recognized that she had to confess. Otherwise the consequences might be truly catastrophic. “Listen, everybody,” she said, raising her voice a little so that two black and two blonde heads turned towards her, “I… well, this is my fault. There is Veritaserum in the tea. Sorry, Lucius,” she continued, looking at her husband whose gaze was the epitome of horrified, “It was meant for the exclusive purpose of getting some interesting truths out of Mr. Black. I had not considered that you or the two boys might drink some. I’m truly sorry.”

Black’s face was the arena of an a heated combat between fury and amusement, which was won by the latter. “Now that’s great!” he exclaimed, slapping his thigh, “So you did this whole flirt act only to gain my trust?”

Narcissa nodded. “Yes, I wanted to know whether Lucius’s suspicions on your behalf were true.”

“Suspicions… What on earth… Oh, I understand! All those questions about my innocence! They struck me as a little strange. So,” he said turning towards Lucius, who seemed to have been frozen in his previous position, “you thought I was the secret keeper and told Pettigrew?”

“Well,” Lucius croaked and cleared his throat, “it was a possibility, you know? I thought you might have been sent after us to spy…”

“Sent after you? Does that mean you are having troubles with Voldemort?”

“Lucius, don’t—” Narcissa tried to prevent her husband from answering, but to no avail. The amount of Veritaserum she had put into the tea was a heavy overdose, because she had thought it better not to rely on Black emptying the whole cup—he didn’t seem much of a tea person. Small quantities of the substance could be withstood in that people were able to at least choose their words carefully.  What with the amount they had all ingested by now, this wasn’t a possibility anymore.

“Yes,” Lucius snapped, “I’m having troubles with Voldemort. Satisfied?”

“Of course,” Black grinned, “How wouldn’t I? And I would, of course, like to hear what caused them.”

Harry and Draco were just sitting in their chairs, heads shrinking back between their shoulders, both expecting some storm to break loose, though for different reasons. But both preferred not to remind any of the three adults of their presence, partly because they were eager to hear the grownups spill out their secrets, and partly because they had a feeling as if the storm might damage them as well if they so much as opened their mouths. So they sat still and listened.

<><><>°<><><>

Albus Dumbledore had finally received an owl from Hermione’s parents, although the news it brought had done nothing to alleviate the constant worries the girl’s disappearance was causing him. Now he was sitting in their drawing room at the house in Oxford, it was nine o’clock in the evening and things didn’t look too well. He had met the Grangers before, first when he had answered their anxious questions after their daughter had received her letter of acceptance to Hogwarts, and then again after Voldemort’s return. This was the third time he had come to their house. Dumbledore wasn’t sure he liked the couple; or rather, he was pretty sure he disliked them, but gave them credit for being the parents of the brightest student Hogwarts had had in many years.

Apart from that, he found that they were quite insupportable: too sleek, too businesslike, too demanding, and strangely unfazed when it came to the disappearance of their only daughter. It was rather as if somebody had stolen their brand new Rolls Royce, so that now they had to drive around in a small Fiat, unable to impress the neighbourhood and therefore very put-off. Of course, Dumbledore was only too conscious that he and Minerva McGonagall hadn’t treated the poor girl very differently, for she had been an object of prestige, if of a more academic nature, and many of their hopes had rested upon her. But then, he and his deputy weren’t Hermione’s parents, from whom he would have expected a different attitude.

They had gotten over the polite introduction to what promised to become a long and unpleasant discussion, and settled down in the large club fauteuils, each of them with a glass of brandy. There was a short, heavy silence.

“Well,” Mr. Granger began, after clearing his throat, “I think it’s best if we come to the point right away. The cleaning woman told us that somebody had been in Hermione’s room. She is a little… well, absentminded, so we thought she was talking nonsense, but went to have a look all the same. My wife—”

“Some clothes were missing,” Mrs. Granger snatched the thread of narration from him. “Winter clothes. I know they had been there, because I expected Hermione to need them and had them cleaned, so I could send them to her immediately.”

“I see.” Dumbledore didn’t look at them but into his glass, pondering the information. “Are you sure the clothes were there after the Death Eater attack?”

“Without any doubt. I put them back into the cupboards myself after your… law enforcement had repaired the worst damages.”

Apparently, Mrs. Granger had not been very favourably impressed by the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, who, as a special favour to Dumbledore, had taken it upon themselves to restore the house to a somewhat acceptable state, although the magic that had caused the damage had by no means been accidental.

“So you conclude that Hermione was here?” Dumbledore asked, although he felt the question was slightly redundant.

“What else should we think?” Mr. Ganger said. “I would have considered the possibility of burglars having broken into the house, but the locks were all intact, and besides the clothes nothing had disappeared.”

“Although,” his wife continued, “I must say that I am very disappointed indeed.  She could have left a note, that would have been the least. She used to be thoughtful, respectful and polite.” The last sentence was accompanied by a very pointed look at the Headmaster, as if to imply that Hermione had lost those admirable qualities somewhere in the dingy corridors of Hogwarts.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore agreed, without reacting to the provocation, “That is exactly how I would describe your daughter. So I suppose she had no time or possibility to leave you a message. Maybe she was in a great hurry.”

“That is absolutely no excuse,” Mrs. Granger snapped. “However, we have given an accurate description of the clothes to the police, so maybe the chances of finding her have slightly improved.”

Dumbledore nodded. “That was very considerate. However, you mentioned that the locks were intact. Are you sure she couldn’t get in through a window?”

“Absolutely sure,” Dr. Granger said. “We checked them all.”

“That means she still has her wand,” Dumbledore murmured, “But why—”

“She has a key for the back door,” Mrs. Granger interrupted him. “That’s why. She didn’t have to use her… er, wand.”

“But she could have,” Dumbledore objected. “Only if that is the case, it might be worth the while asking the ministry to perform another location spell. I lost her track at Malfoy Manor, but now things appear in a slightly different light.  She might not want to be found—at least her behaviour makes me suspect she doesn’t—but I think we all agree that we cannot respect this wish.”

<><><>°<><><>

Most of the time, Ginny Weasley really liked her brothers. Bill was her favourite, but she seldom had the possibility to see him. Percy was… well, she was grateful that he wasn’t staying at The Burrow anymore and instead living out his anal retentive nature at his own home, although she wondered how Penelope could stand him. Charlie was okay, but mostly absent. Fred and George… on the one hand, it was fun to have such lunatic brothers. Life simply couldn’t get boring if you lived in the same house with the twins. They always made her laugh, or rather, they always tried to make her laugh, even though sometimes the results were greatly unnerving. On the other hand.

Like for example now.

Ginny wasn’t an overzealous, overachieving student like Hermione, but she prided herself, and rightly so, on doing her work punctually, correctly and with the utmost meticulousness. She didn’t start her holiday homework right on the first day, but she always had it finished well before returning to Hogwarts. The teachers had been rather lenient this year, and thus it seemed sufficient to start a little after New Year’s Day. Only she couldn’t find either books or parchment. Even her quills had disappeared. After a second, more thorough, search Ginny was fairly sure that Messieurs Gred and Forge had to be the culprits. They had been a little subdued after their laboratory antics that had cost the Reversal Squad ten years of their lives, but by now their spirits were as high as ever. And to take away their little sister’s school things seemed just their style. Very funny. Ha, ha.

Ginny, face flushed purple with anger, stomped out of her room, down the stairs, and stopped at the twins’ door. “Are you in there?” she yelled and banged her fist against the wood. It hurt a little, but she felt herself cool down considerably.

The door opened and Fred’s grinning face appeared. “Hi, Gin! Anything we can do for you?”

“You might give me back my books,” Ginny hissed, “That would be a good beginning.”

George appeared behind his brother, his face as innocent as a newborn lamb’s.

“We didn’t take your books, Gin.”

Slight emphasis on ‘take’. Aha. “Well, what else did you do with them? Hide them?”

“Y-yes and no,” Fred answered, and his grin grew considerably broader. “They are, as they say, hidden in plain sight. All over the house.”

“In plain… but there is nothing…” Then it dawned on her. “You transfigured them, didn’t you, you… you idiots!” she shrieked.

Fred turned round to his brother. “She really is an intelligent girl.”

George nodded. “Very bright indeed. Spiffing, Gin, absolutely spiffing. We are proud of you.”

“Thank you so much. Go on then, transfigure them back!”

“But Ginny,” George said, his expression now dead serious, “We have already finished school. You are the one who needs practice. Regard it as a little extra homework, and you’ll see that you’ll enjoy it a lot more.”

Ginny felt that, now, she would have to pound the door into toothpicks in order to vent her anger. “Enjoy?” she yelled, “Enjoy? What am I supposed to do, you harebrained idiot? Do you want me to cast Finite Incantatem all over the house?  So that the third floor comes off, not to mention the roof?”

“Miss Weasley,” George said in a stern tone of voice—it was a perfect imitation of McGonagall, which Ginny would have appreciated a lot more had she not been so furious, “There are other ways of detecting transfigured objects, as you should well know. Just to give you a hint, it is on the fifth year syllabus.” With these words of wisdom, he closed the door and left Ginny stomping her foot in helpless anger.

There was no way past it: she had to perform the Transfiguratio Adhibita spell over every suspicious-looking object until she had found all her missing items.  With a growl that reminded very much of Sirius Black’s Animagus form, she drew her wand and stalked downstairs, to start a systematic search. Her Arithmancy textbook was an innocent-looking potato the mischievous twins had placed in the fruit bowl on the kitchen table. A tea mug she had never seen before proved to be her quills, rolled up in ten feet of parchment. After half an hour, she had worked her way through kitchen, pantry and half of the living room. Scanning the area near the fireplace, she saw an old black sock. With a grim smile, she pointed her wand at it and murmured “Transfiguratio Adhibita!” The sock instantly began to glow a faint red. Ginny nodded and pronounced “Ripristinatio!” Then her jaw went slack. Because the sock did transform, only instead of her Potions textbook she was still missing it became… a wand.

Ginny closed her eyes and reopened them. The wand was still there. “What the…” she muttered and bent down to pick it up. She had barely risen to her feet again, examining the wand with furrowed brows, trying to identify who it might belong to, when a faint ‘plop’ from behind her made her whirl round. She was staring right into Mad-Eye Moody’s magical eye.

<><><>°<><><>

“All right,” Snape said, slamming the coffee pot on the kitchen table. “You won.  We are going to play boyfriend and girlfriend, for otherwise I might go mad. If you call me Uncle only one more time, this is my ticket to lunacy.”

Hermione grinned up at him. “Compliments for a wise decision,” she said. “Good morning, by the way.”

He gave her a scathing look. “Good morning. I hate rabbit hair on my pillow.”

“It’s not my fault that there’s only one bed,” she retorted, rather belligerent.  “Besides, you almost squashed me into rabbit pulp last night. You’re an incredibly chaotic sleeper.”

“I am never chaotic, not even in my sleep. Now eat your breakfast and be quiet.”

“Puella taceat in ecclesia,” she muttered.*

“Exactly, my dear. That is what you will do, and if I have to have this flat consecrated for you to stop talking all the time.”

“I don’t—” she began but was cut off by a combustive glare.

“Really?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Maybe it was the stress of the last two weeks that demanded to be relieved, now that the tension had finally diminished. Maybe it was because she was only seventeen and away from home, school and friends, and suddenly feeling very small and lonely. Whatever the reason, Hermione’s eyes—still brown because she hadn’t yet put in the contact lenses—started filling with tears, and her lower lip began to quiver. “You hate me, don’t you?” she asked, her voice already on the verge of breaking. “You hate me, and you’re just waiting for an occasion to get rid of me. Because I’m tiresome and annoying and… and… nothing but an unnerving know-it-all…”

Snape rolled his eyes when he saw the first tears scuttle down her cheeks.  Merlin, what an insufferable brat! Couldn’t she take some teasing? Did he have to consider every word ten times before he uttered it, just so he didn’t hurt her fragile ego? Why on earth was she behaving like this all of a sudden? It made him feel helpless, and he hated feeling helpless. Probably he ought to comfort her now. It was 8.30 in the morning, and he was already expected to comfort a blubbering teenager. If this was freedom, he could just as well do without it. “Miss Granger… Hermione… stop crying, this instant.”

Strangely, this only caused her sobs and her sniffling to redouble. Snape sighed heavily. Perhaps he had to put a little more feeling into this comforting business. Not that what she had said hadn’t been essentially right—although he didn’t hate her, he would have been happier without her. Well, to own the truth, he would have had less trouble without her. But it was fun to have a sparring partner for a little verbal fencing now and then. Until now, it seemed she liked that, too. On the other hand, the girl had to be under a lot of stress, come to think of it. “Hermione,” he said, trying to sound a little less harsh, “What is the matter with you? Why this sudden outburst?”

She raised her head that she had buried in her hands. “I think that’s obvious, isn’t it? If you are fed up with me, there’s nowhere I can go. I’d have to return to Hogwarts, or to my parents’, or wherever, without having that bloody spell removed, and I’ have to… to continue my life just like before… and… and I simply can’t stand the thought…”

Snape frowned at her. “What is so bad about your life? You seemed rather content—”

Her right fist hit the tabletop. “Content? You have absolutely no idea, have you?”

The contrast between the wild gleam in her eyes, the red, swollen nose and the artificial blonde of her hair was rather hilarious, he thought, but somehow this didn’t seem the right moment to point that out. Not when she had stopped crying and was finally talking sensibly. “No,” he said, “I have no idea. Maybe you would care to explain?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said, her voice suddenly very small.

He offered her a handkerchief. “Try me.”

Hermione blew her nose and looked at him pensively. “Well,” she said, “maybe you’d understand better than I thought. After all, you were being used, too. In a different way perhaps, but used all the same.”

Snape nodded slowly. Yes, he could doubtlessly relate to that. “I never looked at it that way,” he said. “But I certainly understand what you mean. So I take it the Coelibatus Spell wasn’t your idea?”

She gave a short laugh. “No, certainly not. I just felt so… so indebted to everybody, I felt I had to accept.”

Now that was something he knew only too well. “Yes,” he agreed, “They are quite adept at making you feel indebted. Without ever saying so explicitly.”

“Exactly.” Hermione gave him a watery smile. “You won’t send me back, will you?”

He considered her question for a moment. “No,” he said finally, “at least not until we have found a way to undo that spell. Then, I think you ought to return.”

Hermione blew her nose again, but now it sounded less desperate. “Thank you,” she said, “That’s very reassuring. May I ask you an indiscreet question?”

Snape sighed and glared at her. “Unless it is the old boxers-or-briefs question, yes, you may. Although I reserve myself the right to not answer it.”

She giggled. “I know you’re wearing boxers,” she said. “I may be a tiny rabbit, but I’m by no means a blind rabbit. No, I wanted to ask you about money. I mean, you hired this flat, and you don’t seem too worried about money. But how much do you have at your disposal? How long can we go on living without doing anything?”

He chose to not comment on the voyeuristic habits of his part-time pet and instead explained about his arrangement with Gringott’s. “There is no need to worry about money for at least a year unless you develop some very extravagant tastes.”

“I don’t think I will,” she said. “But do you think we might go to a concert now and again? And… and buy some books?”

At this, he couldn’t resist smiling. “Of course. That shouldn’t be a problem. Although I’m not sure whether our musical tastes are compatible…”

“During our journey here,” she blurted out, “I saw posters advertising that Andras Schiff is going to play at the Albert Hall tomorrow night… You probably don’t know who he is, but—”

“For having been so desperate about being regarded as a troublesome know-it-all,” he interrupted her, “you are being remarkably know-it-all-ish right now. Of course I know who Schiff is, I even saw the posters. Only I don’t remember what he is going to play.”

Her cheeks were flushed now with what he could only presume was enthusiasm, and she nodded so vigorously that those ridiculous blonde curls bobbed back and forth. “Bach,” she said, her voice squeaky with excitement, “The Goldberg Variations and the Two-Part Inventions. Can we go? Please say yes!”

“If we get tickets…”

“We don’t have anything to do, so we might pop over right after breakfast and… please, say yes!”

He nodded. “Very well, Hermione. If that makes you happy…”

“No need to be so avuncular!” she said, nudging his upper arm. “Just admit that you’d like to go as well!”

“All right,” he said, “I’d like to go. In fact, I had already been thinking of hiring a baby sitter for you, so I need not worry about leaving you here on your own.”

She merely grinned at him and helped herself to toast and butter. Yes, he thought, it was definitely nicer to have company for the concert.