From Hell

Chapter 18

By Pigwidgeon37

Will Malfoy Manor become a tourist site? Edifying thoughts about the symmetry of 8-1-1998.

What is the way to the abode of light? And where does darkness reside? Can you take them to their places? Do you know the paths to their dwellings? (Job 38:

19-20)

“This is one of the most distressing situations I have ever had the bad luck of finding myself in,” Dumbledore said, and Professors McGonagall and Moody nodded solemnly.

“Bloody awful, if you ask me,” Moody agreed, pensively scratching his stubbly chin. “You know I don’t trust people easily—” At that, McGonagall snorted, and the old Auror gave her a piercing look. “Minerva, if I had a copy of Victor Vanderbuilt, Voraciously Vying for Velvety Virgins in the inner pocket of my robes, I’d refrain from making fun of other people’s little weaknesses.”

McGonagall blushed scarlet, and Dumbledore sniggered into his teacup. “As I was saying,” Moody continued, “I don’t trust people easily, but I’d bet my wooden leg that the Weasleys got involved into this story just like Pontius Pilatus into the Apostles’ Creed. They have nothing to do with it, and considering Ginny found the transfigured wand near the fireplace…”

Minerva McGonagall took off her square spectacles and tiredly rubbed her eyes.

It was late, and she was an early riser. Not only had she fulfilled her Deputy-Headmistress duties today, which were by no means alleviated by the holidays—on the contrary, the holidays were something she absolutely loathed, because they were the only time of year when she could, and had to, do the tedious paperwork the Ministry required—she was also deeply shaken by the continued and ever-more inexplicable absence of Hermione Granger. “The only possible solution to this puzzle,” she said, stifling a huge yawn that threatened to unhinge her jaw, “is that Miss Granger was at Malfoy Manor, and that one of those two venomous snakes managed—”

“Not one of them,” Dumbledore interrupted her. “It must have been Narcissa. After Lucius arrived, none of them could try any tricks I wouldn’t have seen. What I would really like to know is where Lucius had gone. Because, if he had made a visit at Voldemort’s lair—”

“Either Voldemort himself, or one of his Death Eater bastards,” Moody rumbled. “Maybe he thought that to keep her at the Manor for longer than strictly necessary might become dangerous…”

“Now let us try to think logically,” McGonagall began, after a short silence.

“How very refreshing it is to see that you are playing Severus’s part,” Dumbledore commented, shoving a Peppermint Bug into his mouth. He chewed with relish, his silver beard moving up and down, and completely ignored McGonagall’s angry stare. He swallowed. “But you are, of course, right, my dear. We have to use some logic. Please continue.” He gave her a beatific smile.

McGonagall harrumphed. “What I meant to say was this: If Malfoy, or any other Death Eater, or even You-Know-Who—”

Moody rolled his eyes. “Kindly use his name, Minerva. You’re not a first-year!”

“If,” she continued, looking daggers at her colleague, “any of them is currently holding Miss Granger hostage, then why don’t we hear anything from them? Claims for the extradition of Harry Potter, for example. Or for one of their minions to be immediately set free from Azkaban? Anything? What’s the use of keeping a hostage unless you claim something in return for their freedom?”

Another Peppermint Bug went the way of all Peppermint Bugs. “Exactly,” Dumbledore said. “Add to that Lucius’s mysterious haste to retrieve his son who had signed up for staying over the holidays. And you have a conundrum we will scarcely be able to solve.”

Moody grabbed one of the sweets, which, in McGonagall’s opinion, looked natural and therefore disgusting enough as they were, drew his wand, charmed it to life so that it wriggled between his gnarled fingers and put it into his mouth, slowly and with apparent anticipation. McGonagall’s face took on a greenish hue.  “I like it when they crawl over my tongue,” he said apologetically. McGonagall swallowed convulsively. “However,” he took up the thread of their musings again, “that story of Malfoy coming to get Draco in such a hurry is weird. On the same day the Granger girl vanished, to boot. Have you heard from him recently?”

“No.” Dumbledore shook his head. “Not that that is strange in itself, mind you.  Lucius scarcely shows up or writes—he seems pretty content with causing me difficulties at every meeting of the Board of Governors. Although…” He lapsed into ruminative silence.

“What?” McGonagall prodded.

“Did the Malfoys ever let a New Year’s Eve pass without throwing a huge party?”

“Mmh…” Moody passed his right hand over his face. The parched skin scraping over three days’ worth of stubble made a rasping noise. “Not that I remember. On the contrary. I still recall the one they held in 1981, when Lucius had barely been released after more than a month of custody in Azkaban. As white as a sheet and still half-mad…”

“Well,” Dumbledore said, “That is strange, then. Because I don’t think I have seen anything in the Daily Prophet. I could be wrong, but somehow…” He rummaged through the heaps of papers on his desk and finally pulled out a battered copy of the 1-January issue of the Daily Prophet. “Let me have a look…” He turned the pages. “No. Nothing. They mention the official celebration at the Ministry, they even got the guest list… Madison… McNair… No, the Malfoy’s weren’t there.” He put the paper down. “So, Mad-Eye, what do you make of all this?”

The old Auror gave a low growl. “If it weren’t so absurd, I’d say the whole family has gone into hiding.”

McGonagall, her tiredness suddenly gone, threw him a sharp look. “Hiding? But… Alastor, why would Malfoy of all people go into hiding? He is on the best of terms with Fudge, so what could possibly…” Her forehead was creased in deep thought.

“Yeah, Minerva. What could possibly? The only explanation, far-fetched as it seems, is that he’s having troubles with Voldemort.”

“Which is exactly the conclusion I had arrived at,” Dumbledore agreed. “Only I don’t have the faintest idea why. On the other hand, it might be a good idea to have a look at what is going on at the Manor, don’t you think so?”

Moody’s black eye lit up. “Breaking and entering? I’m game.”

McGonagall sighed. “You are one hundred and twenty-nine and eighty-four years old—”

“How could I forget?” Moody interrupted her, grinning. “Two years your senior, Minerva. Remember those snogging sessions up the Astronomy Tower? Sweet sixteen and all that jazz…”

She blushed and gave him a look of severe reprimand. “This is not the right moment for indulging nostalgia, Alastor. However, you are two grown men, powerful wizards, and should set an example for the whole wizarding world. Instead, you are behaving like Harry and Ron Weasley, honestly. Do you know what trouble we’ll get ourselves in if—”

“Don’t be so squeamish,” Moody cut her off. “If they are really gone, no-one will be the wiser. And if they’re not, we can always pretend we’re making a social call.”

McGonagall threw up her hands in exasperation. “Men!” she snapped. “Always the same! They see an adventure and have to grab it immediately. Old age doesn’t change that, does it, Albus?”

Dumbledore’s hand dived into the sweets jar to select another Peppermint Bug for immediate execution. “Somehow, I don’t think so,” he said calmly, winking at his irritated Deputy.

<><><>°<><><>

“Malfoy always looks smug,” Fred objected, when Ginny had arrived at the description of Draco’s face after McGonagall had called off the search for Hermione.

“I know, but trust me, I’ve never seen him look just like that,” Ginny said. “It was only too apparent he knew something. Back then, I thought of course that he had something going with Hermione—”

“What!” the twins exclaimed in unison.

“Well, look at it this way,” Ginny said reasonably. “She isn’t in her room late at night on the twenty-sixth. She isn’t at breakfast on the twenty-seventh.  Then, she’s a bit too snappy when I ask her where she has been. Besides, Malfoy didn’t show up at breakfast, either. Plus, his self-satisfied look when McGonagall ended the search. What should I have thought?”

“You should have used your brain,” George said. “Even if she had spent the night with Malfoy, doing unspeakable things, why should she have left the school grounds afterwards? I mean, she has her own room. It’s the perfect possibility.”

“Not if he told her to precede him to their house,” Ginny argued, “Maybe he invited her to spend the rest of the holidays there. At least that’s what I thought until I found her wand.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” George said, putting a hand on her shoulder to calm her.  “Let’s try to think with our brains, not with our guts. Assuming she has an affair with ferret-boy, and further assuming that she didn’t want to conduct it at school, for whichever reason, and thirdly assuming that Draco invited her home—wouldn’t he have a very good reason to keep her hidden and undetected?  After all, she’s Muggle-born, and I don’t think his father would be pleased if he found out his son is screwing a Mudblood, as he would kindly put it.”

“But… but…” Ginny, suddenly unsure, stared at her brothers.

“George is right,” Fred chimed in. “That would be perfectly reasonable. Not that I like the thought, but he might have gone after her and right now he might be keeping her in his rooms, hiding her from his lecherous daddy and shagging her senseless.”

“Yargh,” said George, making a grimace of disgust. “No need to become quite so explicit, Fred.”

“But Hermione would never, never break school rules just to enjoy two weeks of undisturbed boinking with Draco!” Ginny interrupted their sniggering. “Never!  Even if she were in love with him, she’d never even dream of leaving Hogwarts without Dumbledore’s permission. It’s simply not like her, don’t you understand?  Plus, there were so few students and teachers left that the danger of being found out would have been minimal.”

“Mmh…” The twins looked at each other. “You have a point there,” Fred conceded.

“So, what do you want to do? You can’t waltz into the Malfoys’ house and ask—”

“I had no intention of waltzing into their house,” Ginny said, looking suddenly very shrewd. “I had another idea, though…”

<><><>°<><><>

“Shakespeare wasn’t a wizard, was he?” Hermione asked, when they exited the cinema.

Snape snorted. “Does that mean even you are sleeping through Binns’s classes?”

“Of course not.” She nudged him in the ribs. “I never slept though History of Magic, hard as it was. But I admit that I might have been so dazed that maybe… well, I might not always have paid full attention.”

“Ah,” he said with raised eyebrows. “To answer your question: no, Shakespeare was no wizard. But his works are amazing all the same. Something which I honestly can’t say about this film.”

“Why didn’t you like it? Did you think it was too romantic?”

“More irrational than romantic, I’d say. Would you like to eat out today, or was the film too dazzling, so that you’d rather go straight to bed and dream whatever girls your age are dreaming of?”

She gave him a pained look. “How would I know? That blasted spell blocks my conscious thoughts as well as my subconscious. But I’d like to have dinner.”

Snape felt unaccountably vexed at himself. After all, he knew exactly how she probably felt. True, the film had been a little sappy, a little too romantic, but the sight of Viola De Lesseps’s breasts being kissed by William Shakespeare had certainly aroused him. It had been far too long since he… No, it was no good thinking about that. However, she didn’t even have this relatively innocent pleasure. Had she not been under the Coelibatus Spell, he had little doubt that he might have ended up doing exactly the same to her tonight. She did have small, pert breasts—he had seen them often enough under her shirts and jumpers.  But he felt nothing at the sight, and somehow this was quite unnatural. It was one thing to feel attracted without giving in to one’s desires, but to feel no attraction at all was quite different. Although he was sure she would not have welcomed any undue attentions from his side, he had a suspicion that she might still have preferred them to being practically asexual. Small wonder she had cast him that hurt look; it couldn’t be agreeable to be reminded of her state.

“Very well,” he said, trying to sound as cheerful as possible, “the choice is yours, then. What would you like to eat? Chinese? Indian? Italian? Japanese?” Secretly wishing that she might choose Italian.

“Mmh…” She pondered this. “Italian, I’d say. That’s what I like most. Do you know a place where it’s really good?”

“Do I know—My dear Hermione, it would hardly be an exaggeration to say that my second passion, after Potions of course, is Italian food.”

Somehow, he didn’t like her grin when she said, “Really?” accompanied by a mad wriggling movement of her eyebrows. “And there I was, thinking that Muggle comics held that position.”

“How—” He stopped in his tracks. “Apart from the fact that this is one of the most preposterous assertions I ever heard in my life, how would you know?”

Now she giggled—apparently his glare had lost some of its intimidating force.  “You thought you were unobserved the yesterday at Waterstone’s,” she said. “But I saw you very well, although I could hardly believe my eyes. Professor Snape, eagerly devouring the issues on display in the comics section. So don’t deny it.  I surely won’t tell anybody.”

“Wonderful!” he spat, “That spares me the trouble of excogitating a particularly gory death threat.”

“Much better,” she replied, taking his arm. “So you can apply your cunning mind to the problem of finding a nice Italian restaurant.”

He merely grumbled something unintelligible and continued walking. They strolled through the Theatre District towards Oxford Street, further on to Tottenham Court Road and then to Charlotte Street.

“You know,” she said, when they had left the busy crowds of Tottenham Court Road, “Some weeks ago—and now please don’t take offence—I would have freaked out at the thought of having so much in common with you. Anyway, right now I think it’s rather nice.”

Loath as he was to admit it, she had expressed his very own thoughts. The idea of sharing a flat with Hermione Granger, know-it-all extraordinaire and Gryffindor bookworm, would have sounded extremely appalling to him not so long ago. Now, however, it was rather like having a slightly annoying , but all in all well-liked younger sister. Sometimes she even made him laugh—not the sarcastic, baleful bark he had become used to, but genuine laughter of amusement at her sly retorts and sarcastic wit. Yes, Hermione Granger possessed a good deal of dry humour, something he would never have given her credit for. It somewhat tempered that over-sharp intelligence of hers and made it more human. 

Of course, she could be exasperating at times, but—he had to admit it—so could he. On the whole, though, they got on rather well. Just like he, she appreciated silence, the companionable variety that reigned when they were both absorbed into their reading. Mindless chatter had always been a female trait he deeply abhorred, although he freely admitted that it could also be found in men. Just think of Fudge… In former times, during his Death-Eater heyday, it had been easy for him to silence the girls embellishing his nights, merely by intimidating them. With her, this wasn’t necessary. She was… well, almost a friend, and one he had come to appreciate. So he patted her hand that was resting on his right forearm and said, “Believe me, the same is true for me.”

“Really?” she said, looking up at him with a delighted smile. “Only the freaking-out part, or the have-come-to-like-it part as well?”

“Both, Hermione. Both. Here we are.”

They had arrived at the restaurant and were guided to the upper floor by a young waiter, who wasn’t quite sure what he should do with his hands. They were truly overlarge. Hermione giggled and nudged Snape; he grinned and slightly shook his head, to make her understand that she was being extremely rude. This only caused her to double up with laughter, desperately holding on to the handrail.

“Sorry,” she said, sitting down opposite him at the table the waiter had assigned them, not without a nonplussed look at the giggling blonde female and her hapless companion. “Sorry, I… hick!”

“You see?” he muttered and took the menu, “You get what’s coming to you. Now you’re having a hiccough—just punishment for your undignified display of mirth at another human being’s expense.”

“If that…hick!… were true, you…hick!… would already ha—hick!…have died of … hick!… hiccoughs,” she replied.

He tried another menacing stare, but it went unheeded, because she was to busy hiccoughing and trying to hide it.

Suddenly, his eyes went wide with horror. “Malfoy!” he hissed.

Hermione paled. “Oh, god, no! Where is he?”

“Shush! Some tables away, behind you—I don’t think he has seen us…”

“Then do something, for heaven’s sake!” she whispered frantically, “Let’s get out of here, quick!”

She had already half risen from her seat, when he leaned back, crossed his arms and shot her an insolent look.

“Severus!” she hissed, “Come on, we must—”

“Where has your hiccough gone?” he asked with an innocent smile.

“My—I don’t know, but that’s not important right now! Come on!”

“Hermione, I—”

“Come the fuck on, Severus!”

“Hermione, I made that up! There is no Malfoy behind you. But a good fright makes the diaphragm un-cramp, as you should well know.”

She slumped back into her chair. Now that her eyes were blue instead of brown, their irate intensity reminded him a little of Dumbledore. “You bloody…” Then a grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Well, I have to admit it was ingenious. And it helped. But I’ll need something to calm my frazzled nerves.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Hermione…”

“Please!” She batted her eyelids, and he had to laugh against his will. “Good, that’s settled then. Now be quiet, I have to concentrate.”

Yes, he thought. An obnoxious little sister. A little mercurial, maybe, but all the same very likeable. He should thank the Gods on his knees that she was under that spell. Although it made him unable to assess her properly—or rather improperly, he mentally corrected himself—he was pretty sure she would be quite to his liking, regarded from a strictly male, non-professorial point of view.  Following her example, he focused his thoughts on the menu.

Fortunately, the waiter taking their orders was not the same that had led them upstairs—he would have had to excogitate another way to de-hiccough her.

“You can’t be serious,” he said, when the waiter had left. “Cold and warm starters, and a main course? Don’t tell me you’ll have a dessert as well?”

“Animagus metabolism,” she said, contentedly patting her flat stomach. “It’s amazing, I read all about it.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he retorted.

“Sourpuss!”

“Bluestocking!”

They looked at each other and laughed.

“Speaking of Animagi,” Hermione said, taking an appreciative sip of the wine the waiter had just brought, “When should we start The Operation?”

He sighed and put down his glass. “Hermione, why do I have the feeling that you underestimate the danger?”

“I do not underestimate the danger,” she said stubbornly. “I just know that we can do it.”

“You just know? What’s that supposed to be? Female intuition?”

“Call it whatever you want. I know we can do it. And the sooner, the better.  No,” she said, prying his hands from his face, “there’s absolutely no need for dramatic gestures now. I asked you a question, so kindly answer it.”

The starters arrived, and Snape viciously speared a prawn, wishing it were Hermione’s obstinacy. “The sooner, the better. Just as you said. Every passing day is a possibility for Voldemort to gain more strength.”

“Or lose it,” she interjected, looking up from her veal with tuna sauce.

“Not bloody likely,” he snarled. “However, if we concentrate on our training, we should be able to give it a try very soon. The day after tomorrow, I’d say.”

She checked her watch. “8 January?”

“8 January,” he confirmed. “It makes for a nice inscription on our tombstones:

8-1-1998. Perfect symmetry.”

A shadow crossed her face. “Don’t,” she said. “Just don’t think of that possibility.” She put down the cutlery and raised her glass. “To the success of our operation.”

“To our operation,” he repeated after her.

The glasses clinked together, and both drank. Both had the same thought: they might even free the world of Voldemort, but by doing so, they would also burst that strange bubble of their life together fate had blown for them.

<><><>°<><><>

“I think,” Lucius said, pulling his wife closer, “that Veritaserum is also an incredible aphrodisiac, although this arcane fact is largely ignored.”

Narcissa looked at him, taking in the pale blonde hair, tousled as only she knew it could be, and his face smiling at her, partly hidden by the cushion his head was resting on. After stretching languorously, she let her hand glide over his naked chest. “It was rather wicked to ask me all those things,” she purred.

“Yes, madame, but also extremely rewarding. Had I but known of your impressive, as well as expressive, range of vocabulary, I would have considered the possibility much earlier.”

She giggled, and he kissed her, letting his hands roam. “Lucius,” she said, as his mouth wandered down to her collarbone, “Do you really think this absurd plan will work?”

“I don’t think of it as overly absurd,” he said, suddenly serious. Laying back in the cushions, he pulled her with him, so that her head came to rest on his chest. “First of all, Black is quite a powerful wizard in his own right. I remember how keen Voldemort was on recruiting him—after all, he was, and undoubtedly still is, a Transfiguration asset. Then, we have Potter. I’m sure that his appearance will have a certain effect on Voldemort.”

“Mmh…” She caressed his smooth, pale skin. “Of course it will have an effect; the question is, which effect?”

“Tiresome as that Granger girl was,” he replied, “she gave me the opportunity to gauge his reactions to her. He was wary. I would not go as far as saying that he was frightened, but he was certainly very tense. And only because she is a friend of Potter’s. Narcissa, ma chatte, if you feel like talking, you ought to watch your hands.”

With a sly smile, she withdrew her left hand and chastely laid it upon his shoulder, thus earning herself a look of amused disappointment.

“Very well,” he sighed, “Talking it is, then. So, we have Black and Potter, and then there are Draco and I. Moreover, we will already have taken care of that idiot Pettigrew. He is the only one who might be a potential danger. All the others will obey to my command rather than Voldemort’s.”

“What about me?” she asked, raising her head and looking into his eyes.

Lucius shook his head. “Impossible. Neither do you know Voldemort, nor do you have any combat experience. It would be far too risky. Besides, just in case something happens to me—would you want Draco to be an orphan?”

“Don’t,” she said. “Just don’t think of that possibility.” Wriggling out of his arms, she fished for her wand on the nightstand, frowned in concentration and summoned a bottle of champagne and two flutes.

Lucius sat up, smiling and watching her as she poured each of them a glassful.

“To the success of our operation,” she said, raising her glass.

“To our operation,” he repeated after her and clinked his glass against hers.

<><><>°<><><>

About five hundred yards down the beach from the Malfoys’ not-so-humble abode, Harry and Sirius were having a breakfast picnic, sitting on their towels in the white sand, relishing the still-tepid rays of the morning sun.

“Who would have thought,” Harry repeated for the umpteenth time, and Sirius nodded. “But I think we can do it, don’t you, Sirius?”

“Of course we can. The Malfoys may be a rotten lot, but they are powerful wizards all the same.” His face was split by a broad grin—somehow it seemed he could never stop grinning. “Just think of it, Harry… I can return to England… Voldemort will be gone… I mean—” he threw both arms into the air “—we will be able to just live, Harry, like two normal wizards! And think of the girls! If we really succeed, they’ll be queuing up on our doormat!—I think that this definitely calls for a toast.”

With these words, he pulled a bottle of champagne out of the picnic basket and opened it. Harry watched, mesmerized, as the yellowish liquid bubbled into the glasses. He was going to live with Sirius… surely his godfather, try as he might, could never attend to all those girls waiting at their door… so there might be something for him, too…

An icy-cold glass was being pressed into his hand; Sirius raised his flute and said, “To the success of our operation!”

“To our operation!” Harry repeated after him.