From Hell

Chapter 19

By Pigwidgeon37

Three redheads undertake an expedition northwards. Observations on teenager discipline. Lucius and Sirius are profoundly shaken.

That night all the people of the community raised their voices and wept aloud.

(Numbers 14:1)

For those not used to gloomy grandeur, Malfoy Manor was quite an intimidating edifice. The house was old; its rear part would rather have deserved the epithet of ‘antique’. After the first Malefois had crossed the Channel on their way to the British Isles in the wake of the Norman invasion—true to their proverbial arrogance, they had of course not taken part in the military operations—they had immediately sought, and found, a spot that befitted their demands for domination, isolation and a few other unpleasant things that equally ended on –ation. The uninhabited surroundings of Loch Mullardoch, chilly and inhospitable, had attracted Lucius’s ancestors, and they had erected a fortress-like building there, surrounded by wards and other magical protecting devices, so that it was invisible, unplottable and impenetrable. Later generations had added their own architectonic contributions, until the building had more than redoubled in size. Its present aspect was somewhat less sombre, at least as far as the façade was concerned, which was pleasantly Palladian in its perfect symmetrical balance. Now that nobody would have dreamed of intruding upon the family’s privacy, unless possessed by a death wish, the wards had been removed, and the Manor’s fireplace had been connected to the Floo network. The mere name of Malfoy was a better protection than magical shields and similar frivolities.

None of the Weasleys were used to grandeur, and certainly not to the more threatening variety—Hogwarts, big as it undoubtedly was, looked more like an oversized version of The Burrow, with all those towers and turrets sprouting in unlikely places—and thus they all stood in awe when they had materialized on the slope of  Beinn Fhionnlaidh, at a distance of about hundred yards from the building. It was bitter cold, and the ground was covered in a thick blanket of snow that reflected what little light the stars were giving. Seen from here, Malfoy Manor looked truly and imposingly evil, as they were standing on its rear side—the façade looked out over the lake—where sinister Norman pageantry had remained unadulterated over the centuries.

Fred, who had transfigured his sister into a white mouse with only a tuft of red fuzz between its ears betraying who the rodent really was, restored Ginny to her usual form. She didn’t yet have her Apparating licence, and thus the siblings had unknowingly imitated Snape’s mode of transportation for Hermione, although she could rely on her own Animagus skills for turning into an animal, albeit not one of her choice, had she had any say in the matter.

“Blimey,” was all George could utter after a careful scrutiny of the Manor. The other two nodded in trepidation.

“No wonder Draco is such an arrogant bastard,” Ginny commented, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. Fortunately, the cold provided a handy pretext for this reaction; otherwise she would have had to admit that she was afraid. “What else can you become, if you’re brought up in a house like this?”

Fred only nodded and, tilting his chin towards the imposing edifice, motioned for them to descend the snow-covered slope. From time to time, one of the twins stopped walking, turned round and cast a spell to erase their footprints and restore the white surface to its pristine, untouched aspect.

“Strange,” Ginny muttered, and her two brothers looked at her questioningly. “It seems… well, deserted,” she explained, pointing at the building. “No lights, and somehow it feels… empty.”

The twins exchanged long-suffering looks that said a lot about their opinion on female intuition. “Maybe their rooms all face the lake,” George finally said.

Ginny merely shrugged. If those two preferred to ignore the obvious, she certainly didn’t mind. The Manor’s rear side was facing south, and who with even only two brain cells to rub together would have chosen their living quarters on the other side, subjected to lack of light and warmth? It was only ten p.m., so surely the Malfoys hadn’t yet gone to bed. This and the southerly orientation of the part of the building they were approaching was enough to make her presume that Lucius-cum-family wasn’t at home.

They had by now arrived at a distance of no more than twenty yards from the building. “Time to check the wards,” George muttered and stopped walking. His twin nodded, and both proceeded cautiously, casting revelation spells. None of them yielded any result.

“No wards?” Ginny asked, now really puzzled.

“No wards,” Fred confirmed grimly. “If that isn’t weird…”

“Any thoughts?” George asked, addressing them both.

Ginny shook her head. “No, just a bad feeling. Something’s definitely amiss here.”

“Well,” George said cheerfully, “then I guess it’s time to find out. Only there’s no door in sight.”

They continued their descent, gliding and slipping through the snow, wands ready, trying to make as little sound as possible. George had been right—there was no door in the back wall, which consisted of large, irregularly shaped granite blocks.

“Let’s try the side then,” Fred whispered and turned right.

The other two nodded and followed him along the back wall. When they had reached the corner, they came to a brief halt. Fred gingerly poked out his head, then nodded. “Nobody there,” he hissed, and so they trudged on along the eastern wall until they came upon a small door. Even the twins seemed to have become aware that maybe they had bitten off a little more than they could chew; considering, however, that neither of them wanted to appear like a coward to their little sister, they looked at each other and clenched their jaws in manly determination. Wands pointing at the small entrance, they first tested it for wards. Nothing.

“Okay, let’s open it,” George muttered. His voice was hoarse with excitement.

Alohomora didn’t work. Neither did Portaperta, Disclusio, or any other of the spells the twins had learned and used during their impressive career as pranksters and rule-breakers. Contemporaneously lowering their wands, they looked at each other, then at Ginny, and shrugged. Ginny threw them a withering look of contempt, grabbed the handle, pushed it down and opened the door.  “Sometimes,” she whispered over her shoulder at her sheepish-looking brothers, “a little common sense is preferable to showing off. Come on now!”

The house was filled with a leaden silence. Portraits looked down upon them, unmoved and unimpressed, as they made their way through the corridor, their footsteps muffled by thick carpets. There were statues and suits of armour flanking doors and archways, just like at Hogwarts. Somehow, the resemblance to their school created a certain familiarity, so that the three Weasleys felt slightly more at ease. After they had walked maybe thirty yards, the corridor suddenly turned sharply to the right and became considerably higher and broader.

“This must be a more recent part of the house,” Fred whispered, and the other two nodded their agreement.

Another ten yards, and the three emerged into what seemed to be the entrance hall—a vast octagon, the marble floor of which sported an intricate black-and-white pattern of geometrical forms. Symmetry and perfection were the overall impression assaulting the beholder of the room: Its north-south axe was formed by the large entrance door and, exactly opposite its looming, black form, a grand marble staircase. The east-west axe was defined by two elegantly-curved arches, mirroring each other in flawless symmetry, allowing a glimpse at the suites of rooms lying behind them, a seemingly endless sequence of doors losing itself in the darkness. Enormous mirrors in heavy golden frames covered the walls between the arches and the entrance door. The corridor they had just stepped out of had its counterpart on the other side of the stair, which rose elegantly, apparently without any supporting structure until a height of about fifteen feet, where it split up into two branches which gently curved back towards the south façade, each of them describing a quarter-circle; at the end of each, there was a door, high and almost as wide as the wall, situated exactly above the arches on the ground floor.

“Wicked!” Fred and George said in unison.

“Beautiful!” Ginny breathed, completely awestruck by the contrast between the austerity of the medieval rear part and the sober classicistic opulence of the Manor’s front side. In a way, she thought, the Malfoys very much resembled their home. Sinister and evil, but with an impeccably perfect, even amiable, façade.

There were no carpets on the floor of the entrance hall, and so George put a sound-muffling charm on their shoes, before they turned left towards the stairs and climbed up slowly, all the time glancing nervously at their surroundings.  But there still was no sound betraying human presence. They tried the left side first, trudging along another corridor, past closed doors, the gilt ornaments of which shimmered faintly in the light cast by their wands. On their way back to the landing, they opened some of the doors, only to see uninhabited chambers, decorated in various styles, but all of them conveying a sense of bleak abandonment, despite the lavish sumptuousness of furniture and fabrics.

“Maybe these are the guest quarters,” Ginny whispered. “Let’s try the other wing.” When they had descended the stairs and climbed up again on the other side, she drew a sharp breath.

Fred and George whirled round. “What?”

“I don’t know… I think it’s the smell…” She sniffed again. “Yes, that’s it. On the other side, there wasn’t any smell at all. But over here… it’s a man’s cologne, I think… sandalwood, maybe… and something lemony…”

Her brothers gawked at her. “Gin,” Fred finally said, “that’s brilliant. Now that you say it…” He sniffed the air, and George followed his example. “Yes, definitely. So maybe we ought to extinguish our wands?”

The darkness was almost complete now.

“Who’s going to open the doors?” Ginny whispered anxiously. She didn’t really like the idea of being the one who woke Lucius Malfoy from sound sleep, interrupting his dreams of torture and destruction.

“Fred,” said George.

“George,” said Fred.

The twins stared at each other, which wasn’t of much use, as they could barely recognize each other’s outlines in the dark.

“Well, take it in turns then,” Ginny said, fighting the urge to giggle nervously.

“You first, George,” said Fred.

“You first, Fred,” said George.

“This definitely calls for a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors,” said Fred. “Ginny, light your wand.”

Cursing the twins, Ginny did as they had told her. Two freckled hands stole into the feeble glow. George took a deep breath. “One, two—”

“Stupefy!” roared a voice from behind them.

<><><>°<><><>

“Expelliarimus!”

For the tenth time in a row, Snape landed on the bed, while the book he had been holding came soaring towards Hermione. “Well-done,” he said, scrambling out of the fluffy masses of duvet, “Really very impressive.”

Hermione grinned. “You know, it’s much nicer when you actually give praise where it’s due. You should do that when teaching.”

Snape’s lips thinned. “I don’t think there’s much of a chance anymore for improving my teaching methods,” he replied.

Depositing the book on the windowsill, Hermione went over to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. “Do you miss it?”

He sighed. “I’m not sure. I do miss something about Hogwarts, though I doubt it is the teaching. Don’t giggle,” he added sternly.

“Sorry. I just thought of all the students’ faces when they’ll come back and find out that you don’t teach Potions anymore.”

“Festivities will most certainly abound,” was his sarcastic reply.

“I suppose so,” she agreed. “Although I have no idea whom Dumbledore might hire to step in for you. I mean… you’re one of the very best, aren’t you?”

The smug look on his face made her giggle again. “As far as Great Britain is concerned,” he said, making absolutely no attempt at modesty, “I certainly am the best. Dumbledore will have a hard time finding somebody of equal skills but willing to play the carthorse. People of my calibre usually do research or work with big companies.”

Hermione considered this. “And…” she began after a while, “Supposing we are successful tomorrow, what are you going to do?”

“I honestly have no idea.” He looked down at her, hesitating whether he ought to allow the conversation to take this rather intimate turn. All things considered, he could just as well let it go wherever it wanted—she wasn’t his student anymore, and probably would never be again, as a return to Hogwarts was among the least likely things he could imagine. “You know, I am feeling like some animal that has been living in a cage for years and is suddenly set free. I can feel the freedom, and I certainly enjoy it. But it will take some time until I’ll be able to actually use it.”

“At least you can go wherever you want,” she said gruffly. “Whereas I will have to return to Hogwarts. Unless they expel me, of course,” she added.

“Don’t tell me you wish they’d expel you.”

“Yes and no. You see, unlike you, I kind of chose my cage, at least to a certain extent. Of course I’m enjoying my freedom, but…”

“But?” he prompted.

“Well, I’m way too fond of learning, within reasonable limits, of course, to completely abandon school. Perhaps I’ll be able to take it all a little less seriously once I return. After all, I don’t have to pass my N.E.W.T.s with the highest score ever achieved. What’s more—” she shot him a mischievous grin “—who knows what will happen once you take that spell off me. Maybe I’m going to discover the joys of sex and won’t give a damn about my schoolwork.”

“If you are going to discover sex,” Snape retorted dryly, “I doubt whether it will be a very joyful experience, considering the choice of possible mates.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “What do you mean?”

Was he really having this conversation? Not that it was the strangest occurrence since his departure from Hogwarts, but all the same… “I mean that eighteen-year-old boys usually are neither disciplined nor skilled enough to make sex a pleasant experience for their partners.”

“Disciplined? What do you mean by disciplined?”

What struck him as really funny was her complete lack of embarrassment. Probably a combined effect of the spell and her natural curiosity that made her regard this as a more scientific problem. “I mean that they have troubles controlling themselves. Believe it or not, I too was once young, and, just like all the others, I used to come almost before I was in.”

Now she blushed. Snape saw it with satisfaction. “I see,” she said, “So what you’re implying is that the whole experience might be… well, rather fleeting?”

“Exactly. Unless you consider choosing Draco.”

Hermione pulled a face. “Draco? I don’t think so. But why would you recommend him?”

“Because it is a long-standing—pardon the pun—Malfoy family tradition to send their young men to Paris, where they are trained by expert hands.”

Her eyes went huge with surprise. “No kidding?”

“No kidding. To judge from his state of satisfied exhaustion after the last summer holidays, I would say that this is how Draco spent July and August. Very rewarding in many ways, albeit not conducive to top performance at school. At least not in the classroom,” he added with a smirk.

“Mmmh.” Hermione sucked her lower lip between her teeth. “So maybe I ought to wait till after school. Unless, of course, you are interested?”

Now it was his turn to gape. “Hermione, are you aware of the monstrosity of what you just said?”

“Not really,” she replied, shrugging. “I mean, you’re not my teacher anymore, you look a lot better now that you’ve shed those bat-wing robes, I really like you… so where’s the problem?”

Snape shook his head, unsure whether he should laugh or be angry. “I suggest,” he finally said, “that we leave this conversation, interesting as it doubtlessly is, for another day. Preferably after our encounter with Voldemort… provided there’s something left of us that can actually talk and reason.”

Hermione tilted her head to cast him a quizzical look. “All right,” she said. “What about another bit of training? It’s your turn now.”

<><><>°<><><>

“Tarantallegra! Expelliarimus! Aaaand thank you,” Lucius smirked, bowing to a furiously tap-dancing Sirius. “Where did you learn to duel? At the Salvation Army?”

Narcissa’s silvery laughter made Black blush some shades deeper. “Show some mercy, Lucius,” she said, “And take off that hex. We need him alive, so there’s no point in giving him a heart attack.”

Lucius’s wand swung lazily in Sirius’s direction, and a muttered “Finite Incantatem!” left him panting but thankfully free of the urge to dance. “Blast you, Malfoy,” he choked out between gasps for air, “you’re one of the worst opponents I’ve ever faced, and that’s not a compliment.” With his wand still clutched in his right hand, he tried, although to no avail, to get his sweat-drenched black curls out of his face.

Looking him up and down from the height of his perspiration-free, still-immaculately-groomed superiority, Lucius replied coolly, “I will take it as a compliment, however. More so as you are an acceptable opponent.”

Black’s look darkened. “Why does this sound like an insult to me?”

“Never mind,” Lucius replied, handing him a glass of iced lemonade, “This subtle art comes with long pedigrees and lots of money. And, of course, through lengthy conversation with our esteemed Minister. Only he mostly fails to perceive the hidden meaning.”

Despite himself, Sirius snorted. “That pinstriped sleazeball. Just imagine his face when we wake him up in the dead of night, with Voldemort and Pettigrew in tow. That’s almost enough to compensate for twelve years in Azkaban.”

“I am loath to put a damper on your laudable Gryffindor enthusiasm,” Lucius drawled, “but I daresay we should not rejoice too early. Not as far as Pettigrew is concerned, but confronting Lord Voldemort might be a trifle tough.”

“Speaking of which,” Sirius said, looking round, “where are the boys? It’s Draco’s turn now.”

Narcissa rose from her chair. “Continue, if you like,” she said to the two wizards, “In the meantime, I will go and look for them.”

“Thank you,” Sirius said with as dazzling a smile as he could manage, given his still-persistent lack of oxygen.

Lucius’s eyes narrowed. “Could you stop grinning at my wife like an idiot? Or is this some kind of facial cramp?” And he hurled an Arachnea Curse at his opponent.

“Spiders! How thoughtful, Malfoy! Incendio!” The spiders caught flame while still in mid-air and dropped to the floor in a myriad of sparkles. Meanwhile, a Turkish sabre was whizzing its way towards Lucius, who ducked it and fired a well-aimed Reducto that blasted the weapon into shiny shards. “Concerning your wife—” he narrowly avoided Malfoy’s Stomachospasmus “—what can I say? Arioso!”

“That you will—no, I do not feel like singing—” Lucius neatly sidestepped the hex “—Voracium! That you will stop throwing lecherous looks.”

An enormous set of vicious-looking, pointed teeth seared towards Black, snapping furiously. Grinning like mad, Sirius conjured an overlarge chewing-gum. The teeth got stuck in it, hovered for a moment and then dissolved into a grape of silvery-blue sparks. Taking advantage of Lucius’s bedazzled astonishment at this rather unorthodox way of countering a Voracium hex, Black fired a Leg-Locker Curse at him, which was closely followed by a triumphant “Expelliarimus!”

“You see?” he said, bending over his fuming opponent, “Unexpected does the job.  That’s the secret of my success. If you beg nicely, I might even undo the Leg-Locker.”

Malfoy stared up at him and mumbled a string of invectives that belied his aristocratic lineage and impeccable upbringing. “Go on,” he finally said, “Take off that bloody hex!”

“With the greatest pleasure. Finite Incantatem. So where are those—”

“Lucius?” Narcissa’s voice was a squeaky as that of a House Elf.

Both men whirled round, alarmed and poised to face the enemy. There was no enemy, though, just Narcissa, whose complexion had turned scarlet.

“What is it, chérie?” Malfoy asked, approaching her with anxiety written all over his face.

“I saw… This is…” She clutched her throat. “Come with me—you too, Sirius…” She turned round and entered the house, the two perplexed wizards in her wake.

“Narcissa, what—” Lucius began but was silenced by his wife.

“Shush!” she said, putting a finger to her lips.

The three tiptoed across the drawing room, through the door and into a short corridor that lead through to the entrance door. A door on the right side was slightly ajar. Suddenly Lucius stopped dead in his tracks, so abruptly that Sirius bumped into him.

“What the hell—” he hissed, but fell silent when Lucius raised his hand.

“Listen…”

Black’s eyes widened at the unmistakeable noise. “No!” he whispered, “Harry!”

Deep blue eyes bored into steely grey ones; then both men, side by side, swiftly moved towards the door and pushed it open. Atop Draco’s bed, shirtless and completely absorbed in a passionate snog, were The Boy Who Lived and the last scion of the Malfoys. Lucius and Sirius stood petrified for a moment, then contemporaneously opened their mouths to roar the boys’ names. With surprisingly little effect, for the objects of their ire, albeit breaking their kiss, remained in the same position.

“Er, father,” Draco said with a sheepish grin, “Do you think you and mother might want another child? Somehow, I don’t think I’ll give you an heir.”

<><><>°<><><>

“Teenagers!” Moody growled, levitating George’s frozen form downstairs and depositing him on the floor of the entrance hall with an audible thud. “Unless you constantly keep them in a full body bind, there’s no way of controlling them.”

Dumbledore and McGonagall, who had followed in his wake with Fred and Ginny floating beside them, shifted their prey towards the floor; their landing was a little less rough.

“Enervate!” the three wizards pronounced.

Groaning, the three redheads came out of their stupor, rubbed their heads and eyes and looked, with horror dawning on their faces, at the three figures looming over them. “Sweet Merlin!” Fred muttered, “Exactly what we needed.” George nodded gloomily.

Ginny was the first who scrambled to her feet. “H-Headmaster,” she stammered, “Pro-professor McGonagall, Professor M-Moody, I… we…” She closed her eyes and swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

“You’d better be, lassie,” Moody snapped. “What the fu—what on earth do you think you’re doing here? You’re lucky that the Malfoys aren’t at home!”

“Oh,” George said and gave him a debonair grin. It wasn’t a particularly successful attempt, to judge by Moody’s murderous stare. “Then we can just as well leave,” he continued, unperturbed.

“You won’t go anywhere, young man!” Moody roared. “I want an explanation, now!”

If Mrs. Weasley sometimes bore a striking resemblance to a sabre-toothed tiger—a phenomenon by now sufficiently known to her seven children so that they occasionally even managed to stand their ground against the mother-monster—Moody was now doing a very convincing Tyrannosaurus-Rex act that was considerably more difficult to withstand. Even for the detention-with-Snape-honed twins.  Dumbledore, who usually was the first to jump to his students’ defence, even when they were ex-students, exchanged an amused look with his Deputy, whose eyes were sparkling with malignant satisfaction, whereupon they both mentally reclined into the depths of imaginary plush fauteuils, preparing to enjoy the Cowing Of The Twins.

“I think,” Ginny piped up, “we were doing more or less the same as you. Do you have a search warrant, Mr. Moody?”

The twins’ jaws went slack, McGonagall’s bun started trembling, and Dumbledore fished for a liquorice drop in his pockets. He only ate liquorice drops in moments of great tension.

First, Ginny thought that Moody had performed a wandless spell, or that maybe there had been an earthquake—not a completely unusual occurrence after acts of hubris. Half-expecting to be hit by a piece of marble or brick, she looked upwards into the cupola, having deducted from the horrible rumbling, crackling and thundering sound that it was coming down. The cupola, though, was as perfectly intact and vaulted as before. And slowly it dawned on Ginny that what she had mistaken for the first signs of the apocalypse had merely been Mad-Eye Moody’s version of a good, hearty laughter.