From Hell

Chapter 20

By Pigwidgeon37

Will Malfoy Manor be turned into a brothel? Ducks should be recognized as what they are. Rabbits go to Venice, rats to Paris.

It is close at hand- a day of darkness and gloom, a day of clouds and blackness.  Like dawn spreading across the mountains a large and mighty army comes, such as never was of old nor ever will be in ages to come. (Joel 2:1-2)

The Malfoys, for all their lack of what is commonly called morals, were not exactly open-minded when it came to family tradition. For centuries, this unwritten codex of behaviour had been the law they abided by—if it was the same as the official law they didn’t mind, and in case the two diverged, to whichever degree, they merely shrugged, got out their money bags and shoved sufficient amounts of galleons into the pockets of semi-reluctant executors of the law.  Everybody has their price; that was something a Malfoy practically imbibed with his mother’s milk.

The family tradition said clearly that every generation had to produce a male heir. As things were, it really didn’t seem as if Draco was going to produce one. To say that Lucius was miffed would be like saying that God had been a trifle irritated because the Egyptians had enslaved the Israelites. It has to be said in his defence, though, that he loved his son and didn’t take his ire out on him. He would have liked nothing better than to strangle The Boy Who Had Lived To Snog His Son, but considering that the very same boy had also saved his life, that didn’t seem to be an option. Besides, Sirius Black was furious enough to do the dirty work for him.

Harry was more than a little astonished when it was not Lucius Malfoy who crossed the room in three steps and bodily dragged him out of Draco’s arms and off the bed. The fury blazing from those blue eyes was so intense he could almost feel how it scorched his skin. “Come on,” Sirius growled, picking up Harry’s discarded shirt and thrusting it into his hands, “we are going home. You seem to need a little reminder about loyalty .”

“Leave me alone!” Harry yelled, struggling against his godfather’s iron grip, “I’m old enough—”

Whack! The back of Sirius’s right hand made painful contact with his cheek.  “Shut up!” Sirius roared, “And come with me immediately, before I forget myself!”

Had anybody told Harry, only some days ago, that he was going to say what he said now, he would have advised that person to go and seek medical help immediately. “Mr. Malfoy,” he said, “Please, tell him to let go of me!”

Lucius, almost sure that he had inadvertently fallen asleep and was having the strangest dream of his life, came out of his petrified stupor, walked over to Black and said, “Really, Black. I don’t think that beating the boy unconscious is a solution to this… er, problem. We ought to talk.”

With a feral growl, Black, still holding his godson’s arm in a death grip, turned to Lucius. “Don’t you dare tell me how to handle family business!”

Lucius’s eyebrows went up. “Unless I am very much mistaken, this is a family matter for me as well. If I am able to refrain from beating my own son into minced meat, which I would honestly like to do right now—” Draco, still sitting on the bed, cringed “—then, by all means, you should try to do the same.”

Nothing was more likely to shatter what little self-control Black possessed than icy calm in the face of his ire. “You arrogant bastard!” he roared, “Who do you think you are? This—” and he pointed towards the bed “—was probably your doing, you bloody, cunning—”

“Now don’t be absurd!” Lucius snapped. “If that is your idea of Slytherin cunning, you are sadly misguided. Now leave the boy alone.” Black frowned at him but did as he had been told. Harry shot him a hurt look and retreated by a few steps. “Thank you very much. Now let us go back to the terrace and talk. You—” he turned to Harry and Draco, and his glare told them clearly that they were by no means out of trouble “—will dress immediately and follow us. You have one minute. If it takes you longer, my self-control might snap.”

With these words, he turned on his heels and dragged Black out of the room.  Narcissa, still wide-eyed and quite exasperated, was waiting for them in the corridor. “Viens, ma petite,” Lucius said, putting an arm round her shoulders, “I am sure we will be able to find a solution to this…er, situation.”

Narcissa sighed and nodded. “If you say so. But you won’t do anything… drastic?” she said, casting him an anxious sideways look.

He snorted. “What should I do? Castrate Draco? That would only serve to further diminish our chances to have grandchildren. As for Potter… you know that my hands are bound.”

They had arrived on the terrace. “This,” Black said gloomily after slumping into a chair, “is definitely the Terrace Of Doom. Did you check it for jinxes when you moved in?”

“Now don’t be irrational, Black,” Lucius said, rolling his eyes. “Try and look at this whole affair, unpleasant as it doubtlessly is, from a reasonable point of view. Would you have preferred them to kill each other?”

“Certainly not,” Black snapped back, “but I think that from one extreme you don’t have to go straight to the other!”

“There is nothing straight about where they have gone,” Lucius replied, his voice dripping with venom.

Black chuckled in spite of himself. “True, Malfoy. Very true.”

The two young men stepped out on the terrace with half-guilty, half-mutinous looks on their faces. Draco’s hair was still a bit ruffled, and Harry’s shirt was buttoned up the wrong way.

“Sit down and don’t talk unless you are told to,” Lucius drawled, indicating two chairs. They slouched over and took their seats. When Lucius drew his wand, they both shrunk back, but he only gave them a grim smile and summoned the whisky bottle. Much to Harry’s surprise, five glasses followed in its wake.

After the initial shock, Lucius had of course immediately recognized that he could use this situation for his very own ends. The premises were clear: first and foremost, he didn’t want to alienate or, worse, lose his son. And, provided their coup against Voldemort, planned to be carried out two days later, was really going to be a success, he had every intention of forging himself a reputation beyond the doubts of his detractors, once and for all. The two tiresome youths had just opened him a door towards that goal, of the existence of which he had had no idea. The trick, he thought, was to recognize that kind of doors and use them instead of slamming them shut, as the fuming Gryffindor sitting opposite him would have done.

Narcissa handed everybody a glass. Four of the tumblers were trembling slightly; the fifth, held by Lucius’s elegant right hand, was completely steady. “Cheers,” Lucius said, raising his glass, took a delicate sip and leaned back. Narcissa, seeing her husband’s perfect composure, decided that he probably had his reasons, so she might just as well relax. “Tell me, Draco,” Lucius began, “How serious is this?”

Draco, who had been expecting anything but a calm inquiry about his feelings, felt his jaw go slack. He quickly pulled himself together, though, and answered, “I’m not sure, father. After all, this was the… er, first time. But I think I don’t really like girls. Paris was okay, but this is definitely better. As for Harry… I can’t tell. It’s a bit early, don’t you think so?”

Lucius let out a sigh of relief. “I am glad to hear that your hormones have not completely destroyed your brain cells. What about you, Mr. … er, Harry?”

Harry swallowed. “Honestly, I’m still a bit overwhelmed. I mean, I would never have thought… I used to… well, fancy girls, but once we got closer, I somehow wasn’t really interested anymore. So I guess I’m gay. That it has to be Draco still puzzles me a lot. But I’m attracted, that’s for sure.” Black groaned, and Harry glared at him. “I’m sorry, Sirius, truly sorry to disappoint you. But I won’t change what I am just to make you happy.”

Yes, Lucius thought, that was exactly what he needed. Teenage rebellion, unless directed against himself, definitely had its good sides. “Very well,” he said slowly, “I am willing to accept this… situation. Therefore, I would like to suggest the following—no, first I have to explain: It is absolutely out of the question to have another male child unless we are perfectly sure that you, Draco, will never marry. To gain that certainty might be a little difficult while at school, even if we succeed in eliminating Lord Voldemort. It will take more than just a few months to bridge the gap between Gryffindors and Slytherins—”

“You bet!” Black mumbled.

“Indeed, Black. And I am not sure whether I desire for that gap to be bridged at all. However, I do not wish for my son to be constantly in trouble for dating a Gryffindor. Therefore, I propose to you to take this year off from school. You may stay at Malfoy Manor and indulge your… er, desires. Eight months should be sufficient to find out whether your sexual orientation really is what you think now.”

Black shot out of his chair as if it had suddenly caught fire. “What?” he roared, “What kind of perverse idea is this? Turn your bloody manor into a brothel for poofters if you want, but not with my godson! I’ll never give my permission, never, do you hear me?”

Lucius seriously considered building a temple and consecrating it to Gryffindor Simple-Mindedness. Didn’t the idiot see that he was driving his precious godson right into the arms of the enemy?

“I thought you wanted the best for me,” Harry said accusingly. “I thought you loved me! Why don’t you give me that possibility?”

Lucius elegantly crossed his legs, ascertained by a sideways glance at Narcissa that she had understood his intentions, took another sip of whisky, leaned back and enjoyed the scene.

<><><>°<><><>

Never in their lives had the three Weasleys seen their mother in such a state of fury. When Dumbledore, McGonagall and Moody Apparated into the courtyard of The Burrow with their prey in tow, she was standing on the threshold, fists firmly resting against her ample hips, clad in a dressing gown and her hair on curlers.  The stormcloud of ire was almost visible around her.

Ginny, who was being manhandled towards the entrance by Alastor Moody, shot Fred an apologetic look. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.

“And a fat lot of good that does me,” Fred replied gloomily, trying not to be astonished at the firmness of his former Transfiguration teacher’s grip around his upper arm.

They came to a halt in front of Molly Weasley. “What have you done this time?” she asked her assorted offspring in a voice so low and deadly that Ginny was reminded of her dreaded Potions Master.

“Nothing, really,” George said—he was the luckiest of the three, for Dumbledore was not clutching him like a lion his dinner, but had merely put a hand on his shoulder. “I suppose you could say we were sightseeing.”

Mrs. Weasley briefly closed her eyes. “Not the British Museum again, George!” she said.

“N-no,” Fred chimed in, “We thought we’d leave that for another—ouch!”

“You will treat you mother with respect, Frederick Weasley,” Molly hissed, blowing on the palm of her right hand.

Dumbledore, who had been watching in silent amusement, thought that it was time to end the family drama. “Do you think we might come in, Molly?” he asked pleasantly, “It is getting a trifle cold out here, and I honestly wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea laced with a bit of Ogden’s Old.”

Mrs. Weasley bit her bottom lip. “Of course, Albus. Please, come in. You, too,” she added gruffly, looking daggers at her children.

The group entered and settled down in the family’s living room, where they were joined shortly afterwards by a very bleary-eyed Arthur Weasley. “Good evening, everybody,” he said and yawned, “Fred, what happened to your cheek?”

“Mum happened,” Fred said, looking quite embarrassed.

Moody chuckled. “Quite a nasty piece of work, Molly is, when she works herself into such a boiling rage.”

“Who are you telling?” Arthur muttered. “So, what happened?”

“We stumbled upon these three brats,” Moody explained, “while paying… well, I suppose you could call it a little visit, to Malfoy Manor.”

Arthur’s jaw fell. “Malfoy… What on earth were you thinking?” he addressed the trio, “You might be dead now!”

“They were there,” Dumbledore continued the explanation, “for exactly the same reason as we. Ah, the tea. Wonderful, thank you, Molly.”

There were only five cups on the tray Mrs. Weasley was now lowering onto the table. “I’ll, uh, go and fetch ours,” Ginny peeped, preparing to rise.

“No, you won’t!” her mother snapped. “You will sit here and think about what you’ve done, without tea or anything else!”

“But mum, we—”

“I said no!” George’s protest was cut off neatly. “And now sit still and shut up, all three of you!”

“As I was saying,” Dumbledore continued, eyes a-twinkle, “we had gone to the Malfoy’s humble abode to look for Hermione. Evidently, your daughter’s sharp wit—” Arthur gave Ginny a proud-father smile, thus earning himself a vicious stare from his wife “—had come to the same conclusions as we. After a thorough inspection of the house, which is, by the way, deserted, we thought it better to escort your children back home, lest they have other… er, inspirations.”

“Are you saying that Lucius Malfoy is gone?” Arthur asked, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

“They even took the House Elves along,” McGonagall said. “The house had been heavily warded—it took us half an hour to get in.”

Fred and George exchanged a sheepish glance. Ginny muttered, “So that’s why…”

“Yes, Miss Weasley,” her Head of House clipped, “That’s why. You would have been nothing more than three fried Weasley-Burgers, had you walked into them.” The trio merely nodded.

“Does that mean you have lost every trace of Hermione?” Mrs. Weasley asked.

“I am afraid that this is exactly what it means,” Dumbledore confirmed. “And we would have come to see you anyway, Molly, Arthur, regardless of your children’s escapade. For I have a plan.”

“A plan?” the red-haired couple echoed in unison.

“Yes. With Malfoy gone and Severus Snape disappeared—”

“Professor Snape has disappeared?” Ginny interrupted him unceremoniously, “But how? Why?”

“That,” Dumbledore said, “Is another story for another time. However, Voldemort has been deprived of his two trusted lieutenants. Since his return, there has been virtually no Death Eater activity, with a few unimportant exceptions. There is a Muggle saying ‘If it quacks like a duck and waddles like a duck, it is probably a duck.’ Therefore, I suggest that we simply recognize the duck as what it is: Voldemort is too weak to do anything. We might try and eliminate him.”

“There seems to be a problem, though,” Arthur Weasley said after a long silence.

“We have no idea where he is hiding.”

“Oh yes, we have,” Moody growled. “Snape, that oily git, told Albus. Only we never used the information because it would have meant his certain death, not that I’d mind, considering what a bastard—”

“Alastor,” Dumbledore interjected mildly, “I don’t think this is quite the right moment for Snape-bashing.”

“There is no wrong moment for Snape-bashing,” Moody replied but didn’t continue.

“I do not want to share this plan with the Ministry,” Dumbledore said, and Arthur nodded. “If Voldemort is really weak, a small group of powerful wizards should be sufficient. If we fail, the Aurors will rush in anyway.”

“Very well,” Molly said, rising from her chair, “I’ll get dressed, and we can leave immediately.”

Dumbledore gave her a fond smile. “I daresay we ought to have a strategy before we set out to right the wrongs of this world, at least part of them. Tomorrow night would be a good time, I think. All the children will be back at Hogwarts, so in case we fail they are all safe, and there cannot be any Death Eater attacks on the Hogwarts Express.”

“Tomorrow night! But then I can’t—”

“No, Miss Weasley,” Dumbledore said, patting her hand, “You would not have been allowed to accompany us in any case. This is a task that requires more than your considerable but as of yet not fully trained skills.”

Ginny shot him a woeful look, but accepted the inevitable.

“So, who is going to come along?” Arthur Weasley asked.

“Well,” Dumbledore said, “I was thinking that one of you two—”

“One?” Mrs. Weasley interrupted him, “Why one? I’ll be damned rather than—”

“Language, mother,” Fred said, grinning, but shut his mouth immediately when a glare roughly the temperature of a Hungarian Horntail was directed at him.

“Now, now, Molly,” her husband tired to soothe her. “Albus is right—just think that if we fail…”

“I am the ex-Auror, though,” she snapped, and Moody laughed.

“Yeah,” he said, “And a very fine one, too. I should know, as I trained you. I’d say we take along Molly.”

Arthur rubbed his forehead. “I can’t say I’m very happy with this…”

“Maybe,” Molly said, “but I am.”

That seemed to settle matters.

<><><>°<><><>

“Good morning, Severus.” Hermione sat down at the table, eyeing the array of food with an expression more akin to disgust than delight. “I’m not supposed to eat all this, am I?”

“Oh yes, you are. We are going to need our strength tonight, so we should have a lavish breakfast, moderate lunch and Spartan dinner. Maybe a little siesta in the afternoon.”

She sighed. “You know that all this seems utterly unreal? I mean, it sounded all right until yesterday night, but now I have the feeling as if I were caught in a very strange dream. Since I woke up—”

“Which was ten minutes ago,” Snape interrupted her, voice vibrating with sarcasm.

Hermione glared. “Whatever. Time is a relative thing, commonplace as that sounds. I’ve been repeating to myself that today could very well be the last day of my life, and you can’t say that that isn’t strange.”

“At your age, it probably is.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, rolling her eyes and pouring herself a cup of coffee, “I forgot that you are Dumbledore’s older brother. Don’t play the wise-ass here.  That’s the last thing I need.”

“Hermione, if you want to abandon our… er, project, I certainly won’t hold it against you.”

“No, I just want to be taken seriously. It might be the last day, and I want to spend it accordingly.”

“Er…” He frowned at her. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I want to have an extended stroll through Hyde Park in the morning, then I want to sit in the cloister of Westminster Abbey for a while. Then, after another stroll at Greenwich, I want to have lunch in some posh place, and afterwards, we can come back here for a nap. In the afternoon, I want to sit on the couch with you, reading, then we prepare an absolutely delicious high tea and go to the cinema. After that, we go and get Voldemort.”

Snape nodded slowly. “That seems reasonable. Would you mind having lunch in Venice, and maybe a stroll through all those twisted little lanes and squares, before we take our well-deserved siesta?”

“No,” she said, her curls bobbing with the vehement shake of her head, “I wouldn’t mind that at all. Won’t Apparating cost you too much strength, though?”

“I don’t think so. Besides, the nap and the high tea should restore whatever strength I might lose. Do we have a deal, then?”

“Yes, we have a deal. Er, Severus?”

“Yes?”

“Considering that we might just as well not die tonight, do you think I could buy some clothes in Venice?”

At that, he laughed out loud. “Vanity, thy name is Hermione. Of course you can.  After all,” he added with a sly grin, “If we fail tonight, we want to be buried in decent clothes, don’t we?”

“Idiot!” she said, snatching the last piece of toast from under his fingers.

<><><>°<><><>

The two small islands in the river Seine, the Île Saint Louis and the Île de la Cité, where some of the oldest houses of the big city have escaped the modernist tendencies of the 19^th century, also housed the heart of wizarding Paris. In earlier days, before Napoléon III decided that his capital had to be as resplendent as Berlin, Vienna or St. Petersburg, the magical community of Paris had been scattered all over the city. When all attempts at persuading the emperor not to destroy what had grown in centuries had failed, the Ministry of Magic had decided to concentrate banks, offices and other places of public importance on the two islands, whereas many shops, restaurants and places of amusement had reluctantly taken quarters in the new buildings that had sprouted all over the city. Le Chat Satanique, however, a popular meeting place for Ministry staff and bank employees at daytime and preferred watering hole of the crème de la crème of the wizarding community at night, was one of the few cafés that had remained on the Île Saint Louis.

Peter Pettigrew arrived fifteen minutes early, both to calm down before the meeting he half-dreaded, half-anticipated, and to have a look at the surroundings, just in case he had to escape. Come to think of it, this was not an ideal location. Had his Animagus form been a bird, or even a dog like Sirius’s, he wouldn’t have had any problems leaving the premises, should the necessity arise. But to cross one of the bridges leading to the main land was dangerous—even though a rat was a small animal, it was still visible and couldn’t slip into some hole or nook. And swimming was out of the question, as the river was far too broad, so that he would certainly drown if he tried. At five minutes to eleven, Pettigrew was on the verge of not showing up at the rendezvous; then, however he thought how immensely rich Malfoy was, and that , if he played his cards well, he might be able to get a not-so-small piece of the big cake, and that decided the question. Pettigrew entered Le Chat Satanique.  Shrouded in Invisibility Cloaks, Lucius Malfoy and Sirius Black saw it with satisfaction.

“All right,” Lucius said, shedding his cloak and holding it out for Black to take, who shrunk it and stuffed it into a pocket of his trousers. “Come on and stay close behind me. Wait with the spell until we have made a bit of small talk.”

“We went over that bit about ten times,” came Black’s disembodied voice, “I’m not going to botch it, okay?”

Malfoy nodded and slowly walked down the streets to the entry of the café. He had chosen the hour of their meeting well, he thought when he pushed open the door. Those who came here for aperitifs had left long ago, but it wasn’t yet time for post-dinner drinks. Of the maybe thirty tables, only six were occupied.  And Pettigrew was sitting in a secluded corner at the far end of the room, apparently alone.

Lucius lingered near the door for a moment, pretending to look at a photo of Sarah Bernhardt, who had been well-accepted in wizarding circles, until Black mumbled into his ear that the detecting spell had yielded no results. Pettigrew was unaccompanied. Lucius strode towards his despised fellow-Death-Eater, who had already risen from his chair to greet him.

“Lucius!” he said, shaking Malfoy’s hand, “What a pleasure to see you!”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Lucius replied silkily, wishing he could wipe his hand but dismissing the thought as not very conducive to amiable conversation.

They sat down and ordered their drinks. “I was surprised to get your letter…” Pettigrew began when the glasses had been placed before them on the table.

Lucius raised his glass. “Your health, Pettigrew. Yes, I can imagine that you were surprised. As I am, because I frankly did not expect you to show up.”

“Oh, well… That’s what friends are for, I suppose.”

Fighting the urge to throw up, Lucius responded “Indeed,” and took a sip of his brandy—When In Rome, and all that jazz, better a decent French brandy than some second-class whisky. When he saw Black’s wand hover over Pettigrew’s head, he continued, “And… would you be willing to assist me in some business matters?”

There was a faint shimmer of blue light, and the wand retired into invisibility.

“O-of course,” Pettigrew answered hastily, stammering with anticipation.

“Good. In that case—” Lucius rummaged through his pockets “—I have some documents for you to sign…” Pettigrew nodded, watching him eagerly. “Now where are they…”

Out of the corner of his eye, Lucius saw the wand appear again, this time directed towards the bar counter. The next moment, a few glasses shattered on the floor. Pettigrew turned his head to look, Lucius whipped out his wand and pronounced “Stupefy!”

“Great!” Sirius said, taking off his cloak. “Okay, let’s take him back to good ol’ England, and then we’ll tackle His Lordship.”

“Kindly let me finish my brandy first,” Lucius said, frowning at him.

“Oh, aren’t you cool!”

“I am not cool, Black, but I, too, have nerves and need to calm them. Are you sure you got the spell right?”

“Of course. He won’t be able to transform until I take it off. We wouldn’t like dear old Peter to run off again, now would we?”

“Certainly not.” Lucius drained his glass, left some coins on the table and got up. “Ready to Disapparate?”

They hoisted Pettigrew out of his chair, took him between them with equal expressions of disgust, and, on the count of three, dematerialised with a faint ‘plop’.