Orpheus

Chapter 2

By Pigwidgeon37

“Do you think it's my quarters?” Severus asked, still not quite sure of his voice. His forefinger traced Hermione's profile; the skin was so soft that he was almost surprised at the clear outline of her forehead, nose and chin against the deep-green backdrop of the bed curtains.

She smiled and turned her face towards him. The single candle on his nightstand was there, in her dilated pupils, a minuscule mirrored image. “No. I think it’s us. Much better, if you ask me.”

“Doubtlessly.” He let his gaze wander, over her neck, the small breasts, the rounded belly and thighs. “You were… different tonight.”

“Yes…”

She shifted lazily, so obviously sated and content and totally at ease with her own body that Severus felt desire tightening its grip on him again, its very recent appeasement notwithstanding. “Why?” He put his hand on her stomach, palm-down and fingers spread. Her sharp intake of breath made him smile.

“Sirius and I had… a very important talk the day before yesterday.” She put her hand over his, stroking lightly, a reminiscence of their first evening together at Hogwarts.

So Black had been not only discreet but obviously also successful. Severus bent forward to kiss her throat, both for the pleasure of feeling her skin under his lips, and to hide his smile. “And what exactly did you discuss—if you want to tell me that is?”

“Well…” She shifted again, so that his hand glided down by an inch or so. The smile on her lips was now definitely mischievous. “Basically, we talked about myself… that I need to open up, let you in…”

“You followed his instructions quite admirably,” he purred, kissing her again, this time on the lips.

“Not that way, you…” She giggled into his mouth. “On the other hand… yes, probably opening up mentally does have… certain consequences.”

“Speaking of consequences—you didn't forget to take the potion, did you?” He tried to make the question sound light, almost disinterested. He was anything but, though. The thought of her getting pregnant was highly disturbing, to say the least.

“Compliments for excellent timing, Headmaster.” As Severus's hand inched further down, she arched into his touch and reached over to stroke his stomach, the tips of her fingers approaching the thin vertical line of hair that started at his navel. She felt his abdominal muscles tighten in response as she followed its path. “You should have asked that question a bit earlier, don’t you think so? But you don't have to worry. I took it. No children, remember?”

“Just the pleasure,” he murmured, as his fingers found their target.

“Just the pleasure,” she confirmed, craning her neck so she could kiss him. Her hand, too, had found its target, and she slowly flexed her fingers around it.

They let themselves be carried away by the play of hands, tongues and skin on skin, oblivious to everything else.

*

Hermione closed the door to her quarters with a satisfying ‘bang!’ that made the windowpanes rattle in their frames. With an exasperated sigh, she leaned against the door, the back of her head hitting the wood with a slight thud, and simply let herself glide down until she was sitting on the floor, her back propped up against the two inches of solid wood that had become much more than a door. It was a shield that kept out the brats, their noise and their silly questions.

Twitchy materialized before her, looking anxious. “Is you ill, Mistress Hermione? Shalls Twitchy call Madam Pomfrey?”

The reassuring smile Hermione attempted to give her wasn't quite up to her usual standards—she could feel that herself; her facial muscles simply didn't want to cooperate. So she just made a weary gesture. “No, I’m not ill. I’m just… exhausted.”

“Shalls I bring you some tea, Mistress Hermione?”

Tea… no, that didn't sound too alluring. Insipid, somehow, and utterly unsatisfying. “I think,” Hermione muttered, rubbing her forehead, “I might need something stronger. A brandy would be fine.”

Twitchy eyed her with ill-concealed disapproval. “You is still convalescent, Mistress Hermione, you really shouldn’t—”

“Oh, come on, Twitchy! It's been more than a week! Almost two, to be exact. Besides, I’m not taking any medication—believe me, I can have a drink.”

“But—”

Twitchy’s objection was cut off by the sudden appearance of Alastor Moody’s grizzled head in the fireplace. “Anybody at home?” he called out, unable to see Hermione from his viewpoint.

She scrambled to her feet and walked over to the hearth. “Alastor! What a nice surprise!”

“No need to flatter me, lassie” he replied, grinning. “Just wanted to make sure you’re all right after your fist day of teaching.”

“All right would be an exaggeration, but I’m alive. Listen, Alastor, do you have time to pop over for a drink?”

“Drink?” The bushy eyebrows rose. “Depends… It’s five o’clock, and I’m finished working. I’m not going to drink any girly stuff now.”

“Me neither. I was thinking of a nice glass of brandy. Is that too girly for you?”

“Brandy’s fine. I’ll just make one final round through the school and join you. Be sure to stay clear of the fireplace.”

She nodded and waved at him, and then crossed the room to sit down on the couch, wincing as she did so. Last night's activities at Severus's quarters, highly pleasant though they had been, had also taken their toll on her muscles. At breakfast, she had been too busy having performance anxiety because of her first day of teaching to notice anything, and at lunch her thighs hadn’t yet been that sore. Now, every fibre below her waistline was screaming indignantly, more so after a day she had spent mostly standing. Grinning at the thought that, according to popular opinion, the best way to get rid of sore muscles was continuing to exercise—all things considered, not a bad idea—she made herself comfortable and told Twitchy to bring a bottle of brandy and two glasses.

True to his promise, Moody tumbled out of her fireplace a few minutes later, the force of his impact sending his magical eye rolling into the far corner of the room. He didn't seem to mind, but Hermione felt unaccountably embarrassed—body parts, even if artificial, simply weren't supposed to lead a life of their own. Therefore she busied herself with the bottle and tumblers until Moody had Accio-ed, polished and reinserted his eye, and then went to greet him.

The old Auror pulled her into a hug that would have deserved the epithet ‘violent’, had it been given with other than amicable intentions, and held her at arm’s length, scrutinizing her from head to toe. “It’s good to see you up and about, Hermione. Now where's that brandy?”

She gestured in the direction of the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. Would you like something to eat as well?”

“No, thanks.” He slumped into an armchair. “Only spoils the taste. So,” he asked, cradling the snifter she had offered him in the palm of his hand, “how’s your teaching going?”

Hermione had barely opened her mouth to answer his question, when she was interrupted by the sound of knocking. At her “Come in!” the door opened, and Minerva McGonagall peered into the room. Sirius Black was standing behind her.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you had a visitor,” said McGonagall.

“Never mind!” Moody called, waving them inside. “The more, the merrier.”

“Er…” McGonagall, looking as if somebody had stepped on her foot, glanced from him to Hermione. “Considering that these are Hermione's quarters… I really don't want to intrude…”

“I do,” Black said from behind her. “Come on, Minerva, no need to be so formal. This is Hermione, remember? Not somebody—”

“I’d be very glad if you joined us,” Hermione cut short what threatened to turn into serious bickering, at least to judge by McGonagall’s intake of breath, long enough to guarantee oxygen for at least five minutes of uninterrupted speech. She summoned two more glasses, filled them and handed them to the two newcomers. The following minute passed in companionable silence, accentuated by the soft crackle of the fire and the sloshing of brandy against their glasses.

“Well,” said McGonagall, raising her tumbler, “To our newest teacher. To Hermione!”

“To Hermione!” the others echoed.

Sirius snuggled deeper into his chair, giving the impression of settling down for an indeterminate amount of time, and grinned at Hermione. “Tell us, how was your first day? You do look a bit exhausted.”

“Well…” Hermione took a thoughtful sip and half-closed her eyes to relish the taste. “Let me express it this way: I don't think I’d have had the nerve to ask my teacher personal questions when I was thirteen.”

Frowning, McGonagall adjusted her spectacles. “Personal questions? I hope they weren't being too inquisitive…”

“Oh, they were, they were. I had to describe in detail how a Muggle gun works, and how it feels being hit by a bullet—”

“Well, that's understandable,” Moody observed. “You have no idea how excited my little Aurors-in-training were! Every ten minutes one of them showed up at my office, badgering me to introduce ‘Muggle Weaponry’ as a new subject…”

McGonagall shot him a piercing look. “That's all well and fine, but you aren't the one who almost died. How those little blighters could have the indelicacy to pelt Hermione with questions, though… I hope,” she said, looking at her young colleague, “that you put them into their place. Did you take house points?”

“Just once,” replied Hermione, who was beginning to see the amusing side of the experience. Or maybe she was just enjoying the atmosphere, the behind-the-scenes talk with her colleagues and friends. That was how she had imagined her life would be, when she was young. Sitting together with friends, discussing the events of the day… “But it got worse,” she continued, grinning. “Because the third-years were more interested in the gory side of things. But then came the sixth-years, and they definitely wanted to hear the romantic stuff. Imagine—” she snorted and took another sip of brandy “—imagine that they even tried to be subtle. ‘Professor? How should we call you? Professor Potter or Professor Granger?’ I told them that, for the time being, just plain Professor would be more than enough. Of course one of the more foolhardy Gryffindors—no, Minerva, I’m not going to tell you who it was—just had to ask whether Potter versus Granger really mattered, seeing as how it was going to be Professor Snape anyway…”

Moody laughed his hearty laugh, the sound of which reminded of a sackful of stones being dragged down an iron staircase. “Cheeky little buggers,” he said. “You’ll have to discipline them.”

“I know, I know. I’m just not used to it. Yet,” she added, snatching the bottle to refill their glasses. The almost religious silence that accompanied this action—it was very good brandy indeed—was broken by a whooshing sound from the direction of the fireplace.

Four heads turned as the Headmaster of Hogwarts ducked out of the grate and patted soot off his robes. “Sorry, Spikes,” he said without looking up, “I thought I’d make it sooner. How are you, my love?” He raised his head and fell silent rather abruptly at the unexpected sight of three more people than he had expected to see. “Oh, er,” he said, visibly embarrassed.

“What do you call her, Headhamster?” Black asked, barely able to keep his voice steady.

“That's none of your business, Black,” Severus bit back—too late, of course, as Moody and Black had already abandoned every pretence at straight-facedness and were howling with laughter.

McGonagall shook her head disapprovingly, although her mouth, too, was twitching. “Such boys!” she said. “Will you stop it!”

“Only,” Black gasped, “Only if he tells us why he calls her Spikes.”

“Well,” McGonagall conceded, “that would be interesting…”

It was, Hermione thought, a perfect moment. She was sitting on the couch with Severus next to her, surrounded by friends, while he told them the story of her nickname in that lovely, lovely voice of his… She let her head fall against his shoulder and let the sound wash over and through her.

They had to wake her when dinnertime had arrived.

*

“Dinner is served, Master!”

Draco Malfoy looked up from the book he had been reading. “Tell my wife I will join her in five minutes.”

The House Elf bowed so deeply that its nose touched the floor and vanished with a crack. Draco remained in his armchair, the book open in his lap, staring at the spot on the floor where the elf had stood. His eyes followed the intricate design of different shades of brown—the parquet was baroque and of rare beauty, darkened by age to the colour of old brandy. Draco sighed, reluctantly tearing his eyes from the sight that always had a soothing effect on his mind, and fished a folded piece of parchment out of the pocket of his robes. The parchment was thick and heavy; he could feel its intrinsic similarity to the parquet floor almost physically. Both made the beholder long to let their fingers glide across a surface that could not be other than smooth and sensual.

But the texture of the letter he was holding in his hands was the last thing occupying Draco’s mind right now. It was its content that made his brow crease in thought. So the British Ministry of Magic had finally given its permission for his daughter to attend Hogwarts, if that was her and her parents’ wish. Draco's face became a mask of disgust when he thought of Potter. Saint Potter, Great Britain’s holier-than-thou Minister of Magic, worshipped and admired. Whereas he, Draco Malfoy, scion of one of the greatest and most powerful wizarding families, had to lead a life in exile and beg permission for his daughter to return to the land of her ancestors.

After Voldemort's downfall and Lucius Malfoy’s death, the Ministry of Magic had confiscated all their property—well, not all of it, actually, merely the part they could get their hands on, which was less than half of what the Malfoys really possessed—and banished Draco and his mother from British territory. For as long as they lived. Not that it had made a great difference for his mother, he thought grimly. She had died less than a year after the beginning of their exile. But it made a difference to him. Fifteen years. Fifteen years since last he’d been in England. Although he never admitted it to anybody, not even his wife, he missed England terribly. Or rather, he missed Wiltshire. Those hills… He briefly closed his eyes to conjure the image of their family mansion near Salisbury.

But this was not the time for sentimentality. He had the letter, and he had to talk to his wife and daughter. Not that Lucertola was really able to make a choice. Certainly not because of her age—she might be only ten years old, but was as headstrong and precocious as he himself had been—but because she had never been to England. She had seen Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. But not Hogwarts. In the end, the decision would be his and Cho’s. Meaning his.

He smiled and rose from his chair, after carefully bookmarking the page he’d been reading. One by one, he extinguished the candles in the library and went down the hallway to the dining room.



Lucertola Malfoy, called Lucy, was a beautiful girl. Her mother’s predominant genes were responsible for her jet-black hair and slightly almond-shaped eyes. Her eyes were grey, but definitely the silvery-metallic shade of her father's irises. The oval face was Cho’s, but the pointed chin indicated that she was a true Malfoy, as did her long, straight nose and broad, narrow-lipped mouth. Yes, she was a beauty, already at the tender age of ten, and she was the only human being in the whole universe Draco Malfoy loved more than himself.

Cho was an altogether different matter. To marry Cho Chang, Harry Potter’s fist ever romantic interest, had been an act of delicious revenge against the Boy Who Lived Twice. It hadn’t really been a love match. If anything, it had to do with gratitude. For Draco had saved her from a most unpleasant death—what else could she do but marry him when he asked her to become his wife? She had been reckless enough to join Voldemort's ranks, the day after her seventeenth birthday. Not for real, of course. No, she had fancied herself a spy, in order to avenge the death of her boyfriend, Cedric Diggory. Needless to say that her plans had gone totally, horribly awry. Draco had humbly asked the Dark Lord to leave her to him and Voldemort had granted him his wish. So they had kept her at the Manor—‘kept’ as a pampered and privileged house guest, of course, not as a prisoner, although she hadn't been allowed to leave the house. The two and a half years until Voldemort's final downfall, she had been treated like… Draco smirked to himself. Actually more like a concubine than a princess. A concubine he shared with his father. And after the final battle, he had taken her to France with him and married her soon afterwards. He didn't love her, but she was a piece of home, and an attractive and intelligent piece at that. She had yet to give him an heir, but as they were both in their thirties, this didn't bother him much. There was more than enough time, and for now he had Lucertola.

She was already sitting at the table, talking to her mother, when he entered the dining room. Both looked up when the door closed behind him; Cho acknowledged his presence with a brief nod, Lucertola gave him a radiant smile. He winked at her and sat down opposite her.

“I have good news,” he said, when the House Elf had brought in the soup tureen and disappeared back into the depths of the kitchen.

Lucy scooted forward on her chair, impatience incarnate. “My Supernova XL 1000?”

“No, sweet. Not yet. Remember when we ordered it?”

She chewed her lip, pretending deep thought. “This morning?”

“Exactly. I think you’ll have to wait till… well, maybe tomorrow night. I’ll see what I can do.”

Cho, who had followed their exchange with amused indifference, cocked an eyebrow. “If it’s not Lucy’s broom, what is it?”

Draco produced the letter and handed it to her. “How was your day?” he asked Lucertola, while his wife perused the parchment.

The girl shrugged. “Okay, more or less. Are you sure you don’t want to fire Madame Villepin?”

“Unless you give me a very good reason, no, I don't.”

“Is boring me to death a very good reason?”

Draco gave her the satisfaction of pondering her question for a few seconds. “No, I don't think so. And considering your progress in both Latin and Ancient Runes, she's well worth keeping. Whichever school we choose for you, you won't learn Latin there, and Runes teachers are usually… well, let us say they teach because they're not sufficiently qualified for academia. And I want my daughter to learn from the best.”

Unsure whether to be flattered or admit defeat, Lucy stared down at her plate for a while, and then decided that changing topic was probably best. “So what is written in the letter Mummy is reading?”

Cho gave the parchment back to her husband and replied, “It’s from the British Ministry of Magic. The permission for you to attend Hogwarts if you want.”

Lucertola’s eyes widened. “Hogwarts? Of course I want to go to Hogwarts! You did, and Daddy did, and…” She fell silent and shot her father a questioning glance. Lucius Malfoy was a somewhat touchy topic, for reasons she didn't quite understand. Sometimes when she mentioned him, her father went all cold and rigid, and his mouth became a thin white line. Lucy didn't like that.

Today was different, obviously. Draco gave her a thin smile and nodded. “And your grandparents, yes, and all the Malfoys before them. It’s a family tradition.”

“But how are they going to treat her?” Cho asked quietly. “Family tradition or not, the name of Malfoy still doesn't inspire friendly feelings in most people. And… isn't Snape the headmaster now?”

“Maybe we should discuss this a little later,” Draco said, the merest hint of steel in his voice.

Cho nodded, and the meal progressed in silence.




When Lucertola was soundly asleep, Draco got up noiselessly from the edge of her bed, extinguished the candles and left the room. Already halfway down the corridor, he paused, went back and placed a Silent Sentinel Charm on the door, which would alert him in case the girl left her room. She was a light sleeper, and the news about Hogwarts had excited her a good deal. He didn't want her to roam the house and overhear her parents talking—the things they were about to discuss tonight were definitely not meant for her ears.

Cho was awaiting him in the library, sitting in an armchair near the fireplace, a book open in her lap. She wasn’t reading, though, just staring into the flames. Probably reminiscing, Draco thought, although he wasn’t quite sure of the nature of her memories. She always went into a brooding mood when Lucius’s name was mentioned. Despite their almost fifteen years of marriage, Draco had never actually asked her how she felt about his father. Both father and son had been her lovers, and she had never voiced any objection—not that it would have done her any good, but her compliance had been astonishing all the same. And she had been almost as inconsolable as Narcissa when Lucius had died. That might, of course, have been nothing but a show, but somehow Draco doubted that.

Leaning against the doorframe, Draco studied his wife, wondering—not for the first time—whose daughter Lucertola was. Cho had already been pregnant by the time they had to leave England. Not that he cared. On the contrary. The thought of Lucertola being his half-sister and thus even more of a living bond with his father was rather comforting. He had loved his father—at the thought that, so many times, people had called their love ‘twisted’, and suspected incest, abuse and violence, a smirk crept over his face. They hadn’t understood. Nobody had understood. Except maybe Cho. She had seen first-hand that his father was a good man. Never, ever, had he hurt a member of the family. Incest… now really! Draco cringed at the thought. His father would never have done such a thing. Maybe he hadn’t been the most faithful of husbands, but his mother had tolerated it. Because she, too, had loved him. Who cared if those morons spoke of him as if he had been the personification of evil? Society needed scapegoats, people on whom they could blame whatever was wrong, figures onto whom they could project their own less acceptable cravings and urges. That, and envy. Oh, how they had envied his father! He was rich, he was handsome, a powerful wizard, influential, he had everything. Perfection, in one word. And perfection irritated those philistines, it rankled and festered inside their mediocre souls. They couldn't stand it. And so they had killed him.

Draco forced himself out of his reverie and cleared his throat, causing Cho to look up.

“Is she asleep?”

“Yes. And I put a charm on her door. We don't want her to hear this, do we?”

Cho shook her head. “Absolutely not. I’m sorry for mentioning it at dinner…”

He stood beside her chair and kissed her hand. “Never mind. She was far too excited to pay much attention to a slip of the tongue.” After pouring himself a drink, and another one for his wife, he handed her her glass and sat down, crossing his legs. “So… How do you feel about Lucertola attending Hogwarts?”

Cho studied her fingernails, then leaned back, careful not to damage her elaborate coiffure. “I… I wish she could go there. She’s never been to England—or Scotland, for that matter—but she is English to the core. And who knows…” She looked down at the glass she was twirling between her fingers. “Times change, and so do Ministers. Who knows if there won't be a possibility for us to return, sometime… I’d hate for her to be a stranger in her own country.”

“I completely agree. But—” he leaned forward, eyes narrowing “—there’s the small matter of the traitor being Headmaster to be considered. We’d have to make sure that he treats her decently.”

“He, and her Head of House.”

“And her Head of House,” Draco confirmed. “Although we can’t be sure… Not that I’m overjoyed at the idea, but what if she’s sorted into Ravenclaw? The Hat put me into Slytherin because I’m a Malfoy, but it considered Ravenclaw. Did it voice any doubts as to you?”

“No. I put me into Ravenclaw without hesitation. Who is Head of Ravenclaw, now that Flitwick has retired?”

“Vector. I don't expect any troubles from his side, though.”

“And the others? I mean, there's Black, and McGonagall…”

“Yes.” Draco sighed and drained his glass. “I’m not overly worried about McGonagall, to say the truth. Especially if Lucy were to become a Ravenclaw. You know McGonagall’s Gryffindor-esque sense of honour—innocent until proven guilty and all that. No—” he put down the empty glass “—I don't think she'll give us any trouble. Black on the other hand…”

“Haven't he and Snape become friends?” Draco snorted. “Yes, I know it’s ignominious, but it might come in useful. If Snape tells him to treat our daughter decently—”

“And that's exactly what it all boils down to,” Draco interrupted her. “We have to talk to Snape.”

“Do you think he would come to France? Seeing as how we can’t go to England?”

Draco rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know… Maybe. It's worth a try, at least. I hope he won’t bring that Mudblood whore of his, though.”

“Granger?” Cho gave a contemptuous laugh. “I certainly could do without her presence in this house.”

“So could I. Well, then, I think I’ll write to Snape tomorrow morning and invite him over for a weekend. He used to have a soft spot for Father, even after he had changed sides. Who knows, maybe we can convince him.”

Cho glanced at the portrait of Lucius Malfoy, who was sneering down at them from his elevated position above the fireplace. “It was easy to have a soft spot for him,” she murmured, more to herself than to Draco. She drank the last of her brandy and got up. “I think I’ll go to bed. Would you mind very much if I stayed in my own rooms tonight? I feel a headache coming on, I’m afraid…”

Draco exchanged a glance with his father—their only way of communication, as Lucius never talked—who smirked and raised his eyebrows. “Of course, my dear.” He rose and kissed her hand. “Sleep well.”

Cho nodded, a smile ghosting across her face, and left the room. When the door had clicked shut behind her, Draco let himself fall into his chair and buried his face in his hands. He stayed like that for a long while, fighting the weight of the silence he felt closing in on him.