Orpheus

Chapter 5

By Pigwidgeon37

What was Christmas to a heathen lump of rock such as Brittany? How could a naked, shivering newborn possibly threaten the pagan cults that lived on in the powerful prehistoric cult places? So why did they even bother to celebrate it? Draco moodily kicked a stone out into the water that was lapping at his feet. The Malfoys’ French mansion wasn’t exactly in Brittany, or rather not on the terra firma. Their land of origin was the small island of Ouessant which, in times now veiled by the mists of millennia, had probably been part of the continent. A small patch of green and grey, foggy and drizzly, a prey to the whims of the Atlantic, that was Ouessant. He could feel it in his blood that he was in some mysterious, atavistic way rooted to this godforsaken spot. But it wasn't home. It wasn’t England.

On clear mornings, when the sky seemed so transparent that one could feel the universe lurking behind it, Draco often mounted his broom and soared up high, as high as he could. And out over the sea, until he was able to see the coast of Cornwall beckoning to him, mocking him.

Today the weather was as wet and windy as it got on Ouessant, but he was outside all the same, walking, sometimes running, trying to escape. What exactly, he wasn’t sure. It was Christmas, after all. Celebrated purely for Lucertola’s sake, and also out of nostalgia. They had always celebrated Christmas, just the three of them, at the Wiltshire manor. His father, his mother, and Draco. Just the three of them. Not that any of them adhered to that absurd Muggle religion. But it had been an occasion to celebrate en famille, at least on Christmas morning. Later in the day, guests had flocked in. But breakfast and lunch were theirs. Just the three of them.

Another stone hit the leaden waters with a splash that was drowned out by the sound of the waves. Doing things out of nostalgia was a bad habit, because one automatically compared them to the original, and they inevitably had less colour, less atmosphere, less feeling. It just wasn't the same. He wondered whether Lucy felt it, the emptiness, the lack of joy. She was a sensitive, perceptive girl, but then she didn’t have anything to compare their domestic life to, and her parents were doing their best to put up a good show for her. She couldn't feel the bored indifference he’d chosen her mother’s gifts with, could she? Or the blatant disregard for his own personality that made Cho come up with expensive but completely inane presents? Because Mother and Father smiled and kissed and embraced each other, murmured ‘oh, thank you, how beautiful’… And her own presents had been chosen with love and thoughtfulness.

But he had felt his throat constrict during lunch, it had become so narrow that he was sure he’d suffocate if he stuffed another bite into his mouth. The turkey had never tasted like straw, back when his father cut it. When they had been sitting at the table, just the three of them. He knew that he should have left the past in England, where it belonged, or at least shaken it off when his mother died. But how could he? If the past wasn't there anymore, what else was there to take its place?

Ignoring the icy wind and chilly drizzle, Draco sat down on a large, flat boulder, legs parted, elbows resting on his knees, and gazed into the formless greyness spreading everywhere around him. The past made him sick, sometimes he felt as if it was sucking life out of him in order to maintain a life of its own. He couldn’t scrape together enough energy to sever that pale umbilical cord. He found himself irresistibly drawn, day after day, to the library, to his father’s portrait; he sat down and stared at it, waiting for Lucius to say something, to utter a single word, whether condemnation or absolution he didn’t care. But Lucius didn't talk. Lucius merely looked at him, a level stare from steel-grey eyes. Never a word. Maybe he was waiting for his son to find the right book, the right spell… As if Draco hadn’t tried. As if he hadn’t thought of using the same ritual Pettigrew had used, twenty years ago, to bring Voldemort back. He would have gladly given his right hand. But the spell was lost, Voldemort was dead, Pettigrew was dead. And his father. His father, too, was dead.

“Father?”

With a start, Draco came out of his reverie and turned to look at his daughter. “Lucertola.” Did she notice how forced his smile was? “Lucy, you shouldn't be out here. It’s almost dark, and raining, and…” He made a conscious effort to pull his gaze away from the grey infinity and look her over. “At least you had the common sense to cover yourself.” He took a mittened hand into his.

She smiled down at him from under the hood of her fur-lined cloak. “I just wanted to know where you are. It’s been a while since you left, and… Are you all right?”

“Yes.” White lie, another white lie for the sake of his child (his sister?) who knew nothing of the past and shouldn't be burdened with it. “And you, sweet? Are you all right?” He rubbed her fingers through the woollen mittens, then pulled one of them off her hand and kissed the soft white palm.

“Uh-huh.” She nodded gravely, then tilted her head. “Father, I… there’s something I’d like to talk about… something, but I don't know…” Her fingers—long, slender Malfoy fingers with almond-shaped nails—wriggled within his, the pale face took on an even more serious expression. “You might become angry, and so I thought… it’s still Christmas, and maybe you could promise you won't be angry?”

“That’s a big promise you want me to make.” He pulled her a little closer, so that he could feel her warmth. “But since it’s Christmas…” Realizing that he was, indeed, quite cold, Draco rose from the wet stone. At times, he caught himself being amazed that she was now only about five inches shorter than he. No more chubby fingers, no small, round hand clinging to his trouser leg. His daughter, his child… struggling to leave childhood. But there were a few habits they had saved, swathed like precious gems in memories of earlier days scented with baby powder and the aroma of her sleep-drenched skin. “Is it something we might also discuss inside? Maybe over a cup of cocoa?” He would have to lace it with a bit of brandy…

Hand in hand, they wandered through the mist, back to the house, a looming bluish-grey silhouette with yellow eyes squinting and blinking in the almost-dark. Draco would have preferred to change his clothes, but settled for a simple drying spell—Lucertola was definitely impatient, red-cheeked and bouncing with anticipation. Following her to the kitchen, Draco thought that being the source and object of so much love and adoration was sometimes quite unsettling, a feeling both heady and constricting, because he could do everything to and for her but wanted to do only what was best for her. That trust, that complete trust, and the power that came with it, made him dizzy.

The House Elf—suitably terrified at the Master’s presence in the kitchen—prepared their chocolate and put the mugs in front of them on a large, square wooden table, not daring to look at Draco. When it had scuttled off to whereabouts unknown, Draco asked, “So, what did you want to talk about?”

The large, dark blue mug made her hands seem even whiter, its heat suffused them with a pink hue. In her light blue robes, trimmed with white lace, she looked like a porcelain doll.

“About… Hogwarts?” It was more a question than an answer to his query, uttered cautiously because she didn't want to ruin the mood. Drinking cocoa in the kitchen with her father was a rare treat for Lucertola, and she certainly didn't want to spoil the moment.

“Hogwarts.” He leaned back, his hands around the mug, warmth seeping into his body. He needed it. Not that her choice of topic had been unexpected—there were few things she knew made him angry—but to actually hear the word chilled him more than the air and humidity outside. “And what would you like to know about Hogwarts?”

Now her face went from pink to beet-red. And she was chewing her bottom lip. Embarrassed? What could be so embarrassing about Hogwarts?

“I just… um… Headmaster Snape is nice, isn't he?”

Angry? She had made him promise that he wasn't going to be angry? But this was… Draco almost dropped his mug. This was absolutely preposterous! Headmaster Snape is nice… The traitor. That piece of scum. The hypocrite who had caused the death of Lucius Malfoy—not he alone, true, but the others had always been on Dumbledore's side, whereas Snape… With enormous effort he controlled himself. She couldn't know, and she mustn’t know. If she thought Snape was nice, all the better for her. “So you liked him, didn’t you?”

Lucertola nodded vehemently. “He’s so…” She searched for the right word, her nose crinkling with the effort. “Like an uncle,” she said, beaming at her father because she had managed to express exactly what she felt.

An uncle. An uncle! He felt the urge to burst into hysterical laughter. And what an uncle. About as avuncular as the pied piper. Come children, listen to the music, look, the rats like it too, come and follow me, let us dance into the arms of death, into the cold waters—they will embrace you better than your parents ever could… An uncle. Gods, how he hated the man for having gained even the smallest bit of Lucertola’s affection. “Really?” He thought the mug would crack under the pressure of his fingers. “An uncle… so you think you’d like to go to Hogwarts?”

“Uh-huh.” Lucertola beamed at him. “Father, can you keep a secret? I mean, if I ask you a question, do you promise you won't tell anybody? Not even Mother?”

“I’m very good at keeping secrets, sweet. Tell me.”

“Do you think… Do you think Headmaster Snape will be too old for me to marry when I’m eighteen?”

He had to be dreaming. This just couldn't be true. Of course he knew that young girls had the strangest ideas. But this was just too absurd. His Lucy, his fifteen-year-old daughter had developed a crush on the man who was guilty of her grandfather’s death—he imagined Lucius’s sneer if he had heard it—and there was nothing he could say or do, because he wanted the girl to attend Hogwarts, wanted her to grow up in the land of her ancestors… The secrets he was keeping—oh, yes, he was good at keeping secrets, he hadn’t lied, no, he had told her the truth—those secrets she must never suspect, never…

He uttered a strangled “No,” and fled. To the library. Safety and his father’s face. Safety because there was his father’s face, unchanged by time and death. Why wasn't he standing there with open arms, waiting for his son? Why? If only…

*

“May?” McGonagall frowned and shook her head. “No, Hermione, I don't think this is a good idea. Now don't give me that look—” she patted Hermione's hand “—and listen to reason. Firstly, May is a busy time for everybody. For you too, because you’ll have to prepare the exam questionnaires, which is particularly tiresome with the O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s. And secondly, we’re in the middle of February, that would mean only three months—not enough time to prepare a wedding, if you ask me.”

Hermione was trying not to look like a sullen first year, but she was having a hard time remembering she was thirty-four. She felt like wailing and whinging, not like listening to the voice of reason. “But… I wanted a May wedding!” There. She was wailing, and Minerva had assumed that indulgent expression. It was true, however. She did want a May wedding. Tears were stubbornly fighting their way up her throat—when had she become so prone to lachrymose outbursts? Maybe her self-control was waning because she’d been feeling a little under the weather during the last week.

“I know that a May wedding is every woman’s dream. But if the bride happens to be a teacher, and the groom a headmaster, maybe the bride ought to make some concessions… Is July really that bad?”

The tears finally got the upper hand and streamed down Hermione's cheeks, obviously enjoying their freedom. “No, it’s just… just…” The headache that had been lurking all day long decided that, if the tears could have their fun, it ought to enjoy the same rights, and burst into full bloom.

“Hermione?” McGonagall, looking worried, kneeled down beside her chair. “Are you—Merlin, you're burning! How long have you been going on like this? And why didn’t Severus… Oh, never mind. Men are just so useless sometimes. Come on, to the Hospital Wing you go.”

“No, really, I…” But the three words were all Hermione was able to utter before falling back into her chair, feeling completely drained and exhausted.

“Don't you dare refuse! You’ve caught that nasty influenza, and you’re going to see Poppy this instant, and if I have to cast Petrificus Totalus!”

“That won't…” Hermione muttered, and fainted.

Grumbling under her breath, McGonagall conjured a stretcher and a blanket, because the young witch was shivering abominably, and took her to the infirmary.

“The latest victim,” she announced grimly, when Madam Pomfrey came bustling out of her office.

“Oh, dear! The poor girl… I think—” Madam Pomfrey rubbed the bridge of her nose “—I suppose it would be better if we put her into the private ward, seeing as how the epidemic seems to have come to a standstill. We don't want to risk another round.”

Nodding her assent, McGonagall steered the stretcher along the aisle between immaculate white beds, most of them empty now, and followed the matron into the room Hermione had occupied during her convalescence.

“The problem is,” Madam Pomfrey said, while stripping her newest patient of her robes and clothes, to swathe her in a white linen hospital gown, “that we’ve run out of Pepper-Up. Yuri is making some, but it won’t be ready until tomorrow. I’ll give her some antipyretic, and some vitamins, but—” she sighed and shrugged “—you know as well as I do that it just isn’t the right thing. So she will probably have to stay longer than the little ones.”

Shaking her head and tutting, she tucked a semiconscious Hermione in and poured some potions down her throat.

“I’ll go tell Severus,” McGonagall said. “He’ll be beside himself with worry.”

“Now that’s a big surprise.” The matron grinned. “Any news about the wedding?”

Unsurprisingly (also for Madam Pomfrey, as everybody was familiar with the Deputy’s little tic, except for the Deputy herself, of course; and nobody told her, because it always gave them the feeling of knowing a little more than she did, not a bad feeling considering her near-omniscience) the glasses came off and were polished rather hectically. “You know it’s confidential.” Another round of cleaning for the already perfectly stain-, smear- and dustless spectacles. “I can't tell you, Poppy. Really, I would like to, but…”

The ominous silence following the ‘but’ meant something like ‘you know that Severus would have my head, and probably Hermione, too, would be terribly angry.’ Madam Pomfrey smiled and nodded, deciding not to tempt her long-time friend. Not now, that is. Discretion being the better part of valour, especially since she couldn’t be sure how long Hermione was going to remain in her half-conscious state. How terribly embarrassing if she came to while Minerva was spilling out her secrets…

“It’s all right, Minerva. So long as they don’t mean to cancel it altogether…”

“Certainly not.” With these words, McGonagall put her glasses back on and swept majestically out of the ward.



When she woke up some hours later—it was already nearing midnight—Hermione had no idea where she was. The mattress under her was a little too hard to be her own, and when she instinctively groped for Severus, her hands closed around thin air. A narrow bed… and the duvet, too, was way too heavy to be hers. After a moment of blind panic, she managed to convince herself that kidnappers usually didn’t tuck their hostages into beds, however narrow. And when she had calmed down a little, she heard the sound of deep, slow breathing. Her head, skin and joints were aching horribly, but she propped herself up on her elbow and squinted into the darkness. Her effort was rewarded by the sight of Severus dozing in an armchair that was positioned too near the head end of the bed for her to have noticed it the moment she opened her eyes. Completely reassured, she took in the surroundings, which had assumed recognizable shapes by now, and finally became aware that she was in the private ward of the Hospital Wing.

Her memory seemed to have woken up as well, for now the events of the afternoon came back to her. She had had tea with Minerva, and at some point her body had simply yielded to the attack of the flu she'd been trying to suppress for an entire week with all her might. The messages said body was sending her—every inch of skin, muscle and bone sore, head pounding and throbbing, throat swollen, nose blocked up, bronchial tubes on fire—certainly screamed ‘flu.’ Suddenly thirsty, she grabbed for the glass of water on her nightstand, missed and swept it to the floor, where it shattered. In the quiet of the night, the sound seemed almost deafening, cutting through the sleepy silence like a warship through peaceful seas. Severus woke with a start.

He was still dressed in his rich velvet robes, but the stubbles on his jaw and chin—visible now that he had lit the candles—mitigated the imposing sternness of his appearance and lent it a certain intimacy. He, too, seemed momentarily puzzled by his surroundings, but quickly caught himself and, after making sure that Hermione was all right, at least to the extent her illness permitted, went to get her another glass of water.

“Poor Spikes.” He held her hand, gently caressing the palm with his thumb. “I would brew some Pepper-Up for you, but it takes two days. So I suppose we’ll have to make do with Yuri’s concoction.”

Laughing hurt her sore throat more than talking. She couldn’t resist the urge, though, she had to laugh, because his facial expression was so comical, so endearing—something between a scowl and a frown and a bit of contempt for Avanessian’s skills, and loving concern. “Yes,” she managed, “At this point, I’d take almost anything.”

“So would I, but that doesn’t mean anything Yuri brewed would make it anywhere near my lips.”

She shook her head, catching his other hand with hers, holding, relishing the feel of his dry, warm skin against her sweaty fingers. Her eyelids were already drooping. I a low, soothing voice, Severus told her about his day, making her smile and nod—the Weasley Girls had turned Mrs. Norris into a dog, testament to their Transfiguration skills, but the caretaker had been scared out of his wits when he was faithfully followed by an enormous, yellowish dingo—and a few minutes later she was soundly asleep. Severus rose and left the room on tiptoes, both longing for the comfort of a bed and vividly regretting that he’d have to sleep there all alone.



Hermione was standing on a meadow. Or rather, it was a clearing in a forest, a rather large space without trees, surrounded by birches and oaks, covered with soft grass so fresh and green that it seemed to burst with humidity. She was hot and thirsty, for the sun was burning down on her, and her whole body was aching. Maybe she had arrived here at a run. She wanted to sit down but found, much to her surprise, that she couldn’t, because her knees refused to bend. It was awkward, but not overly disturbing, and she had meant to go and search for a spring or brook anyway. Yes, she was really very thirsty. So she tried to make a first step but her legs were so stiff, and so very heavy. Slowly fear began to creep up on her—what if she remained like that, forever unable to move? The sunrays were hammering on her skull, her robes much too heavy for such heat. She was going to die, very soon, she could feel it, very soon she was going to die from dehydration. The only parts of her body still obeying her brain were her neck and hands. But she couldn’t bend her arms at the elbow, although sweat was running into her eyes, and she knew she had to wipe it off very soon, no, now, because if she didn’t, a crust of salt would grow, seal her eyes shut forever.

 Perhaps there was somebody hiding behind the trees, a human or animal that might help her? She opened her mouth to call for them, ask for assistance. No sound left her parched throat, her lips moved, her tongue parted reluctantly from the palate it was glued to, but no sound. Just silence, humming with summer heat. Moving her head as far left and right as she could, she cast about for a sign of life. When her chin was almost touching her right shoulder, something appeared at the very edge of her field of view. With enormous effort, she craned her neck a little more, and still more, until she could make out what it was. Not a living being. An object, maybe of glass, maybe a precious stone glittering in the sunlight. Her instinctive knowledge that it wasn’t going to help her notwithstanding, she felt an overwhelming desire to go there, pick it up, hold it in her hands and feel its smoothness. It had to be smooth, she was sure, absolutely sure that it was smooth and cool. And—sudden awareness made her hair stand on end—it was important. Whether benign or malignant, deadly or life-giving she did not know. Important. That was all she knew, and the urge to close her fingers around it would have made her scream, had she not lost her voice.

Her head was boiling and burning, merciless sunrays boring through her scalp. But the knowledge remained intact. She must have that object. With every second that passed, the light seemed to become more solid, she could almost feel how bundles of it sliced through her skin. They cut and stung and knocked… yes, they knocked. A rhythmic sound that grew steadily louder. How could she have known that the sun possessed such strength? If she had known, she would never have come here, out in the open, unprotected, to die in this clearing as a stiff, immobile statue wrapped in parched skin. And the thrumming continued, louder, louder, until she realized that it was the sound of hooves on iron-hard earth. A horse, she thought, peering through the small openings in the salty crust that covered her eyes, a horse—and I don’t have any kingdom I might offer in exchange, but maybe it will lick my eyes, horses do like licking salt, don’t they, and it will touch my forehead with a velvety muzzle, snort against my cheek and make the burning go away…

The centaur seemed to have come out of nowhere. Very still he stood, watching her—did he see her agony? Did he know what she needed? And as if she wasn’t in enough pain already, her heart suddenly contracted in such a violent seizure that she thought she’d die on the spot. Because the centaur had smashed the object with his hoof. She couldn’t see it but she knew it. Because the object was her heart, and he had destroyed it, ground it to dust.

He raised his outstretched hand, palm up, she could just barely make out the movement, because the layer of salt on her eyes was thick, almost complete and unyielding. But she was able to discern that something was glinting on his palm. But… hadn’t he shattered it with his hoof? Hadn’t she felt it break inside her? Was he offering it to her, and how could she take it, with those uselessly dangling arms?

“Do you want it back?” the centaur asked. His voice was gentle and low and a little hoarse.
Yes, she wanted to say, to shout, to scream, yes, please, give it back to me, it’s mine, my heart, I don’t want to die without my heart, for die I will… But she didn’t have her tongue anymore, it was gone. Her mouth was a dry cave, a barren hole.

“Do you want it back?” he asked again, and came closer, still holding the object out to her, now so near that she could see what it was. Her heart was a perfectly round crystal globe filled with a liquid that seemed to be pulsing with life.

“You will need it,” he said, gravely, almost sadly, “You will need it if you want your life back.”
He put it into her mouth, and now she was on fire. Gone was the clearing, gone was the centaur, gone the wood and grass and sun. It was night, and she was on fire, flames shooting up high around her, soaring towards a black night sky. The globe wasn’t in her mouth anymore. It had slid down through her body. She could feel it in her womb, growing fast, now it was as big as a pomegranate, now it had reached the size of a watermelon, bursting with pulp and seeds and juices, bigger and bigger, but it didn’t hurt, only the flames hurt, charring her skin into ashes, and bigger it grew, and bigger.

The black night sky parted in a rain of stars. Out of the incandescent fissure swept He, dark handsome god, down to her on wings of blood and tears, and when He saw her burn on the pyre, He roared in horror and threw His lyre into the sea that rose foaming and ominous but powerless against the flames. “Give it to me,” He whispered. His hand descended from the firmament until a finger touched her body, which split open, overripe, and out sprang the globe into His hand. She was empty now, ready to die. She closed her eyes and let go of her body, hoping that she might be quick enough to catch up with the dark-winged god, because maybe her ethereal self had wings as fast as His. For a moment, she hovered above her shrivelled mortal husk, and then felt herself being pulled away. Backwards, not after Him but away from Him, out of the world, faster and faster she fell and fell…


And opened her eyes. Before noticing anybody or anything around her, she saw the fireplace with its carved relief and understood the meaning of her dream.