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Orpheus
Chapter 8
Ten minutes after they had entered Mrs. Granger’s house, Severus was sure
that no resemblance between her and her daughter could ever make him like
the woman. Marjorie Granger was Middle Class personified—a tidy, orderly
woman living in a mental universe that was as tidy and orderly as her house,
and confined by a very narrow mental horizon in the form of a white picket
fence (polished. By hand. Every afternoon between four and five). She was of
medium height and medium stature, her hair a medium shade of blonde, her
eyes a fading brown, her lipstick and eye shadow the colours the average
suburban woman of sixty-five would choose. The jacket she was wearing was
almost Chanel, the pearls around her neck just the right size—large enough
to make her friends jealous, but of a size that made them appropriate to be
worn both morning and evening. Her teeth were without doubt a masterpiece of
cutting-edge dental technology, but, for all their pearly splendour,
couldn’t make up for the hard lines around Mrs. Granger’s mouth, which
embossed her face with a crest of petty bitterness and dissatisfaction.
He might have overlooked all that, and generously ignored her
all-too-evident discontent at whom her daughter had swapped Glorious Potter
for, had it not been for the fact that, with every passing minute, Hermione
became more silent, that her eyes took on a dull, sullen expression, and
that her fingers were fidgeting nervously with whichever object lent itself
to fidgeting.
They had been led—after conscientiously cleaning their shoes on the
doormat—through an appropriately sized hallway into a very appropriately
furnished parlour, where a decanter of sherry (appropriately filled to three
quarters of its volume) was awaiting them. Five minutes of forced
conversation between mother and daughter had followed, during which Severus
had silently but desperately tried to find a way of getting rid of his
sherry—he hated sweetish alcoholic drinks and would gladly have offered his
share to the sinister-looking aspidistra lurking behind him, sadly out of
reach—while he listened to the cramped exchange of news. Then, Mrs. Granger
had seen fit to focus her attention on ‘the lucky fiancé’. Her runny coral
smile had frozen when she heard that he was fifty-six. A peal of artificial
laughter later, she had remarked that her daughter could have done worse—a
headmaster wasn't that bad, though certainly no minister (more artificial
giggling), and in times like these (Severus’s right eyebrow jerked up in
total incomprehension) a mother had to deem herself lucky if her daughter
didn't show up with a drug dealer or “…what were they called, dearest?
Deathmongers?”
At that, the sherry glass had fallen from Hermione's fingers and onto the
carpet (almost Persian) where it rolled, unbroken, under the coffee table,
its path marked by a dark trail of liquid that slowly seeped into the fibres.
The embarrassment notwithstanding, the moment was one of blessed—if
horrified—silence, blessed because Mrs. Granger’s tympanum-shredding voice
had given way to quiet. Severus, who was sitting next to Hermione on the
divan, put a calming hand on her knee before drawing his wand and
pronouncing “Scourgify!” in the general direction of the spilled sherry;
having successfully performed this cleaning operation, he bent down to
retrieve the glass, which he wiped clean with the same spell. The ominous
‘clink’ when he put it back on the table ended the general stupor, and Mrs.
Granger's lips obediently morphed from a hard red line (a stain on a woman’s
carpet was a stain on her honour, after all) into a coy smile at The Man Who
Wasn't Minister But At Least Able To Clean Carpets.
Her mouth was already beginning to form words of praise, but Severus cut her
off. “Mrs. Granger—”
“Marjorie. You must call me Marjorie.”
He ignored Hermione's groan and continued, “Mrs. Granger. We were called
Death Eaters. Not Deathmongers, but Death Eaters.”
The seconds ticked by, their skulking pace marked by the tic-tac of an
(almost antique) clock on the mantelpiece—of the hideous Torsion Clock
variety, white dial with black roman numbers resting on a slim, round brass
pillar that went through the point of intersection of two brass rods, their
ends sporting brass balls, which moved around the pillar like a wheel on an
axe. They didn't complete the circle, though, but merely swung back and
forth, left and right, regularly, tic right and tac left, the whole
monstrosity covered by a glass dome resting on a brass base.
Severus had more than enough time to study its highly polished,
dust-particle-free splendour before Mrs. Granger choked out the single word,
“We?”
“Indeed.” He grabbed the bottle, using the movement to cast a sideways
glance at Hermione, who seemed to finally have grasped the comic potential
of the situation. A polite smile at the petrified hostess, “May I?” he asked
and, without waiting for her acquiescence, poured his more-and-more-amused
fiancée another generous dose of sherry. “But I assure you—” he put the cork
back on the bottle “—I have never bought or sold drugs. Your health!” And he
raised his glass.
*
Dearest Severus,
I wish that fewer dunderheads (yes, I wrote that) had signed up to stay for
the Easter holidays. That’s easier than wishing that your sense of
responsibility were less developed, because I wouldn't like that at all. In
any case, I’m missing you terribly. It’s difficult not to imagine walking on
the beach with you instead of alone. Not to mention the meals and the nights
without your company. (Imagine a big, watery sigh here)
Crete is lovely at this time of year. The sun is already incredibly strong,
and everything is blooming—it’s a mayhem of scents, dominated by the
fragrance of almond blossoms. Impossible to spend the whole day in the
library, as you can well imagine. But I’m working, and very assiduously at
that. The chief librarian, a tiny old wizard who still remembers Lord Byron,
seems to be completely taken with me. His help is really invaluable, and
together we’ve managed to unearth quite a few important volumes, which
haven’t been out of their shelves for at least thirty years—unfortunately
the last person to read them has only signed with their initials, J.L.P. Who
knows… Are you aware of any major work on the Draught of Life by a Potions
Master or other wizard/witch with those initials?
I hope everything is fine at Hogwarts. Have the others bought my
honeymoon-preparation story? I hate having to lie to my friends, but it is,
of course, necessary.
Hope Pluto and Hades are behaving well. You won’t do anything horrible to
them while I’m away, will you?
Love
Hermione
*
My darling Spikes,
I could not agree more about the dunderheads, and am seriously considering
the creation of a new school statute prohibiting the presence of students
during the holidays. All holidays.
Otherwise, everything is fine, so don't worry. Except for Sybil, who
predicted that you’d meet some blonde Nordic god and leave me here with two
obnoxious cats and a bridal gown (yes, it has arrived), everybody seemed to
find the idea of your preparing our honeymoon ‘nest’ (as they call it)
extremely ‘cute’. It was all I could do not to hex them. The word ‘cute’
should be banned, or at least jinxed, so that whoever uses it gets a
24-hour-bout of diarrhoea. That would teach them.
I am, as you can probably imagine, missing you terribly. So are Pluto and
Hades, who have taken to sleeping on your side of the bed. The fact that I
haven't yet found the strength to chase them away should illustrate
perfectly that I am not being my usual self. I simply cannot blame them for
wanting to burrow their noses into the pillows carrying your scent. Winky
insists that she has to change the sheets, but I have threatened her with
clothes, in case she touches them before the day of your return.
Good bye, my love, and enjoy your stay in Crete.
Yours lovingly
Severus
P.S.: My compliments to the Norse god (I have no idea why, but I have always
imagined them as thoroughly unwashed…)
P.P.S.: (I abhor the idea of writing postscripts—this is all your fault!) I
can’t think of anybody with the initials J.L.P.
*
Dear Hermione,
Just a quick note. I certainly hope it reaches you before your departure. I
would strongly advise you not to reveal the whereabouts of your honeymoon
location to Sirius, as he has been making ominous allusions to ‘funny hexes’
designed especially to annoy newlyweds. So don't pay any heed to his sulking
and pouting, and keep the secret, unless you want your wedding night to turn
into a nightmare.
Love
Minerva
*
Dear Mr. Pappadopoulos,
Back in the somewhat rougher climate of Scotland—although May has been
surprisingly warm and clement this year—I am still thinking very fondly of
you, your magnificent library, and the lovely island you are so fortunate to
live on.
I enjoyed our talks immensely, and have become aware with something very
akin to shock of how much I told you about Hogwarts, my once-beloved school
and now-beloved home and working place. You truly have the gift of listening
and making people feel so much at ease that they cannot stop talking about
themselves. In order to give you a somewhat more complete and, most of all,
more objective idea of Hogwarts, I am hereby sending you a copy of
Hogwarts—A History. If the book evokes—and I certainly hope it will—the
desire to spend some days in this beautiful place, may I suggest that you
come to my wedding? It would be an honour and a pleasure for both myself and
my future husband.
Hoping to hear from you soon, I remain
Yours sincerely and most affectionately
Hermione Granger
*
The morning mist, which still enveloped the island of Ouessant at this time
of year—it would go away only during the hottest months—had cleared and
given way to a splendid early summer day. Madame Villepin was ill, and
Monsieur Laforge, Lucertola’s other tutor, hadn't been able to fill in for
her. He would arrive after lunch, as usual.
Normally, Lucertola would have taken advantage of such unexpected leisure
time to mount her broom and rise into the salty morning air, to have her
hair whipped around her face by the gusts of strong wind, alone with herself
and free to dream. Normally. But things had ceased to be normal a few weeks
ago, she thought on her way to the library. Since the portrait of her
grandfather had decided to abandon its silence, life at the Malfoy household
had changed. First, there had been the conversations with her father. She
had enjoyed them, and not only because she enjoyed spending time alone with
him. There had been a new quality to their talks, more serious, more
grown-up. It was something she had been missing for quite some time, without
knowing she missed it. Besides, the veils of secrecy covering the past had
finally been lifted. The taboos, so strictly observed for as long as she
could remember, had evaporated, and she had been allowed glimpses at the
events that had shaped her father’s—and to a certain extent also her
mother’s—personalities. She had seen pictures… Lucertola sighed. Pictures of
a splendid manor amidst softly rolling hills. Pictures of her grandfather.
Of a grandmother so beautiful that she had immediately become Lucertola’s
secret idol. Pictures of an ancient castle, more lovely than anything she
had ever imagined, a fairy-tale castle with towers and turrets and (so her
father had told her) with ever-changing staircases, dungeons and secret
passages. Hogwarts. The school she was going to attend in a few months’
time, Hogwarts with its secrets, its Forbidden Forest, its lake inhabited by
a Giant Squid, its Quidditch pitch… She had heard of Voldemort. Her father
had even shown her pictures of him, old photos with that typical tortoise
hue, their edges cracked and worn, the outlines of people and objects a
little blurry.
That was the pleasant aspect of the recent changes.
Their less pleasant side concerned her mother. Lucertola loved her
mother—not as much as her father, but people had always jokingly remarked
that this was how things were supposed to be: daughters were daddy’s girls.
There was nothing wrong with that, and she and her mother were still fairly
close. Like every child—and probably even more, given the lack of contact
with other families and children her age—she assumed that the ways of her
own world were the Ways of the World. Fathers were absent all day long, to
come back in the late afternoon and play Quidditch with their daughters;
mothers were exquisite, perfumed creatures floating through the house, a
little distant, a little irritable (especially when clumsy small hands upset
their coiffure) and vaguely interested in their daughters. Mothers also
succumbed to a strange kind of brooding fits every six or eight weeks or so.
They began with headaches, and obviously also involved crying, for when her
mother emerged from her rooms after one or two days, her eyes were puffy and
red and her nose swollen. This, however, was nothing to be worried about.
Mothers were like that.
These last weeks, though, Cho Malfoy had been completely out of her depth.
Usually not the most verbose of persons, she had uttered nary a word since
Lucius's portrait had spoken for the first time. She seldom left her rooms,
was absentminded, but in a more gloomy way than was usual for her. Her
graceful gait seemed to have become heavier, almost reluctant, tired. She
didn’t listen to Lucertola. And, apart form the ‘adult conversations’ with
her father, he, too, had changed. He didn’t want to play Quidditch anymore.
He just retired to his study whenever possible—a novelty, that; in earlier
times the library had been his favoured retreat—and smiled only very rarely.
Lucertola resented all those changes, because they made her feel lonely,
really lonely for the first time in her life. Neither Madame Villepin nor
Monsieur Laforge were more to her than tutors, tolerably well-liked but
certainly not friends, not by any stretch of the imagination. They could not
be confided in. She would have needed a confidant, though, now more than
ever, for all those stories and events and people taking shape in her head
needed to be sorted. The flow of information had worked in only one
direction, from her father towards her; he hadn’t been pleased when she’d
asked questions, but she felt the urge to ask them all the same. She needed
answers.
Fortunately, she had found somebody who was willing to do exactly that.
Somebody who even seemed to approve of her curiosity. Somebody who didn’t
tire of listening to her, of providing more information and helping her
arrange what she already had into a neat system.
“Good morning, Grandfather,” she said, closing the library door behind her.
*
May had been just as exhausting as McGonagall had foretold.
Hermione held mock O.W.L.s and mock N.E.W.T.s and mock finals (after endless
discussions, she had yielded to Severus’s argument that she might use old
questionnaires, from twenty or more years ago, for that purpose), she had
the papers for the real exams ready one week ahead of the deadline, she
corrected homework and arranged private tutorials for those students—mostly
from pureblood families—who hadn’t been able to keep up with the suddenly
raised standards of Muggle Studies. She even managed to work on the copies
and excerpts she had brought back from Crete, and was quite satisfied with
the results.
Not that she felt much closer to recreating the mysterious Draught of Life.
But the matter had lost something of its mythic quality. Instead of chasing
a mere legend, she felt that she was now putting together the pieces, the
many still-blank spaces in between notwithstanding.
At the beginning of June, when the mock finals were over and the corrected
papers had been given back, and when the school owls carrying the O.W.L. and
N.E.W.T. questionnaires had been dispatched to the Ministry, Hermione felt
almost idle and decided that she might squeeze in another trip abroad, this
time to the Great Library of Alexandria. Hidden, literally at the last
moment, from the eyes of the Roman occupants—Romans, at least those of
Caesar’s generation, didn’t look benignly upon magic or wizards—the library
was by no means a pile of rubble and ashes ten metres under the current
street level, but still the same magnificent building it had been in
Cleopatra’s times, protected by powerful wards and shields. Unlike the
rather small, though excellent, library at Cnossos, Alexandria was a
perfectly functioning institution with hundreds of employees, founded by
generous donations from all over the world, where everything could be found
within seconds, down to the smallest scrap of parchment.
The information Hermione had gleaned in Crete might not have taken her much
closer to the Draught itself; but it had shown her where she had to search
next. Authors named and works quoted had given her a fairly accurate picture
of where she might find some texts that would possibly lead her in the right
direction. All things considered, Alexandria was the logical next step. And
then, maybe, she would have to go to Samarkand. While the latter, merely
through its fairy-tale name, held greater promise in terms of adventure and
investigation, she chose to visit the former first—given its perfect
organization, she didn’t even need to stay over night. This, more than
anything else, had decided the matter for her. Over the last weeks, she and
Severus hadn’t been able to spend much time with each other. Albeit trying
to keep their weekends ‘sacred’, sacrilege had soon become a necessity they
both loathed. Next Saturday, the first Saturday of June, was also the day of
the last Quidditch match of the school year, and in the evening Severus
would have to endure the dreaded end-of-term meeting with the Board of
Governors. It was the ideal occasion for her to nip over to Alexandria,
spend a few hours at the library, and be back in time to have a peaceful
nightcap with her soon-to-be husband. He was going to need it.
“Is that your list of required books?” he asked, making her jump in
surprise, as he had entered her study practically without a noise, as usual.
“Don’t do that!” Hermione said, trying to sound indignant but finding it
quite impossible, when he lifted the mass of her hair and pressed a gentle
kiss on her nape.
“No more kissing?” he asked, feigning surprise.
“You know exactly what I mean. No more sneaking up on me.”
Severus chuckled. “I didn’t sneak up on you. I knocked, but you didn’t hear
me. Is that a sign of physical decline, I wonder?” A well-calculated nudge
of Hermione’s elbow made him yelp. “Spikes! If you don’t want to have sex
for the next two months, it would be sufficient to tell me so. So need to
smash my genitals.”
“Oh!” Mortified, Hermione got up and put her hands on his upper arms. “I’m
sorry, Severus, I didn’t mean to—Oh!” He had lifted her and sat her down on
her desk. “You… I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
He shook his head, grinning. “No. But—” he bent forward, making her recline
on the heap of parchment and books “—I was convincing, wasn’t I?”
“Sneaky Sly—” was all she could utter before his arms were around her and
his mouth on hers. The kiss lasted and grew more passionate, at least until
both felt they weren’t alone anymore. Two furry faces sought to insinuate
themselves into the masses of brown hair; cool moist noses touching their
ears made both Severus and Hermione jerk apart.
“Out!” Severus bellowed and, when his command elicited nothing but vaguely
intersted feline stares, grabbed Pluto and Hades, threw them out of the room
and closed the door. “Nuisances,” he muttered and went back to the desk.
Hermione hadn’t changed her position. He saw it with pleasure. “Now where
were we?”
“I believe—” she pulled him down to her, so as to have easier access to the
buttons of his robes “—we were discussing books?”
“Aaaah, yes. Of course.” Severus’s hands crept under her robes, found—to his
and their great satisfaction—that she was wearing a skirt, and continued
their journey upwards. “Books… So…” His fingertips went to the back of her
thighs, searching and finding one of her most sensitive spots, the juncture
between her legs and buttocks. Hermione’s eyes became slightly unfocused.
“So… is the piece of parchment your adorable derriere is currently resting
upon your booklist for Alexandria?”
“Yessss…” During the months they had been together, her fingers had acquired
a surprising deftness in dealing with his buttons. She slid the robes off
his shoulders, and the shirt as far as it would go. Her hands wandered over
the hairless skin of his chest, teasing his nipples. “Those are the books
I—oh!” His fingers had found their way under the elastic hem of her
knickers.
Nothing more was spoken for the next twenty minutes, and books figured in
both their thoughts only insofar as one particularly sharp edge was
insistently boring into Hermione’s shoulder blade—not that she minded too
much—and the resounding thud of a particularly heavy tome hitting the floor
caused Severus to abandon his steady rhythm for a moment. Otherwise, their
minds were completely focused on their slow, sweet impromptu tryst, which
was accompanied by the rustling noise of the occasional sheet of parchment
gliding off the desk and floating down.
“Sorry for interrupting your work,” Severus purred into her ear once he had
caught his breath.
“Unforgivable,” she murmured, giggling and sitting up. “I trust this won’t
happen anymore when we’re married.”
“Of course not.” Severus, too, straightened up and set about buttoning up
his trousers, shirt and robes. “Speaking of marriage—we still haven’t
discussed the honeymoon. I think—” he helped her down from the table and
pulled her into a firm embrace “—that this lack of romantic anticipation is
quite upsetting.”
Hermione snuggled into him. “Well, to tell you the truth, something did
occur to me. I just wasn’t sure…”
“Unless you’re going to suggest that we spend four weeks together with your
mother, I’m ready to accept anything.”
“The day I suggest we spend time with mum, you may just file a divorce.
Staying with her longer than three hours is bound to destroy any
relationship.”
“How very true.” He held her at arm’s length. “Did I already tell you how
beautiful you look immediately after we’ve made love?”
“You might have mentioned it, but feel free to be redundant.”
Severus snorted. “Are you as hungry as I am?”
“More, I think.”
“In that case—” he gallantly offered her his arm, which she took “—let’s
discuss your honeymoon idea over dinner.”
They left the room and went down the stairs. Pluto and Hades had already
positioned themselves at the entrance to the dining room—since the
unfortunate destruction of her chef d’oeuvre at Christmas, Twitchy had taken
to simply sealing the door. They didn’t have dinner at their quarters every
night, but one or two evenings per week were reserved for diners à deux,
especially since they had both become so busy that meals often were the only
occasion for them to discuss important matters not meant for anybody else’s
ears.
They sat down, and Twitchy brought the starters. Hermione looked at her
plate and giggled. “Caesar’s Salad? You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t
you, Twitchy?” The elf did a fairly decent imitation of a surprised stare.
“Come on, Twitchy, I know it’s deliberate. They—” she gestured at the
Kneazles, who were sauntering into the room, the looks of innocence on their
faces even more ostensibly fake than Twitchy’s expression “—hate anchovies,
and they hate Parmesan. Not to mention green salad.”
Twitchy grinned and disappeared with a loud crack. Severus gave his plate an
intense look-over. “She managed to douse every single piece of nut in
condiment,” he remarked, his mouth twitching with mirth. “It seems that
House Elves can be quite vengeful at times. Hermione!” he said, rolling his
eyes in exasperation, when he saw her lick a few of the larger pieces of
walnut clean and present them to the cats—surreptitiously, under the table,
of course. “They’re never going to behave if you do that.”
“I know.” She shot him a guilty look. “Anyway,” she continued, glad to have
a topic ready she could switch to, “I thought that we might combine the
useful and the pleasant. For our honeymoon, I mean. I saw that!”
“What?” Severus struggled to keep a bland expression while withdrawing his
hand from under the table.
“You know exactly what. You scold me for spoiling them, and then you do the
same. Just because you’re jealous.”
He snorted. “Jealous! That’s the most ridiculous… Oh, I refuse to even
discuss it.” He speared a parchment-thin slice of parmesan. “Useful and
pleasant, you were saying?”
“Uh-huh. Because… well, I’m not sure I’ll find everything I need in
Alexandria. A trip to Samarkand might be in order and—”
“Samarkand?” Severus dropped his fork. “Samarkand, as in, Samarkand,
Uzbekistan?”
“Well, yes, I—”
“Spikes! May I remind you that there’s a war going on down there? You didn’t
by any chance miss the news that there was a second revolution two years ago
in Russia, and that they’re hell-bent on re-conquering the old Soviet
territory?”
“Of course not!” She leaned forward, glaring at him. “I know there’s a war,
but the wizards don’t participate, as you well know. It’s a Muggle thing!”
He sighed and picked up his fork again, frowning into his plate as he
carefully chose his words. “Hermione. I am well aware of the fact that it’s
a Muggle war. But I happen to know you quite well—or are you implying that,
once there, you’ll leave without having visited the monuments? Samarkand is
the capital of Tamerlane, unless I am very much mistaken, and there’s a lot
of mausoleums and mosques and other interesting stuff. But if you want to go
sightseeing, we have to leave the wizarding district. Which means—”
“All right,” she huffed. She hated it when he was right—no, that wasn’t
true. She hated it when she knew she was wrong, but stuck to her opinion all
the same, and he… he… Well, he made her feel like a little girl. No. She was
acting like a girl, and that was the truth. Not that she was going to give
up so easily, though. “Do you have a better idea, then?”
Severus shrugged. “Nothing nearly as romantic as playing target to a herd of
rampant mercenaries, no. I have to admit that I was thinking of something as
unoriginal as Italy. Northern Spain, maybe.”
“Hmm…” She shot him a sideways glance.
“But,” he said, putting his free hand over hers across the table, “we might
go to Spain first, then nip over to Samarkand, just the library, and then go
to Italy. There’s a nice little house near Florence…”
Hermione’s eyes lit up. “Oh! That sounds…” Aware that she was giving in, and
quite easily, without putting up even a minimum of a fight, she raised her
chin. “Not too bad.”
Eyes glittering, Severus agreed, “Not too bad, no. There is…” Calculated
pause. “Oh, well, you won’t be interested anyway.”
“Of course I won’t,” she replied tartly.
“Just as I thought.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
A moment of silence, then they looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“I—”
“I—” In unison.
“You first,” said Severus.
“No, no. It wasn’t important.”
“Really? Well, mine was. I love you, Spikes.”
“I love you too, Severus.”
Twitchy, who had opened the door to serve the main course, stopped in
mid-motion and blushed. She’d have to cast a warming charm over the dishes,
she decided, unless she wanted to interrupt the kiss. Or have them eat their
fish stone cold.
Not that they’d notice, she thought and disappeared, giggling quietly.
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