Orpheus

Chapter 9

By Pigwidgeon37

Draco was sitting at his desk, in his office, staring into the darkness created by his hands he had buried his face in. Honestly though he tried, he simply wasn’t able anymore to work up much enthusiasm for buying, selling, speculating and manipulating. It had been possible for many years, because the past was the past, a scary but quiet mass he had buried deep down in his mind. Some parts of it—a handful, really—were allowed on the surface, for him to examine and revel in. The rest had been banished from his consciousness, so that he could carry on with his life the way he wanted to.

When his father’s portrait had spoken though, for the first time in fifteen years, the situation had changed so drastically that his mind was still reeling. Everything had been dragged out of its hiding place. There was no point in telling himself that he didn’t have to, that his father’s portrait was exactly that, a portrait, which couldn’t hurt him or punish him or do anything except talk. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to just take the damned thing off its hook or nail or whatever held it in place above the fireplace, and carry it up to the attic. Or down into the cellars. But he couldn’t do it. This was his father, for Merlin’s sake, and he had been wishing for a word, one single word from him for such a long time… Impossible to simply bury him—a second time, for his body had already been buried—impossible to relegate him to darkness and solitude. Impossible. The emotions the painting evoked notwithstanding. Draco felt guilt and shame, joy too, but the regrets were far stronger. He deserved it. Every single moment of heart-breaking, soul-shattering, mind-shredding guilt. And probably he also deserved the horrible feeling of jealousy when he went past the library and heard the two voices, engaged in a lively dialogue. It made his heart ache and his stomach clench, that nagging jealousy that overwhelmed him at the thought that his father (her father?) had become her confidant, merely because he, Draco, had done it all wrong.

They had had long talks, true, but those conversations had been terribly difficult, since he was willing—no, not willing, reluctantly ready—to give Lucy what information he had. Her questions, though… No, those he couldn’t answer. They’d been too much for him, he hadn’t been up to satisfying her curiosity. His fault. Again his fault. And so his daughter, who still loved him, of that he was fairly sure, had withdrawn a little, hurt, without doubt, by his reticence. There was now a certain distance between them. Almost like between Lucertola and her mother. He had become almost as inaccessible to her as Cho.

And this, he thought, slowly raising his head, was the other big problem. Cho. His wife, who flat-out refused to leave her chambers. She seemed to prefer staying there, burying herself in her rooms together with her memories. This had been going on for two months, and he had done nothing to change it.

With a sigh that might also have been a sob, Draco rose from his chair and straightened his shoulders. He had to try and talk to Cho. This wasn’t about the two of them—he couldn’t have cared less about their marriage—it was about Lucy. He knew she loved her daughter. Maybe she just didn’t see what was going on, otherwise he could hardly imagine her giving in without a fight. He had done what his father had ordered him to do, he had told his daughter about the past, because he had acknowledged it as a necessity. But he’d be damned if he let the girl slip away from him, and Cho wouldn’t like that, either. They would have to face the past together. For Lucertola’s sake.

He went to give some instructions to his secretary, and then Disapparated.

After a moment of silent contemplation—on summer days like this, under a blue sky with a few feathery could-balls, the house looked truly beautiful—he pushed open the door and stepped into the coolness of the entrance hall. After the hectic noises of traffic and people in Paris, Ouessant with its steady heartbeat of waves, its bleating sheep and chirping birds had seemed like an oasis of quiet. But only when he closed the door behind him did Draco become aware that outside, there had been an amazing variety of sounds. Here, inside the house, in the stony embrace of centuries-old, sturdy walls—here, there was quiet. A total absence of sound, even when he strained his ears to make out the tiniest bit of it. No clock ticking, no footsteps resounding, no clothes rustling. Even the paintings were still in the silence of the early afternoon.

Then, he heard voices, but only very faintly. A rush of apprehension had already overtaken him when he realized, belatedly, that Lucertola—for one of the voices was undoubtedly hers—couldn’t be conversing with her grandfather right now. It was a few minutes past three o’clock, therefore the male voice had to belong to Monsieur Villepin. Soon, the holidays would begin for his daughter; she was allowed six weeks of undisturbed leisure, to start on 15 July. Ten more days. Then, six more weeks, and after that, Hogwarts. His daughter was going to leave their house—somehow, the realization of the impact this was going to have on his life hadn’t really sunk in until now. He would be alone with Cho and… Draco closed his eyes and swallowed. He’d find a way to cope with all this. But he needed to talk to his wife.

Without glancing at the library door, he climbed the stairs, taking them two by two, and hurried down the first-floor corridor until he stood at the door to Cho’s rooms, slightly out of breath. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, to compose himself and make sure that his voice wouldn’t tremble. Then he knocked. “Cho?”

No sound came from inside—not that he was surprised. Maybe she was sleeping, or perhaps she was just too deep in thought to hear him. Or maybe she just didn’t want to answer. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that this was the most likely answer.

“Cho?” He knocked again, then added a few bangs with his right fist, for good measure. When the echo had died down, he listened intently. Was that the sound of muffled footsteps? His fist hit the wood again; it hurt a little, but was also strangely satisfying. “Cho? I need to talk to you!”

“Go away.”

He jerked back, startled by the nearness of her voice. She had to be standing directly behind the door. Her tone was empty, totally devoid of emotion.

“Cho, this is important. Open the door, we have to talk!”

Again, no answer. Draco pressed his left ear against the door—maybe he could hear her breathing? But the wood gave nothing away, it was too thick, an adept keeper of secrets.

“It’s about Lucy. We—” He lowered his voice, suddenly and poignantly aware that, if he continued to shout, Lucius’s portrait might hear him. And that was not what he wanted, definitely not. “We have to do something about her, Cho. And… I can’t do it alone. I need your help.” He grimaced as he spoke those last words. But it was the truth. They had to do this together. Or fail.

The door opened, and Draco gasped—he immediately regretted his reaction, but it was too late now.

“Don’t like what you see, do you?” Cho looked at him out of sunken eyes in a gaunt, pale face. There were plum-coloured smudges under her eyes, her lips were dry and chapped.

But that wasn’t what had made Draco recoil. She had cut her hair, and apparently not used magic to… mutilate, was the only fitting expression, her formerly long, shiny mane. She must have severed the strands with blunt scissors, and without looking at a mirror while she worked. The hair was now standing up in irregular spikes, longer on the right side than it was on the left, and it looked filthy.

“I…” Draco passed a hand over his eyes. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have… Why?” he asked, gesturing at her head that seemed ridiculously small.

“It seemed… appropriate,” was her only answer.

“I see. Listen, Cho, we have to talk—”

“About Lucy. You already said so. Come in then. I don’t want to—” a look of something, maybe fear, maybe anger, passed over her face “—go out there.”

“But you will have to, sooner or later. If you… are at all interested in Lucy, that is.” He glanced around the room while he spoke, surprised that its state didn’t mirror Cho’s. It was tidy, and well-aired, the windows were open, and there was no outward sign of the turmoil that obviously reigned in his wife’s mind.

“Of course I am. Otherwise you wouldn’t be inside this room now. Only…” Her voice trailed off, and she took a few steps away from him, turning her back to him.

“Only what?” he asked, mimicking her movement, so that he stood directly behind her. When he put his hands on her shoulders, he could feel the bones and cartilage of the joints through the silk of her negligee.

“He’s too powerful.”

“It’s just a painting, Cho. Merely a painting.”

“Oh really.” She gave a hollow laugh and let her head fall back against his chest. “So why don’t we just pour sulphuric acid over it?—You see,” she said, when Draco remained silent, “You see, don’t you, that it’s not ‘just a painting’? It’s far more than that, you know it and I know it. Do you have any idea how powerful your father was, Draco?”

“Well, I… yes, of course I know my father was a powerful wizard. Everybody knew that.”

The black spikes scratched against his robes when she shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. Yes, he was also an extremely powerful wizard. But I’m talking about charisma. About magnetism. About—” she turned round and captured his look with hers, more intense than usual because her face had become so emaciated. “About the power to manipulate, Draco. About the power to reduce people to puppets. That’s what we’re talking about.”

“Father never—”

“Draco. Listen to me. You’ve come here to talk, so listen to me.” She took his hands and led him over to a couch, cream-coloured silk with a pattern of cornflowers. They sat down side by side. “This marriage… it’s been so strange. For you too, I suppose. We have never mentioned…” Her eyes closed, and she reclined against the back of the couch. The softly shimmering ivory background brought out the greyish tone of her complexion. Draco looked away. “We have never talked about the time I spent at the manor. But even so, have you never asked yourself what happened between your father and myself? Didn’t you wonder why… why I never made an effort to escape? It would have been—not easy, not really, but feasible. While you were at Hogwarts, there was only your father, your mother and me. I could have escaped.”

Slowly Draco turned his head, to look at her. “So why didn’t you escape?”

“Because I didn’t want to,” she whispered. “Lucius was so…” Her chest rose in a shuddering sigh. “He had his ways. Ways of… I don’t think I can talk about it. Not now. Maybe never. But believe me, if he wants to ensnare Lucy, he has probably already succeeded.”

There were tears now, slowly seeping out from under her closed eyelids. Draco had never seen her cry, and felt something stirring within him, something like pity, or compassion. He leaned over to wipe the droplets off her face, and his hands remained there, cupping her cheeks, feeling their cold softness. “I’m sorry, Cho.”

Her lips curled into a thin smile. “Don’t apologize, Draco. You’re a victim as well.”

“Maybe, if we join forces, we won’t be victims anymore.”

“Why should we be able to join forces now, if we’ve never done it before? Fifteen years, Draco, fifteen years of marriage, and this is the first time we talk about the past! Do you really think there are any forces left to be joined?”

He bent over her, to brush her dry lips with his. “We could try, at least.” He deepened the kiss, feeling her gradually relax into his arms. Then her hands came around his back, holding on to him with the strength of desperation. They slid down, he on top of her, fumbling with buttons and belts, urgently, hurriedly. Her eyes remained squeezed shut, and Draco closed his own, in an attempt to block out everything, his father down in the library, Lucy, the past, the future. He concentrated solely on the woman underneath him, who, whether despite or because of their talk he didn’t know, was suddenly a stranger to him. He thrust into her, forcefully and deeply, then shifted his position a little, so as to increase the friction between his pubic bone and her sex. This elicited a single moan, just one, throaty and almost angry-sounding, before she stuffed her clenched fist into her mouth as she always did.

“Don’t,” he panted, and pried the hand away from her face. “Don’t!” He was nearing his climax; he felt that she, too, was close, and quickened the rhythm of his thrusts. When her fist moved towards her lips again, he simply grabbed her wrist and pinned it down above her head. One more thrust, and one more. Her muscles around his cock started contracting, more and more, one more thrust, and one more.

Cho opened her mouth, wide, so that traces of blood appeared in the crevices of her dry lips. Colour crept up her throat and into her cheeks. Another thrust, and she cried out, “Lucius!”

Her eyes flew open, and they stared at each other, speechless.

*

Hermione carefully opened one eye to peer out of the window. What she saw made her sit up so abruptly that Pluto and Hades tumbled off the bed. Severus, whose sleep had been uncharacteristically deep since the holidays had started, propped himself up on his elbows and stared at her, eyes unfocused.

“I can't believe it!” Hermione said, ignoring the two Kneazles’ indignant wails. “I can’t bloody believe it.”

“Can't believe what?”

“It’s my wedding day, and it’s raining!”

“Let’s just not get married then,” Severus said, and fell back into the cushions. “Let’s just stay here and…” He yawned and closed his eyes.

“I never knew you were such an adept empath,” she remarked, her tone of voice so venomous that he started laughing.

“It doesn’t matter, Spikes. It really doesn’t. If the sun was shining, you’d be so hot in your dress. Try to see it from that point of view.”

Hermione huffed. “Somehow it would be so much more romantic if the ceremony could take place outside.”

“Because there's always the chance of your mother wandering off into the Forbidden Forest?”

“Hagrid wouldn't like that.” Hermione giggled and lay down again, snuggling into Severus. “She’d scare the animals to death.”

“Probably,” he agreed. “She’d try to groom the centaurs…”

“And she’d clean Aragog’s lair…”

“Paint the Ford Anglia a nice shade of pink…”

“To match her lipstick.”

They laughed, and then fell silent, looking at each other.

“I wish this moment would last forever,” Hermione whispered, stroking Severus's slightly stubbly jaw with her thumb. “This feeling of… oh, I can’t even describe it. The mere thought that, this afternoon, we’re going to get married makes me all warm and fuzzy inside, and there seem to be bubbles in my blood. Strange, one might almost think I love you.”

“Which is, of course, impossible.”

“Absolutely impossible. Do you think we might skip breakfast?”

“Hmm…” Severus nibbled at her earlobe. “And leave the others at your mother’s mercy?”

“Alastor doesn't seem to mind,” she replied, grinning and closing her eyes.

“Spikes! I really don't need the images this remark has created in my mind.”

“Then,” Hermione said, “you might want to replace them with different ones.”

And so they did.

*

“Brrrr…” said Hermione, glancing askance at her bridal robe. “I haven't dressed up like that since… Well, let’s not go there.”

McGonagall laughed. “I daresay it’s a little different today.”

“Very,” Hermione confirmed, nodding vehemently.

“Don’t move, for Circe’s sake! I’m trying to tame that hair of yours. Maybe—” McGonagall grinned at her former student in the mirror “—I should just transfigure it.”

“Depends. What did you have in mind?”

“A bird of paradise, maybe. Or a white peacock?”

“Alive?”

“Of course. Otherwise it wouldn't be any fun at all.”

“I didn’t know weddings were supposed to be fun,” Hermione said tartly, thinking of her mother.

“It’s going to be fine, Hermione. Just fine. If it is your mother you’re worrying about—” McGonagall summoned a handful of hairpins and a flacon of Sleekeazy “—Alastor has her pretty much under control. And she… seems quite taken with him. They both had a terrible hangover this morning. Don't move, I said!”

“Sorry.” Hermione tried not to shake with suppressed laughter. “I just can't imagine—”

“Alastor can be rather charming, if he chooses to give it a try. As to your mother—how long has she been a widow?”

A shadow crossed Hermione's face. “Eight years. Quite a lot of time, isn't it? Although I don't think…” She didn't finish the sentence and started playing with a hairpin, avoiding the older witch's look.

“You don’t think?” McGonagall prodded.

“Well, theirs wasn't an especially happy marriage, you know. When dad died…” She swallowed, fighting the surging emotions. “She just seemed to be angry at him for having left her,” she continued after a short pause. “No tears, you know? No… emotions, at least not what I’d have expected. If such a thing happened to me…” Unable to keep the tears from spilling over, Hermione rubbed furiously at her eyes.

“Shush.” McGonagall put a soothing hand on her shoulder. “It’s not going to happen for a long, long time. Severus will be fifty-seven this year. And the Snapes are a surprisingly tough bunch. You have a hundred years ahead of you, at the very least.”

“I know. It's just that… sometimes, I think so much happiness can't last.”

“You used to be so very unhappy for so many years, Hermione. And the same is true for Severus. Don’t you think you both deserve some happiness now? If you look at it from that point of view, your happiness doesn't seem like hubris, not at all. Now—” she conjured a handkerchief and handed it to Hermione “—blow your nose. And apply a deflating charm. What would your mother say if she became aware you had been crying?”

Despite the still-persisting anguish, Hermione chuckled into her handkerchief. “She’d probably feel very smug. I don't think she’s got over the shock of having Severus for a son-in-law, instead of Harry.—Oh!” she exclaimed, looking into the mirror. “Minerva, you’re a genius!”

Whenever she had to appear in public while she was married to Harry, a specially trained young witch had forced her hair into very elaborate coiffures that added at least ten years to her age. Not so Minerva. She had created a multitude of plaits and interwoven them; their ends formed a crown on the top of her head. The hairdo looked intricate and simple at the same time. And she didn't look a day older than her thirty-four years. Maybe even younger.

“Thank you,” McGonagall said with a smug grin. “Now a bit of make-up, and you’ll be perfect.”

The proud, motherly look in her eyes didn't escape Hermione, who turned in her chair and spontaneously flung her arms around the older witch’s midsection. “Thank you,” she murmured into the rich folds of McGonagall’s robes. “Thank you so much for doing this for me! You know it means a lot to me, don't you?”

“To me as well,” said McGonagall. Her voice was slightly hoarse, as she bent down to press a kiss on Hermione's forehead. “I wish you both happiness, child. For many, many years to come.”

*

There were… Hermione counted. Tried to count, rather, as her eyes were a little unfocused. She started again. Oh, well. About thirty people. Whether a few more or less really wasn't important. What surprised her was that the racket they made was louder than the noise produced by a few hundred students. It had to be the alcohol, she thought, taking a thoughtful sip from her wineglass. The alcohol and the fact that everybody was having a splendid time, much better than she had expected. Leaning back into the comfortable weight of Severus's arm around her shoulders, she scrutinized the assembled guests.

Sirius and Remus Lupin, who had brought his wife, were seated at a table together with old Professor Flitwick, Sirius’s predecessor, and obviously wallowing in memories of their own school days; the uproarious bouts of laughter coming from their direction suggested as much. Dumbledore, who had performed the wedding rites, had thrown his beard over one shoulder and was engaged in what seemed like a very engrossing discussion with Mrs. Granger and Mad-Eye Moody. Hermione giggled.

“What is it, Spikes?” her husband’s—yes, husband’s, and it felt supremely wonderful repeating it to herself—voice purred into her ear.

Closing her eyes against the pleasant shiver his voice made run up and down her spine, she answered, “Mum. I’ve never seen her so… I suppose ‘girly’ sums it up fairly well. Look, she’s giggling!”

“So are you, my darling, all the time. How much have you had to drink?”

“I have no idea,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “Absolutely no idea. I merely know that I’m so happy I could burst.”

“So am I.” He kissed her temple. “Maybe we should—”

Whatever he had meant to suggest was interrupted by Sirius, who got to his feet, swaying just the slightest bit, and clapped his hands. “Dancing!” he shouted, and his proposal was greeted by whistles and applause.

“I’ll kill the bastard,” Severus muttered under his breath, “I swear I’ll kill him!”

“Oh!” Hermione tried to look shocked but failed quite spectacularly. “I thought—” she giggled “—I thought you knew what Sirius had planned for tonight.”

Severus said nothing and merely glared at her, while she was fighting a losing battle against laughter. This went on for almost a minute, until she couldn't hold back anymore and collapsed into his lap, shaking all over with laughter.

His hand patted her back, and he said, in a tone of exaggerated reproach and resignation, “Some hours ago, you pledged loyalty to me, Spikes. Loyalty, do you hear me? Do you know what loyalty means? It means you’re not supposed to laugh at your husband’s woes. And—” he bent down so he could whisper into her ear “—neither are you supposed to arouse me in the most shocking fashion while in public.” He smiled down at her and gasped, as, instead of an answer, she wriggled in his lap.

In the meantime, the musicians had entered the Great Hall. Three stout wizards, clad in the colours of the McGonagall Clan—black, white and scarlet—carrying bagpipes. Hermione sat up just in time to see the withering stare Severus shot his deputy, who shrugged and grinned unrepentantly. “My nephews!” she called over the noise of laughter and furniture being moved.

“May they go to hell,” Severus growled. But he got up, bringing his helplessly giggling wife to her feet as well, and helped the others banish the chairs and tables against the walls of the Great Hall.

McGonagall approached them. “I thought,” she said, “that a bit of Scottish folk dance might be more to your liking than what we usually have at Halloween.”

“Conveniently overlooking the fact that I abhor dancing.”

“Oh, come on, Severus. This is your wedding day. There has to be a dance at every wedding. It’s the tradition. You know about the power of music and collective singing and dancing. Besides—” she leaned towards Severus in a conspiratorial gesture “—it will sober people up a little.”

Severus merely bared his teeth at her. Then, however, he and Hermione followed McGonagall quite docilely and let themselves be placed in a quadrangle together with Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey. The rest of the guests followed suit, guided into position by Sirius and McGonagall, who then proceeded to explain the steps and figures, amidst much laughter and confusion.

Still slightly dazed—happiness had at least as much to do with it as the wine she had drunk—Hermione watched the laughing faces, heard the Three Nephews strike up a folk tune, moved according to McGonagall’s directions, touched hands, swirled and turned, was kissed at least twice by every guest as they met and parted, met and parted, saw Severus's scowl melt into a smile that stayed on his face, saw his eyes light up every time they met hers…

Minerva had been right, she thought. They deserved happiness.

And it seemed as if they’d finally made it.