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Orpheus
Chapter 10
For the first time since her home-schooling with private tutors had
begun—about ten years ago—Lucertola was not happy on the first day of her
holidays.
She was sitting in her room, perched on the windowsill (the walls of the old
house were so wide that the sill was more of a seat, actually) and staring
out into the steadily falling rain. From time to time, a gust of wind
compressed the downpour into greyish-white sheets that washed against the
windowpanes. Lucy attempted to convince herself that she was unhappy because
of the weather. But she knew better. She didn’t believe herself. She knew
why she was unhappy, and she felt worse because she couldn’t do anything
about it.
Little more than a week ago, when she had already been halfway through
accepting that things in the Malfoy household had changed, irrevocably as it
seemed, life had taken yet another unexpected turn.
It had been difficult but possible to cope with her mother’s total
withdrawal from the rest of the family, as it wasn’t an entirely new
phenomenon; something she had known all her life had merely intensified. To
come to terms with her father’s sudden detached behaviour had been a lot
harder. Then again, she had gained an unexpected confidant in the portrait
of her grandfather. It had been a struggle, but she had almost won it. Then,
completely out of the blue, her parents had begun to… intrude. There was no
other word to describe their sudden interest in talking to her, that
prodding and probing, that worming their way into her mind. She wasn’t used
to it. She instinctively shied away, more so as she felt something very…
unusual between them, without being able to determine what it was. A kind of
nearness, though at the same time there seemed to be more distance between
them than ever before. It was a paradox, Lucertola was well aware of that,
but that was how she perceived the situation. She was trying to fit this new
factor into the equation of her life, and failed.
Besides, she wasn’t entirely sure whether she liked the direction the
conversations with her grandfather were taking. In the beginning, she’d been
totally overwhelmed by the wealth of information, stories, anecdotes he had
laid out before her. He knew how to fascinate a listener. And she had been
thoroughly fascinated.
Lately, though, he had started dropping subtle hints about Professor Snape,
Headmaster of the school she was about to attend and—but she hadn’t told
Lucius—object of a crush of truly enormous proportions. Lucy felt she was in
love, and she cherished the feeling. The other professor had been nice, too.
And good-looking, yes. But there was something about the Headmaster that had
immediately attracted her, despite his not-really-handsome appearance. There
was a depth behind his calm, controlled exterior that ineluctably drew her
towards him, his advanced age notwithstanding. Except for the short
conversation on Boxing Day with her father (his reaction still puzzled her,
but she had never worked up the courage to confront him about it) she had
kept her feelings a secret. She possessed a wizarding camera, the latest
model of course, and had taken a few snapshots of their visitors. One of
them showed Snape—unaware of being looked at through a lens—leaning against
the stone balustrade of the terrace at the rear side of the house. His eyes
were hooded, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing around his lips,
his chin resting on his entwined fingers. From time to time, he passed a
lazy hand through his short, black hair. The way he moved his fingers made
Lucy smile, because she knew he had once worn it long. There were other
pictures, too, but this one was Lucertola’s favourite. Whenever possible,
she slipped away to her rooms, to have a good, long look at it.
Her grandfather didn’t seem to have a very high opinion of the Headmaster,
and somehow this irked her. She’d seen him in person, talked to him, sat at
the same table with him. She simply couldn’t believe there was anything
wrong with him. They had talked, and his gentle, friendly manner had
convinced her that he wasn't entirely immune to her charms.
Then, the other day, she had received a serious blow.
Her father, more interested in the goings-on of his native England than his
exile, limited himself to reading L’Hebdomadaire Magique, a weekly magazine
that kept him superficially informed about French politics. The Daily
Prophet, though, arrived at their house every morning by express owl.
Sometimes she skimmed the pages, mostly because of the Quidditch results.
The other day, however, her eyes had been immediately attracted by the
inch-high headline on the front page: Hogwarts Headmaster marries Minister
Potter’s ex-wife. Underneath the title, a photo. Severus Snape, splendid in
robes of dark green velvet, embraced a young woman wearing white bridal
robes.
Lucy had fled the room, completely shattered. She had retired to her
chambers and wept, trembling with rage and jealousy. Sufficiently adept at
cosmetic spells, she had gone down to dinner with her face wiped clean of
every trace of her outburst, but once she was back in the safety of her
bedroom, the tears had returned. And she had no idea whom to turn to. Her
heart felt heavy and sore, she wanted to smash something or to run across
the island, screaming her hurt feelings into the wind and rain, but she knew
that such behaviour would likely attract unwelcome attention. So she
remained inert, on her windowsill, staring disconsolately out into the
greyness, feeling that she had suffered an enormous loss.
She wasn’t angry with Snape. All this wasn’t really his fault. But that
woman… she wasn’t even beautiful. The bridal robes clinging to her body had
shown clearly that her arse was too big and her thighs too fat. And she was
short, to boot. And totally unremarkable, plain even. Lucy hated her with
all her heart. Unfortunately, the woman was also a teacher at
Hogwarts—Muggle Studies, the most ridiculous and useless of subjects. Her
grandfather had impressed upon her the necessity of choosing exactly that
subject, claiming that he had learned from his own errors, that it was
preferable to know one’s enemy, especially if said enemy had so vastly
different ways of thinking and behaving. She understood why the Muggles were
enemies, and she agreed with her grandfather. If only… if only she didn’t
have to take the subject with that fat, short nightmare as a teacher.
Then again, she thought, sitting up a little straighter, then again, having
her as a teacher might prove quite valuable. She would hear her speak, she
might gauge her reactions, watch out for weaknesses, maybe find ways to get
her out of the school and the headmaster’s life. Not bad, all things
considered.
Lucertola swung her legs off the windowsill and slid down from her perch.
Maybe there was a way she could talk about all this to her grandfather
without disclosing her reasons to him. He was cunning and very creative—he
might be able to help her develop a strategy. No need to tell him why. For
Lucius Malfoy, the fact that this teacher was a Mudblood would be
justification enough.
*
Once Severus and Hermione had finalized their honeymoon plans, they had
agreed it was much better not to depart immediately after the wedding, or
even the following day, as just-married couples usually did. Both were
fairly sure that the wedding would be a rather exhausting business—the
ceremony, then an official reception with almost two-hundred guests
including the reporters, and finally the private celebration—and thus had
decided that they were probably going to need two or three days to recover
from the festivities. Besides, having old friends like Dumbledore and
Flitwick at the castle was too rare an occasion for them to pass it up. Mr.
Pappadopoulos, the librarian from Crete, had come as well; Moody, too, had
consented to stay longer than just overnight. It was almost like a family
gathering (of the pleasant variety, despite Mrs. Granger’s shrill presence)
and both the newlyweds enjoyed it greatly.
When the last guest (except for Dumbledore, who needed to use the library)
had left Hogwarts on 18 July—Mrs Granger being Apparated home by Mad-Eye, to
whom she was clinging a bit more than necessary for joint Apparition—the
Snapes returned to their quarters and started packing.
“Are you sure Filch is going to take good care of them?” Hermione asked,
while trying to wrestle a sock from Pluto and Hades’ claws.
“I’m absolutely sure. Mrs. Norris is getting old—he’s probably beside
himself with joy at having two lively young cats around, just for a change.”
Hermione shot him a doubtful glance. “If that old scarecrow thinks he can
turn my kittens into some feline version of the Gestapo…”
“I don’t think so,” Severus said, chuckling. “But I hereby authorize you to
warn him off any such ideas he might have.”
For a while, they worked in silence, then Severus said, “By the way, Spikes,
I almost forgot to tell you: I had this interesting conversation with Mr.
Pappadopoulos—”
“He’s a lovely person, isn’t he?”
“He is, and so taken with you that I might have become a bit jealous—if he
were younger, that is. Anyway—” he carefully inspected a V-necked black
cashmere jumper “—I mentioned the J.L.P. conundrum and—”
“The what?”
He rolled his eyes. “J.L.P. The person who’d read the same books as you, oh
Lady of the Short Memory. Both in Cnossos and Alexandria. The whole thing
was a little awkward, as I was sure you had asked him, but it appears you
didn’t.”
“Of course not.” Hermione cast him an astonished look. “He or she was there
thirty years ago. You know how old people are—memories from their childhood
and youth intensify, whereas the rest begins to fade. Lord Byron being a
case in point. I was sure Mr. Pappadopoulos wouldn’t remember.”
“Well, he didn’t. Not really. Just one thing: he told me it wasn’t one
person but two. A man and a woman, quite young.”
Hermione sat down on the floor, cross-legged. “Interesting,” she muttered.
“Two people, but they signed with only three initials…”
“Or only one of them signed.”
“Yes…” She wagged her head, not quite convinced. “I don’t know… Or rather…”
She absentmindedly plucked Hades out of a silk negligee. “There is something
at the back of my mind, but it’s too hazy. Somehow I just know they were a
couple. A married couple, probably, seeing as they used only three
initials.”
“Thirty years ago—yes, I suppose they would have had to be married. Things
were a bit different back then. Pity Pappadopoulos couldn’t remember where
they came from. I beg your pardon?” he said when Hermione mumbled something
under her breath.
“S.H.S.” she said, frowning at him.
“I’m afraid I don’t—”
“That’s how we would sign if we were doing that kind of research together,
wouldn’t we? S.H.S. For Severus, Hermione, Snape.”
“Maybe,” he replied, sneering, “If I were an uneducated, loutish—”
“Severus!” Hermione’s face had gone white, with unhealthy red stains on her
cheekbones; her eyes were wide and the tendons on her throat stood out. She
seemed to have trouble breathing.
“Hermione! What on earth—are you feeling ill?”
“No! No, I’m not ill, but… Severus! It fits together, it fits perfectly! The
Potters, Severus, the Potters!”
Now seriously worried, Severus dropped the pair of shoes he had been holding
and knelt down next to her. “Darling, please! What’s the matter with you?
What fits perfectly? And which Pot—” Then the coin dropped, and he sat down
rather ungraciously, staring at his wife. “It seems impossible…”
“Impossible?” She laughed, her tone close to hysterical. “Impossible?
Severus! It’s the only reasonable explanation! They recreated the Draught of
Life and fed it to Harry! What else—”
“Wait, wait!” he interrupted her. “Let’s think this through step by step.
Accio water!” He pressed a glass into her hand. “Drink this, and calm down.”
The glare she shot him was mutinous, but she obediently drank half of the
water and offered him the rest. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me at all. So tell me, what am I going to say?”
“That’s obvious, isn’t it? That the Draught of Life allegedly brings people
back from the dead, but that there’s no hint, not even in the legends, that
it protects people from the Killing Curse.”
Severus shook his head. “Much as I hate to disappoint you, that was not what
I was going to say. I presume you are familiar with the theory about the
ancient gods being highly powerful wizards?”
“I think I remember it, yes.”
“Very well. Part of that theory—and I personally think it’s a very sound
theory—postulates that the lightning bolts the gods used to throw were very
potent Killing Curses. Remember that copy you brought home from Alexandria?
That obscure Xenophon passage? About Zeus’ thunderbolts flying back
heavenwards? I wonder how we could have missed the hint.”
“We didn’t know what to look for,” Hermione replied, still breathless.
“True.” Severus nodded and massaged the bridge of his nose. “What made me
hesitate to accept your conclusions was something else. If the Potters
really managed to recreate the draught—and Lily was brilliant with potions,
I wouldn’t put it past her… If they succeeded, why didn’t they take it as
well? I mean, if I had a small child, I wouldn’t test the potion on him or
her, but on myself. It doesn’t make sense.”
“No,” Hermione agreed, “That certainly doesn’t make sense. Wait!” she
exclaimed, grabbing Severus’s arm. “Wait, wait, wait! I remember… I have to
write to Harry!” With these words, she scrambled to her feet and sprinted
towards the door.
“Hermione! What—” Severus didn’t finish his question, as she was already out
of the room. Sighing, he got up and strode after her.
*
Dear Harry,
Thank you for the wedding present and the card. I hope you know how much I
appreciate the gesture. We even managed to hide your parcel from Skeeter’s
prying eyes just in time—I am sure you would not have appreciated her
comments.
Now that the holidays have arrived, I am finally able to inhale deeply, take
a step back and have a good long look at my new job. Not that I am
complaining, but it’s not really a challenge. Not for a Muggle-born witch
like myself, at least. Considering that my attitude towards motherhood has
not changed, I’m afraid I might have a little too much spare time in the
future. As you well know, I’m not the type who enjoys idleness, and so I
have already devised ways of remaining busy. This project I am planning
cannot be pursued without your consent, though. And I might need to ask you
a favour.
And yes, I am going to elaborate: I want to write a biography of your
parents. To the best of my knowledge, such a book doesn’t yet exist, and it
is high time that somebody write it, because many people who knew your
parents very well are already quite old (Dumbledore, for example) and I
think a biography of James and Lily Potter would be incomplete without their
testimony.
So, if you allow me to write the book, I’ll immediately start interviewing
people.
But, as I said, I also need to ask a favour: remember when we rebuilt the
cottage at Godric’s Hollow? When we went through the ruin—and now more than
ever am I grateful to the Aurors for having magically sealed it after the
tragedy—and found that hidden compartment behind your mother's room? I
distinctly recall that there were documents, pictures and papers, which you
put into a box without even glancing at them, because you were too overcome
by your emotions. I’m aware that I’m asking a lot, but would you let me have
that box? Even if it contains nothing but a few sentimental souvenirs, they
might help me complete the picture.
Just in case you’re having doubts, I will of course give nothing away
without previously discussing it with you. I could send you the chapters,
one by one, or the whole manuscript when it’s finished—whichever you prefer.
Hoping to hear from you soon, I remain
Yours affectionately
Hermione
*
The state of feverish excitement Hermione had been in during the days
following the departure of her owl to Harry had, of course, rendered any
honeymoon-related thoughts completely obsolete. She had pointed out that, if
Harry gave his consent to the bogus project, he’d probably send the material
right back to her; post-owls being magically trained to find addressees
regardless of their current location, this would have meant that the poor
beast would have to cross the Channel and half of Europe to arrive at its
destination. A parcel that could easily be carried from Dover to Hogwarts
might, however, prove a fatal impediment in a long-distance journey, meaning
that, if the worst came to the worst, bird, letter and papers might be
forever lost in the waters of the Mediterranean.
Fortunately the fever had been contagious—Severus, too, was now burning with
curiosity and therefore had given in without regrets to Hermione's pleas to
stay at Hogwarts, at least for the time being. Whichever saint or
otherworldly creature was responsible for the summer weather in Scotland
seemed to favour their plans. After the rain of their wedding day, the sun
had come out from behind the clouds, dispelled them with astonishing force,
and stayed. Hence, everybody nodded in understanding when the Headmaster and
his wife declared that it would be a pity to leave just now. Sunshine and
heat in Tuscany were more or less granted; the same meteorological
conditions in Scotland, on the other hand, were something to be appreciated
and relished. Moreover, just to avoid awkward scenes and questions at the
arrival of the Minister's parcel—Hermione simply didn't consider the
possibility that he might deny her request—they stuck to the story Hermione
had fed her ex-husband. She was to write a biography of James and Lily
Potter. Everybody was enthusiastic, and, to lend some semblance of truth to
her tale, she actually started interviewing those who had known the couple,
and found that she enjoyed this pastime more than she had expected. It also
had the additional benefit of taking her mind off the nagging question
whether Harry would acquiesce or not.
Back in the times when Cornelius Fudge or Arthur Weasley had occupied the
Minister’s comfortable chair, she might have had to wait for the whole
duration of her holidays. Not so nowadays, when efficiency had become the
Ministry’s motto, and procrastination was a crime almost as vile as high
treason.
Harry’s response arrived four days after she had dispatched her owl. What it
lacked in charm—a fact commented upon poisonously by Sirius Black, silently
applauded by Severus—it made up in content. Satisfying content that made
Hermione's cheeks go pink with excitement.
Dear Hermione,
Severus read to the assembled group of friends—McGonagall, Black, Madam
Pomfrey and Dumbledore—who had gathered in the headmaster's quarters for
pre-dinner drinks and the Opening of the Parcel,
Referring to your letter of 18 July, may I express my sincere thanks for
your discretion regarding the wedding present I sent. It would, indeed, have
been another occasion for Mrs Skeeter to cast her customary aspersions I
have grown thoroughly tired of.
The project you proposed is wholeheartedly welcomed by both myself and my
advisers, who feel that, in view of the upcoming elections of 2016, a
biography of my parents might be an excellent means of winning an even
larger majority than last time. Please find enclosed a draft contract,
which, should you deem it satisfactory, will be immediately forwarded to the
Department of Private Law. As you will notice upon perusing it, I would
prefer to receive the complete manuscript, instead of single chapters.
With my best wishes for the endeavour you will be undertaking, and my
heartfelt thanks, I remain
Most sincerely yours
Harry Potter
Minister of Magic
“That,” Sirius remarked, “has to be the stiltedest bullshit ever to have
been carried by a Ministry owl since the days of King Arthur.”
Dumbledore cleared his throat but said nothing—his affection for the former
Golden Boy of Hogwarts had markedly diminished since he had been told about
the Minister's behaviour during his visit to his then-wife at the Hospital
wing. McGonagall snorted, and Poppy Pomfrey giggled. Severus raised an
inimitably bored eyebrow. “Remarkably correct, Black. Although ‘stiltedest’
deserves an award for Cacophony of the Year.”
“As does this letter,” Black grumbled back.
“Well…” Dumbledore took a thoughtful sip of his sherry. “Maybe we should
have a look at the mysterious contents of this parcel?”
Hermione was so engrossed in reading the contract that Severus had to pull
one of her locks in order to draw her attention to the impatiently waiting
company. “Spikes, won't you do the honours?”
“O-of course.” She shot the others an apologetic look and, with a deftly
applied charm, severed the ropes that held the parcel together.
The nondescript brown paper fell apart, to reveal a plain cardboard box. Its
worn edges and the yellowish tone of the material spoke a rather clear
language as to its age. Hermione's eyes widened. “That’s it!” she breathed,
“Yes, that’s exactly the one! I remember…” A slight movement from Severus
reminded her that it might be inopportune to show too much enthusiasm.
“Those were… quite happy times,” she added, by way of an explanation, and
earned herself another snort from Sirius.
Everybody leaned forward in their chairs when she carefully pried the lid
off the box. The lingering scent of various beverages, mixed with a strong
note of peppermint wafting from Dumbledore's robes (some time ago, he had
discovered his passion for Peppermint Bugs and abandoned his ubiquitous
lemon drops) gave way to the distinct aroma of dust and old paper, dry, a
little mouldy, not unlike the smell of Hogwarts’s library. With a sideways
glance at her husband, Hermione picked up a stack of photographs, bound
together with a faded red ribbon.
“Those are going to look great in the book.” She carefully slid the ribbon
off the pictures. The topmost photo showed James and Lily Potter, glaring at
each other furiously. They had to be about fourteen or fifteen years old.
She handed the picture to McGonagall, who was sitting next to her. She
smiled. “Like cat and dog, those two,” she muttered, brushing dust off the
surface with her forefinger. “Who would have thought…”
Hermione had mentioned the ‘quite happy times’ of her first years with Harry
merely to provide a credible explanation for her emotional outburst at
seeing the box, which for her represented a wealth of information; at least
that was what she hoped. But when Sirius took the picture from McGonagall,
she was almost ashamed of herself, for having told such a blatant lie. The
very instant he looked at the photo of his friends, his face seemed to age
rapidly. There was a hopelessness in his eyes, and a sadness that made her
want to jump out of her chair and take him into her arms. He wouldn't have
appreciated it, not in front of all the others, and so she remained where
she was, trying to catch his eye and giving him a warm, reassuring smile
when she succeeded. For him, revisiting those memories of times long past
had to be a terrible experience. Maybe less because of the loss he had
suffered thirty years ago. Hermione guessed, and quite correctly so, that it
was more the resemblance between James and Harry which was causing him this
sadness. He had lost James due to circumstances outside of his control. But
Harry was an altogether different matter. Sirius's relationship with his
godson would have had the potential to become so much more than it had
eventually turned out to be. Partially this had also been Sirius’s fault,
and Hermione was sure that, while his eyes were focused on the image of the
father, he was mourning the loss of the son, more bitter and hurtful as the
son was still alive.
They looked through the pictures; each of them the starting point of a
story, each of them triggering powerful memories. And while Sirius was
deeply upset, Severus didn't remain unaffected, either. There were photos of
the couple, when they had already left Hogwarts. A period that belonged to
the darkest part of Severus's life. Hermione's heart was aching for both of
them, Severus and Sirius, because these representations of happiness caused
them nothing but sadness and regrets.
There were letters as well, and underneath them James and Lily’s Hogwarts
diplomas, a Golden Snitch charmed into immobility, a few jewels, a rather
large envelope containing souvenirs from Lily’s Muggle life, mostly
pre-Hogwarts, and, underneath all those items, two diaries.
Sirius glanced at them longingly, but Hermione, who had foreseen exactly
that, forestalled any questions on his part, feeling cruel and guilty. “I
think,” she said, “That I should go through these first. It's kind of… you
know, a matter of honour, as Harry agreed to give them to me, he didn't
really allow me to show them to anybody else, at least not explicitly…” She
bit her lip and avoided Sirius's look.
“Of course,” McGonagall chimed in, unaware how grateful Hermione was for her
intervention. “This is between you and Harry—he would certainly have
mentioned it explicitly, if he had meant for you to show these diaries to
anybody else.” She polished her glasses vigorously and merely shrugged at
Sirius’s furious stare.
“Y-yes. That’s exactly what I meant.” Hermione nodded weakly, telling
herself that she was a heartless, lying bitch. But the matter was simply too
potentially dangerous. The fewer people knew, the better. If the diaries
contained nothing—and she really didn't know anymore what she wished them to
contain, torn as she was between her own desire and Sirius's distress—she
was going to give them to her friend, without Harry’s permission.
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