Orpheus

Chapter 13

By Pigwidgeon37

"Well," Severus remarked as soon as they had touched ground at the Hogwarts gates, "if that wasn't a spectacular failure..."

"Bloody waste of time and money," Hermione grumbled.

"Never mind the time and money. I'm more concerned about this mystery, to tell you the truth." He took her hand and they set off towards the castle. "I'm beginning to doubt she has hidden the diary at all."

"No, no." Hermione shook her head so vehemently that she stumbled and had to be caught by Severus. "I'm absolutely sure she did—that finding it is so difficult merely proves she was a very clever witch."

"A bit too clever for my liking. Clever and withdrawn. I would never have imagined…" He fell silent and suddenly seemed to find his shoes very interesting.

When he squeezed her fingers a little more tightly, Hermione looked up at him. He seemed completely lost in his thoughts. "You would never have thought?" she prompted gently.

"Nothing…" He gave her a fleeting smile. "Just that… there seem to be a lot of similarities. Strange, to realize such a thing in hindsight, after so many years."

"Similarities?" she echoed, a little puzzled, "Between—"

"Lily and myself. I would never have thought she had no friends."

"Understandable, what with her magic showing so early, and everybody frightened at what she did. Although—maybe Petunia's account was a little biased?"

"Hmm…" Severus considered this a long time; the entrance door was already in sight when he spoke again. "Where Lily’s loneliness is concerned, no, somehow I don't think so. No, this sounded pretty genuine. It takes some getting used to, but I can imagine Lily remaining in her room all day, reading and—how did that awful woman phrase it?"

"Preening in front of her mirror, combing out that hideous red mane?" Hermione giggled. "She sounded positively envious, didn't she?"

"Definitely. But Lily was a very beautiful girl, even at a very young age. I can imagine her sister's jealousy." He held the door open for her.

Hermione stepped over the threshold into the entrance hall and sighed deeply. "Bless these walls and their girth! I was positively dying from the heat." Again hand in hand, they climbed the stairs leading towards Severus's office. "But all these insights into Petunia Dursley's character, fascinating as they may be, don't cancel one fact: we haven't found out a thing."

"True. But supposing your instinct is correct, and the notes are hidden somewhere, there must be a solution." The gargoyle jumped out of the way when Severus gave the password; they rode up the spiral staircase in silence. "Oh, by the way," he said after they had entered the office, "before I forget it—" he picked a sheet of parchment up from his desk "—this is Malfoy's letter of confirmation. The girl is going to arrive tomorrow, at three p.m., right at the entrance to Flourish & Blott's."

"Fantastic." Hermione's voice was dripping with sarcasm. "This was just how I imagined my summer holidays."

"Just one afternoon, Spikes. And the day after that, we're going to Italy. That's something to look forward to, isn't it?"

*

Lucertola hadn't slept well that night. Her slumber had been fretful, frequently interrupted and haunted by images that didn't quite qualify as nightmares but were definitely unpleasant. Portkeys taking her to the wrong places, portkeys melting under her hands as soon as she touched them, Headmaster Snape yelling at her, Headmaster Snape morphing into her grandfather, books trying to suffocate her. She was glad when the hand of the magical alarm clock on her bedside table shifted from 'Go back to sleep' to ' Time to get up'. Her nightgown and hair were plastered to her skin, and she longed for a shower. It took her longer than she'd thought, and afterwards she wasted a considerable amount of time standing in front of her wardrobe and trying to choose a robe for the afternoon. Somehow, her clothes seemed so girlish all of a sudden—for a moment, she was tempted to ask her mother whether she might borrow some of hers. She dismissed the idea, though, as importune questions would be even worse than wearing robes she didn't like.

Due to her dawdling, she was alone at breakfast and quite grateful to be left in peace. She didn't want to listen to admonitions or advice, as she was feeling insecure enough as things were. Therefore she deliberately passed by the library door after breakfast, without even looking at it, and instead went outside for a bit of flying. It was the best way to pass the remaining hours until her trip to Diagon Alley; once on her broomstick, she always managed to forget everything else, and time became a matter of secondary importance at best.

Only after lunch did her nagging thoughts return—who was going to wait for her? What if they forgot or went to the wrong place? What if Headmaster Snape was there? At a quarter to three, she had worked herself into a state of near-hysteria, half-wishing that the object of her desires might be there to meet her, but at the same time hoping that it wouldn't be him.

A pouch filled with galleons was waiting for her on a narrow console under one of the mirrors in the entrance hall; next to it sat the portkey, an innocuous-looking small notebook. Her father had told her that it was going to be activated at a minute to three and that, for the return journey, she merely had to touch it with her wand and pronounce 'Ouessant'. She counted the seconds, staring at the portkey as if it held all the answers to her questions, examined her mirrored image, fought the urge to just run upstairs and never come down again. Two minutes to three. She picked up the notebook. Strange, how slowly time seemed to pass when you were counting the seconds…

Then, the strange sensation right behind her navel, that feeling of being pulled forward and upward and in every direction at the same time, a rush of sounds and colours, and she found herself standing, a little weak in the knees, in front of a shop window filled with books.

The novelty of her surroundings made her forget her previous anxiety. This was so different from everything she’d seen so far! Paris did of course have its very own magical district, or rather districts, as there were two of them. One on the Ile de la Cité, and the other clustered around the Place des Vosges. Those were the oldest parts of the French capital, not as grand and spacious as the more modern areas, but all the same they lacked the cluttered intimacy of Diagon Alley. Lucertola decided that she liked this slightly chaotic, motley assembly of crooked, half-timbered houses, the smallish shops, the irregular, bumpy cobblestoned pavement, the shop signs that swung and creaked when the wind moved them. Without noticing it, she had been slowly turning around herself with her head and eyes raised, and when she had completed a full circle, she bumped into somebody.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” said a female voice.

“Yes, ve—” Lucy’s mouth closed so abruptly that her teeth hurt. Her stomach clenched into a hot ball of jealousy as she examined the woman standing before her, smiling and extending a hand. She took it and withstood the urge to try and squash it into a pulp of bones and tendons between her fingers. “How do you do?” she said, her tone suddenly frosty and condescending. It was something she’d seen her parents do innumerable times. Smile a smile that didn’t leave the confines of one’s mouth, make the handshake so brief and detached that it conveyed a feeling of disgust to the unfortunate receiver. “I am Lucertola Malfoy.”

“Hermione Snape,” said the woman, who had clearly understood the message. “Pleased to meet you.” It sounded fake, and sweetish, and her eyes had grown hard and cold. “Do you have your booklist?”

“Of course. But…” Lucy tilted her head and stared pointedly at the other witch’s frizzy hair, giving the tiniest of deprecatory smiles. “Shouldn’t we start with less weighty things?”

“I don’t think so.” Using all her self-control, Hermione kept herself from passing a hand over her hair. “We can shrink the books and put a Weightless Charm on them. Or rather, I can do it.” Why did the girl get her so riled-up, she wondered. There was hostility in her eyes, yes, but the chit was fifteen, no match for her in whichever way, so why was she so susceptible to her behaviour?

“I’m quite adept at basic charms. But thank you for your kind offer all the same.”

Hermione swallowed and, as unobtrusively as possible, took a deep breath. No, she wasn’t going to do Miss Malfoy the favour of replying in a shrill tone of voice. She was going to remain calm. “I do not doubt your skills, Miss Malfoy. But there are regulations forbidding the use of magic to underage wizards. Follow me, please.” She turned round to enter Flourish & Blott’s, fighting the sensation of unease that overcame her—the girl might hate her, but she wasn’t going to stab her in the back. Not here at least, she added, grinning to herself in a rather grim fashion.

While the saleswizard, who had been given the booklist, scurried among the shelves to retrieve the required tomes, and Lucertola wandered through the shop, examining the titles on display, Hermione stood leaning against the counter, immersed in deep and none-too-pleasant thoughts. After that first moment of befuddlement—less at Lucertola’s reaction to her, which was understandable given the Malfoys’ family history and ideological background, but at her own, quite violent sensation of dislike—she had understood what was nettling her. The girl was an almost identical replica of her mother, Cho Chang, now Cho Malfoy, for whom Hermione had always harboured an intense dislike. Her nose was a bit longer and more pointed than her mother’s, her eyes a lighter grey and less slanted, the mouth slightly broader—the genetic heritage of the Malfoys was unmistakeable. But all the same, the resemblance between mother and daughter was very strong. Hermione hoped the girl wouldn’t choose Muggle Studies but saw her hope destroyed when, with a friendly smile and a nod, the clerk deposited the first stack of books on the counter and hurried off to get the rest. Muggle Studies, too. Hermione let out an inaudible sigh. Damn it! She would have to overcome her prejudice, as every decent teacher was bound to. What about Lucertola’s all too obvious enmity towards her, though? Dealing with that wasn’t going to be easy, especially as the girl seemed to have a spine and head of steel.

The rest of their shopping passed in icy silence, interrupted only by the most basic and necessary sentences. Originally, Hermione had planned to treat young Miss Malfoy to one of Florian Fortescue’s delicious sundae creations, but that was quite out of the question by now. She could hardly stand the girl’s presence and ever-lingering smirk of contempt, so she would be a fool to prolong their forced company beyond the bare necessities. Not that Lucertola would mind, she thought wryly; on the contrary, she seemed as eager as Hermione herself to part ways as soon as possible. Hence, they finished their purchases in record time, and Hermione felt immensely glad when she could finally hand the young witch the Ministry portkey that was to take her to King’s Cross Station on 1 September, exchange another icy handshake and return to Hogwarts after the girl had activated her portkey.

*

“This is so… Why,” Hermione said, sitting up in her deck chair and shooting her husband an indignant look, “does the word ‘beautiful’ have to be so trite? Because this is beautiful.” She gestured at the gentle, dusky swell of hills surrounding them, the cypress trees sudden interruptions in the voluptuous flowing lines, pointing towards the evening sky like indolent fingers, not quite ready to move, simply keeping the beholder aware of the beauty of the sunset.

She sank back into her chair and grabbed for Severus’s hand. “I could stay here forever. Such peace, and quiet and harmony.” Even the remainders of their supper—goat cheese, crispy white bread, tomatoes bursting with sun-flavoured juice, and red wine—looked like a sophisticated, deliberate arrangement in the unique light of an early evening in Tuscany.

Severus snorted, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “You have Apparated to Hogwarts three times in the five days we’ve been here, my love. Your wish to stay here forever sounds a tad… incongruous, compared to your actions.”

He was right, of course. Hermione had been quite restless. Although there was a good reason for her repeated visits to the castle. “It’s all Lily’s fault,” she replied gruffly.

“I know, Spikes. I know.” His thumb kneaded her palm. “I know, and I’m sorry your sudden inspirations weren’t as successful as they were brilliant.”

A lark was spiralling upwards into the turmoil of orange, pink and purple, already tinged indigo towards the east. The clarity of the bird’s voice formed a sober contrast to both the riot of colours and Hermione’s somewhat mixed feelings. “I merely wish…” She sighed. “I wish I could come up with a solution. The statues seemed so promising.”

“Hmm… I know that comments along the lines of ‘I told you so’ are never appreciated. But I sincerely doubt Lily would have referred to statues as ‘people’, you know?”

“They used to be people before they died. So it would have made sense.”

“More than the House Elves, anyway, I agree.”

“You are being very obnoxious, Headmaster. You have to admit that it was an ingenuous idea—Death Eaters would never in all their lives have imagined she might have referred to House Elves as ‘people’.”

“Or to books,” he added, gripping her hand a little more tightly, just in time before she could swat at his arm.

“Books are the same as statues—”

“Oh, really?”

“Severus, you’re treading dangerous ground! I meant to say they’re the same as statues in that they were written by people. The allusion would be a bit far-fetched but possible. We often refer to books as if they were people, don’t we? We say, have you read the new XY, instead of, have you read the new book by XY. So it did make sense.”

“In a very twisted kind of way.”

“Oh, shut up!” she snapped, but her tone lacked malice. Sure, she was frustrated by the fruitless search, but somehow the beauty of the landscape and the still-deepening love that permeated their stay here made it difficult to be really cross. Least of all with Severus, who had shown a truly angelic patience and even participated in her ponderings and musings. “I’m sure,” she added as an afterthought, “that it’s something so obvious that we’re going to feel like idiots once we’ve discovered it.”

“Probably,” he admitted. “Hiding in plain sight is always the best method. Although I have to say that Lily has definitely elevated it to an art form.” He stifled a huge yawn and turned his head to look at Hermione, blinking with fatigue. “Interesting as the Etruscans were, I’m bone tired. I must be getting old—rising at four a.m. would have been a piece of cake twenty years ago.”

“I’m half asleep, too, if that’s any consolation. And twenty years ago we thought you were a vampire.”

“In that case I would have gone to bed at four a.m.,” he said reasonably, “And your potions classes would have taken place in the dead of night. What about the Quidditch match I refereed once? I didn’t crumble into a pile of dust, did I?”

“Believe me, we profoundly regretted that you didn’t. Besides, we chalked that up to your general bastard-ishness.”

“You mean, malice as a powerful enough counteragent against the laws of nature?” he asked, grinning, while he rose from his chair.

“Something like that. Help me up?” Hermione stretched out her hands and was yanked forcefully up and against Severus. “Ooops—thank you. There seems to be a lot of energy left.”

“There might be,” he answered slyly. “Just not enough to remain sitting outside, having you within reach.”

“Is that a promise?” Somehow, she managed to shoot him a sultry look while at the same time disposing of the dishes with a flick of her wand.

“Let’s say it is a hint, and a none-too-subtle one at that.”

“Do I have time for a shower first?”

“Definitely.” He pulled her close and kissed her. With a last look at the remaining smudge of dark purple on the inky night sky, they went inside.



The house was old, very old—fifteenth century, as Severus had told her—but had been adapted to the exigencies of the twenty-first century with subtle use of magic. Therefore, the furniture was original, collected by generations of Snapes throughout the centuries, but the large kitchen cupboard was charmed to keep its contents chilled and fresh, the huge, claw-footed bathtubs had only to be tapped with the point of one’s wand in order to fill themselves with hot water, the floorboards didn’t creak thanks to elaborate silencing and anti-vermin spells, and the upholstery and curtains still held their Renaissance splendour. Hermione had fallen in love with the house as soon as she set foot inside, and the feeling had increased during the past few days. The discovery of an extensive library had certainly done nothing to make her less enamoured of their honeymoon nest, and the perfectly-limpid swimming pool in the rear garden was very alluring, too. They had done lots of sightseeing, at the most ungodly hours and thus undisturbed by tourists, of whom there were plenty. They had Apparated into churches shortly after sunrise or in the middle of the night, they had visited archaeological sites in the wee hours of the morning in the unreal light of a waning moon. This morning, they had gone to Volterra, an ancient Etruscan settlement, to watch the sun rise over the crumbled walls and centennial trees.

Hermione sat down in her boudoir, now clad only in a dressing gown, and started brushing her hair. She could have disentangled the knots and nests magically, but there was a certain meditative quality to the movements of the brush, first across her scalp and then through the soft strands, again and again until it passed without a hitch; she liked and needed this silent transition from wakeful to ready-for-bed mood. It gave her time to let the images of the day replay before her mind’s eye. Pensively, she glanced at her mirrored image, scrutinizing her face, which would look so different from her real face to somebody standing behind her and looking at her reflection, a different Hermione, a second, identical-and-not-identical Hermione, a second…

The hairbrush smashed a perfume bottle, when she abruptly flung it back onto the toilet table; the overpowering scent of lemon and lavender made her sneeze, but she didn’t care. As fast as she could, she jumped up, raced out of her room and towards the bathroom, hit the door with her flat hand repeatedly and, when Severus didn’t respond—the sound of running water probably covered even the racket Hermione was making—simply barged into the steam-filled room.

“Severus?”

Dripping wet and slightly flushed, he poked his head out of the shower. “Yes, my dear? I thought you wanted to take a shower before… but you are, of course, welcome…” He made an inviting gesture.

“No, no! Listen, Severus, I think—”

But she had ventured too close to him. His arms were long and his hands strong, despite their wetness and slipperiness, and before she could continue she was already inside the shower, dressing gown and all, her hair suddenly a heavy wet curtain all over her face. Up till now, their lovemaking had always been gentle, more probing than daring, not least because of Severus’s traumatized past. This was different, Hermione thought, or rather felt, for thinking was rapidly becoming too complicated. This was new, and highly pleasant, this feeling of his still-controlled strength against hers, a strength he had never used hitherto, which he now employed to hold her up against the cool tiles astride on his thigh, while his hands explored her body much more forcefully than they had ever dared before. She struggled a little, just to prolong the pleasure, to feel strong fingers dig into her flesh and a taut, hot body press her into the wall.



“Next time,” Severus remarked, while he towel-dried Hermione’s hair, “We have to reduce the water temperature. Otherwise we might lose our lives due to premature heart attacks.”

She leaned back into him with a happy sigh. “I could imagine worse ways of dying.”

“Yes,” he agreed dryly, “But I want to do this more often before I pass on to the Elysian Fields. Thank you for coming, anyway, and for the excellent timing.”

Hermione’s smile grew wanton as she turned to face him. “Coming was a pleasure, and the timing was all yours,” she purred.

At that, he laughed and held her closer. “Indeed. But I meant your sudden and well-timed appearance in this bathroom.”

“Would you be very disappointed if I told you that I didn’t come here for hot sex in the shower?”

“Only if we hadn’t had hot sex in the shower. As things are, I am quite content. So why did you disturb my showery solitude?”

“Because I think I’ve figured out Lily’s conundrum.”

He dropped the towel. “Are you sure?”

“This time I’m sure. Remember what Petunia said?” she asked, handing him the body lotion he obediently rubbed into her back. “About Lily sitting in front of her mirror all the time? Well, I was brushing my hair and thinking how different my face would look to somebody else, because of the inversion… two Hermiones, literally.”

“Brilliant,” Severus muttered. “Absolutely brilliant. Yes, that might indeed be the solution. Do you think it was the mirror at Godric’s Hollow or at her parents’ house?” He put on his bathrobe and set about searching for his slippers.

“The latter, I think, but that’s merely a gut feeling. Here you are,” she said, throwing him the slippers.

“Thank you. Well, if your instinct is correct, we merely have to look into the Hogwarts register to find the address. And then, I suppose, we’ll have to foray into minor delinquency. Breaking and entering, to be exact. Do you think you can wait until tomorrow?”

Much to his surprise, she shook her head. Her answer, though, was even more astonishing. “We’re going to return next week in any case. I can wait until then, if you can, that is.”

“Why this sudden change of heart?” he inquired, as they left the bathroom.

“It’s not a change of heart. I’m just absolutely sure that this is it. So it won’t matter if we go there after our return. And now—” she stopped and embraced him “—the real honeymoon can begin.”

“I’m going to write to the pope and ask for canonization of that mirror,” Severus muttered.

*

Lucertola gazed up doubtfully at her grandfather’s portrait. “And… you really think I’ll be able to do that?”

“You are my… granddaughter,” he drawled, gauging her face for a reaction to the slight pause. There was none. “Of course you can do it.”

Her hands were playing with a piece of thread that had come loose from the hem of her sleeve. “There might be nothing. Nothing of importance, I mean. Not everybody—”

“Lucertola!” Lucius interrupted her sharply. “A human being—loath as I am to apply that term to a Mudblood—a human being without secrets of a, well, darker nature is unimaginable. Such a thing simply does not exist. Or—” he leaned forward, grey eyes glittering “—are you trying to pretend that you have none? That you are an innocent?”

“Well, I…” Impossible to avoid his eyes. Worse, it was impossible to resist the magnetic pull of his eyes, even when you were looking elsewhere; you just had to tear your own eyes away from whatever they were contemplating and meet his. Lucy had often wondered whether anybody had been able to withstand him while he was still alive, if his painted self possessed that much power.

“Well, what?” Now he was holding her glance with his, in icy pincers.

“I mean, certainly I do have my secrets, as everybody does…”

“Like for example your feelings for the Headmaster of Hogwarts.” He uttered the words lightly, as if they had no importance at all.

Lucy felt as if he had just slashed through her with an invisible scalpel, baring her soul which was now squirming, naked, under his unwavering look. The shock notwithstanding, she tried to pull the shreds of her self-assurance close around the gash, in an attempt at modesty. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Then you are less intelligent than I thought,” he replied harshly. “Or did you think I would disapprove?”

“Well, yes, I thought you would… After the things you told me about him…” Now she was feeling helpless. And she had thought she’d been so clever, waiting two agonizing weeks, so as to make her question less obvious, although she was burning to share her hate of the Mudblood with her grandfather. All her cunning had been useless, obviously. He had known all along.

“My dear child.” Lucius crossed his arms and leaned back, his eyes never leaving hers. “I trust your memory is not so short as to already have forgotten about your mother’s past?” She shook her head, mutely and wide-eyed, and he continued, “Therefore you know that your mother was a traitor, just like Severus Snape. Maybe on a smaller scale, but then she was young and had not yet risen far within Lord Voldemort’s ranks. And all the same, I allowed my son to keep her at the family mansion. Traitors, my dear, have the immeasurable benefit of being weak and gullible. They go first this way, then that. They are never quite sure. They always feel guilty, deep down. That is their weak point, the point you have to make your target. Once your hook is buried in that soft, rotten spot, you can do anything you want with them.” He gave his granddaughter, who was now listening, completely mesmerized, a brief smile. “You might think it strange, but I would not oppose to Severus Snape becoming your husband, if I could be sure that you know how to manipulate him. He is, after all, a very powerful wizard, and you, dear child, show every promise of becoming an equally powerful witch. Together you might be able to accomplish what your father has failed to achieve.”

Lucy’s eye became even rounder. “What, grandfather?”

He chuckled. “Let me have my little secrets. First, get rid of the Mudblood. Then, ensure that Severus Snape be your obedient servant. And then, my dear, we will see. You should be looking forward to a highly entertaining time at Hogwarts. Have you been studying?” he asked, his voice now very businesslike.

“Yes, of course. I think I could sit my O.W.L.s any day.”

“Very good. So you will have enough time for your own little project. How much time is left until your departure?”

“Two weeks. Well,” she corrected herself, “thirteen days.”

“Thirteen days…” Lucius smiled dreamily. “Then I think it is time for a little reward—for your honesty,” he added with a smirk that caused Lucy to blush deeply. “Go to the attic and search for a wooden box, rather small, with silver fittings. The key should be in your father’s desk—it’s silver, too, with a design of two snakes eating each other’s tails. I think that the contents of the box should be very much to your liking. And useful, very useful.”