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Orpheus
Chapter 17
Communication with her grandfather would have been easier for Lucertola
if his portrait had still been hanging in the corridors of Hogwarts, like
those of so many other benefactors who had made generous donations to the
school.
But it had been taken down and destroyed shortly after Voldemort’s return to
power, as had the portraits of Barnabas McNair, Arbatax Lestrange and
Elpidius Nott. It had been the obvious thing to do, for these ancestors of
wizards known as Death Eaters would have threatened the school’s safety—a
word whispered carelessly in the corridors might have found its way all too
quickly to their descendants and from there to Voldemort. What nobody had
thought to take care of, not even wise and almost-omniscient Dumbledore, was
an innocuous-looking painting of two young girls in pastel-coloured robes,
their gold-blonde hair tied into pigtails, chasing each other through a
bucolic scenery of luscious grass, tall birches and cornflowers under a
smiling blue sky. The outline of the vaguely baroque manor in the background
had never looked familiar to anybody, never set off any alarm bells, but
then few people had ever been to Ouessant.
And neither did anybody remember Alecto and Tisiphone Malfoy, born in the
last decade of the eighteenth century. Both had been married, as was the
tradition of those times, to wizards much older than their brides and chosen
by the girls’ parents. Alecto had died, little more than a year after her
wedding, from a curse fired at her by her very drunk, very violent husband
Athanasius Black. Her sister had barely survived the birth of two children,
the second eleven months after the first; both she and her husband, one
Porphyrios Dumbledore, had been warned against another pregnancy. The third
child was born prematurely and survived its mother by a mere two hours. What
had hence become of Porphyrios Dumbledore was unclear—his name had been
erased from the family tree, as had those of his two children.
How the painting had found its way to Hogwarts was a mystery, and its
existence remained a well-kept secret, handed down from father to son,
generation by generation of Malfoys. A useful secret, too, because this
wasn’t the only existing picture of Alecto and Tisiphone Malfoy. There was a
portrait as well, showing the sisters when they were already young women,
shortly before Tisiphone’s wedding, sitting on a sofa hand in hand. After
his daughters’ tragic demise, the then-head of the Malfoy family had had the
painting moved to his study, and there it had remained throughout the
centuries. And once the other painting representing the sisters as little
girls had arrived at Hogwarts, it hadn’t taken the Malfoys long to recognize
just how precious a gift fate had bestowed on them. Alecto and Tisiphone
would have done anything to bring harm to the Blacks, the Dumbledores and
every single of their friends and relatives.
The last time this method of communication had been used was 25 June 1998,
the day before the Graduation Massacre, when a flustered Colin Creevey had
whispered into Draco Malfoy’s ear that he had an important message for the
Dark Lord but didn’t know how to deliver it. It had been delivered promptly,
and Severus Snape had almost lost his life.
When, after Voldemort’s death, the Malfoys moved to Ouessant, the portrait
of the two young women had been hurriedly shrunk and thrust into a trunk
together with Lucius’s portrait, equally reduced in size. It had taken Draco
and his mother a few weeks before they were ready to unpack and un-shrink
Lucius’s portrait, which the House Elves were then ordered to put into the
library, above the fireplace. Alecto and Tisiphone had been moved to Draco’s
study. They didn’t like him nearly as much as his father, though, for whom
both girls harboured a mix of awed respect and giggling admiration.
Lucertola, since she wasn’t the male heir, had never been told by her father
about the special properties of the painting in his study. Lucius had
disclosed the secret to her and made her swear she’d keep it. He had also
taught her the spell she needed to magic solid objects into paintings
(obscure and useless as it sounded, it was used quite often, mostly by
student pranksters who wanted to get the portraits drunk. The Fat Lady at
the Gryffindor entrance being one of their favourite targets).
When she returned from the Snapes’ laboratory, Lucy was too tired and
exhausted to do anything but fall into her bed, without bothering to remove
her robes or clean her teeth, and sleep. She had waited for long, breathless
minutes in pitch darkness, until she could be reasonably sure she wasn’t
going to be caught red-handed. Then she had undertaken a painstaking search
of the room, which hadn’t yielded any sensational results. She had hoped to
find something written, but had to be content with examining the various
containers sitting on the workbench the Mudblood had been standing at. Since
she was quite adept at Potions herself, Lucy had assumed that the order the
jars, phials and bottles were arranged in might have a meaning of its own,
and had therefore jotted down a kind of diagram, not unlike a chessboard
during a game, carefully detailing the form and content of each vessel. This
had given her a certain satisfaction.
The feeling of elation had turned into one of horror, though, once she was
finished and it occurred to her that she might need a password to get out.
To her great relief, this had proved to be an unnecessary fear, but all the
same her clothes were soaked with sweat when she strode through the
corridors and back to the Ravenclaw quarters, safely swathed in her
Invisibility Cloak.
She managed to wake up in time next morning, but felt drowsy all day long,
unable to concentrate on anything and merely longing for a good night’s
sleep. Not that she felt she was in much of a hurry. For now, she had found
out as much as she could, and repeating the adventure too soon after the
first time really would be pressing her luck. Therefore, it wasn’t until
Wednesday evening that she retired into the safety of her four-poster with a
mug of hot chocolate, parchment, quill and her notes, and started writing a
letter to her grandfather. After midnight, when everybody was fast asleep,
she silently got out of bed, tucked her wand into the sleeve of her
nightgown and grabbed the Invisibility Cloak. The painting was in a short
side corridor on the seventh floor, and she reached it without encountering
anybody on her way, hoping all the while that the two girls hadn’t gone to
visit Merlin knew which other painting, because it was cold out in the
hallways and she didn’t want to wait in the draughty chill.
But she was lucky. Alecto and Tisiphone were sitting in the shade of one of
the birch trees, eating apples and chatting. When Lucertola threw back the
hood of her cloak, they scrambled to their feet and hurried to the
foreground, waving frantically.
“Hallo,” Lucy whispered. “Everything all right?”
They nodded, and Alecto said, “You’re lucky to find us here. Sir Cadogan is
throwing a card party, and we have to leave in five minutes.”
“Anything we can do for you?” Tisiphone asked, examining Lucy’s flushed
face.
“Yes, please. If I give you a letter for my grandfather, would you be so
kind and deliver it to him?”
The sisters exchanged looks of delight. “For Lucius?” Tisiphone squeaked.
“Yes, for him. And… please don’t mention it to my father. Or my mother,” she
added as an afterthought.
“Our lips are sealed,” Alecto promised. “Is there anything we should tell
Lucius?”
“Only that I’d be really grateful if he wrote back. Or sent a message
through you. I’m a bit clueless—don’t know what to do next.”
Tisiphone leaned forward until her elbows were resting on the gilded frame.
“Are you planning to kill somebody?”
“N-no. I think not.” Lucy giggled at the thought. “Although… Maybe somebody
is going to be sent to Azkaban…”
“Really? How exciting! Is it a secret or—” Alecto was interrupted by the
sudden appearance of a red-haired mediwitch who came racing into their
painting, totally out of breath.
“Run for cover!” she choked out between gasps, “Peeves is on the war path,
and he’s got a whole pot full of red oil paint!” She was already half out of
the painting when she uttered the last words.
The girls gave identical shrieks, waved a hasty goodbye to Lucy and darted
off towards the house. Unsure whether poltergeists were able to see through
Invisibility Cloaks, Lucertola pulled the hood back over her head and
retired behind the flowing cloak of the statue of Pellinor the Pompous, to
wait there until Peeves had finished wreaking destruction on this part of
the castle.
*
Halloween had come and gone with its usual sumptuous feast and its
decorations of bats, pumpkins and red-and-black candles. The next day, which
was a Saturday, had brought a special treat, namely a Hogsmeade day for all
the students, from first through to seventh year, although Severus had
initially been a little reluctant to unleash Mona and Lisa Weasley on the
town’s unsuspecting citizens.
November had begun cold and unfriendly; an entire week of constant, if not
overly strong, rain had turned the grounds into mud. Not even Sirius’s best
attempts at Shielding and Drying Charms had been able to preserve the
Quidditch pitch from sharing the same fate, and therefore the first match of
the season, scheduled for 15 November, wasn’t conducted with the usual
fervour, as the players weren’t too eager to fall or knock others off their
brooms. Maybe the relatively calm atmosphere was also due to the fact that
Ravenclaw was playing Hufflepuff, a combination which always promised a fair
and disciplined game.
Two of the Ravenclaw team’s members, one of the Chasers and the Seeker, had
informed Professor Vector—much to his chagrin, for they were excellent
players—that they’d prefer to focus on their studies, as this was their
seventh year, and give up their positions in favour of younger students.
Everybody had been surprised when Lucertola Malfoy had shown no interest in
participating in the tryouts. Her Head of House had even called her to his
office, to ask her in private whether she wouldn’t like to put her
considerable skills at the disposal of her House team, but she had declined,
politely but firmly. She didn’t feel up to three nights of training per
week, she told Professor Vector, as she still had a lot to catch up to. He
had objected that, so far, she’d received nothing but top grades, but
Lucertola answered that these results had been made possible only by hours
and hours of studying. Vector, recognizing that he might just as well try to
destroy a stone wall by banging on it with his bare fists, had rested his
case.
Miss Malfoy’s refusal had of course been the subject of a couple of
conversations in the staff room, but since nobody could possibly object to a
zealous student’s understandable wish to excel in every subject, none of the
teachers felt like criticizing her.
Hermione, who had overheard as well as participated in some of these talks,
would have liked to interpret the girl’s evident indifference to anything
outside her own academic success as one more piece completing the puzzle
that was Lucertola Malfoy. Just as she had promised herself upon her return
from the Aurors’ Academy, she had been watching the girl more closely during
the past weeks, more than the two she had originally planned. She had also
paid more attention to her own sensations, ready to write down the exact day
and time she had the feeling of being followed. Since her conversation with
Moody, however, and despite her increased readiness to capture the tiniest
hint, there had been nothing. Absolutely nothing. And, much though she hated
to admit it, Lucy’s behaviour in class had also changed. Yes, there was the
occasional unguarded stare of dislike, but the irritating questions had
ceased almost completely, and neither did Lucertola show any tendency
towards teasing her.
Instead of reassuring her, these observations—or rather the lack
thereof—caused Hermione a profound sense of unease. She had seen the hate,
the contempt and the defiant mockery on the girl’s face, more often than she
would have liked to; she had been driven to distraction by the carefully
aimed questions and looks. She was a down-to-earth person who didn’t imagine
things. She knew she had seen the signs, so they had been there. And if they
weren’t there anymore, there had to be a reason for this change. That she
wasn’t able to identify it only served to exasperate her more.
One afternoon, when Hermione caught herself thinking that, if Moody had been
right and the girl had a crush on Severus, and if the symptoms had so
suddenly ceased, then maybe Severus… “No!” she said and flung her quill on
her desk, splashing the third-years’ homework with red ink in the process.
“No, this can’t go on. If you’re suspecting your husband of having a secret
relationship with Lucertola Malfoy, you’d better go and talk to somebody.”
She got up and paced her office, back and forth, until she thought she’d
worn deep grooves in the floor. Having come to the conclusion that she had
to talk to somebody was of course laudable in itself; the choice of
interlocutor, however, was by no means a small problem. In the end—her feet
and back were already hurting—she decided that, whether she liked it or not,
she had to talk to Severus. He loved her, he knew her. He wasn’t going to
think she was hallucinating or crazy or whatever. When her choice was made,
she sat down at her desk again, to finish correcting the red-dotted homework
before dinner, so the evening could be exclusively used for the talk with
her husband.
Severus’s reaction, when she had finished her account—they had retired to
bed rather early with a bottle of red wine—was neither the one she had
expected nor the one she’d secretly feared. Swirling the wine around in the
slim-stemmed, bulbous glass, he nodded slowly. “Do you have any idea why she
might act that way? Used to act, rather?”
He still managed to surprise her. No questions, no doubts. There was, she
thought briefly, quite a lot she had yet to learn about this man. “Well…”
When his free hand crept over to cover hers, their eyes met. “I talked about
her to Mad-Eye, three weeks ago. And he… Well, he suspected she might have a
crush on you and be jealous.”
A black eyebrow rose until it formed an inverted V. “Really? That seems a
little… simplistic, doesn’t it?”
“But you don’t exclude it.”
“Conceited as it may sound, no I don’t. She wouldn’t be the first one. Nor
the last, I’m afraid,” he added with a chuckle. “But let’s assume this is
the only reason—why would she have stopped?”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been asking myself.” Pulling her wand out from
under a purring Pluto, Hermione summoned the bottle and refilled her glass,
and then his, which he held out to her. “Did you never… I mean didn’t you
ever have that sensation of being followed? Watched?”
Severus sighed. “To say the truth, no, I haven’t. But—” he moved Hades on
his lap so he could uncross and re-cross his legs “—that doesn’t mean you
imagined it.” He took a sip of his wine. “I have spent almost my whole life
in this school and…” He paused and smiled at her. “It’s difficult to put
this into words, but… every single stone, every piece of wood or metal or
whatever in this school is imbued with magic. But the intensity varies, very
subtly, from floor to floor, even from corridor to corridor. Now, if you’re
not as used as I am to—”
“No,” she interrupted him. “I know what you mean, but that’s not it.
Definitely not. The magic is different. If it was the castle’s own magic, it
would have a more elemental feel to it. Maybe it’s because you’re so used to
being surrounded by it that you didn’t feel the difference?”
“Possible,” he admitted. “So let us assume your hypothesis is correct. Miss
Malfoy thinks she’s in love with me, she’s jealous, and she follows you
around, protected by an Invisibility Spell or Cloak. Why would she stalk
you? Can you think of a reason?”
Hermione shrugged. “No, that’s exactly what’s driving me nuts! But unless I
want to doubt my own perceptions, there has to be a reason, and that means I
can figure it out. I already thought…”
“The Draught? That’s extremely unlikely, Spikes. Nobody can possibly know—I
mean, considering that we are both in perfect health, and I haven’t read any
news about Potter having been taken to St. Mungo’s… No, I’d exclude that.”
“But, there must be something!” Hermione felt tears of frustration pricking
her eyes. “There must be! Or—” she turned to him so abruptly that the wine
sloshed over the rim of her glass and made a big red stain on the sheets
“—maybe you don’t believe me, and—”
Severus put a finger to her lips and gently took the glass out of her hand,
put it down on the nightstand on his side of the bed and pulled her into his
arms. “I do believe you, Spikes, I swear. And since we can’t guess the
motives of Miss Malfoy’s strange conduct, I suggest that we simply ask her.”
She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. “And you think she’d tell you
the truth? Don’t be naïve, Severus!”
“But, unless we ask her, we will never know, my love.” He stroked her hair
and brushed his lips over her forehead. “Don’t you think it would be a good
idea if I tried to talk to her? If she really has that crush, she might, if
not admit anything, at least betray herself.”
“Slytherin tactics?”
“That would mean offering her a Chocolate Frog filled with Veritaserum.”
“Sounds tempting.”
“It does, indeed sound tempting, but I’d rather not take that risk.”
“So you’ll talk to her?”
“I’ll talk to her, by all means.”
*
When, two days later, Lucertola Malfoy entered his office, Severus was
pretty sure Moody had guessed correctly. She’d gone about it with a certain
subtlety, he had to grant her that, but he’d been watching teenagers for
more than half his life and thus was able to discern the most minimal of
changes. As always, she was wearing her straight, black hair in a braid, but
today’s was more complicated; not the usual simple plait woven from three
thick strands and starting at her nape, but a more intricate pattern of at
least five or six strands. The collar of her robes was unbuttoned, so as to
display the whole length of her throat. There was also a faint whiff of
roses about her, and he wasn’t sure whether the redness of her lips owed its
intensity to an unobtrusive cosmetic charm or if maybe she had just been
nibbling her lips out of nervousness.
But it was this nervousness, and the heat that seemed to roll off her in
sultry waves, that convinced him that something was, indeed, not quite right
with Miss Malfoy.
She muttered “Good afternoon, Headmaster,” after she had closed the door,
and remained standing next to the entrance, evidently unsure whether to move
or not.
“Good afternoon, Miss Malfoy. Have a seat, please.”
He half-rose from his chair in an old-fashioned gesture of chivalry, to sit
down again after she had lowered herself into the chair on the other side of
his desk, blushing deeply. He mentally ticked off another item on his list
of signs to be monitored, and asked, “Would you like some tea?”
“Y-Yes…” Her voice was a little hoarse and she had to clear her throat.
“Yes, please. Tea would be nice.”
He rang for a House Elf and, while they waited for it to return with the
tea, deliberately remained silent, merely watching her out of the corner of
his eye while pretending to be searching through a stack of parchments.
“Well, Miss Malfoy,” he began when their cups were filled and the elf had
left, “you have been a student at Hogwarts for almost three months now, and
I… well, let us say I would like to hear how you are adjusting to your new
surroundings.”
Severus had often enough used the simple action of taking a sip from a glass
or cup to stall for time, to know that this was exactly what she was doing
now. Maybe she was sipping a little too slowly, but then she was still
young. Refining these tactics until they looked completely natural took time
and practice.
“I’m fine, Headmaster, really. Or is there a problem?”
He smiled at her, and she blushed again. “Do you think there is?”
“No, that is… well, I’m not sure… I… You don’t usually invite all the new
students to your office, to offer them tea and make sure they’re all right,
do you?”
Ah, so you want to hear that you’re special, don’t you, he thought. Well,
that can be arranged. “Not usually, no. But you, my dear Miss Malfoy, are
quite unique.”
“Aren’t we all?” she replied, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow.
But he had seen the pulse at the base of her throat quicken. Who needed
Veritaserum if the human body was such a treacherous fiend? “Of course. But
I think you understood me quite well.” Another smile, and this time he threw
in a wink for good measure. “But—” he leaned back and crossed his arms “—let
us not become too philosophical. Are you happy here at Hogwarts? Have you
found friends?”
“I…” She lowered her eyelids. “I’m afraid I’m not a very sociable person,
Headmaster. But there have been no more… problems with my housemates, if
that is what you meant.”
He nodded. “So your decision to not participate in the Quidditch tryouts was
your own, not the result of pressure from your peers?”
The derisive moue that answered this question was quite unexpected.
“Certainly not.”
You are a tad too self-assured, my dear, he thought. Too self-assured for
the victim of such a mean, cowardly attack. You have power, apparently, and
you seem to enjoy it a lot. Could it be… He was so deep in thought that he
almost missed her next words.
“I merely want to concentrate on my studies, that’s all.”
Her studies. Interesting, that. Because she wasn’t in the library half as
often as her housemates. “Well, I’m the last person who would object to
that. Your collection of books must be quite impressive.” It was a blind
shot, but he had aimed well.
“No, it’s not that—”
She was extremely quick on the uptake, he had to give her that. She’d
noticed the slip immediately and tried to rectify it.
“My father has been sending me books, quite regularly. By House Elf,” she
added, a little too hastily, “Because he doesn’t like to entrust them to
owls. The unpredictable weather, crossing the Channel, you know…”
By House Elf. Well, that would be easy to verify. And if she had lied—and
Severus was absolutely sure that she had—he finally had a concrete proof
that she was up to something. And then they’d only have to find out what it
was.
So he gave her an amiable smile and started asking her about Ouessant.
*
The other girls had already gone down to dinner when Lucy returned to her
dormitory, so she could remain there for a few minutes on her own and try to
recompose herself.
Unsure whether to curse herself or sing and dance, she settled for a
compromise and flung herself down on her bed. He liked her, and he was
interested in her! She’d been in his office for more than an hour, and they
had talked about everything… Had he noticed her lie about the books? She
honestly didn’t think he had, although she couldn’t be quite sure. But it
didn’t really matter. He would have asked different questions if he
suspected anything. No, she had done well. She really had reason to
congratulate herself.
Sitting up, she straightened her robes and glanced dreamily out of the
window. Almost of its own volition, her right hand slipped into her pocket
and produced a sheet of parchment, folded into a tiny quadrangle. For the
umpteenth time, she unfolded and read it.
Dear Lucertola,
It seems that you are making good use of the cloak and the spells I taught
you. You might want to study Potions a little more assiduously, though. If
your knowledge of ingredients were equal to your perceptivity, you would
doubtlessly have recognized that neither Sirens’ Tears nor giants’ blood are
ever used for Love Potions. It seems that you have discovered something far
more important than a Mudblood cheating on her husband.
You must try to find out more, even at the cost of being expelled. Return to
the laboratory and, if possible, copy the formula and send it to me.
Your loving Grandfather
Lucius Malfoy
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