Orpheus

Chapter 19

By Pigwidgeon37

Even during the holidays, when the students could sleep in and therefore stay up later, and when the teachers were less likely to deduct house points in case they found their charges out of bounds after curfew, even at these times of mischief and merriment, the castle was usually quiet during the darkest hours of the night, between two and four in the morning. The occupants of the many paintings returned to their own domains, to enjoy a few hours of rest and contemplation. The House Elves, too, were asleep. Only Mrs. Norris, the caretaker's cat, occasionally prowled the corridors in her quest for succulent rodents—but even those seemed to avoid activity at this time of night.

In the wee hours of Christmas Day, though, there was a sudden flurry of activity that spread from portrait to portrait, like an acoustic spark racing along an invisible fuse. A flock of pigs ran squealing through the court of a farmyard; an elderly witch dropped her knitting and almost fell off her chair; next to her, a monk who had observed the night sky through his telescope shook his fist and yelled very un-monk-ish invectives while gingerly touching his rapidly swelling eye; in a still-life, an overripe peach tumbled off a silver fruit bowl and burst on the white damask cloth underneath. Shepherds ran after their bleating charges, and venerable old wizards frowned in indignation.

But the two blonde girls who had caused all the mayhem were too excited to notice. They ran as if pursued by demons, until they arrived in the Ravenclaw fifth-year girl's dormitory where they stopped, panting, in a winter landscape.

"And now?" whispered Tisiphone, shivering in her light summer robes.

"Now we wake her up!"

"We'll wake up the others, too! We should have waited until morning, just as I told you."

"Let's at least try," said Alecto. "She'll want to know as soon as possible."

"As if it mattered whether she hears the news now or in a few hours." Tisiphone rolled her eyes. "You're such a gossip."

"I'm not!"

"Yes, you are!"

"Am not!"

"Yes, you are!"

Lucertola was a very light sleeper. And she hadn't been sleeping well since her grandfather's last letter had arrived. Doubts had been plaguing her—had she done the right thing? The annotations and formulas she had copied were looking so arcane, so… Dark. What if the Mudblood was planning something terrible? She had already left one husband, what if she wanted to get rid of the second one in a different manner? These and many more questions kept milling around in her head during the days and gave her nightmares when she finally managed to fall asleep. Her grandfather didn't like the Headmaster at all, what if he had immediately recognized that the Mudblood was planning to murder her husband and had told her, Lucertola, to wait until further notice, merely to make sure she didn’t tell the Headmaster what she knew? Every morning Lucy woke up with her stomach curled into a tight knot of cold fear, dreading that she might enter the Great Hall only to hear the news—the Headmaster had passed away during the night.

When she emerged from the shallows of another delirious nightmare about Headmaster Snape writhing on the floor, his agony watched by his gloating Mudblood wife, she thought that perhaps this had been a real premonition, or some telepathic link showing her his last moments in horrible precision. It was as dark as it got in the dormitory when the grounds were covered in snow; the stone walls reflected the faint bluish light of the landscape under a clear night sky. She heard soft, hissing voices and first thought that her roommates had awoken as well and were now whispering behind the drawn curtains of one of the beds.

But the sound was coming from a different direction. Lucertola sat up and glanced around the room, trying to penetrate the darkness. A movement caught her eye—it seemed as if something was stirring in the painted winter landscape on the wall opposite her bed. She fumbled for her slippers, her legs immediately covered in goose bumps because of the chilly air, snatched her dressing gown from the chair next to her bed and went over to the painting.

Alecto and Tisiphone’s blonde hair and pastel robes stood out vividly against the bleak landscape; she recognized them immediately. The girls’ teeth were chattering, and Lucertola smiled.

“Can you go down to the common room?” Alecto asked. The words were barely recognizable. “It’s very cold in here.”

Lucy nodded and went to the door. When she looked back over her shoulder, the painting was already empty.

There were many paintings in the common room, mostly landscapes and still lives and the occasional magical beast. A particularly rowdy group of dragons had been removed only weeks ago, at the request of the two Ravenclaw prefects, because their constant roaring and fire-spitting annoyed the students to no end. It had been replaced by a picture of grazing unicorns, and that was where the two girls had gone. They were frolicking in the grass with one of the foals but immediately abandoned their playing when they saw Lucy approach.

“It’s three in the morning,” Lucertola said, trying not to let her apprehension make her voice quaver, “What’s the matter? Is something wrong?”

Grinning, the two girls shook their heads, sending their pigtails a-fly. “No,” Tisiphone said, “Nothing wrong, on the contrary. Remember when you gave us the first letter for your grandfather? When you said that maybe somebody was going to Azakaban?”

“Y-yes?” Lucy wasn’t quite sure where this conversation was heading, and even less sure she liked it. Cold it be her? Had somebody found out about her spying activities and denounced her? Did you even go to Azkaban at age fifteen?

“Well,” Alecto announced, “it seems you won’t have to wait much longer. Lucius and your father have arranged everything.” She grinned smugly. “We were eavesdropping, we know everything. Should we tell you?”

So it wasn’t her. Lucy felt the wave of relief physically, mostly in her knees, and wished she didn’t have to stand but could sit down. “Uh, yes, sure, tell me.”

“We-ell.” The two girls sat down in the grass, and Tisiphone, after a nod from her sister, began, “Maybe two weeks after you sent the second letter to Lucius—you know, the one with more pages, he told us to call Draco down to the library, because he had to talk to him.”

“Urgently!”

“Yes, urgently. Don’t interrupt me, Al, you’ll get to tell your own part of the story. So,” she continued, again addressing Lucertola, “we thought it had to be important if it was so urgent, and therefore we went and hid in the Turner—it’s a bit awkward, because the view goes all blurry, but we were able to hear all right. Lucius told Draco that he had an idea what Snape—that’s the Headmaster, isn’t he?” Lucy nodded, feeling her anxiety rise again. “So, he told Draco he was pretty sure what the Headmaster was brewing, and that it was illegal, and that Draco ought to talk to the Minister of Magic.”

Lucy gasped. “What? But—”

“Wait,” said Alecto, apparently glad about the interruption, for now it was her turn to continue the narration. “Draco was a bit surprised, but Lucius explained it all to him, and so Draco went back to his study—”

“We did quite a bit of running that day,” Tisiphone interjected, and both sisters giggled.

“As I was saying, he wrote to the Minister—what’s his name? Totter? Rotter?”

“Potter,” Lucertola supplied.

“Ah, yes, Potter. So, he arrived last night, very late. First, we were terribly disappointed because they talked in the library and we couldn’t see him, but then—”

“Then,” Tisiphone took over again, “they went up to Draco’s study, and we could watch from our own portrait. The Minister looks nice. A bit stern maybe, because he has those gold-rimmed spectacles, and his hair—”

“But what did he say?” asked Lucertola who was sure she’d burst if they didn’t tell her immediately what happened.

“Nothing much,” Tisiphone replied. “He seemed terribly angry when Draco gave him the papers you’d sent Lucius, and he said he would have to verify first, but if it turned out to be true, whatever it was, I have no idea—it was all very complicated—”

“What? What if it turned out to be true?” Lucy whispered urgently.

“Snape would get what was coming to him. And from the Minister’s look, I’d say—what’s the matter, Lucy? You don’t look happy at all!”

“I… no, it’s all right, I… I just… thanks for telling me.”

Shaking their heads and feeling somehow disappointed, Alecto and Tisiphone watched her stumble across the room and to the stairs, before returning to their own painting at a more leisurely pace than they had arrived at.



Back in her bed, Lucy drew the curtains closed and stared into the now-complete darkness. She would have wanted to cry but, to her surprise, the tears didn’t want to come. Her eyelids felt dry and scratchy, and there was a lump sitting in her throat, but it seemed that she wasn’t allowed the relief of shedding tears. So she merely sat and tried to think, which turned out to be as impossible as crying. She wanted to save the Headmaster, and she wanted the Mudblood to go to Azkaban, whether for a lifelong sentence or a Dementor’s kiss she didn’t care. But how could she possibly ensure that events went that way? Her father had given the incriminating documents to the Minister, and if there was a vague possibility of her persuading her father to blame it all on the Mudblood, she certainly couldn’t hope to do the same with the Minister, now that the matter was out of her father’s hands. She didn’t even know the Minister, and he’d never listen to her…

On the other hand, if she told the Headmaster now, he’d take his possessions and his Mudblood and leave the country, forever out of her reach. So, what if she told the Mudblood? No, bad idea. Very bad idea. If the woman cheated on her husband, she’d be only too glad to put the whole blame on him, wave good bye to him when the doors of Azkaban closed behind him, and run off with somebody else.

Lucertola raked her hands through her hair, tugging painfully at the tangled strands, trying to gain some clarity where there was nothing but fear and chaos. She only had two possibilities: tell the Headmaster everything, or accept that both he and the Mudblood went to prison, in the vague hope that her father might find a way to get him out. For her, for his daughter, whom he loved—she’d tell him that she never wanted any other present again, just this one, just Headmaster Snape out of Azkaban and for herself. He couldn’t refuse her that, could he?

Feeling marginally better, Lucy lay back down and snuggled into her pillows. Images began to dance under her closed eyelids, images of Snape, haggard and worn but happy to see her after months and months with only bare stone walls and Dementors, Snape, taking her into his arms and whispering fervent thanks into her ear, Snape coming to Ouessant with her, where they would live happily ever after…

When she fell asleep, dawn was already casting its dull grey light into the dormitory, and her lips were curled into a peaceful smile.

*

“What are you doing out of bed already?” Severus asked, while propping himself up on both elbows and trying to remember which day was today.

Hermione turned and smiled at him. “It’s nine o’ clock already, and I promised mum I’d arrive at about ten.”

“Oh.” Severus frowned and wiggled his toes under the duvet. “Does that mean that today is the twenty-eighth?”

“Yes, sleepyhead, that’s exactly what it means. It also means that we were at the Lupins’ last night, that we had a lot of fun and even more to drink, and that I had to transport you home by Floo, because I was sure you’d get splinched if you Apparated. And then,” she continued, when he opened his mouth, “I had to drag you all the way from the Three Broomsticks to the castle.”

“Er…” He half-lowered his eyelids, as the daylight was doing terrible things to his head. “Did anybody see us?”

“Well, if they did, it doesn’t really matter. I don’t think that any of Rosmerta’s guests remembers anything they saw last night, to judge by their state of inebriation. So—” she sat down on the edge of the bed and started massaging his head “—your reputation is safe, if that’s what’s troubling you.”

“A little,” Severus replied, as off-handedly as possible. “It wouldn’t do for people to know—oooh, Spikes, your hands are…” He sighed. “Absolutely marvellous.”

“To know what? That His Sternness Severus Snape, who threatened to stop all matrimonial relations if I insisted on dragging him to the werewolf’s lair, enjoyed himself so much that he got completely drunk and even played Truth or Dare?”

“What?” Severus’s eyes opened wide in horror. He winced and closed them again. “I did what?”

“You participated in a game of Truth or Dare, my darling. It included—”

“Do I really want to know?” Severus interrupted her faintly.

“Well, maybe it would be better if I were the first to tell you. Or would you prefer to hear from Alastor that you performed—rather poorly, by the way, you really shouldn’t sing…”

“Performed what?”

“Silent Night, Holy Night.” Severus groaned and shook his head. “Standing on the table.”

“Tell me this is a bad joke, Spikes.”

“I wish I could. It’s the truth, though. And you were wearing—”

“Oh, Merlin! What? Nothing?”

Hermione kissed the tip of his nose. “No, silly. A pair of very downy angel’s wings, courtesy of Sirius, and a blonde wig. It was very sweet.”

Severus collapsed back into the pillows. “This sounds like a slightly longer version of the words ‘eternal shame’. Please tell me the others did silly things as well.”

“Oh, very silly things.” She giggled. “Remus, for example, had to dress up as a woman. Nymphadora had to do a Cancan, and I—it was Sirius’s turn to ask me a question,” she said apologetically.

“Whatever you did is forgiven. I know the questions Sirius asks when sober, and I daresay he was as drunk as I.”

“More, if humanly possible. Well, anyway, he dared me to draw a picture of you.”

He laughed but stopped immediately, for his brain sent him rather clear message concerning its dislike of being shaken. “I hope this immortal work of art has been burned to ashes.”

“Er… no. Actually, it’s still in my handbag.”

Very gingerly, Severus shook his head. “Unbelievable. May I see it?”

“I suggest you have coffee and a hangover potion first.”



At five minutes to ten, Severus escorted a still-laughing Hermione to the entrance hall. The picture she had drawn (if it could be called thus; in reality, is was just a very large, hooked nose with lots of badly drawn black hair surrounding it like a frazzled aureole—the rest was a big smear of black ink and red wine) was now in his pocket—his prize for winning a very giggly wrestling match on the living room carpet.

They stepped out into the blinding light.

“Till soon then, my love,” Severus said, hugging her tight.

“It’s only three days.”

“I said ‘soon’, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but you made it sound very reproachful.”

“It was meant to be. I love you.”

They kissed.

“I love you, Severus. Have a nice time, and don’t explode any cauldrons.”

“As if! Don’t murder your mother.”

He squeezed her to him once more and then watched her wander through the snow, leaving a neat trace across the immaculate surface.

It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the semi-darkness of the entrance hall when he finally re-entered the castle and closed the door behind him. He therefore didn’t quite recognize the person who darted through the shadows and towards the great staircase. It was a student, a female one. He briefly considered calling her back, as he was sure she had witnessed their good-bye scene, a thought he didn’t like at all. But he decided to just leave the girl be, wondering at his own very uncharacteristic mellow mood. Probably an after-effect of the alcohol, combined with his regret to see Hermione leave, if only for three days.

All of a sudden, Severus felt very lonely, without being able to explain exactly why. There were a few teachers and students left—among them the obnoxious Miss Malfoy, he remembered with a frown—he was free to visit with any of them anytime he wanted; he had work to do, and Hermione would only be absent for seventy-two hours. No, eighty, he corrected himself. Then he’d Apparate to her mother’s house and have dinner with the insufferable woman. And all the same… He shook his head in exasperation at himself and his sentimentality, and made his way down into the dungeons, to tinker a bit with the Draught, as Hermione had phrased it.

He hadn’t been working for more than maybe ten minutes when the sound of knocking at the laboratory door made him frown in surprise. Who on earth was seeking him out now? True, the Floo had been deactivated for obvious reasons, so maybe Minerva had something urgent to tell him. He cast a Concealing Charm at the worktable and went to open the door.

“Miss Malfoy?” He looked down at the girl, noticing her pallor and the lines round her eyes and mouth—lines which seemed very out of place in the face of a fifteen-year-old. “Are you… feeling ill?”

“No…” Her eyes had a strange glint, as if she had a fever.

“Are you sure? You seem unwell.”

“No, I’m fine, it’s just… Can I talk to you? Please?”

No, Severus thought, he didn’t like this at all. Not only had the girl come to see him at a location she wasn’t really supposed to know about, he also knew she had feelings for him. Now that he recalled the scene in the entrance hall, he was almost sure she was the student he had seen. So she knew Hermione had left. If she deemed this an appropriate time for confessing her crush to him, and he refused her, she might make up some bogus story about him molesting her… Then again, if push came to shove, he could always obliviate her. And somehow she didn’t look as if she were about to make an amorous declaration. If anything, she looked haunted, frightened.

“Very well,” he said, “Come in. But I don’t have much time.”

She nodded and entered. Strange, he thought, she didn’t even bother to look at her surroundings. More and more intrigued, Severus gestured at a chair; she sat down on its edge, her back as rigid as a wooden board, her head bowed. “Headmaster, I… I have to tell you something.”

“Then I suggest you do so, Miss Malfoy.” He leaned against the workbench, feeling the coolness of the marble through his robes.

“I think I made a mistake…”

With increasing horror, Severus listened to Lucy’s tale. When she had finished and finally raised her head, he didn’t even have the strength to voice his anger. All this sounded so… well, absurd, completely unreal, and yet its logic seemed unimpeachable. So Hermione had been right. The girl had been spying on them. And he had lost precious time, thinking that whatever she was planning couldn’t be that bad or dangerous.

“And…” He massaged his forehead in an attempt to clear his mind. “The Minister said… That’s what I absolutely fail understand,” he muttered, more to himself than to Lucy. “He knows about the Draught, so why… Miss Malfoy,” he said after a short pause, “I need to see the two girls. They overheard the conversation between Potter and your father, and you didn’t. There might be something—take me to that painting, now.”

Lucy bit her lip. “But I’m not supposed to—”

“I said take me to that painting!” he bellowed.

She flinched, her eyes filling with tears, stood and, without a word, went to the door.



Tisiphone and Alecto looked sullenly at the Headmaster, whose face was tense and tight-lipped with anger. “We didn’t hear everything,” Alecto muttered.

“Miss Malfoy. Have you ever heard of one of the paintings in the Slytherin Common Room? The Stoning of Hypatia? I know not one, but a dozen hexes and potions I might use to put you, both of you, in her place. Permanently.”

The girls took a step back. “W-we didn’t d-do anything, Headmaster. We merely… we merely acted as g-go-betweens and—”

“Then tell me what Malfoy had to say about the potion!”

“He…” Tisiphone tried to hide behind her older sister. “He said it could bring people back from the dead.”

*

Severus had left Lucertola standing in the corridor and hurried down into the dungeons without one more word to her. Right now, she was unimportant, and too frightened to tell anybody about the Draught. And even if she did, the mess he was in couldn’t get any worse. He had to be alone, he had to think, and he had to make decisions. He realized that his hands were trembling. Small wonder—this business might turn into something singularly unpleasant unless he took the appropriate steps.

He had briefly considered writing to Potter, but admitted to himself that this might make things worse. To justify his and Hermione’s action before they’d even been accused of anything would merely look like an admission of guilt. Qui s’excuse s’accuse. No, the best course of action was definitely to let Hermione stay at her mother’s house, in blissful ignorance of the nasty turn events had taken, to destroy the Potters’ annotations and write out a new formula, slightly altered so that nobody would ever get it right. Then he was going to wait for Potter—or maybe the Aurors, if Potter wanted to obtain a more dramatic effect, which, knowing him, was to be expected—and explain their reasons for not telling him the whole truth about the Draught of Life and inventing a different name for it. He would hand in the—then useless—formula and simply state that they had hit a dead end in their research. Hell, he would even agree to being obliviated, and so would Hermione, probably.

Quickly and methodically, he started working on the formula, altering minuscule details, adding an ounce here and a pinch there, replacing ‘clockwise’ with ‘counter-clockwise’ and, most importantly, changing the words of the final incantation. He would have liked to make a better job of it, but knew that he was running a race against time. The Ministry had become frighteningly efficient under Potter’s regime, and would doubtlessly be even more efficient in a matter the Minister deemed a top priority.

Once the formula had been sufficiently altered, Severus destroyed Lily’s magical copy and—although it made his heart ache—disposed of the ingredients. They probably would have to repay the fifty thousand galleons, he mused while casting an Immolation Charm on the dragon scales. They had used maybe half of that sum; paying it back would be unpleasant but a relatively small price for their safety.

It was already growing dark outside when he had finished. Only the cauldron holding their first successful attempt at brewing the Draught of Life was still sitting on its burner. Arms crossed, Severus stood there and scrutinized it, unsure what to do. It seemed such a waste… he would have to destroy the contents, though. Then again, throwing away the result of so many hours of work seemed almost like hubris. In the end, he settled for a compromise. He ladled a small quantity into a crystal vial, closed and sealed it, and then transfigured it into a button identical to those on his shirt. He slipped the small object into the pocket of his trousers and then, with a heavy sigh, poured the rest of the Draught down the sink. What a waste… But then, everything was better than giving people the possibility to resurrect the dead.