Orpheus

Chapter 20

By Pigwidgeon37

The first two hours at Mrs. Granger’s house had been not only bearable but nice, despite the rather plaintive tone of voice Hermione’s mother employed to greet her, as she was half an hour late. When, however, at half past twelve, her mother announced that ‘some lady friends’ were coming for lunch, Hermione’s optimism as to the stay being a pleasant one had gone down by a few notches.

“But mum!” she had protested, “You know how difficult this is for me—I have to make up all kinds of stories about my life, what I’m teaching, what Severus is teaching, and they’ll ask the most annoying questions, I’m sure.”

“They haven’t seen you in such a long time,” Mrs. Granger replied, slightly indignant. “And of course they’ll want to know how you are doing, that’s understandable, isn’t it?”

Hermione went up to her room, muttering under her breath about nosy old hens, to transfigure some of her clothes into something appropriate for lunch with the ‘lady friends’. She had expected a few days with her mother, the occasional visit from Alastor, but certainly nothing formal. Alastor—a diabolic grin lit her face.

“Mum?” she called downstairs, “Mum, what about Alastor? Have you already introduced him to your friends?”

Mrs. Granger was only sixty-four and not in bad shape; but the speed with which she shot out of the kitchen and to the bottom of the stairs was impressive all the same. “No!” she said, her voice a little shrill. “And don’t you dare—”

“You’re not ashamed of him, are you?”

“No, but—oh, you don’t understand. Don’t you dare mention him, understood, young lady?”

“Ah,” said Hermione, putting on her most innocently radiant smile, “but you know how I am… A slip of the tongue happens so easily. Unless, of course—” she tilted her head “—you’re going to play along when I excuse myself from the ladies’ company a bit early, because I have work to do?”

The ensuing staring contest could easily have set the banister on fire. “All right,” Mrs. Granger said finally, “But at least stay until the main course is finished, will you?” She shook her head and threw up her hands. “Where you got that stubbornness from, I’ll never understand.”

“I thought you liked stubborn,” Hermione called after her, “I mean, Alastor is—”

“Don’t mention him!” Her mother glowered up at her.

“All right!” Hermione said, waving at her and retreating back into her room, where she transfigured one of her robes into a particularly horrible dress with a flowery pattern and frills.

Only because she had promised did Hermione find the patience to remain at the table until everybody had put down their cutlery after the main course. Then she fled to her room as quickly as she could and started working on the Potters’ biography. The afternoon passed rather pleasantly, and once the last of the ‘lady friends’ had left at about six o’clock, Hermione went downstairs to help her mother with the dishes. They worked in relative harmony for more than an hour, and when the kitchen, dining room and living room were again as clean as an operation theatre, Mrs. Granger announced that she was going to take a little nap. Hermione stayed downstairs and watched TV for a while, then decided she’d write a short letter to Severus. She smiled as she watched the tip of her quill trace its wet black trail across the parchment, imagining him sitting in the Great Hall next to Minerva and having dinner. Moody had promised to drop by later that evening, around ten o’clock, and she intended to give him the letter, so he could post it once he returned to Cardiff. Then she decided she could use a nap as well. These were her holidays, after all.

As always when she slept outside her regular bedtime, Hermione felt quite fuzzy-headed when she woke up. Somebody or something had pulled her out from deep slumber, she was sure, for she had totally lost her orientation and at first didn’t even recognize where she was. Then, she remembered she was in her old room at her mother’s house, mechanically reached for the switch of the lamp on her nightstand and sat up to look at the alarm clock next to it. She hadn’t been asleep for longer than ten minutes. So why—

Then she heard it and smiled to herself. Was Severus already missing her so much that he sent an owl after less than twelve hours of being separated? Not that she minded… Shivering slightly, because she had laid down on her bed just in her clothes, without bothering to cover her feet, she got up and went to the window. The blast of icy cold air made her shiver even more, and she beckoned for the owl to come in and alight on her desk, so she could untie the letter from its leg without letting in more of the winter chill.

The bird didn’t look too pleased with the weather, either, and so Hermione pointed at her shoulder and, once the owl had fluttered up to perch there, went downstairs to get a cup of tea for herself and a bit of raw meat for her winged guest. They ate and drank in companionable silence, and when the owl had eaten its fill, Hermione let it out again and sat down at the kitchen table to read her husband’s letter.

The handwriting, though, was Minerva’s. It only took her mere seconds to peruse the missive, as it was very short.


Hermione,

You have to come back immediately. This is an emergency, so please do not waste any time. More information when we can talk.

Minerva


She tried to take a sip from her cup but found that her hands were shaking too much. Something had to have happened to Severus. Maybe he had had an accident while working on the Draught… Minerva had told her to hurry, but when Hermione got up from her chair, her legs refused to support her and she had to sit down again. Her heart was beating wildly and erratically, and suddenly the darkness enveloping the house—she had only lit the neon lamp above the stove—filled her with a fear she hadn’t experienced since the days after Ron had died. Could this all be a dream? She pinched her left forearm and yelped at the sharp pain. No dream, then. She had to try and control herself, fight the panic, tell her mother she was leaving and Apparate back to Hogwarts. She could leave the few things she’d packed for her short stay here at the house and only needed to get her cloak and warm boots.

Once Hermione had a plan, simple though it was, she usually felt better, and today was no exception. She even managed to drink some more of her tea, greedily and scorching her tongue in the process, but she didn’t mind, she craved the hot liquid, as the shock had made her mouth go dry. Then she climbed the stairs, took her cloak out of the cupboard in her room, grabbed a pair of fur-lined boots and went to her mother’s room to shake her awake and tell her she had to leave.

Strange, she thought, while lacing up the boots and slipping into the cloak, strange how unreal Minerva’s letter seemed, in comparison to such mundane occupations as getting dressed. If it weren’t for the piece of parchment in her hand, she really might have dreamed the whole episode. But she hadn’t; and when, on her way to her mother’s bedroom, she glanced at it again, the feeling of dread and foreboding was stronger than before.

*

Potter couldn’t know, of course. He was far too young. But, whether it was by a strange whimsy of Fate or mere coincidence, Severus was now sitting in the very same cell he had occupied, almost exactly twenty-four years ago, after Voldemort’s first downfall. It was a mere formality, Dumbledore had told him back then—these were memories that would never lose any of their sharp-edged clarity—but he remembered the terrible, hollow fear that had been eating him, the dread that maybe Dumbledore, too, had merely been using him and would now take advantage of the occasion to get rid of him. He had spent less than forty-eight hours in here, unable to sleep or eat or do anything but sit and stare. He’d been ashamed afterwards, because he hadn’t trusted the Headmaster.

He was surprised, shocked even, that he was feeling the same now. The fear of the unknown. The all-too-well-known unknown. Because he had been convinced things would take a certain, predictable turn: he had expected either Potter or the Aurors or Potter with the Aurors to come to Hogwarts, ask a few questions, probably seize whatever was in his laboratory; he had been prepared to answer the questions, to be obliviated, even to lose his position, if the worst came to the worst. He had been wrong, though, and that was what caused him the sensation of having lost his footing. He hadn’t misjudged a potentially dangerous situation ever before—hell, he had been able to predict Voldemort’s actions and reactions. But now he felt like a wild animal that had been living in a zoo for many years and suddenly set free again. His instincts were gone, and the world, whose workings he had known like the back of his hand, had turned into something dangerously hostile and alien.

Apparently, there was a first time for everything.

The Aurors had come immediately after dinner. It seemed that Potter had hand-picked them, as they were all older than Severus, no former students who might cede to the weight of his authority. They had asked him where his wife was and seemed satisfied when he told them she was currently visiting her mother. This, however, had been the only question they’d asked before taking his wand and putting a Binding Spell on him, which, even though it spared him the shame of moving around the school with his hands and feet tied, didn’t allow him to put more than a two feet’s distance between him and them. Then, he had had to accompany them down to the laboratory and from there to his office. After a thorough search—the rooms now looked as if a hurricane had roared through them—they had returned to his and Hermione’s quarters, which had received an even rougher treatment. Everything had been dismantled, taken apart, even destroyed. The staircase Sirius, Hermione and Flitwick had conjured was no more. The upstairs rooms had been undone by a few flicks of the Aurors’ wands. Twitchy, huddled into a corner with Pluto and Hades, had been given Veritaserum and interrogated. The results of both the search and interrogation had been pitiful—a few jars of ingredients, the notes Severus had produced in the afternoon, and a totally useless statement by Twitchy, who had never heard or seen anything related to the experiment. Finally, the Aurors had ordered him to shed his robes and taken him to the Ministry, where he had been put into this cell. He hadn’t even been permitted to pack a few necessities.

They had met Minerva in the entrance hall. Severus bit his lip at the thought of her horrified expression, her fury, and finally her resignation when she saw that the Aurors were adamant in their determination to take him with them, that neither threats nor pleas were going to help.

After arriving at the Ministry, he had been subjected to the most humiliating search of his person. Everything had been taken away—cufflinks, shoelaces, his belt, even his handkerchief, although he had pointed out that he’d have difficulties using it to hang himself.

But the shock, the real, full-fledged, bottomless shock had only hit some time after they had left him alone in his cell. Once the initial numbness had passed, his fear had reared its ugly head and pounced on him, and his arsenal of rational arguments to fend it off had proved sadly depleted. During the afternoon, while covering the traces of their work as well as possible, he had pieced the puzzle together, more or less. Lucertola Malfoy had obviously copied a sufficient amount of pages from Lily’s notebook for Lucius to understand immediately what the research was about. Severus wasn’t quite sure whether Lucius wanted his son to use the Draught to bring him back to life, or maybe to bring Voldemort back to life—although Severus doubted it—but he was absolutely certain that Malfoy would pull every possible string in order to get his hands on the formula. This wasn’t one of the more urgent problems, though, for he had altered it. Therefore, neither the Ministry nor Malfoy would be able to use it.

What caused him real anxiety was Draco’s intrigue and Potter’s response to it. For, even if they had kept Potter in the dark about one of the Draught’s possible uses, this certainly wasn’t a crime so heinous that it might account for his current imprisonment. So what, for Merlin’s sake, had Draco told Potter in order to make him react this way? The idea was of hair-raising absurdity—but might the Minister have been convinced that he, Severus, was harbouring sinister plans of world domination and absolute power? And what—he felt another shudder of fear run down his spine—what implications might this hold for Hermione? She, just like himself, was bound by a blood oath, she couldn’t tell the truth to anybody. So she was just as vulnerable as he was. He had to try and keep her out of this terrible business, whatever the cost. If she tried to convince Potter that she’d known all along, there was a slight chance that Potter might think she was only saying so to save her husband. And that was exactly what he had to make Potter believe.

He looked around his cell—not that there was much to look at. The cot he was sitting on, a small table and, in the corner opposite him, a bucket charmed to empty and clean itself every time it was used. Maybe an hour ago, though he wasn’t sure his estimation was correct, a guard had brought a tray. It contained a bowl (charmed to be unbreakable) of unidentifiable soup and a glass (charmed in the same fashion) of water. He suddenly felt thirsty and rose to drink some of it, hoping the glass was self-refilling. It was. Really, he thought, no-one could claim that the Headmaster of Hogwarts didn’t have everything he needed for his comfort. As much water as he wanted, probably the soup bowl was self-replenishing as well, and a shiny, clean, sanitized bucket.

The tears were so unexpected that a few of them even made it past his eyelids before he wiped them away angrily.

Give in to panic and desperation was the last thing he must do. He had to remain calm, had to keep a clear mind. Maybe he was over-dramatizing the situation. Maybe the spectres of the past were too strong in here for him to resist the lure of their ghostly power.

He tried to calculate the time. It was ten, maybe eleven o’clock. Highly improbable that Potter would deign to see him at this late hour. He ought to get some sleep.

So he went over to the bucket to relieve his bladder, ridiculously grateful for the sound of his urine hitting the metal bottom. The silence in this prison was too heavy. He doubted whether he’d be able to sleep at all.

*

“For the last time, I can’t tell you!” Hermione yelled. Then she broke down into a hysterically sobbing heap.

“That’s enough, Alastor,” McGonagall said sharply. “Give me the brandy.”

Moody, who was looking a bit sheepish after Hermione’s outburst, handed over the glass and turned to Sirius. “And you’re sure you don’t know what all this is about?”

“I wish I did. When I got the letter, I thought…” He shrugged helplessly. “Well, what Hermione thought, obviously. An accident. Illness, anything. But this?” He refilled his own glass and shook his head. “It just doesn’t make sense. It’s something Harry knows about, and so do Severus and Hermione, but it’s top secret and she can’t tell us. Okay. But if Harry knows, why did he send the Aurors? I just—” He sighed. “I just don’t understand.”

McGonagall, who was kneeling beside Hermione’s chair, her arm around the young witch’s shoulders, looked up. “Alastor, are you sure there isn’t anybody else you might ask?”

“My dear Minerva, I’ve tried everything. And believe me, I’ve never seen the MLE department as tongue-tied as today. Never. Not even during the war. There was always a possibility, always somebody who’d at least drop a hint to a colleague in need of information. And that’s exactly what’s making me so nervous—if Potter manages this level of security… I mean, all they know is that Severus is there, but as to the reasons—zilch. Mouths sealed. That doesn’t bode well—”

“Oh stop it!” McGonagall snapped when his dire predictions caused Hermione’s sobs to grow even more convulsive. “Come now, dear.” With surprising strength, she forced Hermione’s head up. “Drink this, it’ll help you calm down. There’s nothing you can do right now. Albus is going to arrive tomorrow morning, and then we’ll discuss our options. But you have to try and pull yourself together, be strong.”

The other three exchanged worried glances while Hermione obediently sipped her brandy. She didn’t look well at all. Not that they’d expected her to receive the news with a smile on her face, but there was something… something indefinably desperate about her, as if she knew that all their efforts were going to be in vain.

The sound of breaking glass caused them to jump and rush towards the young woman, their heads almost colliding when they bent down to examine her hands which were dripping with blood and the contents of her glass. Small, pointed shards were stuck in her palms but she didn’t seem to mind. She didn’t even seem to feel the pain the splinters and the alcohol seeping into the open wounds had to cause her. McGonagall, eyes bright and hard, gently took the bloodied hands into hers and held them, while Sirius extracted the glass pieces and pronounced the necessary healing charms.

“What did you say, child?” McGonagall asked when Hermione muttered something under her breath.

Hermione looked up at her, and McGonagall had to fight the impulse to let go of her hands and recoil from the expression of grief on her face. Although it wasn’t so much the pain etched into a face she had grown used to seeing smile and laugh. It was the hatred and despair burning in the young woman’s eyes.

“It’s my fault, Minerva. All my fault,” Hermione whispered. “All my bloody fault. If it weren’t for my… my…” She wrenched her barely healed hands from the older witch’s grip and grabbed fistfuls of hair, tugging at it furiously. A few strands came loose before Moody could catch her wrists. “My curiosity,” she continued, “My damned curiosity. My nosiness, my stupid, stupid desire to stick my nose into things that aren’t meant… were never meant…” She slumped back into her chair, her wrists still firmly gripped by Moody. “My curiosity… it killed the cat, didn’t it? Killed the cat…”

She began to giggle hysterically, unable to stop, laughing so hard that she doubled over with laughter; Moody had to release her arms unless he wanted to dislocate her shoulders. Her hands balled into white-knuckled fists, she laughed and laughed. The three stood around her, clueless as to what they might say or do, and watched the hysterical laughter turn into screaming and sobbing, until she couldn’t cry anymore and just sat there, whimpering and moaning, curled into a tight ball.



The sky was light grey, a pale sun visible through the layers of fog, when Hermione woke up. Her eyelids were so swollen that she couldn’t open them completely. Her head ached horribly, and her mouth tasted stale and bitter. Slowly she turned her head, not yet fully awake, aware only that something terrible had happened and that she was in unfamiliar surroundings. Something stirred next to her, and she automatically reached for Severus, to move close to him, feel his arms around her, so that whatever had happened wouldn’t feel so terrible anymore. Her hand, though, encountered the warm, furry bodies of Pluto and Hades, who were sleeping curled together beside her pillow. She started stroking them, scratching them behind their ears, all the while trying to clear her head and think. Her whole body felt heavy, leaden, as if she had overdosed on Dreamless Sleep potion; she knew the sensation, for she had used the drug quite a lot in the year after Ron had died. It did prevent the anguish and desperation from insinuating itself into one’s dreams, true, but it did so by covering them in a dense, black shroud which remained in place even after one woke up. It would take her some time to shake it off.

She flinched when a gentle hand touched her shoulder. “Severus?” She turned round, only to look into the face of Minerva McGonagall, who was smiling down at her. But it was such a sad smile that didn’t reach her eyes, which were red and bore such a desolate expression…

The shroud tore with a deafening, screeching sound, as if somebody had cut through it, top to bottom, with a sharp-edged, shining sword, and behind it lay the memories of last night, raw and hot and terribly clear. Hermione thought her heart was going to burst when everything came back to her in a single, overwhelming wave that took her high up and then tossed her back down, smashing her back into the pillows like an enormous fist that crushed her down down down until she couldn’t breathe anymore. Gasping for air, she looked up at Minerva, who seemed to be swaying back and forth—but it was a trick her brain was playing on her, she realized; the room began to spin around her, and Minerva suddenly seemed so far away, only to be very close the next second, her form constantly morphing as if it were reflected in a distorting mirror.

“Hermione?” The voice came to her as though through a heavy layer of cotton. “Hermione, look at me! Are you all right? Hermione!”

She felt her face being slapped repeatedly, and finally the room stopped its mad dance, and Minerva was clearly visible.

“Hermione? Are you—”

“Yes, I… I’m fine,” she answered, although she had difficulties speaking. Her mouth was dry and her tongue like a dead lump that didn’t obey her.

McGonagall exhaled sharply through her teeth. “Thank Merlin. I thought I had to get Poppy. Here, child—” she pressed a glass into Hermione’s hand “—drink this. It’s just water, with a few drops of calming potion.”

The water was pleasantly cool, and the potion tasted a little minty. Hermione emptied the glass in one go. McGonagall nodded and gave her a crisp smile. Her eyes, though, were still narrowed and gauging Hermione’s every move. “Feeling better?” she asked.

“Yes, a little.” Hermione sat up. “What time is it?”

“Almost ten. Albus has arrived, he’s having breakfast here in my quarters together with Sirius and Alastor.”

“Here in your—” Hermione glanced around the room.

“I thought it would be better if you slept here,” the older witch explained, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “You were in no condition to be left alone last night. So I went to retrieve these two—” she nodded towards Pluto and Hades who were stretching and yawning “—and put you into my guest room.” Her voice had regained its usual brisk and efficient tone. It made Hermione feel a lot better. “The bathroom is over there, so you can have a shower. I didn’t take your clothes off when we tucked you in. Fresh robes and underwear, and a few of your things are in the cupboard.” She stroked Hermione’s hair. “Do you think you’ll be able to join us in half an hour?”

“Yes, I think I am.” The panic was lurking just under the surface of her consciousness, but the potion kept it in check. “I’ll have that shower now. I’m feeling terribly grimy.”



Hermione had thought she’d be sick merely from smelling food, but when she emerged from the guest room and sat down at the table with Dumbledore, McGonagall, Moody and Sirius, the aroma of toast, coffee and scrambled eggs made her mouth water and her stomach growl. She had taken a chair between Dumbeldore and Moody, who were both eyeing her approvingly when she took a second slice of toast. The apparent relief in her friends’ eyes, and the lingering apprehension their frequent glances at her hands and face conveyed, though, made her slightly queasy. “I’m fine, really,” she said, looking at the four of them in turn. “I… I apologize for my, uh, behaviour last night and—”

“Don’t you dare apologize!” Moody growled. “It’s unnecessary, and it’s a waste of time. Rather, let’s talk about Severus. And what we can do to help.”

There it was again, the pang of something unbearably painful numbed by the calming potion she had taken. “Yes. Any news?” she asked.

“No,” Dumbledore replied gravely. “No news at all. Hermione—” he took off his spectacles and gave her an intense look “—I know it must be painful, but please try to tell me everything you can. Or rather,” he added with a smile, “first tell me why you can’t tell us everything.”

He listened to Hermione’s account with a look of deep concentration. “So,” he began after a short pause, “you were researching… something you have to keep secret, and of which only you, Severus and Harry knew. And there was an aspect of your research you hadn’t told Harry about.” Hermione nodded, and he continued, “And this additional aspect would be reason enough for Harry to send the Aurors?”

“Not really. At least I think that it wouldn’t warrant… I mean unless Harry believes that Severus—” she swallowed, hoping to get rid of the lump in her throat “—that he intended to do something illegal, but…” She put down her coffee cup, as her hands again started to tremble. “I just can’t imagine how Harry might have learned about… about this aspect. And I can’t imagine any other motive for arresting Severus. It all seems so… so terribly absurd.”

“I suppose,” McGonagall interjected, “that there’s no way we can undo that oath?” She shot Dumbledore an expectant look.

“A blood oath?” The old wizard shook his head. “No, Minerva. Only Harry can do that. And from what I’ve heard, I strongly doubt that he will.”

“Or Sev and Hermione,” Sirius added gloomily, “But they’d have to speak the incantation together, in Harry’s presence. Three guesses if that’s going to happen.”

“Probably not.” Dumbledore stroked his beard. “So it seems that I will have to talk to Harry, as soon as possible.”

“If he’s willing to talk to you,” Sirius said. “Because I’m not sure he’ll—”

“He will not refuse me.” Dumbledore got up from his chair, radiating a power and authority Hermione found immensely comforting. “If I want to talk to Mr. Potter, I will talk to Mr. Potter, believe me.”