Orpheus

Chapter 23

By Pigwidgeon37

The Minister of Magic hadn’t been the only one to have a long and stressful day. Madam Rosmerta, the statuesque owner of Hogsmeade’s more respectable wizarding pub, was quite exhausted, too, at eleven p.m. on 29 December. The period from Christmas till after New Year was always one of the most turbulent times of year, as she knew from long experience. People—and wizards were no exception—felt their loneliness and load of problems more acutely, and somehow seemed to be readier than ever to share them with whomever was willing to listen to them. Offering those lonely, mostly male, souls a shoulder they could cry on (and, in some cases, she offered other body parts as well, but only if she liked the blokes) was part of Rosmerta’s vocation in life. She’d probably prevented more suicides than all the Soul Healers of St. Mungo’s together, she thought with a wry grin, while she poured herself a glass of Firewhiskey and sat down for a moment’s rest before cleaning up her pub and retiring to the upper floor.

After the first few sips, she felt herself relax and leaned back, closing her eyes, smiling at the memory of the young wizard whom she’d shoved out of the door ten minutes ago. He had told her a long—and, the more he had drunk, increasingly complicated—story about the break-up with his girlfriend. Well, she thought, taking another sip, she’d talked some reason into the whippersnapper. He had been rather cute, really, but somehow she’d had a feeling as if letting him stay overnight would do more harm than good. He’d only feel guilty once he woke up. And he’d really been very young.

Shaking her head at herself—moral scruples usually were not one of her most pressing problems—she got up and drew her wand to cast the necessary spells, so the pub would be clean and friendly, ready to welcome tomorrow’s customers. A subtle change in the quality of the light made her glance towards the fireplace, where the flames had suddenly turned green. So the little boy had changed his mind? Well, she hadn’t, and she was going to make sure he understood.

But the figure that came tumbling out of the fireplace was female. Brow furrowing, Rosmerta lowered her wand arm and slowly went closer. The woman didn’t move. She might be hurt, she might be drunk, but it might just as well be a trick. This wouldn’t be the first time unsuspecting victims had been lured towards robbers by the pretence of severe injury. Somehow, the woman seemed familiar, though. The hair… She knew that bushy mop of curls, which gleamed auburn in the shine of the fire. Rosmerta couldn’t quite place her, but was sure no harm would come to her if she approached the woman.

When Rosmerta gently prodded her shoulder, she groaned and raised her head.

“Miss Granger? I mean, Mrs. Potter—oh, bugger, I mean Mrs. Snape? Are you all right?” Rosmerta didn’t like the expression on the younger witch’s face. She had seen people look like that, but those days were long gone and she didn’t really want to remember them. Too much had been lost, too many had fallen.



Helped by Rosmerta, Hermione scrambled to her feet and let herself be guided to one of the tables. She fell into a chair, hard. Her backbone hurt from the violent impact—the chairs were made of wood and didn't have cushions—but she didn’t care. There was nothing left for her to care about. She was feeling empty, totally devoid of any emotion, even the despair couldn’t fill the hollow shell she had become. She dimly remembered that Harry had led her to the fireplace and called out her destination for her, she remembered the rush of colours and smells, and the clouds of soot. She knew why she had gone to the Minister’s Manor, only she didn’t dare touch the thought with her mind’s hand, because there was such terror, such horrible anguish. Part of her mind also knew that she’d been obliviated by her ex-husband, and she hated him for not having taken away everything. If he had just wiped her mind clean, the emptiness would have been more bearable, it would have lacked the lingering threat of monsters waiting for her to unleash them, so they could devour her.

When Rosmerta put a glass of Firewhiskey in front of her, she grabbed it with numb fingers, tried to smile at her benefactress, and downed the drink in one go. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and therefore the alcohol slammed into her brain full force. Her view went blurry, but she felt warmth course through her body, and her eyelids became heavy. Rosmerta’s pretty round face swam before her eyes, flickering and mocking, and Hermione stretched out her hand to touch it. It was a good, friendly face. The face of a good, friendly woman who only wanted the best for her. Hermione nodded to herself and smiled, happily, like a child that has finally found its mother in a large crowd of strangers. “Can… can I have another one, p-please?” she slurred, digging in her pockets for coins. “I do have money, honestly, I just… I just can’t f-find it…”

The ceiling was good and kind, too. It flowed and swelled, like a silk canopy moved by a gentle breeze. The ceiling liked her, just as the friendly witch liked her, who was just returning to the table and pouring her another glass of that wonderful, magical substance that warmed and made the pain go away. “So sweet… like… mother,” Hermione murmured after emptying her second glass.



Rosmerta nodded expertly when the young witch slumped head first on the tabletop. From the looks of her, she’d been through something terrible, and there were times when oblivion more than outweighed what little harm two large tumblers of whisky might do to the body. She cast a Mobilicorpus spell on the limp young witch and guided her out of the pub and to the broom shed, mounted her solid old Comet 750 and hoisted the body across her thighs. Like a knight in shining armour rescuing a damsel in distress, she thought with a snort before kicking off into the darkness.



“Oh, dear!” Minerva McGonagall who, looking as if she, too, hadn’t much strength left, had come to open the entrance door, covered her mouth with a trembling fist. “Oh, Merlin, the poor, poor girl! Rosmerta, I owe you a big favour for bringing her back.”

Rosmerta waved her hand and smiled. “Don’t mention it. I’ve known her for so long, it’s the least I could do. What’s the matter with her?” Despite the darkness—the night was moonless, and McGonagall’s face was in the shadow, her form merely backlit by the torches in the entrance hall—Rosmerta saw the strange glitter in the other witch’s eyes. Minerva McGonagall crying? She had seen the stern Deputy Headmistress in tears only once, after the Graduation Day Massacre, and was sure that whatever had caused this reaction now had to have upset her terribly. “It’s not…” She hesitated. “Not Albus, is it?”

“No, it’s…” With her free hand—the other was holding her wand, keeping Hermione floating two feet above ground—she tried to wipe her eyes under the square spectacles. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you. Believe me, I’d like to share, but—”

“Never mind. I hope all will turn out well.”

“So do I,” McGonagall replied hoarsely.

“All right then. Tell me if there’s anything I can do.” Rosmerta kicked off the ground. “Bye, Minerva. No need to tell you to take good care of her.” She waved over her shoulder, and soon had disappeared into the night.

“Take care of her…” McGonagall whispered, looking at Hermione’s limp body. “I wish there was something I could do for you, my dear child. But I’m afraid…” She pulled herself together, straightened her shoulders and carefully guided her unconscious friend through the door and towards her quarters. There was no way she’d leave her alone for a single moment.



“Is she hurt?”

McGonagall jumped and whirled round. “Gods, you gave me a fright,” she breathed, giving Sirius a weak smile. “No, I don’t think so. Exhausted and fairly intoxicated, I’d say. I’m taking her to my quarters—do you think you might—”

“Of course. We’ll share duties. Alastor is coming as well, and Albus, of course. So you don’t have to stay up all night.”

“It’s not as if I could sleep,” she replied wryly. “Sirius—” she peered at Hermione’s face, to make sure she was still unconscious “—I’m so… so terribly afraid. I don’t know what to do—this is worse than the war, because there was always something useful to do… Protect the students, devise plans… But what is there left to do, when even Albus has failed? If everybody closes their doors to him, what can we hope to achieve? I wish… I wish I didn't feel so old and useless.”

Sirius put an arm around her shoulders. “I know. I’m feeling exactly the same. As to protecting—I think we’ll have to protect her. She might…” He bit his lip. “It’s not just the loss. She feels it’s all her fault, and that might lead her to… do something…”

“If anything happens to her,” McGonagall said grimly, waving her wand at the door to her quarters, “More than has already happened, I mean, I’m going to kill Potter. With my bare hands.” She steered Hermione into the parlour and closed the door. When she turned to face Sirius, her face was wet with tears. “How did this happen, Sirius? How could this happen? Potter… Harry, he used to be such a fine boy… When did he turn into this… this unfeeling monster?”

Sirius gave a short, mirthless laugh. Holding the guestroom door open for the two women, he said, “I don’t know, Minerva. And, to be completely honest with you, I don’t even want to think about it. Because it might make me realize that…” He watched as McGonagall tucked Hermione into bed where she was soon joined by the Kneazles, and summoned two chairs for them to sit with the young woman. “I might realize,” he continued, his gaze resting on Hermione’s face, “that I have to blame myself, too.”

“You weren’t there, Sirius. First you were in Azkaban, and then you had to hide. How many times did you see Harry between your escape and the Victory? For more than five minutes, I mean?”

“Twice, three times maybe. But that isn’t what I meant. I should have taken his, well, education into my own hands afterwards, after the Victory.”

“He was nineteen by then. You would have been late in any case.”

“I don’t know. I might have been there for him—”

“You were there for him, Sirius. You spent a lot of time together.”

“Oh, yes, we did. Getting drunk and talking Quidditch and girls. Or rather, I was talking girls. He was talking Hermione. We avoided the really important topics, Minerva, that’s what I’m blaming myself for.”

“Would you have been up to tackling the important topics? After twelve years in Azkaban and six on the run? You had your own issues to deal with, I believe.”

“You’re exceptionally lenient tonight, Minerva.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I think—” he tilted his head “—Albus and Alastor have arrived.”



None of them slept that night. They stayed up, sometimes talking but mostly listening to the silence and to the clock ticking the seconds off Severus Snape’s life.

Hermione woke around three a.m. Like a puppet, she allowed them to move her into a sitting position and drank the hangover potion they had been keeping ready for her. She also drank a glass of water, but refused to eat.

“You should try and eat something, dear,” Dumbledore said, sitting down on the edge of her bed. “Starving yourself is not going to help Severus.”

She hadn’t spoken a single word since she’d woken up. Now she let her eyes rest on the old wizard’s face—the tension of the last hours was beginning to take its toll on him as well—and shook her head. “Nothing is going to help Severus anymore. Nothing. There is just…” She shrugged. “Emptiness. The end. Nothing else.”

Dumbledore sighed. “Do you think you might tell us about your encounter with Harry?”

The mention of her ex-husband’s name at least brought some colour to her pale face. Not the healthy kind, though, just two hectic red blotches burning on her cheekbones. “My encounter with Harry… That self-righteous, disgusting pig…” The words came out flatly, devoid of emotion. “I’m too damn decent for my own good. I should have hexed him right when I entered the room. He was eating—can you imagine? He was sitting there, calm and serene, eating his dinner. As if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t decided to kill Severus, just kill him in cold blood, take him away from me, as if he were God Almighty—”

Her voice was high-pitched now, and she was speaking faster and faster, gasping for air. McGonagall stepped forward, a vial of calming potion in her hand. “Please, Hermione, drink this. It will—”

“No!” A violent swipe of Hermione’s right hand yanked the vial from McGonagall’s fingers and hurled it against the wall. “I don’t want to be calm!” she yelled, “I want to be awake and alert, because he’s still alive, and I can tell myself that he exists! A little more than twenty-four hours and he’ll be gone! Forever! I’ll never…” She stopped abruptly and fell back into the cushions. “How shall I live?” she whispered, “Never see him again… never touch… His voice, I’ll miss his voice so very much, and his smile…”

McGonagall turned and went a few steps away, shoulders shaking, and was joined by Moody, whose murderous expression softened as he tried to comfort her. Sirius remained where he was, but his face had turned white as a sheet, and a muscle in his temple was jumping.

Dumbledore gently took Hermione’s hand. “Are you allowed to see him, before…”

“Yes. Only once, and just for an hour, but I can go anytime I want. Generous, isn’t he, our Minister?”

“Maybe you should try to get some sleep then.”

Hermione opened her eyes and looked at the old wizard. “Why? Do you think—” she propped herself up on her elbows “—do you really think it will matter to him how I look?”

“He’ll be worried if you look ill, my dear.”

“What else would he expect? If I showed up there, looking rested and smiling, don’t you think he’d know it’s nothing but an act?”

“He certainly would. But don’t you want to make the most of that hour? It will be worse, afterwards, if your mind isn’t clear enough to live every second of it consciously.”

“Yes,” she whispered, “Yes, that’s true.”

“Then sleep, child.” He gently touched her forehead. “Somniferus!”

*

Dear Grandfather,

Could you please, please talk to Father? Something has gone wrong, because the Aurors have taken Headmaster Snape, maybe to Azkaban, but I don’t know where he is right now. Do you think there is a way Father could make sure he is well? Please, it would mean so much to me! I haven’t seen the Mudblood, so maybe she has gone to prison as well, but I’ll tell you more the instant I receive news of her. I am very worried, because I know that Father talked to the Minister (Alecto and Tisiphone told me) and now I am afraid something might happen to the Headmaster. Could you please, please answer soon and reassure me?

Your loving granddaughter
Lucertola


“Well,” Draco said, putting down the letter and glancing at Lucius’s portrait, “I’m afraid I can’t do anything for her, much as I would like to.”

“Afraid?” Lucius snorted. “You must be joking. That piece of scum gets what he deserves, and you are sorry?”

“I’m not sorry for him but for my daughter,” Draco replied sharply. “If her feelings run that deep, she might do something… inconsiderate. She’ll convince herself that it’s all her fault.”

“Which it is, incidentally,” Lucius said. “She got a little too obsessed with him, if you ask me. Let her learn her lesson. She has to recognize, and sooner rather than later, that indulging one’s feelings beyond a certain point is very dangerous.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Father! You are talking about my daughter and—”

“So sure?” Lucius asked mockingly.

“This is not the right moment for splitting hair. Whether she is your daughter or mine is unimportant, compared to what might happen if she finds out about Snape. Potter intends to hold a public trial—it’s going to be all over the papers. And I do not want her to read the news in the Daily Prophet. The staff will have other things to do than keep an eye on her, especially because her name happens to be Malfoy.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow and slightly shook his head. “My, my. You seem to have quite a low opinion of… your daughter. Be that as it may—” he silenced Draco’s protest with a gesture “—maybe it would be prudent to have her at home, for many reasons. There is more than a week left of her holidays—why don’t you write to her and tell her to come home for a few days? So you may break the news to her in duly diluted form.”

“Yes.” Draco looked down at the letter he had crumpled inadvertently. “I think I shall write to her.” He relaxed and leaned back. “You never know—somebody might even suspect her. And I’ll send a letter to McGonagall, too, explaining that Cho is feeling unwell and wants to see her daughter.”

“Do as you please,” Lucius snapped. He had been impatiently tapping the armrest of his chair with his fingertips. “And now to more important things: have you already contacted the Ministry?”

“I thought that contacting Rookwood first would be a more prudent course of action. He still knows exactly whom we may trust.”

“And? What did he say?”

“He told me to try Shaw and Fairchild. The obvious choice, really, but I wanted to be sure.”

“Forget Shaw. He may be willing, but his position is too inferior. Or has he been promoted?”

“No, he’s still on the Vampire Panel.”

“Useless. And Fairchild? Still in Experimental Charms?”

“Yes, but he’s Finley’s deputy now.”

“That sounds promising. If he is still as crazy as he used to be—”

“Rookwood seems to believe he’s crazier than ever.”

“Very well. Then I suppose he still spends most of his time together with his colleagues from Experimental Potions. Getting the formula will be a piece of cake for him. Fairchild is our man, Draco. Be warned, though—he is one of the greediest people I’ve ever met.”

“Blackmail?”

“If possible. He never tried it with me, but I am convinced he had a hand in McNair’s unexpected demise.” Lucius smirked. “Poor McNair, he never knew when to be generous.”

“Rather than to be generous, I intended to get rid of him as soon as possible.”

“A very laudable intention. I presume you are going to contact him immediately after our return?”

“That was the general idea. I’d like to get a feel for the atmosphere before taking any concrete steps. Not that I don’t trust Rookwood, but first-hand impressions are always preferable.”

“I see that not all the lessons I taught you have been in vain,” Lucius drawled.

*

“Are you sure you can do this?” Sirius asked, once he had materialized in front of the Ministry building together with Hermione.

Sure… No, she wasn’t sure. There was nothing she wanted more than to see Severus, but that their last hour together had to take place here, in this building she had never liked, and come to hate after Colin Creevey’s trial, seemed to smother her spirits even more. She loathed the Ministry’s looming grey bulk, she abhorred the characteristic smell pervading the corridors, that stench of dust and sweat and poorly cooked meals. This wasn’t how she wanted her last moments with Severus to be burned into her memory. A last kiss between the walls of a narrow cell… Why not a garden? A snow-covered forest? Something with a perfume she might associate with this precious memory whenever she smelled it…

“Yes,” she said. “I am sure. I want to be with him and… Oh, Sirius!” She flung herself into his arms. “I wish you could talk to him, too—maybe I can persuade the guards to let you come with me, just for ten minutes!”

“No, Hermione. An hour is short enough. Take what you can get and don’t think about me. I’ll be waiting here for you, all right?”

She nodded and turned to cross the large square, dotted with trees and benches. It was almost empty; only a handful of people were hurrying through the beginning dusk, their hands in their pockets or clutching stacks of parchment to their chest. Hermione walked slowly, deliberately. This was already part of what she wanted to remember forever. The slight fog, the lamps scattered here and there, surrounded by a soft yellow gleam. The humid cold, the gleaming pavement. A few stray leaves, brown and soaked and slippery. The steps leading up to the entrance, one, two, three, four, five, six… She paused to inhale deeply. She looked back over her shoulder—there was Sirius, a dark outline against the white façade of the building opposite, pacing back and forth, head bent, shoulders hunched. Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. She looked up. The high dark wall, a few lit windows, people behind them, people who knew nothing of her, of her grief, knew not that for her the world was about to end. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. The portal, enormous, dark, made of bronze, designed to impress. The door to hell. The young Auror standing guard, blue-lipped with cold and impersonally polite.

“I am here to see my husband.”

“The Minister—” The look of confusion, then embarrassment on the boyish, unlined face. “I’m sorry. Of course, Mrs. Snape. This way, please.”

The vast atrium, lit by hundreds of torches, their shine reflected in the highly polished marble floor. Black, white, black, white, black, white. The reception desk. A slightly clueless young witch, fumbling for her glasses.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Snape, but this list says you can’t—”

“I have a letter of admission. From the Minister himself.”

The glasses were oddly shaped, a bit like Skeeter’s, their colour too dark. The contrast with the pale, drawn face too hard. “Oh, I see. Sorry, Ma’am… I… Hermione?”

“Yes…” Don’t interrupt this, I’m memorizing every millisecond, I don’t want your questions or your pity to destroy my memory. Whoever you are. I don’t care, just go, go away, call the Auror on duty…

A puzzled look from eyes enlarged by the spectacles, a shrug. The sound of heels on marble, growing fainter. A moment of silence, almost magical. Then footsteps again, beating an irregular, sharp rhythm. Another Auror, older than his colleague at the entrance.

“Your wand please, Mrs. Snape.”

So many torches, some of them floating, some in sconces on the walls.

“I need to perform a detector spell… security reasons, I’m sure you understand.”

What was there to understand, or not understand, when the most important of all, the cruel mysterious smile curling Fate’s lips, was indecipherable? When all that had been given was about to be taken away. When there would be no more smile, no “Spikes” pronounced by a deep soft voice, no touching each other’s hands at the High Table, no arguing about who let the cats into the bedroom, no breathless “I love you!” moaned into the darkness and warmth of a body covering hers.

Corridors and stairs, deeper and deeper down, past doors and other corridors, to the bottom of the pit. Where there was fire and eternal suffering. Down. Tons and tons of grey stone piled high, to cover the tomb of her life.

“An hour, Mrs. Snape. I shall come back to fetch you.”

An hour. So many tiny seconds. Three thousand six hundred. She was a wealthy woman.