Orpheus

Chapter 24

By Pigwidgeon37

It seemed as if his arms would never be able to let go of her. They remained clamped around her body, the body he knew so well, which was already becoming that of a stranger. He felt her hands digging into his back, her head burrowing into his chest. He wanted to say "I love you," but it seemed weightless, unnecessary. So he just held her, more than ever aware of his own body that might or might not be an inanimate lump of flesh very soon, aware of the clasps of her cloak pressing into his chest, the fragrance of her hair, its softness and texture.

The last few hours had been close to unbearable. He had mastered "Finite Incantatem" after hours of teeth-gritting practice, interrupted by fits of leaden despair. He'd tried with the soup bowl, smashed it into a thousand pieces on the floor, put them together again with a Reparo spell. He was sure he could do the same with the transfigured vial, restore it to its true form, drink the Draught. But what then? They had never tested the concoction. It might work, but it was equally possible that it didn't.

When, however, he had allowed himself to revel in the hope that the Draught of Life would do what it promised, the thought had not brought him the desired relief. On the contrary, that was when the worst agony had started. For he couldn't tell Hermione. He had fought a veritable battle with himself, pondered the arguments in favour of and against telling her. But if he wanted to succeed, if he wanted the ministerial potions brewers to believe that they had committed some mistake, the execution had to be as convincing as possible. If anybody—and this was going to be a public trial, probably with reporters and cameras—saw the tiniest hint on Hermione's face, they would draw the inevitable conclusion: she had known all the time that the Draught worked. They would question her under Veritaserum—it was possible to resist it, but it wasn’t an easily acquired skill—find out the truth and force her to correct the formula he’d altered.

He had chided himself for being as blind as Potter, who had put 'humanity' above his own wife, but the very moment his mind had formulated the thought, he had known it was born out of desperation and selfishness. Yes, he loved Hermione more than his own life. He hated having to hurt her, especially as he didn't know for how long she'd have to suffer. It might be a few months, or years. On the other hand, two people—not counting Hermione—knew the truth about the Draught of Life. Maybe Potter possessed enough ethics not to use it for nefarious purposes. Draco Malfoy, though, didn't have such scruples. He might use the Draught, he might sell the formula. And, loath as Severus was to even think it, the furies the likes of Malfoy would be able to unleash were too high a prize for Hermione's peace of mind.

But what if she's so desperate she ends her life? the voice in his mind asked.

She's strong. She won't. She knows how many people she would hurt, and her sense of responsibility would prevent her.

And if it doesn't?

Then I will have failed. I'll kill myself and hope to meet her in whichever part of heaven, hell or purgatory she may be.

The hours passed, and he was wondering whether she'd come to him at all. Maybe Potter had forbidden it, or perhaps she simply wasn't up to facing him, knowing it was the last time. There was relief in that thought, because he wouldn't have to lie to her, but it was laced with bitterness. If she didn't come… True, the Draught might work and they might be reunited soon, but he wasn't sure which impact it would have on their relationship if she wasn't ready to share this with him. Egoist, he told himself. He was a damned egoist. He ought to wish for her to do what she felt was best. Only he couldn't. He longed for her.

And finally, she was there. In his arms, pressing her body against his, as if she were trying to melt through his skin and become one with him.

"How long can you stay?"

"An hour. He didn't allow more than an hour."

"It will have to suffice, then."

Breaking the contact was almost painful, but he wanted her to be more comfortable. She had rushed into his arms immediately. He'd seen her face, though, pale, torn and lined. And he could feel the slight tremor in her limbs. If she continued to stand on her feet, she might faint. Without letting go of her completely, merely encircling her loosely with his arms, he stepped backwards until he felt the edge of the cot press into the hollows of his knees.

"Come. Let us lie down. You're not up to standing."

"No, I… Sirius Apparated me, for fear I might splinch."

"Say thank you to him for me. I'm glad you arrived in one piece. I want the whole you here with me."

She lay down and scooted towards the wall, so her back was propped up against the stone. He joined her and, lying on his side, moved close to her. "How is your mother?"

Tears welled up in her eyes. "Oh, Severus… What a question to ask."

"Everything seems unimportant now. So it's as good a question as any other. And at least this one holds the promise of an amusing answer."

"She's fine, I think. Alastor seems to be good for her—incredible, isn't it?"

"It's rather… unusual, I agree."

He slipped his arm under her head; the other hand found its way inside her cloak and stroked her side, down the valley of her waist and up the curving slope of her hip, again and again. Her eyes fluttered shut, and he kissed the lids. "Wherever I go, I will miss you," he whispered against her forehead.

"Promise that, if there's a possibility, you'll demand they turn you into a ghost."

"You want me to haunt you?"

"Yes," she whispered, barely audible. "I want you to haunt me." Her hand, small and cold, went up to his cheek. "Not that you'd need to be a ghost to haunt me. You'll never leave me. Never, for as long as I live."

“Hermione.” Her lips curved into a smile, but she didn’t open her eyes. “Spikes, love, look at me.” The endearment made tears seep from under her closed lids. Her breathing grew ragged, but after a few seconds she had it under control and opened her eyes. “Hermione…” His hand left her hip and fluttered to her face, stroking tears off her cheeks. “I want you to promise something. You must not harm yourself, in any way. You have to go on, however hard it seems. Will you promise that?”

“I can’t… Severus, this is the one thing I can’t promise. Because I simply can’t imagine a life after tomorrow morning. How can I promise—”

“You must. If you love me, Spikes, if you truly love me, you must promise.”

She drew in a shivering breath. “Blackmail, Severus?”

“Yes. Shameless blackmail. I know it won’t be a happy life, not for a very long time, at least. But existing is always possible, miserable as it may be.”

“I’ll try, but—”

“No, Hermione. Not ‘try’. You’ll do it. Promise that you’ll do it.”

She huddled closer to him, her face buried in the curve of his neck and shoulder. “Wouldn’t you—If I were to die, wouldn’t you contemplate following me?”

“Yes, I would. Maybe I’d even do it. But you mustn’t. You have to stay alive, my love.”

“Do you think I’m so much stronger than you?”

He bent his head to rest his cheek on her hair. “I think you are. My beloved Gryffindor.” He felt her nod and let out a silent sigh of relief, pressing her to him with all his might.

Hermione raised her head, and they started kissing, slowly and carefully, more so than even their first kisses had been. Her lips were dry and rough, her breath a little stale, and he hadn’t had a shower in forty-eight hours. They had both begun to let go of each other, like people do when they say goodbye before a long period of separation. The image they had of one another was slowly turning into something immutable, to remain the same from now on, to be conserved in their minds like a photo, slowly fading and losing its connection with the person it represented.

“I’ve tried everything,” she whispered against his lips, “Everything. Albus, too, and the others—but it was like hitting a wall.”

“Shhh… You don’t need to justify anything.”

“Not even that it’s all my fault?” Her eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, searching.

He kissed her forehead. “Ego te absolvo.”

They lay in silence, listening to the seconds tick by.

*

Almost twenty-four hours had gone by, and Lucertola still hadn’t received an answer from her grandfather. She’d forced herself to have breakfast and lunch with the others, trying not to let her emotions show on her face. There weren’t many students, and most of the resident teachers didn’t show up. McGonagall had made a brief appearance at lunch, looking as if she’d aged by twenty years. None of the students seemed to notice, though, they were too wrapped up in their own petty little world. They laughed and chatted as if nothing had happened. Lucy felt the hate well up within her, a violent, red-hot emotion that made her want to kill them and rip them apart. Usually she regarded them with indifferent contempt as a different category of lesser human beings; that she was capable of loathing with such single-minded intensity was a new experience. Not even the Mudblood had evoked these emotions; the hate hadn’t been so pure, there had been jealousy as well, and the conviction of her own superiority had tempered it a little. Not so now. She had to keep her eyes fixed on her plate and her fingers clenched tightly around her knife and fork, for fear of setting her peers on fire if she so much as looked at them.

Dinner therefore was out of the question. She simply couldn’t bring herself to face them again. Getting food wasn’t difficult, she’d just have to go to the kitchen some time after dinner and ask for a plate of leftovers. But right now, she needed air. It was getting dark outside, but that suited her just fine. She yearned to breathe in the freezing fog, feel it bite down her throat and into her lungs. She wanted to be chilled to the bone, so that maybe she might find comfort in the warmth and light of her quarters, instead of feeling oppressed by the all-too-well-known surroundings.

So she took her cloak, put on a pair of warm boots and left the common room. Pale and noiseless, she wandered through the hallways like a ghost, until she finally felt the reassuring form of the door handle in her palm, pushed open the entrance door and stepped out into the dusk. She walked quickly but aimlessly, found herself down at the lakeside and started circling the dark expanse of water that lay still and fathomless under an almost-black night sky.

There was some solace in exercising her limbs. She felt her muscles ache and her face burn, covered in minuscule droplets of condensed water. The awareness of her own body allowed her mind to at last loosen its grip on her anxiety, relax and become empty. In this very moment, nothing existed but herself and the snow under her feet, the cold humid air, her fast-beating heart, the soft silvery lilt of water brushing against reed and pebbles.

She was panting heavily and longing for warmth and food when the castle walls appeared above the rim of the slope she was climbing. A change of clothes, a pot of hot tea, maybe some soup and sandwiches seemed a very alluring prospective. Smiling to herself, Lucy continued her way up through the snow. The surface was unbroken and frozen hard, yielding with a satisfying crunching noise under each of her steps.

She had almost reached the top of the slope, at a distance of maybe fifty yards from the main entrance, when she heard voices. One male and one female. Her stomach felt as if suddenly a cloud of butterflies had risen within her, fluttering madly and making her knees weak; she stumbled and almost fell. Had the Headmaster returned, maybe? Or had the Mudblood come back to Hogwarts and been ambushed by Aurors? Lucy willed her legs to carry her further up, so she could see who was coming along the main road leading to the castle. It was now completely dark, therefore she had to wait until the two were almost at arm’s reach until she recognized them. Her heart fell. This wasn’t the Headmaster but Professor Black. And, leaning heavily on him, the Mudblood.

She didn’t have much time to decide whether to duck behind a tree or make her presence known. Curiosity won out, though. Maybe they could tell her some news about Headmaster Snape. “Professor?” she called after them.

The two stopped and turned. “Who’s there?” Professor Black’s voice was harsh and raspy.

“Lucertola Malfoy.” She made a few steps towards them. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was just returning to the school after a walk around the lake and saw you…” She squinted when Professor Black lit his wand and directed the beam at her face.

“Miss Malfoy. You shouldn’t be out here after sunset.”

“I know, but…” She stepped out of the pool of light and inhaled deeply. It was now or never. “I needed to clear my head, because… I… I talked to one of the paintings and they told me that… that…”

“What did they tell you, Miss Malfoy?”

A shiver ran down Lucy’s spine at the sound of the Mudblood’s voice. It was flat and toneless, and the words came out with difficulty—a dying person would speak like this, Lucy thought. “About the Headmaster, and that the Aurors had come to Hogwarts… Can you… Is there anything you can tell me? Is he all right?”

She couldn’t see their faces, and therefore wasn’t sure whether the noise she had heard was a laugh or a sob. “Please?” She couldn’t believe she was begging, but fear had overtaken all her other emotions. “I’m very worried, and—”

“I can imagine,” Professor Black interrupted her. “It’s none of your business, though. Run off, back to your quarters, before I take points.”

“But… but I need to know, please Professor!” She had further approached the two and was now standing so close she could have touched them.

“I said piss off!” Professor Black roared and pointed his wand at her, “Out of my sight, or—”

“Sirius! Don’t! Can’t you see she’s upset?”

“I don’t fucking care if the chit is upset or not!”

The tip of Professor Black’s wand, still lit, swerved slightly and cast its shine on the Mudblood’s face. Lucy gasped. She’d never yet seen a corpse but imagined that the face of a dead person had to look exactly like this. Pale, blue-lipped, with huge staring unseeing eyes and sunken cheeks. “Are you… are you all right, Professor?” She tried to summon the hate and jealousy she felt for the… Mudblood, no woman, but all she could find was anguish and a strange ache that had to be compassion. She tried to rid herself of it but to no avail.

The eyes closed for a moment. “No.” They opened again and stared at Lucy. “No, I’m not all right. Not at all.”

“Come on, Hermione. You’ll catch your death if we remain out here in the cold.”

“As if I cared.” She shrugged. “Listen, Sirius, why don’t you go inside and give me five minutes with Miss Malfoy?”

He looked at her as if she had just grown a second head. “Are you mad? Leave you alone with that… that—”

“Sirius. I’m convinced she won’t harm me, will you, Miss Malfoy?”

Lucy shook her head, unsure whether they could discern the movement in the darkness. “No. I just wanted to know—”

“Your wand!” Professor Black’s hand was hovering in front of her. “If you don’t care about your safety, that’s your business,” he snapped at his colleague, “But I do.”

“You’ll give it back to me as soon as we’re inside?”

“Of course.” He made an impatient gesture. “I don’t collect students’ wands.”

Lucertola reluctantly handed it over and frowned after his retreating form. The she turned to the other witch. “Professor, what—” But she was silenced by a raised hand.

“Miss Malfoy. I have no idea why I’m talking to you. Your… feelings for my husband haven’t escaped me, and neither has your appalling behaviour since you arrived at this school. But…”

Lucy felt a hand squeeze her shoulder. She’d have wanted to shake it off, but was too mesmerized by the intimacy of the moment.

“Misguided as your emotions might have been, I acknowledge that love, or the illusion of being in love, is the same whether you’re fifteen, thirty-five or ninety years old.”

“It wasn’t an illusion, I—”

“It’s not important anymore, Miss Malfoy. Lucertola,” she added after a short pause. “He’s going… going to die. Tomorrow.”

Too stunned to speak, Lucy merely grabbed the hand that was still resting on her shoulder. Her mind was reeling, and she suddenly felt very light, almost as if the shock had made her weightless, so that she was floating in the darkness. “Die?” she choked out, “But he can’t… they can’t…”

“They can. Believe me, we have tried everything.”

“But somebody must… maybe my father…” She fell silent. Her father. Her grandfather. Herself. They had orchestrated this horrible tragedy. And if it hadn’t been for herself… The guilt hit her harder than the shock had, and she had to cling to the older woman’s arm to remain standing. But the guilt didn’t release her, it sunk its claws into her, deep and painful, it squeezed her ribcage, so she had to struggle for air, it dug into her gut without mercy. She barely managed to turn away before falling down on her knees and retching into the snow. Bitter-sour and hot. The taste of guilt. She let herself slump head first into the cool whiteness, feeling the frozen surface scratch her skin. Two hands firmly gripped her shoulders and pulled her back into a kneeling position, then hoisted her to her feet. “Professor, I…” She wanted to confess, get rid of the weight crushing her, no matter what the consequences, she just had to free herself of it. “Professor, I,” she started again, but was interrupted by the sound of wings beating the air.

Both women peered into the darkness, to see a large black form take shape. An eagle owl fluttered briefly above their heads, then lowered itself to perch on Lucy’s arm.

“So you still use eagle owls.”

“Yes, Father prefers… Listen, Professor, I—”

“I have to go, Lucertola. I can’t… I have to lie down. Good bye.”

With numb fingers, Lucy began to untie the scroll of parchment from the owl’s foot.

*

The morning of New Year’s Eve dawned as chilly and grey as its predecessor.

At the Minister’s Manor, Harry Potter was sitting in the breakfast parlour, a coffeepot and cup in front of him. The table was strewn with parchments. He took a sip of coffee and adjusted his glasses. The crease between his eyebrows deepened as he read through a letter and made a few annotations on a sheet of parchment.
The reporters—only a few selected individuals—had all confirmed the invitation. They would show up at eleven o’clock sharp for a short briefing before the trial started at eleven thirty. Neither the newspapers nor the Wizards’ Wireless Network had brought a single word so far. It definitely paid to be on good terms with the media; this was something he had learned the hard way. They weren’t enemies (as he had believed for a long time), but neither were they friends. They were a tool that had to be wielded with a gentle but firm hand.
The Draught was ready and would be taken to Snape’s cell together with his breakfast.
The Aurors had been instructed to perform a thorough search of whoever entered the Ministry building, and another one before they stepped into the courtroom. This time, nobody was going to smuggle in so much as a toothpick.
His spymaster had been informed and was ready to pick Snape up at the morgue, where he would be taken after the execution.
The wizengamot had unanimously accepted his suggestion of using poison for the execution. Hemlock. He hoped it didn’t interact with the Draught. But this was a risk to be taken.
The letter for Malfoy was ready to be posted right after the trial. They had agreed that his role wouldn’t be made public. The press office had prepared a short note for the media, informing them that the Minister of Magic had decided to pardon the family and allow them to return to England.
Hermione had been obliviated, and Dumbledore was bound by a promise. None of them was going to talk. And Malfoy knew better than to press his luck. If Snape could be tried and sentenced to death, so could Ferret Boy.
The Malfoy girl might be trouble—Harry was absolutely sure she had been the one to collect the information—but her father would doubtlessly make her understand that she had to keep her mouth shut.

Harry read through his notes once again and nodded. Nothing had been forgotten. In a few hours, his country would be safe again. They were his children, and he had to protect them. Whatever the cost.



In his prison cell, Severus was trying to convince himself that he wasn’t going to die today. He would live, he would find a way to escape from wherever the Ministry intended to take him. At eight o’clock, a guard arrived, to accompany him to a Spartan bathroom, where he was allowed to take a shower and brush his teeth. The guard didn’t leave but stayed with him all the time. Severus just barely managed to fish the button from his pocket and slip it under his tongue, before his clothes were taken away for cleaning. Back in his cell, he found the same tray as always on the table. Besides the glass and the bowl, it also held a small bottle containing a dark-red liquid. Severus picked it up and sneered down at the disgusting soup.

“This is my last breakfast, as far as I know,” he addressed the guard. “Can’t you manage something more appealing? Coffee, preferably, and some toast and butter?”

Grumbling, the guard took the tray and left.

A wandless severing charm cut a hole into the mattress, into which he poured the potion. He Reparo-ed the fabric, retransfigured the button, poured the Draught into the bottle he had cleaned with a quick Scourgify, and closed it, careful not to let the Draught come into contact with the stopper. The consequences might be unpleasant. He cast about for a place to put his—now empty—vial, but had to slip it into his pocket, as he heard the guard approach. His nostrils flared at the aroma of coffee rising from the cup.

“You got to drink your potion first, so I can leave,” the guard announced gruffly.

Heart hammering and careful to cover as much of the bottle with his hand—unlike the concoction they had brewed at the Ministry, the Draught was dark-pink, and the guard might notice the difference—Severus did as he was told. He even poured some water into the bottle, rinsed it carefully and drank the pale pink liquid. “Satisfied?” he asked as scathingly as possible.

“Couldn’t care less,” the guard replied and left.



At Hogwarts, Lucertola Malfoy was standing in the bathroom and looking at herself in the mirror.

“Shouldn’t you go and see a mediwitch?” the mirror asked.

Lucy stared at the dark smudges under her eyes and shook her head. “No. I’m not ill.”

The mirror remained silent for a moment and then said cautiously, “You, uh, look ill, though.”

“And I feel ill. But it’s nothing… nothing physical.”

“Oh, I see. Lovesickness?”

“Yes,” Lucy said, with a smile she herself found frightening, “Yes, I suppose you could call it that.”

She returned to her dormitory, to check her luggage one last time. Then, unsure whether she’d be able to endure human company at all, she went down to the Great Hall, her right hand in her pocket, gripping the portkey her father had sent her.



Minerva McGonagall had convinced herself and Sirius that they must not leave the students to themselves all day, and so they had gone to the Great Hall for breakfast. Hermione was sitting in the parlour together with Dumbledore, both staring listlessly at the sumptuous breakfast the House Elves had prepared. From time to time, Hermione reached under the table to feed a morsel of ham to the Kneazles.

“He said I ought to stay away from the trial.”

“But you want to go?” Dumbledore looked at her over the rim of his cup.

“Yes. Yes, I want to go. I want to be there when he… when it all ends. And then I’ll leave. Don’t tell Sirius and Minerva, though.”

“Leave?” Dumbledore put down his cup. “Not in a… metaphorical sense, I hope?”

She smiled at him. “No. I promised Severus not to do anything of the kind. But all this—” she shrugged “—Hogwarts, the wizarding world… I can’t stay. It’s not home anymore.”

“You’re returning to the Muggle world?”

“It’s all I have left,” she replied.