Orpheus

Chapter 25

By Pigwidgeon37

He held her in his arms, stroked her hair. "It will pass, child. It will pass."

"But… it's all my fault. All my fault. If not for my curiosity…"

"Shh…" He kissed her forehead. "When matters are taken out of our hands… You had no control over it anymore. You mustn't blame yourself."

"Do I have to go back? I don't think I can. It would be too much."

"Of course you have to. We are all going back, Lucy. Tomorrow. Aren't you looking forward to seeing the Manor, finally? It's so beautiful there, even now, in winter."

"Yes… But Hogwarts, I don't want to go back to Hogwarts!"

"You must. There is no other way. If anybody suspects your involvement, the consequences might be terrible. Not only for you. For me, too, and for your mother. You don't want that, do you?"

"No, but…"

"There. I knew you'd understand, my darling. You are my daughter, my bright, beautiful, courageous daughter. You will do this for your family, won't you?"

"Yes…"

"And you'll keep our secret, won't you? He is dead, Lucy; even if you betrayed us all, that wouldn't bring him back to life. The Minister has been very clear about this: if anybody learns about the Draught or its properties, I will have to face the same fate as Headmaster Snape. You don't want that, do you?"

She clung to him even more, so that her arms hurt from the effort. "No! You're all I have left. You mustn't die, please father, promise—"

"I won't die, my darling, not for many, many years. Not if you protect me by keeping our secret."

"I loved him, Father, I really did."

"I know, sweet. I know."

*

As far as Hermione was concerned, time had ceased to exist on 31 December 2015.

She had sat through the trial—shorter than Colin Creevey’s, as there had been no witnesses—in a catatonia-like state. Her mouth pressed shut, her chest barely rising and falling, her hands clasped together tightly, she had resembled a statue in a churchyard, a fallen desperate angel frozen in a position of prayer to a God that was no more. Amidst the bursts of white-blue and tiny explosions of camera flashlights, she had watched her husband empty a vial of hemlock extract, had seen him grow pale, had stared unblinkingly as his body went limp and his head lolled back. When two Ministry wizards had levitated him on a stretcher and carried him out, she had risen from her seat and left the courtroom, without looking back once. She had found her way to the great atrium, got her wand back at the reception desk, crossed the hall, stepped through the portal and Disapparated.

The only place she could go to was her mother’s house. She had packed nothing, left all her belongings at Hogwarts. She re-entered the Muggle world with nothing but the clothes she was wearing. Her mother, informed of her daughter’s tragedy by Alastor Moody, had not expected her, but neither was she surprised. When she tried to talk to Hermione, though, the young witch merely shook her head and went up the stairs to her old room, closed the door and locked it. Mrs. Granger was convinced she had to leave the room from time to time, if only to use the bathroom; the trays with food and water she put next to the door three times a day were evidently taken in and out of the room as well. But, try as she might, Mrs. Granger never caught a glimpse of her daughter.

This in itself would have worried her enough; that each day an empty brandy or whisky bottle sat on the tray next to the empty plates and bowls, though, filled her with horrible anxiety.

That, and the music.

There was a small stereo in Hermione’s room; it had been a present for her fifteenth birthday. She also possessed a collection of CDs, mostly classical music. But since her return, day in and day out, she had only been listening to one single piece. Again and again.

Ma belle amie est morte, My beloved is dead
Je pleurerai toujours; I will weep forever ;
Sous la tombe elle emporte With her, into her tomb, she takes
Mon âme et mes amours. My soul and my love.
Dans le ciel, sans m'attendre, She has returned to heaven,
Elle s'en retourna; Without waiting for me;
L'ange qui l'emmena The angel who came for her
Ne voulut pas me prendre. Refused to take me, too.
Que mon sort est amer! Oh, bitter fate !
Ah! sans amour s'en aller sur la mer! Oh, to go out to sea without love !

La blanche créature The white creature
Est couchée au cercueil; Sleeps in her coffin ;
Comme dans la nature All nature seems
Tout me paraît en deuil! To be mourning!
La colombe oubliée The forgotten dove
Pleure et songe à l'absent; Weeps and dreams of her absent mistress;
Mon âme pleure et sent My soul weeps and feels
Qu'elle est dépareillée. That it has lost its mate.
Que mon sort est amer! Oh, bitter fate !
Ah! sans amour s'en aller sur la mer! Oh, to go out to sea without love!

Sur moi la nuit immense The vast night covers me
S'étend comme un linçeul, Like a shroud,
Je chante ma romance I’m singing my song
Que le ciel entend seul. Which only the sky can hear.

Ah! comme elle était belle, Ah, how lovely she was,
Et comme je l'aimais! And how much I loved her!
Je n'aimerai jamais Never again will I love
Une femme autant qu'elle A woman as much as I loved her!
Que mon sort est amer! Oh bitter fate !
Ah! sans amour s'en aller sur la mer! Oh, to go out to sea without love !
S'en aller sur la mer! To go out to sea !



Hermione was lying on her bed, on her back, legs and arms parallel, only slightly spread. The half-empty brandy bottle was tucked under her left arm, ready for her to grab, the lid carefully screwed back on so the liquid wouldn’t spill out, even in case the bottle fell over. This was important, highly important even, because Hermione couldn’t Apparate to the supermarket before the closing hour, which was midnight, and there still were a few hours to go until then. All things considered, this was the most important thing of all: keeping a steady supply of whisky or brandy, only one bottle at a time. It was enough. She had started with one bottle every twenty-four hours, and she was not going to either increase or decrease the quantity. She didn’t mean to cause herself any permanent harm, after all. All she wanted was this constant, benign stupor.

Not that it took away the memories, oh no. But it softened their razor-sharp edges, so that instead of deep, bleeding cuts her soul only got bruises. Sometimes, on better days, when she managed to conjure the memory of their last hour together in Severus’s cell, Hermione even smiled. It was a difficult memory, though. Shy and reluctant. Not like the other one, the harsh dull images of the courtroom. They were always ready to replay themselves. Disgusting. Intrusive. She only allowed them in because there was Severus in them. Severus, her lover, black and white all over. Stark and far, so far away. It had cost almost all her strength to keep her eyes wide open and fixated on him all the time. The spasms of flashlight and the noise, especially the Minister’s droning voice, had made it almost impossible. But she had succeeded. It had been worth the effort, for now she had an entire film in her head and was free to play it again and again. Like the music. The beautiful, mournful music describing the death of a lover. It didn’t matter that the lover was female. When losing one’s love, it didn’t matter whether they were male or female.

She groped for the bottle, unscrewed the lid, took a deep swig and closed it again.

The alcohol gave her some warmth. The room was warm, at least that was what the thermometer said. But she was cold all the time. Only the few seconds after another gulp of whisky or brandy created an illusion of warmth, which was gone almost as quickly as it had come. She smiled and tried to lure the memory, the precious one, out of its hiding place. It didn’t want to come, though. There were no other memories, just this one and the images of the trial. The rest had gone away, or hidden themselves so well she couldn’t find them. It didn’t matter, not really. What was important was seeing Severus. Her lover. Her husband.

The remote control was waiting under her left hand. She lifted it a little, just enough, and pressed ‘Play’, ‘Index’ and ‘3’. Maybe another sip of brandy? No. She had to economize. Midnight was still far away.

The first accords. The voice, “Ma belle amie est morte…”

And the film started playing again.



"You are Severus Sidonius Snape?"

"Yes."

"Headmaster of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry?"

"Yes."

"Potions Master?"

"Yes."

"Were you a Death Eater?"

"Yes."

"You betrayed the Dark Lord?"

"Yes."

"Did you participate in the Death Eaters' activities after changing sides?"

"Yes."

"And also after Voldemort had returned in 1995?"

"Yes."

…

"You requested a meeting with me, on 14 August, to ask permission to brew a certain potion that could be used for defence purposes?"

"Yes."

"And received fifty thousand galleons out of the Ministry's research funds, together with an authorization to purchase illegal ingredients?"

"Yes."

…

"Did you tell me the whole truth about the potion you meant to brew?"

"No."

"Might this potion, if used with nefarious intent, lead to unforeseeable damage and danger for this country?"

"Yes."

"Did you intend to use it to such purposes?"

"I…"

"Mr. Snape, answer the question, please. Your silence will be interpreted as assent."

"So be it."

"Are you aware that this constitutes an act of high treason?"

"Yes."

"Then I, Harry Potter, Minister of Magic and Supreme Judge of the Wizengamot, hereby revoke your titles of Headmaster and Potions Master. You have declared yourself guilty of high treason, and hence lose all your civil rights, including the right to freedom and life. You are no more a member of the wizarding society, which you have betrayed. Your death at a wizard's hands will therefore not constitute a criminal offence, and no charges will be levelled at said wizard. Excido te, Severum Sidonium Snape, ex corde, ex mente, ex anima. Abscede, recede, secede."*

Sans amour s'en aller sur la mer. Sans amour. S'en aller. Sans amour. Sans amour.

*

Just as Draco had expected, the hubbub following Snape's trial and execution had so completely absorbed the wizarding world's collective attention that his and his family's return didn't cause the sensation it probably would have in less turbulent times. As things were, he'd enjoyed a short stroll through Diagon Alley, visited Gringott's, just to make sure his accounts had been unblocked; during his outing he'd met a few old acquaintances and talked to some of them. The nonchalant mention of the Minister's unexpected act of mercy had been enough to nip any question they might have wanted to ask in the bud. It seemed they were all still half-dazed by Potter's show of power and justice. Yes, he thought, a smile on his face, while perusing the heaps of parchment the Malfoy bank statements had grown into, yes, what had started out as a harmless little intrigue had definitely become something of a landmark in British wizarding history. The Minister of Magic had made full use of the powers he'd been endowed with, to set an example that both strengthened his position and put his reputation beyond any doubt. If he was ready to sentence to death one of the heroes of the war against Voldemort, there was nothing he wouldn't do to safeguard and guarantee his people's well-being. Or that seemed to be what the people thought. Idiots, Draco mused. Gullible, stupid cattle. Didn't they see farther than the tips of their noses? Obviously not. Well, Draco Malfoy did. He'd humour and flatter Potter as much as was necessary to remain in his graces.

Once he had the formula, though, things were going to change.

Draco chuckled to himself, trying to imagine Potter's face. Not that his surprise would be very long-lived. Nor would Potter himself, for that matter.

*

"I can't believe that little shit—" the others jumped and stared, because Minerva McGonagall never used four-letter words "—actually had the cheek to offer me Severus's position." McGonagall brandished the letter like a battle flag. "It's been three days, three days for Merlin's sake, and he dares write to me…" She took a deep breath. "That little fuckwit has never mourned anybody in his whole, disgusting life, he doesn't even know what it means, I suppose. So I probably shouldn't be surprised."

"And?" Dumbledore, who had neither smiled nor laughed for a week and been wearing black like the rest of the staff, gave her an intense look. "Are you going to accept?"

"Of course not!" She flung the letter down on the desk. "I'll be damned rather than—"

"Don't make any rash decisions," Moody growled. "Calm down and think."

"Says the man who blasted half the Forbidden Forest into smithereens," she retorted acidly.

"Hagrid did his fair share of blasting, too. And it helped me clear my mind. A bit of stress relief wouldn't be bad for you, either."

"I did—"

"Yeah, drank yourself into a coma. And a fat lot of good it did. Anyway," he continued, scratching his head, "you also have to think of Hogwarts. If you decline, Potter's going to suggest somebody else. Directly to the Board of Governors. Would you like that?"

"He's right, Minerva," Sirius Black chimed in. "What if he proposes some stupid prick like, say, Percy Weasley?"

"The Governors would never accept a Weasley," she replied. "But you're right, of course. So you think I should accept?"

"You should at least consider the possibility," Dumbledore said quietly.

"But…" She sighed and looked at the half-crumpled letter. "I can't be Headmistress and teach Transfiguration. It would be too much."

"It's not as if there's nobody out there who could do the job," Moody said. "They'll be queuing up at your door, they will, as soon as word gets out that there's a vacancy."

"I happen to like teaching, Alastor."

"Yes. And this happens to be important, Minerva. Or haven't you realized what's happening in this country? Potter's the Great Saviour again, just in case you didn't notice. He's the bloody Messiah, who's sacrificed friendship and everything for his country's sake. If you refuse, he could nominate Voldemort as the new headmaster, and they'd still worship him on their knees. So don't be childish. Whether you like teaching or not isn't important now. Not in the least."

"Who would have thought…" Sirius muttered, glancing out of the window. "Who would have thought it might come to this… have you had any news about Hermione?" he suddenly asked Moody.

The old Auror shook his head. "No. Marjorie is terribly upset. The lass has remained in her room all the time, always listening to the same piece of music. It's… frightening."

"It's only been three days, Alastor," Dumbledore said. "And she isn't going to do anything rash, I assure you."

"And how would you know?" Sirius asked, eyes glittering dangerously.

"Because she told me. She told me she'd promised to Severus. And we all know she is going to keep that promise, difficult as it may be."

"She'd better," Sirius growled. "Or Harry's going to regret he was born."

"Maybe she won't cut her wrists, or some such nonsense," Moody observed, "But a whole bottle of high-proof liquor a day isn't far from suicide, if you ask me."

McGonagall took off her spectacles and polished them. "She needs time to heal. As we all do."

"Yeah, but having something useful to do would be better for the lass. Better than the booze, at least."

"She used to have quite an intimate relationship with the bottle during the last years of her marriage with Harry," Sirius said, "Twitchy told me."

Moody snorted. "And that's better because?"

"It's not better. All I'm saying is that this is obviously her way of coping with… with the pain."

"Coping, my arse." Moody turned to McGonagall. "You'll have to write to her, old girl. It's your duty as a friend. Tell her to come back, she's a teacher here, and she's got to continue teaching. Maybe that'll shake her out of her stupor."

"I doubt it," McGonagall said tartly, "But I'll give it a try, of course."

A ghost of the old twinkle lit Dumbledore's eyes. "It seems that you have made your decision?"

"Yes," she replied, putting her glasses back on. "Yes, I have made my decision."

*

They had made him ingest Water Hemlock, Cicuta Maculata, the deadlier variant of hemlock. A single bite of the root, which contained the highest concentration of the toxin, could kill an adult. It caused salivation and nausea first, followed by excitation, convulsions and coma. And death.

He had felt the nausea. Despite his anguish—was the Draught going to have the desired effect?—he'd monitored his own reactions to the venom with clinical interest, had noted each quickening of his heartbeat, each painful contraction of his stomach, until blackness overtook him. He'd thought it might be death, after all. But his body had merely passed out with the effort of fighting death.

It had taken him a few days to recover completely. Long, dreary days full of anxiety because of Hermione. Was she going to keep her promise? What if—he'd brutally cut off his thoughts as soon as they wandered in that direction. He needed to believe she was alive. And, difficult though it was, he had to resist his growing impatience. Hurrying things wasn't going to do any good. He had to be careful, very careful. He had to plan. So he kept a tight rein on his mind, allowing himself to think of her only as a kind of recompense, when he had accomplished certain tasks.

First, he had to find out where he was. There was a window in his room, but what he saw—trees and some nondescript mountaintops rising behind them—didn't give him any indication. Then, he had to carefully explore his surroundings; this task, though, had to be postponed until he was allowed to get up. For the time being, all he could do was get a feel of the house. This proved to be quite difficult, though, for his room was heavily warded. There were all sorts of protective spells, including silencing spells, so that he couldn't even try to determine the number of people present by the different sounds of footsteps. Of course he could have used wandless magic to undo a part of those spells, but recognized that, now more than ever, discretion was the better part of valour. His ability to perform wandless magic was his only asset, the one thing they didn't know he could do, and thus it had to be kept secret for as long as possible. He'd have liked to practise; only he wasn't sure whether the wards wouldn't alert whomever was living here.

The only person he'd seen so far was a middle-aged wizard, probably a mediwizard or at least somebody with considerable healing skills, who'd been visiting him twice a day without ever pronouncing a single word. Severus had decided that he'd only make him, and possibly the others, suspicious if he didn't at least try to communicate. So he regularly asked questions without expecting or, in fact, receiving an answer.

And he did a lot of thinking.

How to get out of here was a question he had to leave unsolved until he knew more about his current location. But there were more things to be considered. Escaping might be easy or difficult, but it was only a first step. The real danger would start after that, because he'd be number one on the Ministry's hit list and had no doubt that they were going to ask other countries for help as well. So he couldn't risk acquiring a wand, for example. He'd have to rely on wandless magic. And he had an important agenda.

He might have altered the formula for the Draught of Life, but it had been sloppy, hasty work. Nothing that couldn't be eventually undone by skilled researchers, provided they found the primary sources. Therefore, his first task was to destroy those sources, much as it pained him. That done, he'd have to lie low for some time, wait until the situation became calmer, and then he might try to conceive a way of getting to Hermione. Unless she had—no. Don't even consider that possibility. Concentrate on the near future.

*

"Well," Alastor Moody said, putting his arm around Mrs. Granger's shoulders while they walked into the parlour and towards the couch, "how's the girl?"

"Nothing has changed." She sat down, leaned back and closed her eyes. Her face, which had lost much of its hardness in the previous months, was looking tired and sad, and her hands didn't seem able to stay still for a moment. They always had to hold or touch some object, to straighten cushions, shift a vase or glass by some millimetres, to brush off a speck of imaginary dust, or at least to fidget with the hem of a cuff or with a button.

Moody glanced at her out of narrowed eyes. "You're a nervous wreck," he stated bluntly, but the tone of his voice suggested that he was quite worried.

Mrs. Granger gave a nervous little laugh. "Thank you for the compliment, Alastor."

"Marjorie." She didn't look at him, and so he took both her hands and waited until, finally, she turned her head and their eyes met. "You can't go on like this. None of you. If this continues, the lass is going to turn her brain into mush, and you're going to cave in sooner or later. It's been a week, and that's enough. She has to come out of that bedroom and face reality."

"I know that, Alastor." Her lips became a tight red line, resembling a centipede because of the lipstick that was oozing into the tiny creases around her mouth. "You don't have to tell me. I know that this can't go on—but what should I do? I can't just go into her room—"

"Of course you can. You're her mother, and this is your house."

"Yes. Yes." She sighed and her shoulders slumped a little. "Of course I have the right to do whatever I want. The question is, would it do any good?"

"Try to ask the question the other way round: could it get any worse? She's up there in her own private hell, so what harm would it do trying to get her out of it? Let me talk to her, if you think she won't listen to you."

"You?" She eyed him doubtfully.

"Yes, me. What's so strange about that? We're friends, it's my duty—"

"But didn't you say she never wanted to go back to… to your world?"

"That's what Albus told me. But she said that the day Severus was…" He sighed deeply. "Going to die. Maybe she's changed her mind."

"It's been a week, Alastor. Why should she have changed her mind? The way I see it—" she withdrew her hands and clasped them together in her lap "—all the wizarding world has ever brought her was pain and sadness. And danger," she added, playing with a ring on her left hand, turning it this way and that, so that the small diamond sparkled in the light. "She was never really happy there, just think—"

"Nonsense!" he interrupted her. "She was as happy as can be for more than a year!"

"Yes. And who took that happiness away from her? Whichever way you look at it, the outcome is the same. She doesn't want to return, and that's the truth."

Moody threw up his hands. "But she belongs with us, as much as she belongs with you!" He rose, leaning heavily on his walking stick. "I'm going up there and talking to her," he growled.

"Alastor, please, I'm not sure that's a good idea!"

He turned round and stared at her angrily. "And drinking herself into a coma is a good idea? Listening to that song a hundred times a day is a good idea? Come on, Marjorie, get a grip! The lass is going downhill, and all you do is sit here and do nothing?"

"I'm not…" Face flushed and hands trembling, she too got up from the couch. "I'm not sitting around doing nothing! I'm worried, Alastor, I'm desperate, because I'm her mother and I love her, and there's nothing, absolutely nothing I can do for her, except leave her in peace! Do you think that's easy?"

"I didn't say it was easy, all I was saying is that it's bloody wrong!" he bit back. "And the result is pretty appalling, don't you think so? Let me try," he continued, in a somewhat more conciliatory tone. "If it doesn't work, at least we can't say it was for lack of trying." They were staring at each other across the small coffee table. "You're not the only one who loves her, Marjorie."

With a weary sigh, Mrs. Granger sat back down. She didn't look at him when she said, "All right. Go to her then." He nodded briefly and left the room. "Good luck," she whispered, wiping off a few tears and wondering whether anger or desperation had caused them. Or maybe the feeling that this strange relationship with this even stranger man wasn't going to survive this constant doom and gloom.

And she felt guilty, because deep down she was blaming Hermione.