Orpheus

Chapter 26

By Pigwidgeon37

A week had gone by; difficult though it was, Severus had forced himself to keep track of the time. He couldn't allow himself to slacken, and to just give in to the ever-identical succession of light and dark without counting the days and nights would have been a first step in the wrong direction. He must not give in, he must not give up. There were things to be done. And so he'd stayed alert, tense even, and counted the times the night had slowly dissolved from black into grey, had counted the times the shadow of the bars protecting his window had gradually emerged on the wall, retired to the floor, grown shorter, then longer again until it had reached the opposite wall where it lost its contours and finally faded. So he knew it had been a week. They—whoever 'they' were—had time, obviously. Whether they were trying to wear him down or simply giving him time to recover completely he didn't know, but rather suspected the former was true.

Whatever the reason for his isolation, it ended after a week.

When the door was flung open, the person who entered wasn't the mediwizard Severus had expected, but a man he'd never seen before. Of not much more than medium height and solid build. Maybe seventy, seventy-five. His grey hair was very short, shorn rather than cut. The intensity and colour of his eyes reminded Severus of Dumbledore, but they were round and very slightly protruding; his face, too, was roundish, the low forehead deeply lined, and there was a deep crease between his thick, grey eyebrows, which suggested that he frowned quite a lot. Now, however, his mouth, broad but narrow-lipped, was smiling thinly, while he scrutinized Severus through round, wire-rimmed spectacles. They sat a little askance on a broad, slightly crooked nose. It must have been broken and inexpertly mended, Severus thought, automatically touching the bump in his own nose.

"Good day, Mr. Griffith," the man said, with a barely perceptible nod.

"Good—er, my name isn't—" But he fell silent, as the other wizard raised his hand.

"Your name is Jeremy Griffith, and you'd do well to remember that."

For the first time since he'd arrived here, Severus felt like laughing. "Only John Smith could be more clichéd."

"We already have a John Smith," was the laconic reply.

"I see. And I suppose you go by the name of X?"

"Not quite." He moved a chair next to Severus's bed. Without using magic, Severus noticed. Was he Muggle-born, maybe? "My name is Cox."

"Cox." Severus let his glance wander over the other's sturdy form which, as far as he could see, owed nothing to fat. The robes he was wearing were simply cut, with rather more narrow sleeves than fashion prescribed. Their collar vaguely suggested a uniform. "You are working for the Ministry?"

"Yes. As are you."

"There seems to be a difference. You chose to work for them. I didn't."

"Really?" Cox's eyebrows rose by a fraction. "As I understood it, you did have a choice. This or Azkaban, wasn't it?"

"That's hardly what I call a choice," Severus snarled, suddenly angry and unable to control it. He should have tried to channel his anger, he thought, started doing sit-ups or whatever, as soon as he’d been capable of physical activity. This attitude wasn't going to please Cox.

But the other wizard merely shrugged. "Whatever you choose to call it, it was a choice," he replied evenly. "Besides, this wasn't why I wanted to talk to you. You were lucky, and—"

"Oh, very lucky indeed."

Cox shot him a level stare. "Mr. Griffith, if one decides to break the law, one should think about the consequences before, not afterwards."

"I didn't—" Aware of the futility of his objection, he broke off his sentence. He had to maintain a tighter grip on himself, resistance wasn't going to get him anywhere. Then again, he thought, too little recalcitrance might seem a tad suspicious, just as a lack of curiosity would have. Maybe that was where he ought to start. "So," he began, "what was it you wanted to talk about? And where the hell am I?"

"You don't expect an answer to this question, do you? The location is unplottable and very well warded, that is all you need to know." He leaned back and crossed his legs, his eyes firmly riveted on the shiny point of his right shoe. It was black, just like the socks and trousers peeking out from under his robe. "To answer the other question—and that one I can answer—I wanted to talk to you about your training. I read the file the Minister gave me, of course, and—" the corner of his right eye twitched "—it seems that you received quite a lot of… training in the past. So I suppose we will have to work mostly on the non-magical part of the skills you have to acquire."

"I wasn't aware there was such a part. What exactly do you mean by it? Martial arts?"

"That, too. Handling Muggle weapons, for example. Blending in with the Muggles without being noticed. Using electronic devices. Driving a Muggle car. And many other things."

"Are you sure you and your Minister haven't been watching too many James Bond movies?"

Apparently, irony was totally lost on Mr. Cox. He merely observed, "Ah, excellent. So you do have a passing knowledge of the Muggle world."

"My—" No, he thought. No he wasn't going to tell this man about Hermione. Even if it was information he'd probably garnered from his personal file in any case. It was better to keep Hermione completely out of this, show no weakness and reveal as little as possible of his own personality. "My knowledge of the Muggle world is sufficient, I think," he therefore said stiffly.

"That is for me to judge." Cox rose and put the chair back to its former position. "You will find clothes and underwear in the cupboard over there. Please join me downstairs in fifteen minutes." Without waiting for an answer, he turned and left the room.

Downstairs. So the house had to be rather larger than he'd thought. Not that he wouldn't have found out as soon as he opened the door. But he had to reactivate his ability to suck every available bit of information out of the tiniest scraps—words, gestures, looks—Cox would give him.

He went over to the cupboard, absentmindedly rubbing the stubbles on his jaw and wondering whether he'd have to grow a beard. They certainly weren't going to give him a razor. And without a wand, he couldn't do a shaving charm. Or rather, he could, but an impeccable appearance wasn't worth giving away his only trump card.

While dressing slowly, he mused about Cox—was there anything he should keep in mind about the man? Maybe the tic in his right eye. He'd have to watch—if it betrayed that Mr. Cox was displeased, it certainly was worth remembering.

*

The insistent pounding on her door didn’t penetrate Hermione’s drunken haze immediately. First, she hadn’t recognized the sound as what it was—she had been dreaming; incoherent, slightly bizarre images that had turned into a hailstorm out on the sea, with bolts of lightning and rolling thunder. At long last, the noise had awakened her, though, and she carefully set her bottle down on the floor and rubbed her aching forehead. She had no intention of opening the door, whoever the intruder. Easy to figure out who it was—Minerva probably, or Sirius. Minerva had sent her that letter. She had needed two extra gulps of whisky after reading it. Then she had made it combust in a shower of blue flames. A petty satisfaction, true. But her life as it was was devoid of any satisfaction at all, and so she had to make the most out of what she got. Beggars can’t be choosers.

The pounding continued. Hermione rolled onto her belly and covered her head with the pillow. Sooner or later, they’d have to stop. And she was tired anyway, very, very tired, so she probably would go back to sleep even if they didn’t quit anytime soon. She closed her eyes and waited for the images to come to her. Strange, she thought, smiling to herself, strange that she should have no nightmares. There were just those semi-dreams, successions of empty sceneries, no people, just meadows and woods and lakes, gentle trees and suave clouds. Her refuge…

She gasped when her shoulders were grabbed rather roughly, and somebody pulled her up as if she were a puppet. Sitting on her haunches, she blearily gazed up at the figure standing in front of her, not quite able to identify who it was.

“Go ‘way,” she slurred.

“Oh, yes, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Moody. Hermione swallowed, suddenly very conscious of the stale taste in her mouth and the state her hair had to be in. But her insecurity didn’t last long, for it was quickly replaced by anger. She had locked and warded the door, so she’d be safe from intruders both magical and Muggle. Her mother had respected her wish to remain undisturbed, so why couldn’t Moody do the same? “I said go away,” she repeated.

A low growl was all the answer she got. Then she felt his rough palm under her chin. “D’you have any idea how you’re looking?” Moody bellowed. “You’re filthy, and drunk, and, Merlin help me, you stink, lass! Is that all you’re able to do? Stay in your room, guzzling booze and pitying yourself?”

“Yes!” she spat back, “Yes, that’s all I can do. And don’t you dare criticize me! You had no right to come barging into my room when I had made it clear—” she inhaled deeply and continued on a calmer, more acid tone “—abundantly clear, I daresay, that I wish to be left alone! Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I’m your friend, and your mother’s too. Besides, I’m fifty years your senior—”

“Don’t. You. Dare.” Hermione rose to a kneeling position and bent forward, fists balled, her whole body trembling with fury. “Don’t you dare patronize me! And I don’t have any friends in the wizarding world anymore, do you understand me? Nobody! I’m finished with your lot! I don’t want to see any of you ever again! So get the fuck out of my room!”

He remained silent for a while; the whole house seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the eruption to come. The only sound in the room was Hermione’s quick, shallow breathing. “No friends,” he finally said. “No friends. I see. Wouldn’t it have been decent to tell us so yourself? You didn’t even answer Minerva’s letter!”

Hermione gave a derisive chuckle. “Minerva’s letter. Did anybody really expect an answer to that? Did you think I’d come back after what happened? I told you, I’m done with you. So kindly inform the others that I don’t want them in my life. Never. Ever. Again.”

“Hermione…” Moody sighed deeply. “We’ve all suffered a terrible loss—”

“Oh, of course. I’m so sorry for you all. Are you making fun of me or what?” She punched his chest with as much force as she could muster. “You still have your lives, don’t you? You still continue with your work and your thoughts and your petty little pastimes, don’t you? Life has to go on—is that what you’re trying to tell me? Well, then let me tell you that my life is going on, it’s just a little different from what you’d like it to be. But it’s my life, do you hear me? My life, and I’m deciding what I’m doing with it! Not you! So get the hell out of here before I hex you!”

“Hermione—”

She turned abruptly, to look at the door where her mother was standing, obviously unsure whether to enter or stay outside. “And you—” she pointed a trembling finger at Mrs. Granger “—how dare you hide behind him? If you don’t have the guts to confront me…”

“I am not hiding. And as to having guts, I’m not sure who has less of them, you or I. But staying behind closed doors, drinking yourself into a coma, isn’t a shining example of courage either!”

Moody caught Hermione’s hand before she could throw a heavy book at her mother. He had to use all his strength to hold her back.

Unheeding of her arm that was being twisted well beyond the point of pain, Hermione leaned forward, in Mrs. Granger’s direction, as far as she could. “You bitch!” she yelled, “You horrible, heartless bitch! You didn’t shed a single tear at daddy’s funeral, and you think you can talk to me like that? You’re a cold-hearted monster, that’s what you are! You’re not worried because of me, you’re just worried that somebody might discover that I’m here, drowning my sorrow in stolen whisky! You’re afraid your fine lady friends might take objection! You didn’t even tell them about Alastor, because having a boyfriend at your age isn’t appropriate. You fucking—”

With his free hand, Moody dealt her a backhanded slap that jerked her head sideward. “That’s quite enough, young lady,” he said, releasing her arm, so that she fell back on the bedspread. “You won’t speak to your mother like that. And—” he dug into his pocket and produced a wad of pound notes, some of which he threw into her face “—that’s so you can buy your booze instead of stealing it. Come on, Marjorie!” He strode to the door, where Mrs. Granger was standing, white as a sheet and with tears running down her face, the dissolving mascara painting greyish streaks across her cheeks. “She doesn’t want us. Let’s go.”

“But—” Mrs. Granger’s lower lip was quivering.

He slightly shook his head and winked at her. “Let’s go,” he repeated, cupping her elbow and leading her out of the room.

They had just reached the staircase when they heard the sound of glass crashing against wood.

“Good,” Moody growled, “Now she’s smashed that damn bottle. No more whisky for the young lass, so she’ll have to start thinking instead of drinking.”

“But…” She looked up at him, fear glittering in her eyes. “The shards, Alastor! She might…”

“She won’t.” He patted her shoulder. “She won’t, because she promised Severus not to kill herself. And she’s going to keep that promise, believe me.”

“If you’re sure…” Mrs. Granger sighed and looked back over her shoulder, reluctant to leave.

“I’m sure. So—” he rubbed his cheek against her hair “—what are we two lovelies going to do now? Bit of stress relief, maybe?”

“Alastor!” The look she shot him was scandalized, but there was a glint of mischief in her eyes.

“Yep, that’s me. So, was that a yes or what?”

“I really don’t think that’s appropriate at all!” Mrs. Granger choked out.

Moody whipped out his wand. “Screw appropriate. Wingardium Leviosa! And while you’re up there, my pet, maybe you’d care to explain why you didn’t tell your lady friends about me?”

*

The past days had all been horrible, but Lucy was sure that never in her life was she going to live through a more horrible day than the one she had spent on the Hogwarts Express.

After her arrival at Ouessant, she and her parents—helped by the House Elves, of course—had spent an entire day wandering through each and every room, deciding what was to be left behind and what was to be taken to England. They had shrunk and wrapped and packed until all three of them were thoroughly exhausted. Apart from the talk she had had with her father on that first evening, Headmaster Snape had scarcely been mentioned, as they had more than enough to do, both before the departure and after their arrival at the Wiltshire Manor.

This, though, didn’t meant that Lucertola hadn’t thought about him.

She had slept very little and used the hours she was alone and undisturbed in her bedroom to let her thoughts wander. There was a strange intimacy about those hours after midnight, when you could be fairly sure that everybody within a radius of a thousand kilometres was sleeping. The awareness that she was sitting upright, with her legs crossed, her elbows boring into the insides of her knees and her chin resting in her palms, while all the others were lying limply in the arms of sleep, and that her mind was actively working while everybody else’s minds were like deep murky pools to the surface of which distorted spectres were slowly drifting—imagining this lent sharpness and focus to her thoughts.

She tried to work out whether she’d been nothing more than an insignificant pawn in a game of chess she didn’t even know was being played, or if—maybe, hopefully—the Headmaster’s death had really been the result of an unfortunate chain of events her father had tried to persuade her it was. She fervently wished it to be the latter. Again and again, she went through her inventory of memories, attempting different interpretations and fitting them together into a picture. In the end, she was convinced that, all in all, her grandfather had meant well. It was all the Minister’s fault, really. From what Lucius had told her about him, his fanaticism and single-minded stubbornness, she concluded that Harry Potter’s hate of Severus Snape had been deeper even than her grandfather’s.

Once she had worked that out, she felt relieved. While her hate was still directed at herself, life had seemed unbearable. Now she could hate Potter.

So she had come to some kind of inner peace, and her father’s reawakened spirits, combined with her mother’s newfound liveliness after they had settled into Malfoy Manor, did much to stabilize it. Lucius’s portrait had been put up above the fireplace in the library, just like in France, and the day before she had to return to Hogwarts, she and her father had visited Lucius’s grave. Or rather, Mausoleum. It was an impressive, pavilion-like building down by the lake, constructed by the House Elves after the family had left for their exile. Yes, there was a lake on the Malfoy grounds—she’d been delighted to discover it. Images of summer afternoons lazed away swimming and sunbathing had slowly conquered her mind, and on her last night at home she’d felt almost happy again.

Then, the morning after, her father had Apparated her to King’s Cross. She’d been so completely wrapped up in their new kind of family life that she hadn’t wasted a single thought on the impact meeting her schoolmates and going back to Hogwarts might have on her. She hadn’t even considered the possibility that everybody would be talking about what had happened to the Headmaster, that there would be students crying, students debating, angry faces, tempers flaring. It simply hadn’t occurred to her and thus hit her twice as hard.

The journey lasted seven hours, and when it ended, Lucertola was nearing a nervous breakdown. On the one hand, it was comforting to hear so many people mourn the defunct Headmaster; but she was so angry, so terribly angry, because they didn’t have the right to be sad. They hadn’t loved him, they hadn’t nourished any hopes. She was the one entitled to sadness, not all the others. Maybe also his wife, she admitted silently to herself. Even if she had betrayed him, although that seemed a little doubtful now. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered now that he was dead and gone.

When Lucy stepped out of the train and down onto the platform of Hogsmade station, squinting into the fine drizzle that made the pavement glow in the shine of the lanterns, she was feeling almost as miserable as she had been a week ago. The carriage ride up to the castle, although it was her first one, passed entirely unappreciated, and finally she found herself sitting among her housemates without exactly knowing how she had got there. She didn’t feel like eating, in spite of breakfast having been her last meal, and so she just pushed bits of food around her plate, trying not to listen to the conversations going on all around her. It was more difficult to shut out McGonagall’s short speech. Despite herself, Lucy glanced up at the Head Table. They were all wearing black, all the teachers, without a single exception. Many of them had puffy, red eyes, she could make that out even from the distance. Probably the Mudblood… Lucy sighed. Somehow, calling her a Mudblood wasn’t very satisfactory anymore. And where was she, anyway?

As she scanned the teachers’ table, Lucy caught a few of the Headmistress’s words and perked up instantly.

“…Muggle Studies teacher, Professor Vincent Praetorius. He was kind enough to agree to fill in for Professor Hermione Snape, who has taken a leave of absence.”

No surprises there, Lucy thought. Considering the state the woman had been in when they met on the grounds… This made her think of Professor Black, who had treated her quite roughly that night. She narrowed her eyes, so as to see him more clearly. The man was a wreck. Even from where she was sitting, more than sixty feet away from him, she was able to discern the smudges under his eyes. But it was less his face that gave the impression of a broken man. It was the way he was moving and holding himself. He had to put his glass down twice before successfully raising it to his lips. His hands were visibly trembling. And he wasn't looking at the students or his fellow teachers. The Professor Black she had known before the holidays had always maintained eye contact with the students (mostly the female ones), had winked and waved and chatted animatedly with his colleagues. This was a different man. Silent, sullen, gloomy.

Much as she pitied him, she was also quite pleased at the thought that, given the condition he was in, he'd certainly take back his offer of additional tutoring in Charms. They ought to have started as soon as the spring term began, and Lucy hadn't been looking forward to the extra lessons. She knew she wasn't brilliant at Charms, but it didn't bother her. One couldn't excel in every subject, after all. The question was: go to him and clear matters up, or just let the whole business slip into oblivion? She'd have preferred the latter. Then again, he might remember, and if he did, her negligence wasn't likely to make a good impression. Not that she cared, but… Inwardly cursing herself for her sentimentality, Lucy admitted to herself that she didn't want a close friend of Headmaster Snape to think ill of her. Yes, it was stupid. Yes, it was irrational. But it was how she felt, and therefore she lingered at the Ravenclaw table until most of the students were gone and the teachers, too, rose from their seats. Professor Black got to his feet rather clumsily and narrowly avoided knocking over his chair. Hence, he was the last in the long line of teachers filing out through the door behind the Head Table, and Lucy had no difficulties catching up with him just before he stepped over the threshold.

"Professor, sorry to disturb you, but may I talk to you for a moment?"

He turned, moving with obvious effort, as if he were carrying a hundred-pound weight on his shoulders, and blinked. A frown passed across his face. "Yes, Miss Malfoy?"

"I was just wondering… you remember that you offered me a few hours of remedial Charms before the holidays? And I thought—" She broke off, noticing the sudden expression of pain on his face that made him close his eyes and grab the doorpost to keep his balance. "Professor? Are you all right?"

He opened his eyes and attempted a smile, but it resembled a grimace. It was the emptiness of his eyes, though, the same emptiness she had seen in the eyes of the Headmaster's wife, that made her bite her lip and lower her eyelids, so she didn't have to face his despair. Its unveiled nakedness was more than she could bear.

"Yes…" He visibly pulled himself together. "I'm all right, Miss Malfoy. And the lessons… would Tuesday and Thursday evening suit you? Right after dinner?"

"Yes, I just thought that maybe… Considering what happened…" Stumbling over her own words, she preferred not to finish her sentence.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "How very considerate of you, Miss Malfoy. But—" his eyes wandered to some faraway point and became slightly unfocused "—life must go on… Or so they say…" He shook his head, as though to get rid of his thoughts. "Tuesday and Thursday then, Miss Malfoy. Good evening." He turned around brusquely, almost colliding with the doorpost, and strode out of the Great Hall and into the half-dark corridor.

Lucertola remained standing where she was; she didn’t feel like moving just now. Too many thoughts and emotions were vying for predominance within her mind. She did most emphatically not want to take private lessons with Professor Black. Not because of his reputation, she wasn’t afraid he might make passes at her. But, without consciously admitting it to herself, she instinctively felt that the barriers she had built—all those carefully constructed, logical arguments she’d forged during the holidays—might give way under the weight of this man’s emotions. They poured out of his eyes unfiltered, unheeding of the consequences; why, she hadn’t been able to sustain his look for a couple of minutes! On the other hand, it was difficult, if not impossible, to cancel the lessons. Lucertola remembered her father’s instructions very clearly: do not attract attention, do not talk to people, keep the secret, keep the secret, or what happened to Snape might happen to me.

So she really had no choice. She couldn’t cancel the lessons without attracting attention. She’d have to try and get through as best she could. But she was afraid all the same.