Orpheus

Chapter 28

By Pigwidgeon37

"Try again, Miss Malfoy," Sirius said tiredly. "And remember that your wrist has to be totally relaxed and flexible if you want to perform a successful Disillusionment Charm." He perched on the edge of his desk. "Come on, don't give in to frustration. You may bet all your father's money that this is going to come up at your O.W.L.s, so you better get it right."

Lucy bit her lip and nodded. Professor Black was doing his best, she knew and even appreciated it. But how was she to relax even as tiny a part of her body as her right wrist, when every muscle and sinew and tendon felt like a tight knot? She couldn't even relax in her sleep; she'd been waking up every night, often more than once, wincing in pain because her muscles were twitching with uncontrollable spasms. The logical thing to do would have been going to Madam Pomfrey, to ask her for a muscle relaxant, but Lucertola had refrained from seeking help, because she mustn't attract any attention. A student who didn't play Quidditch but asked for that kind of remedy would necessarily cause the matron to ask questions.

"Yes, okay." She gave him a feeble smile, straightened her aching shoulders and bit her lip again to stop herself from wincing. As she had expected, the result of her fifth attempt was as bad as, if not worse than, the previous ones.

Sirius shook his head. "What's the matter with you, girl?" He got up from the table and went over to her. "Show me that wrist!"

"I… really, that won't be necessary, I—I'll try again…"

"Now don't make a fuss, I'm not going to bite you. Come on, give me your hand."

Don't attract attention. Don't attract attention. What was worse, a flat-out refusal or admitting that she just couldn't relax? Lucy opted against the former and hesitantly stretched out her right arm for Professor Black to take. How big his hands were. She peered up at his face.

"Let's see then," he said, taking her forearm into his left and her hand into his right hand. "You have to—sweet Merlin!" He frowned at her wrist. "I'm sure I've never seen… drop that wand, Miss Malfoy, and let me try to…" He gently moved her hand, up and down, left and right, as far as it would go, while his left kneaded the muscles of her forearm. "What on earth have you been doing, girl?" he muttered, "Too much writing or what?"

"Y-yes," Lucy squeaked, unable to keep her tone of voice anywhere close to natural, because the massage was equal parts pain and blissful relief.

He hadn't been looking her in the face, but he did so now, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. "Hmm… show me the other one," he commanded.

"But this is my wand hand, Sir, I really don't see—"

"Miss Malfoy. From the way you're hunching your shoulders I suppose that your whole body is nothing but a tangle of knotted muscles. And while I'd never go as far as offering you a full massage—" here, she saw the hint of a smile in his eyes "—I can at least try to make your arms feel a bit better. That okay?"

"Er, yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

Please, she thought, oh please stop being kind to me. I'm not sure how long I can take it. Your eyes are still full of sadness, and you're still acting as if you were sleepwalking most of the time, and even when you're joking the sadness doesn't go away. It might have different reasons, but it's also quite similar to my own grief, and I just can't bear that sympathy; I'm so afraid I'll have to release the hold on my mind, which is so terribly hard to keep, especially when my body is starting to relax. But if I let down my guards just for a moment, just for a millisecond, I know I can't keep the secret anymore and I'll have to spill it out to you, and then Father will die and maybe Mother too, and I'll be all alone in the world, so please, please stop doing that to me while your face is sad and your eyes are empty but you're trying to smile that small, broken smile…

And once again, Lucy was rescued by an owl.

When the bird beat its wings against the windowpane, Sirius released Lucy's hands and, beckoning for her to stay where she was, went over to let the owl in. It was a nondescript greyish-brown post owl, of the kind they used for short to medium distance flights with light cargo. Sirius dug in his pocket for a Sickle, which he put into the small leather pouch attached to the bird's right leg, before untying a roll of parchment from its left. "Owl treat?" he asked, but the bird only gave a short hoot and took off immediately.

"They're too hard on those birds," he muttered, seemingly oblivious of Lucy's presence, while he unrolled the letter, "A five minutes' rest and an owl treat wouldn't cause any—oh Merlin! I can't believe it!" His hands suddenly trembling, he stared at the parchment. "I can't fucking believe it!"

Lucy, who had the distinct sensation of being de trop, ventured, "Maybe I should leave, Sir, so you can read your letter?"

"No, no, that won't be necessary." He looked up, his face lit by the first genuine smile she had seen on him in weeks. There were tears in his eyes, but Lucertola was pretty sure they owed nothing to sadness. "It's just… a very dear friend whom I thought I'd lost… Oh, sod it—I can just as well tell you. Hermione, I mean Professor Granger… It seems she's over the worst now."

"Oh," Lucy said stiffly. "That's… that's good news, I suppose."

"The understatement of the century, Miss Malfoy, really."

"Er, yes." His smile was infectious, and she smiled back a little hesitatingly. "Is she coming back to Hogwarts?"

"Not yet, no. That would be too much, I suppose. But at least I'll get to see her. That's better than nothing."

"Uh-huh." And then, without knowing why she was saying it, she added, "Say hello to her from me, will you?"

*

Contrary to Draco's expectations—although they should more appropriately have been termed 'anxieties'—Lucius didn't work himself into one of his notorious fits of rage when his son told him the news. To Draco's surprise, he chuckled and shook his head. "That, my son, once again demonstrates what a bunch of incapable idiots have the nerve to call themselves a Ministry of Magic," he said. "They really are—what was the word Severus always used?"

"Dunderheads?"

"Exactly. Dunderheads. They never bothered to gather a bit of in-depth knowledge about Death Eaters. All they wanted was to dispose of them as quickly as possible. And it seems they did so after Voldemort was defeated the second time, as well."

"Our Dark Marks disappeared," Draco said. "They had nothing on us, no evidence."

"True. But the first time, there was more than enough evidence. But they were so afraid of us, and so terribly eager to get rid of us, that they never asked the important questions. If they had, they would have gleaned lots of useful information, as for example the fact that we can do wandless magic. Poor sods. And I am pretty sure that they haven't figured it out this time either." He snorted. "But never mind the Ministry now. So Snape has escaped. And I suppose they are after him?"

"I made some discreet inquiries—it seems that they are, indeed, trying to catch him, but without success so far."

"Now that's a big surprise. Am I wrong in assuming that they have placed Aurors all around Hogwarts?"

"Your assumption is absolutely correct. There are Aurors at Hogwarts, and Snape's closest friends are being dogged by them wherever they go."

"As if Snape were so stupid as to walk right into their trap. What about his wife, the Mudblood?"

"She's currently staying at her mother's house in Richmond. Which is surrounded by Aurors, needless to mention it. As is the family manor."

"Snape may be a worthless traitor, but if he's scum, he is at least intelligent scum. He would never put his wife in danger. If he goes there, he'll do it when they least expect it. The question is: where has he gone?"

"I've been trying to work that out, too," Draco said slowly. "Tell me what you think of my reasoning: we both know Snape's disproportionate sense of honour. If we needed an ultimate proof of that fact, his conduct during the trial would be more than enough—can you imagine that he consented to the deal Potter offered him and didn't even attempt to turn the whole thing against Mr. Holier-Than-Thou? I mean, he could have claimed that Potter knew about both properties of the Draught and coerced him into recreating it because he wanted to bring back his parents! He might even have succeeded! I still can't believe—well, anyway," he interrupted himself, noticing his father's bored expression, "Snape's sense of honour is an important fact we have to consider if we want to solve this conundrum, right?"

"Certainly," Lucius agreed.

"Okay. My interpretation of his willingness to play along with the charade is that he had planned to escape right when he said yes to the deal Potter proposed. It seems that he wanted to prevent, whatever it might cost him, the secret of the Draught from being divulged. As did Potter. But—" he rose from his chair and began to pace back and forth "—I am absolutely sure that the notes Lucy copied for us were mere excerpts from various sources. And these sources probably are still in existence. Correct?"

"That seems to be a reasonable assumption, yes."

"Moreover," Draco continued, "we know that Snape altered the formula. But, considering that he was arrested merely three days after my meeting with Potter, and that whoever told him he was going to be arrested cannot have done so more than a few hours before it actually happened, he didn't have much time. The changes he made cannot be too drastic—not even Snape, with all his skills and mastery, would be able to come up with a completely new and plausible recipe in less than twelve hours. He had to use what he already had. So I suppose he has reason to believe that, with a lot of effort and a bit of luck, the Ministry might be able to get the formula right. Especially if—"

"Especially if they manage to find the right sources. Of course!" Lucius exclaimed, eyes glittering. "And he would be killing two birds with one stone: if he first destroys most of the sources, enough time will have passed for the Ministry's attention to have slackened a little. And then he can go back to his Mudblood wife, grab her and Disapparate to the antipodes or wherever. Brilliant deduction, Draco."

"Thank you, Father. What we ought to do therefore is to search for him abroad. Only—" he shrugged and raised both hands "—that's like searching a needle in a haystack."

"Indeed." Lucius's brow was creased with concentration. "Well…" His face took on a slightly distant expression. "If we cannot get to him, we have to find a way of luring him here."

"You mean kidnap the Mudblood?" Draco wagged his head. "I had the same idea, but—"

"And you might try to break the memory charm while you have her here," Lucius interjected.

"True, but… The problem is that Potter, idiot though he is, is also still the Minister for Magic. My… Our return to England has been made possible only because I agreed to certain conditions, one of which was impeccable conduct."

"And you have been keeping your word so admirably," Lucius drawled. "I am sure that killing Ministry employees is part of behaving impeccably, isn't it?"

"Well," Draco said, grinning, "it has to look impeccable. With the Mudblood, the problem is this: if we want to lure Snape here, we have to somehow spread the rumour that she is here. Do you really think Potter would forgive me for abducting his ex-wife?"

"Probably not." For a while, both father and son thought in silence. "Kindly pour me another drink, Draco."

Draco nodded, filled a tumbler and spelled it into Lucius's hands. "Pity," he said, sitting down again. "I would have loved to break that memory spell."

"Yes, that might have proved to be a very rewarding pastime." Lucius grinned and took a sip. "But… You said you would have to spread the rumour the Mudblood was here, if you kidnapped her." He drank again, and nodded to himself. "Yes, that might work."

"What, father? What might work?"

"Spreading rumours."

"You mean making Snape believe we've got her when we haven't actually got her?"

"No, no. Remember that he is not a stupid man. He would smell the trap. No, I was thinking of another rumour: what if you make him believe that you somehow managed to correct the formula? We have lots of connections all over the world—surely you wouldn't have any difficulties divulging the story?"

"I was thinking of using my, er, less respectable partners, yes," Draco said slowly. "The owners of brothels, the hunters and vendors of illegal goods—that was what I had in mind. Seeing as Snape is on the run, he'll necessarily have to keep less savoury company. Initially I thought that I might even catch him that way, but…" He shrugged and glanced up at Lucius. "That's pretty useless, I guess. As soon as he has a wand, he's going to use glamours to disguise himself."

Lucius finished his drink. "Well," he said, "I think it is time for you to write some letters, my son."

*

"Headmaster Snape!" Petunia Dursley's face was lit up by an equine smile. "Please, do come in!"

Behind her, the broad silhouette of her husband appeared. "Ah, the Headmaster," he boomed. "How nice of you to drop by. Have you brought us a copy of the book?"

"Er…" It took Severus a few seconds to remember what the man was talking about. "No, actually I have come here to ask your help."

The inspiration had hit him during the fifth night he had spent sleeping and shivering in a barn somewhere in the south of Poland—or maybe it was already the north-western corner of the Ukraine, he really hadn't been sure, and neither did he care.

As he had found out very soon, when he'd encountered the first asphalt road after driving miles and miles across country on badly kept forest tracks which, to judge by the deep, broad grooves lining them, were only used by farmers or maybe forestry workers, the Ministry's training centre was in Romania, not too far from the hidden mountain valley where Charlie Weasley and his colleagues spent their days studying dragons.

To drive through that particular region with a minivan sporting British number plates was a dead giveaway. Transylvania had a fairly large wizarding population, scattered all over the countryside, so that he was likely to be spotted by magical folk. Once his escape was discovered, the place was going to be crawling with Aurors who, following people's indications, could easily track him down. So he had left the main road at the first possibility, driven back into the wilderness and hidden the car under masses of snow, of which there was plenty. Winter in the Romanian mountains was long and hard, thus the car might not be discovered until the beginning of spring. While he was wading through the knee-deep snow, carefully erasing his footprints, he realized that he ought to have stopped at the house to get some footwear and warm clothing. The boots he was wearing were by no means appropriate for long walks—they were, in fact, already soaked through and through after less than half an hour—and the high-necked jumper and windbreaker didn't provide sufficient protection against the biting cold. He would have needed warm underthings and a fur-lined anorak. Not to mention food and drink. All things considered, his survival skills were best described as poor.

When he had reached this conclusion, he cast about for something he could sit on, discovered a fallen tree that would fit his purposes quite nicely, performed a warming charm to melt the snow off the bark, sat down and started to think.

He had to leave Romania; after abandoning the car, it was quite obvious that he'd have to do so by means of Apparating. That was a given. And he needed a wand, as soon as possible, for although he was able to perform basic charms without one, he couldn't risk letting too many people see his face. So he had to cast glamours, change his appearance very often, and in order to do that, he must have a wand. Another given. It was also blatantly obvious that he couldn't acquire one legally. The problem with stolen wands, however, was that the magical authorities all over the world had become quite adept at cooperating; as soon as a wand was reported as stolen, specifications were automatically sent out so that the wand in question could be monitored. Locating a stolen wand was usually a matter of a few days. He might get away with using one once or twice and then throwing it away immediately, but it was risky all the same. It had to be done, however, and he would have to choose his victims very carefully.

Once he had succeeded in making himself unrecognisable, he'd have to find somewhere to hide.

He had remained sitting on his trunk for hours, every now and then picking up a handful of snow and sucking it, although he knew it would give him diarrhoea. Finally, when the snow was already dappled by black shadows cast by a crescent moon, colder and sharper than he had ever seen it, he had got up and started his odyssey. And always, whether in the busy streets of Beijing or in the spicy half-darkness of the great bazaar of Beirut, he'd had that nagging feeling that the ideal hideaway was there, at arm's length, ready for him to grab. On the fifth day, he had convinced himself that he needed to exchange the tepid night air of Algiers for the harsh European winter unless he wanted to be tracked down. So he ended up in southern Poland. It was bitter cold there, despite the hay he'd covered himself with and the warming charm he'd cast. He managed only short spells of sleep and spent the rest of the night thinking of a past that seemed so distant now that it almost appeared to be a dream. His wedding, their honeymoon… He snorted at the thought that Potter would have to rely on other means than his parents' biography in order to gain more popularity, more votes. Or maybe his show of heroism, when he'd selflessly tried and executed Severus Snape the traitor, had made him popular enough. The biography… was Hermione going to finish it?

And suddenly, he sat up, feeling as if he'd been hit by a bolt of lightning. He had found the ideal hiding place, the one place where Potter was never going to search for him.

He had waited until late the next afternoon, when darkness would grant additional protection, and Apparated to Little Winging. After what Potter had done to him, Severus had absolutely no scruples about telling the Dursleys the whole story—leaving out the parts he had sworn to keep secret, of course—and representing Potter in the worst light. He needed help, he needed money, and he needed a place to stay at. And he'd be damned if he wasn't going to do whatever was necessary to get exactly that.

When Severus had finished his account, he was sure of two things: Petunia Dursley could give the Hogwarts House Elves a run for their money when it came to cooking, and he had gained two staunch allies. Not that he liked the Dursleys any more than he had when they first met; but they were hell-bent on helping him, and that fact alone made him see them in a slightly more benign light.

"Well, Severus," Vernon Dursley said, after they had settled down in the parlour with coffee and brandy, "do tell us how we can help you."

"First of all—excellent brandy, really excellent," Severus said, mentally admitting to himself that he had to be very desperate indeed if he was on a first-name basis with Vernon Dursley, "First of all I would like to thank you for what you have already done for me. And—no, really," he forestalled the couple's protests, "I couldn't have gone on for much longer. Secondly, I want to assure you that you are not putting yourself into any danger by letting me stay in your house. I am not going to use magic anywhere around this place—" Mrs. Dursley relaxed visibly "—and whenever I need to Apparate, I will put a sufficient distance between myself and your house. In the unlikely case that the Aurors should find out about my presence here, all you have to do is tell them that I cast a spell on you, to coerce you."

"I will do no such thing," Vernon boomed, "You have been unjustly imprisoned, tried and, hell, even executed, and—"

"Vernon! You have to be reasonable. If Potter has so much as an inkling about your willingness to help me, you might indeed be in dire straits. He's good friends with your Prime Minister, and—"

"Our Prime Ministers," Petunia interrupted him acidly, "seem to have a habit of making the wrong friends. Remember that Blair person," she addressed her husband, "who used to be so chummy with that American—what was his name? Shrub?"

"Bush," Mr. Dursley corrected her. "That chimpanzee-faced son of a—sorry. I was getting carried away. But…" He fell silent and his expression became grave. "If it hadn't been for Mr. Blair and his eagerness to be friends with the Americans, our Dudley would still be with us."

"I…" Severus cleared his throat. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand…"

"Remember the war?" Mrs. Dursley's voice was quivering. "The war in Iran?"

"Iraq," her husband growled. "It was Iraq. Dudley had decided he wanted to enter the army after finishing school—" he pointed to a side table, on which stood an array of framed photos, some of them showing a blonde young man in uniform, bulging with fat and muscles "—and he volunteered… It's a sad story. I'm sure Petunia is going to tell you. But now—" he squared his shoulders "—let's return to you. So, if those Orals—"

"Aurors," Severus corrected, having a hard time controlling his face.

"Right. If they come for you, we're going to say you forced us to help you by using… well, that. But what can we do to help? Do you need money? I could give the five thousand pounds back to you—"

"Absolutely not," Severus interrupted him. This time he had to pretend to be choking on his brandy, though, so he could turn his laughter into a more appropriate coughing fit. He had never though that any male would ever gaze at him with such a rapt, loving expression. Vernon Dursley surely did love money. "I have enough money," he continued when he had recovered. "All I need to do is write out a cheque, which I hope you'll be kind enough to cash it for me. So I can pay you a decent rent…"

More protest ensued, but it was quite easily quelled.

"Anything else?" Petunia asked.

"Nothing I could think of right now. If you let me stay in Potter's old room and allow me to partake of your excellent cooking from time to time, you'll have done more than enough and earned my eternal gratitude, for all it's worth."

Apparently, he had pronounced the magical words. Promises of more money to come for Mr. Dursley, and appreciation of her cooking for his loving wife. Yes, they were petty and narrow-minded and greedy. But at least they made no attempt to hide it. And he had a place to stay at.

And now, he was free to contact Hermione. In his very own way.