Orpheus

Chapter 31

By Pigwidgeon37

Grey eyes met grey eyes. Like a sharp platinum wedge boring into slate, going deeper, loosening layer after layer. Cho shivered and lowered her head. She didn't stand a chance against Lucius, not even against his painted self, and she was angry with herself for having come to the library.

Who else was she supposed to turn to, though? There was nobody else. She didn't have any friends in England, hadn't had any in France. And she needed to talk to somebody. "I'm sorry," she muttered, still avoiding Lucius's eyes. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

He leered down at her. "You are not disturbing me, pet. Why, I am… almost pleased to see you. To what do I owe the honour of your visit?"

"I'm lonely. I need somebody to talk to."

"Then, by all means, let us talk." He gestured for her to sit down, which she did, a little hesitantly, remaining upright and perched on the very edge of the chair. Lucius raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you are comfortable?"

"Yes, I… I mean no… I really don't care. It isn't important."

"Ah." He stayed silent for a while, merely observing her and her growing discomfort. "For somebody who came here to talk," he observed, "you are being remarkably silent."

"It's not easy," she replied sulkily, with just a trace of sullen insubordination. She instantly hated herself for behaving like a difficult child; she was thirty-six after all and not a little girl anymore. But this was precisely how he'd always made her feel. It had been part of the attraction, the helplessness that had always overcome her in his presence. He'd been very good at making others feel helpless and small and utterly insignificant, guilty even of not being more worthy of him.

"Not easy?" he echoed. "I am terribly sorry—I wasn't aware my presence had such a daunting effect on you…"

He was playing mind games with her. He'd always done that, she remembered it well; back when she was living at the Manor, when Draco hadn't yet finished school, and there had just been he and herself and Narcissa. He'd been good at that game, as at most others, always the stronger player, always the winner. She liked winners. That, too had been part of the attraction. Had she ever wanted to win? She really didn't know. Did it matter? She wasn't sure about that, either. It was worth a try, though, just to test her strength. "You know very well what kind of effect you're having on me," she retorted, a bit sharply, a bit provocatively, a child throwing pebbles at the lion in the zoo, blindly trusting that the metal bars will keep the beast safely away.

"I think I remember that, yes…" Lucius's eyes were heavy-lidded, an oriental touch that conveyed to his hard-lipped, chiselled face the sensuality it would have lacked otherwise. "Does that mean you are missing me, pet?"

Cho raised her head against the thumping of her blood in her ears, which almost drowned out the sound of her breathing; both noises together were deafening, as if she were standing at the seaside, overwhelmed by howling wind and breaking waves. Again their eyes met, and she struggled to keep hers focused on his. "Sometimes," she replied, and her voice seemed a mere whisper against the rush of noise in her head, although she had spoken out loud.

"I am pleased to hear it." A smile was playing around his lips. Cho didn't like it at all, for it was the kind of smile that meant there was something else hiding behind his words, the sense of which she couldn't grasp.

"But—" she pulled herself together with some effort, trying to ignore his amusement "—that wasn't what I wanted to talk about."

"Such modesty." He looked down at her out of half-closed eyes and shook his head. "How very becoming, though maybe a trifle ill-suited to your age. And what, if I may inquire, did you come here to talk about?"

"Draco. He's… very strange."

Lucius gave an elegant shrug. "He is a Malfoy, my dear."

That, too, had always been part of the attraction. His very subtle sense of humour, which sometimes even found its expression in self-irony. Once, but only once, she'd made the mistake of laughing and adding a bit of her own… She shuddered. This was a portrait she was talking to—no need to behave as if she were still eighteen and he alive. But whom was she trying to fool? It was much more than a portrait, she knew it and Lucius knew it, too. "What I meant to say was that he's different. He's distant and seems… obsessed with something, only I have no idea what it might be. Sometimes I see him walk the grounds, but he isn't strolling, he isn't going for a walk. It almost looks…" She stared down at her clasped hands. "It looks as if he were being chased by something invisible."

"Really?" He didn't sound surprised, though. Satisfied, rather. "And that is a problem because?"

Cho felt helpless anger well up inside her. She shouldn't have come, she shouldn't have tried to talk to him, because obviously he knew and wasn't about to tell her. Just like Draco. Only Draco didn't assume that air of amused superiority. "Because I'm his wife. And because I'm feeling lonely and neglected. Everything has changed, in a bad way, since—" She fell silent abruptly.

"Since when, my pet?"

"Since…" She swallowed, but her mouth remained dry and her fear stayed where it was, a lump in her throat. "Since the day you began to speak," she muttered, almost inaudibly. And, scraping together all her courage, she added, "You've made things worse for us, I wish you hadn't… I wish you had just kept your silence." Now her heart was hammering, and she felt waves of heat making her cheeks burn. She had been bold, very bold.

"You seem to be forgetting, my dear child," Lucius replied calmly, "that things had to be in a very deplorable state indeed if a few sentences uttered by a painting were able to cause you such distress."

"You are much more than a painting and you know it!" Cho countered furiously.

"Really? And what exactly am I?"

Her outburst had given her courage, so she was sure she'd be able to stand his piercing stare. But once again, the slate splintered under the merciless impact of the platinum point driving into it.

"You see, my pet? You cannot even answer that simple question." He raised his hand, as if to stroke her hair, then lowered it again. "You need not worry, though. Soon, very soon, things are going to change."

Cho had to blink away some tears to see him clearly. "What exactly do you mean?"

He smiled and shook his head. "I cannot tell you. Not yet. Just this: in a few days' time, the head of the Malfoy family shall again hold the reins in a firmer grip."

Wiping off the last remainders of her tears, Cho got up and gave him a timid smile. "That sounds promising. I'll wait then, and try not to worry. Thank you, Lucius." She turned and left the library.

"You are very welcome," Lucius drawled, when the door had closed behind her. "And it does indeed sound promising."

*

Lucy had never been so terrified in her entire life.

Still sitting in her corner, now deprived of her invisibility cloak and therefore exposed to the glares of three irate teachers, she asked herself—albeit conscious of the futility of the question—why fate had this noisome soft spot for irony. While she'd been sneaking around the school with truly hostile intentions, nobody had ever caught her. Only now, when curiosity was her only motive, that nasty old man had bested her. For a moment she had believed she stood a chance, when Professor Black had looked directly at her and pronounced that nobody was there. If only she had known that magical eyes were able to see through Invisibility Cloaks! She would never have followed them to Professor Black's quarters. That had been her first mistake. And the second one, the squeal of surprise she hadn't been able to stifle, had led to her discovery.

Maybe it was even better that way. They'd expel her, so she could return home and live without the constant pressure… She had reclined into this short reverie, only to be shaken out of it by the sudden return of the awareness of what they had said. Apparently, the news had been too much for her mind to process and been temporarily discarded. It was back now, though, with redoubled force. Lucy looked up at the three, who were glaring at her wordlessly, and asked, "Is he really alive?"

Instead of answering her question, Moody crossed the hallway in three swift steps and, grabbing her arm, hoisted her to her feet. "Anything you'd like to tell us before I obliviate you?"

Hurtful and humiliating as it was to be manhandled like that, for a moment Lucy was grateful for the strength that kept her upright. Obliviated? They mustn't do that! What if they didn't do it right, surely they wouldn't be too careful, after all she was a Malfoy… "P-Please," she stammered, her eyes flitting back and forth between McGonagall and Black, searching their faces for signs of compassion and understanding, "Please, don't obliviate me! I can keep a secret, really I can, I won't say a word to anybody…"

Moody snorted. "Yeah, and pigs fly."

She didn't have much time, the old man was already raising his wand, and the other two didn't seem to want to succour her. There had to be something, something she might offer in exchange for her mind remaining intact—and it was there, had been there all the time. Her secret. Her father's secret. A secret for a secret… Would she be able to hold her own against those three and strike a bargain with them? "I… I could give you some information," she choked out.

Still holding her right arm in an iron grip, Moody gave a deprecatory growl and pronounced, "Ob—"

"Wait!" McGonagall interrupted him.

"Don't be foolish, Minnie! The girl's dangerous! If she tells—"

"I already said that I won't tell anybody!" Lucertola yelled, for now anger had taken the place of fear.

"You—" Moody glared at her with both eyes "—won't talk unless you're allowed to. Understood?"

"But—"

"Understood?"

"Y-Yes," she replied meekly, trying not to let her hatred spill over and into her eyes.

"Fine." He turned to McGonagall. "What's your problem, Minerva?"

She shrugged. "I can't really say… It seems so… brutal, that's all."

Black, who had watched the whole scene as a silent bystander, pushed himself off the doorframe he'd been leaning against. "I have a feeling," he said slowly, "as if the girl might indeed have some useful information." He briefly told them about Hermione's suspicions and Severus's request to Vector and himself to monitor Lucy's behaviour. "Up till now," he finished, "I would never have imagined that she might have anything to do with what happened. But maybe I was wrong." Arms crossed and frowning, he turned to Lucertola. "Was I wrong, Miss Malfoy?"

Under the full weight of the choice she realized she had to make, Lucy's legs threatened to give way under her. I'm too young to be making this kind of decision, one part of her mind wailed. But you were old enough to plan on getting Professor Snape's wife out of the way, the other objected. Her eyes wide and full of desperation, she stared at the three teachers, willing them to make the choice for her, whatever the outcome.

McGonagall, who had been cleaning her spectacles for a while, put them back on her nose and said briskly, "If we decide to obliviate her, we can do so later. For now, I suggest that we go back inside—" she gestured at the open door of the parlour "—sit down and talk. If Miss Malfoy has something she wants to tell us, I would like to hear it, regardless of its importance."

"Listen, Minerva," Moody began but was cut off by her.

"I'm the Headmistress, Alastor, and the girl is my responsibility. Come, Miss Malfoy." She took Lucy's hand and guided her into the living room.

Now that they were all sitting and their eyes were at more or less the same level, Lucy felt slightly better. But only very slightly, because Moody was still giving her that penetrating glare, and Professor Black was looking downright sinister. "I'm sorry," she stammered, just to say something so that the silence wouldn't last, "I didn't mean any harm…" She stopped and took a deep breath. She was a Malfoy, for Merlin's sake! Malfoys didn't grovel and apologize. Malfoys always got what they wanted—but what did she want? Her feelings for Headmaster Snape had abated a little, at least that was what she had thought until she had heard that he might be alive… Heaven only knew where he was now. Maybe the information she possessed might help him? But was that reason enough to betray her father's confidence? She straightened her shoulders, bracing herself for the storm to come. She had to try. If she failed, she'd have to accept being obliviated. "I do have some information you might find useful," she said, wondering at the firmness of her own voice, "but before I give it to you, you have to promise—"

"Who the hell do you think you are, girl?" Moody thundered, "Or have you gone completely crazy? You're facing expulsion, do you understand that or do I need to spell it out for you?"

"I think," Lucy replied, trying to sound confident, "that we might solve the problem in a different way." She looked at McGonagall. "May I explain, Headmistres?"

"Go ahead, Miss Malfoy. But I advise you to keep in mind who you are talking to."

"Yes, Ma'am. Of course. While I was out there—" she pointed at the hallway "—I heard you say that maybe the Headmaster… Sorry, Ma'am, I didn't mean to…" McGonagall gave an impatient nod, and Lucy continued, "I heard you say that maybe Headmaster Snape was still alive, and that there was some secret involved…" She sat up a little straighter. "So what I meant to suggest is this: I know part of the secret, at least I think I do. The fact that I haven't told anybody else is proof enough that I can keep a secret and don't need to be obliviated. What I need you to promise is that you won't do anything to harm my family, because—"

"Your family?" Professor Black's blue eyes were blazing with indignation. "Are you implying that your father is involved in this business?"

"Yes. And I don't want any harm to come to him. I only have him and my mother."

"And Hermione only had Severus," Black growled.

"I… I know. And I'm really sorry."

"Being sorry is not enough, child," McGonagall said. "You will have to prove it."

"But that's exactly what I'm trying do tell you!" Lucy countered heatedly, "All I want is a promise that nothing is going to happen to my father! Can't you understand that?"

The three shot each other doubtful looks. "Well…" McGonagall wagged her head. "You have to understand our position as well, Lucertola. Apart from Headmaster Snape being our friend, we also want justice. If your father—"

"My father wasn't the one who killed the Headmaster, was he? It was all the Minister's fault, because he's a fanatical, narrow-minded bastard…" She bit her lip and glanced at the three, who didn't look as disapproving as she'd expected. "Sorry," she mumbled, "I… I got carried away. What I meant to say was—"

"Why don't you just tell us the whole story, Miss Malfoy," Professor Black interrupted her.

"First you have to promise. All of you," she said stubbornly.

It took them some time to come to a decision, but in the end, they promised.

In the meantime, Lucy had calmed down sufficiently for her to think clearly, which in her case meant finding a way of taking the greatest possible advantage of a situation without giving away too much. She had promised them a story, and a story they would hear. But, she told herself, they already knew, or at least were almost sure, that Headmaster Snape was alive. Therefore, telling them what exactly that potion could do wasn’t necessary. Who knew, after all, whether she might not need another trump card? She’d be a fool if she gave away everything. All she wanted was to make sure she wasn’t going to be obliviated or expelled. And to try and get her own back at Potter. They had already pledged not to harm her father. So she ought to alter the truth, just a little. If necessary, she might still tell them more later. But not now. No, definitely not now.

Her mind reeling with the euphoria of triumph, Lucy started telling her story. The awareness that she knew more than these three powerful wizards even made confessing her feelings for Professor Snape less of a bitter pill than she'd expected. And she had, after all, the satisfaction of relishing their open-mouthed surprise. "So I went to him," she concluded her tale, "on the morning of the day he was arrested, and warned him. He had the whole day, so I suppose he was able to prepare himself."



They had asked a few more questions, just to clear up some points of the girl's story, and then sent her back to her quarters. When she had left, the three stared at each other in speechless surprise.

"Well," Moody broke the silence, "if that isn't the most hair-raising story I've ever heard…"

"I think she told us the truth, though," McGonagall said.

"So do I," Sirius agreed. "Not even a Slytherin could possibly invent such a story. Not even a Malfoy," he added. "Besides, it fits too well with the facts to be made up."

"Exactly." Moody nodded. "And it also explains some other facts the lass doesn't even know about."

McGonagall's brows shot up. "Which facts?"

"Well, for one there's the death of Calvin Cox. They tried to hush it all up, but it seems that rumours got out all the same."

"Who is Calvin Cox?" Sirius asked.

"Cox is, or rather was, one of the Ministry's most skilled trainers of Assassins. They're the special unit, which—"

"We know what the Assassins are," McGonagall interrupted him impatiently. "What else?"

"Fairchild is missing," Moody growled.

"Huckleberry Fairchild?" McGonagall inquired, frowning, "I think I remember him, he was a Ravenclaw and terribly clever."

"Yeah, he was clever. Deputy Head of Experimental Charms and a bit of a mad genius. Although I never quite trusted him…"

"You don't trust anybody, Alastor," Sirius said, "So that really doesn't mean anything. But anyway, how do you think Cox's death and Fairchild's disappearance might fit into the puzzle? And I still can’t believe Harry bought Malfoy’s story…"

Moody got up from his chair and shook his head. "Nor can I. And I can't tell you my theory right now. It's more of a gut feeling, you know. I'll have to make some more inquiries before I can be sure." He picked up his staff. "I think I'll go home now and do some serious thinking. What about meeting at Hermione's place in, say, a week? I ought to know more by then."

*

After returning to Little Winging, Surrey, and into the loving care of the Dursleys, carrying a letter and photographs he’d extorted from Renegade Dudley, Severus wouldn’t have been surprised at all, had the couple stormed into his room brandishing a contract he had only to sign in order to be adopted. They cherished him, they stuffed him like a Christmas turkey, offered to run errands for him and would probably have carried him up-and downstairs to avoid over-exertion of his precious body, had he manifested the desire. When, on the fifth night since he’d come back from his expedition to Petra and Baghdad, he’d had to endure another tearful outburst of gratefulness from Mrs. Dursley, he decided that he was in dire need of a break from too much mollycoddling.

This coincided nicely with his plans—he’d finished with the libraries; the next item on his agenda were the various private collections. First of all, he had to decide whether he wanted to take the—considerably greater—risk of continuing his work of destruction. The libraries had been relatively easy to handle, because of the constant coming and going of wizards and witches, which, in addition to his altered appearance, provided sufficient cover. Although the mutilating of books and manuscripts was certainly illegal, entering a library was not. If, on the other hand, he wanted to gain access to a private mansion, there was no way he could do so openly and in broad daylight. He’d have to consider taking up a career as part-time burglar, and while the thought in itself didn’t overly disturb him, he was well aware of the danger such activities might put him into.

There wasn’t only the risk of being caught, although that, too, was by no means negligible. Owners of rare books and other artefacts usually dwelled in heavily warded houses and didn’t hesitate to use their wands in order to protect their treasures. What made him even more reluctant to go on with his mission, though, was the fact that what he had done to the library books was likely to remain undiscovered for a long time, whereas damage inflicted on a privately owned volume might be noticed rather soon. Whether in Petra, Samarkand or Alexandria, none of the tomes he’d held in his hands had been checked out in the last thirty years (except for the ones Hermione had read, of course). But collectors usually bought their books for a reason, whether to use them for their studies or just finger them lovingly, and hence the chance of one of them happening upon torn-out pages wasn’t as small as Severus would have needed for his safety.

There were good, plausible arguments both for continuing and discontinuing. He really needed to carefully consider both options before making his choice. Hence, he announced to the Dursleys that he was going to be absent for two or three days and Apparated to Italy. Not to the house near Florence, although he was pretty sure there were no Aurors waiting for him, but to Venice, which was crawling with tourists, as Easter was approaching. He’d managed to book a room in a small Muggle hotel, and a deftly applied Confundus charm made the receptionist overlook the fact that Mr. Ernest Pagliucci, American and descendant of Italian immigrants, hadn’t presented his passport. Mr. Pagliucci was short, stout, with a receding hairline and an impressive golden front tooth. He was also bandy-legged. Severus was very careful in avoiding catching a glimpse of himself mirrored by some shop window, as he waddled through Venice. He might not be vain, but even his modesty had its limits.

He had chosen Venice as his destination, because a certain Gianmarco di Villabosco, who lived in a splendid palazzo in Campo Santa Maria del Giglio, owned one of the world’s largest and most extensive collections of alchemical texts, which contained one of the volumes Severus ought to deal with. Di Villabosco, scion of an old Italian pureblood family, was notorious both for the lavish parties he threw (though a more appropriate term would have been ‘orgies’) and for the paranoid wariness he displayed when it came to his cherished volumes. Since getting at the book in question was certainly one of the more difficult tasks, Severus meant to regard it as a kind of benchmark. If his investigations led to a possibility of clandestinely entering the palazzo without immediately being pounced on by a squad of hit wizards, he might consider putting his plan into action and tackling the other collections as well.

The first obstacle he had to jump were, of course, the investigations, which he had to conduct with utmost discretion, and certainly not by consulting wizards of impeccable reputation and conduct. Quite the contrary, actually. Di Villabosco’s alchemical library was some kind of Holy Grail of the wizarding world’s treasure hunters, the Fort Knox of the criminal wizard. Provided one frequented the right places, one was bound to encounter at least one person hatching a new and sensational plan how to get through Villabosco’s cutting-edge wards and protections.



Now a regular visitor of Hermione’s dreams, Severus had told her the other night that he probably wouldn’t be able to join her for two, maybe three days. Her reaction had astonished and, if he was honest with himself, also hurt him. Until his arrival in Venice he hadn’t given the matter much thought, but now, dozing the afternoon away in his room—he’d decided to rest before setting out, as he was expecting quite a long night—he couldn’t resist thinking of her.

Before embarking on his first expedition, which had led him to Buenos Aires and then to Crete, he had forgotten to warn her that he might not be able to come to her; that had been the only time, though. From that day on, she had always known beforehand. After all, he didn’t want her to wait for him in vain. Whenever he had announced another hiatus in their nightly meetings, she’d been very anxious—understandable, as she didn’t know he was alive and using Legilimency. Last night, though… She had been different, almost nonchalant, a little too light-hearted for him to take her reaction with equanimity. Was it possible that she was beginning to ‘get over him’, as their friends advised her to do? He hoped not. He didn’t want her to live a life of sadness and misery, but neither did he want her to let go, to cope with what she had to think was reality. It had been almost three months… From an objective point of view, he had to admit that his fears were not unfounded. He also had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that it was her right to move on. Had he maybe committed a fatal error by keeping the truth from her? Would it have been preferable to take the risk? Perhaps he ought to abandon his plans concerning the private collections and tell her the truth as soon as possible?

In the end, he decided to go through with the first step and to remain in Venice as he had planned. But, he mused, already half-asleep, he was going to reveal the truth to her soon, very soon.