Pygmalion

Chapter 33

By Pigwidgeon37

“Now,” Moody said after handing Hermione a glass of whisky, “before we tell you anything, you have to promise you won’t do anything inconsiderate.”

Both men looked quite worried when she downed the drink in one go and held out the tumbler for a refill. Her pupils were dilated, huge and circled only by a narrow rim of brown. That and the anxious expression on her flushed face made them doubt their previous decision.

“I already promised Severus that I wasn’t going to…” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Just tell me he’s dead and let me deal with it.”

Sirius rose from the couch he’d been sharing with Moody and went past the table to kneel down beside her chair. “Hermione.”

She pressed her lips together and shook her head again, more vehemently. “No, Sirius. Do as I told you. Deliver the blow and… then just leave me in peace.” She tried to jerk her hand from under his but he held it in a firm grip.

“Hermione, love. Do you think you might just listen for a moment, without jumping to conclusions?” She reopened her eyes, and he patted her hand. “That’s a good girl. Now—” he reached backwards for her glass, which Moody pressed into his hand “—have another sip, and then another. Drink slowly, and listen.” While she obediently sipped at her drink, he sat down cross-legged on the floor, without releasing her hand. “When Alastor talked about your doing something inconsiderate, it wasn’t just a euphemism for suicide. But you’re excited, overexcited even. Any news, whether good or bad, might cause an overreaction. We merely want to be sure you’ll stay here with us, and discuss the situation as calmly as possible.”

Wham! The glass Hermione had been holding went crashing into the opposite wall. “What’s all this about?” she yelled, making them both flinch. “What do you think you’re doing? Can’t you see—” she used her free hand to wipe her eyes, as Sirius was still holding on firmly to the other “—that this is torture you’re putting me through? Or is this some perverse little game? Are you enjoying it?”

Sirius sighed. “No, darling. This isn’t a game. You know we’d never do such a thing, don’t you?”

“Then tell me, for fuck’s sake! Just tell me whether he’s alive or dead!” Her eyes wild and bright with tears, she looked back and forth between them. “Please,” she whispered.

At an impatient gesture of Sirius, Moody finally cottoned on to what the Animagus was thinking and got up from the couch. If they both maintained physical contact with Hermione, she might Disapparate but would take them with her. So he stood beside her chair and put his hand on her shoulder, kneading it gently. “He’s alive, lass,” he growled. “There can be no doubt. Severus is alive.”

Whether her reaction could have been any more violent, had they told her the opposite, none of them was sure. Hermione went into a hysterical crying fit, her face turning brick red and deathly pale in quick succession; when she started gasping for air, pressing her hand to her heart, Moody quickly rummaged through his pockets for a vial of Calming Potion he’d had the foresight to bring. Sirius had to pinch her nose shut in order to force the concoction down her throat. It took effect almost instantly. Her breathing slowed down, and her face returned to its usual, healthy colour.

“You all right?” Moody huffed, and she nodded.

“Yes, I—sorry. I didn’t mean to… But I—I still can’t… Are you sure, absolutely sure?”

“As sure as can be, given the circumstances,” Sirius replied. “Now let me repeat the question: do you promise not to do anything inconsiderate?”

“I don’t even know what I might possibly do,” she said, her voice raucous and shaking with both sobs and laughter, “But yes, I promise.”

“No sudden Disapparating? No storming out of the house to shout it out loud? Because there’s Aurors out there, you know?” Moody still had his hand on her shoulder but released his grip when she nodded. “Fine. Then I can finally go back to my whisky.” He limped over to the couch and sat down, patting the upholstery and motioning for Sirius to join him.

Sirius smiled up at her and cupped her cheek, to wipe off a few tears with his thumb. “Marauders’ honour?”

She giggled. “Marauders’ honour.”

“Okay. That’s what I needed to be convinced.” Sirius, too, returned to the couch and sat down. “Well then, I think Mad-Eye ought to tell us what he’s found out.”

Moody grinned, refilled his glass and cleared his throat. He wasn’t usually given to theatrics, but then this was a special occasion. “I talked to a few ex-colleagues,” he began, “and I told Tonks to sniff around as well. So this is what we both came up with. First, the LE department is in total uproar. People working overtime, everybody shouting at everybody else, the air thick with memoranda, and everybody is very, very nervous. I tried to coax something out of Kingsley, of course, and almost got him to spill the beans, but he snapped shut like an oyster at the very last moment. I have to grant him that he isn’t in charge of the operation, though. Williamson is, that stupid son of a bitch. Impossible to get anything out of him. Tonks was sent first to Beijing and then to some place in Poland nobody can pronounce, to meet with local Aurors because of stolen wands.”

Hermione, whose brain had by now kicked back into gear, perked up. “Do you think Severus had something to do with those stolen wands?”

“Seems likely, doesn’t it? Because, if he’s alive, he also needs a wand, and he can’t buy one. Tonks told me that other colleagues were dispatched to practically everywhere, always about stolen wands, and always with the same result. No fingerprints, and the thing had been used only once or twice, to cast glamours.”

“Fuckin’ cunning Slytherin,” Sirius said, his tone one of deep satisfaction and admiration.

“I’d say so, yes. So far—” Moody dug into a pocket of his robes and produced a sheet of parchment “—I’ve written it down. So far we’ve got Beijing, Przemysl—however that’s pronounced—Algiers, Buenos Aires, Ankara, Beirut and Marseille. There were a few others, but they’ve been discarded because they don’t fit the pattern.”

“Which pattern?” inquired Hermione, who had moved over to the couch and was now standing behind the two men, peering at the list over their shoulders.

“That of a wand being stolen, used and thrown away within less than twelve hours. And always without fingerprints. Oh, and the glamours,” Moody added. “What seems to puzzle our LE friends even more is that the whole thing has stopped about six weeks ago.”

“So that means Severus has got a wand somehow? One he can keep, I mean?”

Moody sighed and looked up at Hermione. “Well, that or…” He fell silent. No need to say it out aloud—she was clever enough to draw the conclusion for herself.

She straightened up and walked back to her chair. “No way,” she said, “There’s no way he might have died in the meantime, because the dreams have been exactly the same. Come to think of it…” She frowned and pressed a fist to her forehead. “The dreams started about six weeks ago,” she finally said. “Yes, I’m sure. Six weeks ago, more or less. Only I have no idea what it might mean.”

“We’ll leave interpretations for later,” Moody cut her off. “Maybe it’s important, maybe not. There’s more I need to tell you. Might be completely unrelated to old Sev, mind you, but then you never know. There seems to be a rumour about Malfoy having created a new illegal potion.”

“If Malfoy was doing something illegal,” Sirius objected, “he’d already be back in France, if he was lucky, that is. He might just as well end up in Azkaban. And if the Aurors already caught wind—”

“I didn’t get that one from the Aurors. It’s from… well, let’s say from a different source. Not that I’d entrust my life to the person—or, rather, I wouldn’t trust him farther than I can throw a Behemoth but—”

“Mundungus?” Sirius asked, eyebrows connecting with his hairline.

“Maybe. Anyway, the rumour’s definitely there. What’s the matter with you, lass?” he asked, casting a wary glance at Hermione.

“I don’t know. I feel… strange.”

“Strange in the sense of ill?” Sirius was already on his feet.

“No. No, it’s… I can’t describe it. Restless. As if…” She stopped and was obviously trying to concentrate. “Nothing. It’s gone.”

Moody tilted his head and scrutinized her intently. “Any idea what might have caused the feeling?”

Hermione sighed. “No, really, it was just such a fleeting sensation. Maybe something you said?”

“Shit,” Moody said with feeling. “It’s that memory spell again. Try to concentrate, lass, and to remember what exactly triggered the feeling. Was it the mention of Fletcher?”

“No.” Hermione leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. “Fletcher… Fletcher… no, nothing. No, that wasn’t it.”

“Malfoy, maybe?” Sirius offered. “Because—” His eyes went wide, and he abruptly turned to Moody. “Mad-Eye! The potion! The potion the girl told us about! Merlin help me, how could we have been so stupid and not made the connection? That’s the—”

“Ho! Don’t get carried away!” With a none-too-gentle push, Moody lowered Sirius back onto the couch, from which he had half-risen in his excitement. “And kindly don’t include me into your league of extraordinarily daft gentlemen. Because I did make the connection, you see? Only the two parts don’t fit together, that’s the problem.”

“It’s the potion,” Hermione said slowly and in a voice so low that her words didn’t immediately register with the other two. “It’s the potion,” she repeated. “Whenever you mention it, I feel as if my mind were running against a wall at full speed. I’m sure the memory Harry erased had something to do with a potion.”

“Ha!” Sirius stabbed Moody’s chest with his forefinger. “I knew the two things were connected!”

“Bullshit. Don’t you remember what the girl told us? The potion that led to Severus’s arrest was supposed to have an effect similar to that of the Imperius Curse!”

“Yeah, that’s what she said. But can you be sure she was telling the truth? I wouldn’t bet a single galleon on that. And even if she did, maybe she got it wrong, there’s no way of—”

“Which girl?” Hermione interrupted him.

Sirius and Moody looked at each other. “Might as well tell the whole story,” Moody said. “Maybe it’s going to help, who knows? A week ago,” he explained to Hermione, “we caught little Miss Malfoy spying on us—Minnie, Sirius and myself, that is, while we were debating Severus in Sirius’s quarters.”

“Since when do you call her Minnie?” Hermione asked—amidst all these theories and shreds of information, the nickname was the only detail that seemed to have some connection to solid reality.

“That’s hardly the point, is it? So, we were talking about Severus, and the girl was hiding in the hallway. She betrayed her presence, I stunned her, and she was obviously so happy about Severus being alive that she told us an interesting little story.”

“So it was her,” Hermione said tonelessly when Moody had finished his account, “It was her all the time, spying on us. Remember,” she addressed Sirius, “when we met her outside after I’d visited Severus? I guessed she had a crush on him, but her behaviour makes a lot more sense now, considering that it was actually she who brought it all about.” She remained silent for a while, and then continued, “There’s one detail that bothers me, though. I’m absolutely sure now that the memory Harry erased concerned the potion Severus and I were researching. One hundred percent sure. But that it should have something to do with the Imperius Curse… No. It simply doesn’t sound right. It rings absolutely no bell.”

“Hmm…” Sirius flexed and stretched his fingers, as if to try and physically catch the truth that seemed to be at arm’s reach, but at the same time unseizable and elusive. “What about the potion Malfoy is allegedly producing? Could it be the same Severus and Hermione were researching? Did Mundungus give you any details about what it does?”

“Yeah, he did, but it sounded like a lot of hogwash to me,” Moody replied gruffly. “Something about a miracle drug protecting from the Killing Curse—as if nobody had tried it before. If there was such a thing, why should Malfoy of all people have succeeded in creating it? Nah, I don’t believe it. You know how it is with rumours. Probably the little bastard is merely trying to sell bottled cat piss and convince people it’s a cure for cancer, or something like that. No,” he said, shaking his head and squaring his shoulders, “let’s not get sidetracked by this rubbish. We ought to concentrate on the facts we have got. Fairchild, for example. He’s still missing without a trace. Now Fairchild—and people used to think pretty highly of him—but I always had him down as a shifty kind fellow. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t exclude he might have had dealings with Voldemort, nothing official of course, he was way too clever for that. But so many things got swept under the carpet after the Victory, among them the fact that there were a few information leaks at the Ministry, which nobody ever bothered to inquire—What?” His magical eye swivelled towards Hermione, who was staring out of the window.

“I said Crete,” she muttered without looking at him. “I think I went to Crete…”

“When, Hermione?” Sirius asked, looking at least as puzzled as Moody. “When did you go to Crete?”

Her eyes were wide and unfocused, her lips half-open, mouthing something inaudible. She almost looked as if she were in trance.

“Hermione?” Now definitely worried, Sirius rose and went over to her. “Hermione!” He grabbed her shoulders and shook her slightly. “Can you hear me, Hermione? What was that about Crete? Is it important? Does it have to do with Severus?” Her lips were still moving; he brought his ear closer to her face, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration. “Spring?” he repeated, incredulous, and cast a quick glance at Moody, who shrugged. “Almond trees… missing Severus?” He caught her when she slumped forward.

“Good girl,” Moody said. He rose to his feet and gestured at the couch. “Put her here, Sirius.”

“But what—”

“Tried to break through the memory spell, I reckon, the brave lass. That’s hard work. Don’t worry, though,” he said, seeing Sirius’s anxious expression, and patted him on the back. “It’s not dangerous, just exhausting.” He glanced down at Hermione, who seemed to be sleeping peacefully, undisturbed by Sirius who lifted her slightly to put a few cushions under her head. “You know what? I’ll cast a sleeping spell—” he drew his wand “—so she’ll rest, and maybe there’ll be more memories coming back in her dreams. And the two of us should definitely nip over to Crete.”

“I don’t quite see—” Sirius began but was cut off.

“Tell that brain of yours to get moving, will you. She said Crete, and she said spring. So it can only have been last spring, otherwise she wouldn’t have missed ol’ Sev, now would she? And think of the time frame—Severus was arrested at Christmas, and if by ‘spring’ she meant somewhere between March and May, that’s about six to nine months until Christmas, which seems just like the amount of time you’d need to do some complicated research. Besides,” he continued, already on his way to the door, "there's also what Potter said during the trial, remember? He tried to let on as little as possible, but he did talk about a potion Severus had been researching."

"So why didn't Hermione—"

"Because Potter had obliviated her!" Moody bellowed. "So she didn't know she'd been researching it together with Sev, and therefore neither did we! They both wanted to keep her out of this, obviously. Is that too complicated for you to understand?" He rolled his good eye.

“Well,” Sirius said, while his left hand absentmindedly straightened the cushions, “that sounds about right. I’m just trying to… Last spring… Hermione caught the flu, but that was in January or February… and after that—shit, why can’t I remember… Got it!” He slapped his forehead. “Yes, she did go away on her own, during the Easter holidays. But she said it was for preparing their honeymoon quarters.”

“That’s what she said,” Moody observed grimly, “But it seems that she was doing something quite different. There’s a library at Cnossos, as far as I know, and not a bad one.” He gestured at the sleeping witch. “Better cover her with a blanket. I’ll tell Marjorie to look in on her from time to time. Come to think of it, she ought to stay with her—maybe the lass talks in her sleep, so Marjorie can write it all down.”

*

“Of course,” said Gut Voice, “I don’t know which kind of business you’re in, but…” He gave a conspiratorial wink. “If you ever had a run-in with the Federal Hit Squad, you’d be thankful for a potion that protects you from being killed.”

“Y-Yes…” Startled at the hoarseness of his own voice, Severus pulled himself together as best he could. He needed to get out of this place, go back to the hotel and think. But he must do so without making himself suspicious to the two individuals who were already regarding him with some suspicion. “It’s just…” Come up with something, anything, please, he mentally shouted at himself. Some story you may feed them, to explain—There. He had it. “I had this cousin,” he continued aloud, “We grew up together. He was…” Severus made a pause he hoped was dramatic enough, swallowed twice and closed his eyes. The second best option, as he was unable to produce so much as a single tear. “They AK-ed him,” he choked out, balling his right hand into a tight fist for more effect. “If only Malfoy had created that potion a bit earlier, he might…” He opened his eyes again and rubbed them, as if to wipe away unmanly tears. “Pietro might still be alive,” he concluded.

Head Voice nodded. “When Pippo told me—” he tilted his head at his companion “—I thought exactly the same. My brother, just a few months ago… sad story…”

The ensuing silence produced a sufficiently significant hiatus in their conversation for Severus to rise from his chair and nod at the two wizards. “I’ll leave you, gentlemen. I’ve got a few…” Another ominous pause. He was getting quite good at this. “Things to do,” he finished his sentence. “In case I’m interested in buying some of that potion, where can I find you?” He looked from one to the other.

“He’ll be returning to Spain tomorrow,” Gut Voice replied, “but I come here almost every night.” He grinned broadly. “I’ll prepare that letter of recommendation in the meantime. Join me whenever you feel like it.”

Severus nodded. He was tempted to tell Pippo the Gut Voice which orifice exactly he ought to shove his letter of recommendation into, but thought it wiser to keep his mouth shut. “Thank you. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

He tossed a few coins on the counter and, after assuring the two wizards they might keep the bottle, Disapparated directly into his hotel room.

He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He felt hungry and a bit tipsy. As he’d never been one to have his best ideas on an upset stomach, Severus decided to venture out again and have dinner. Given the shocking news he had just received, he almost felt guilty for not reacting immediately, but then told himself that, starved and half-drunk as he was, he’d be no match for Malfoy. So he merely added a silk scarf with paisley print to his hideous outfit and, after making sure that the glamours were still firmly in place, headed out of his room.



A plate of hearty North Italian starters—smoked sausages, excellent cured ham, goat cheese and pickled peppers—had soon absorbed the surplus alcohol in Severus's system. It was quite late, and most of the tourists, who never got used to having supper after eight p.m., had already left the restaurant. Now was the hour when the locals felt like re-conquering their own city. The buzz of conversations around him (although Severus's grandmother had been Italian, he had never learned the language and his knowledge was a passing one at best) was actually thought-enhancing, he found, a regular white noise the uniformity and monotony of which formed an ideal background for sharp logic.

The pasta arrived, and Severus ordered a bottle of light white wine from the Veneto to go with it. With his mind de-fuzzed and his stomach appeased, he began to ponder his situation.

Unfortunately, he had been cut off from the wizarding world—apart from his anti-bibliophile outings—for three months and therefore his musings were largely based on conjectures, which made him intensely insecure. Come to think of it, there was a single solid fact he might rely upon: Malfoy had obviously succeeded in creating the Draught of Life, or was at least close to completing it. Knowing Draco, Severus didn't exclude that the product announced to Malfoy's associates might be the first result of his efforts, which he merely wanted to test on as many people as possible. Somebody like Malfoy certainly wasn't going to have scruples about making potential buyers ingest the potion, cast Avada Kedavra on them and, if they didn't survive, disposing of the corpses. If they did survive, well, they didn’t know what other use the concoction might be put to. Really, it was a safe method. For Draco at least.

And, if Draco had the formula, that meant the Ministry had it, too. For where else might he have got it from? Unless… Severus absentmindedly twisted a strand of spaghetti around his fork. Unless the pages Lucertola had copied for her father and grandfather's use had contained more information than he'd initially thought. Come to think of it, that was the more reasonable assumption. Even with three months at their disposal, he doubted that the Ministry's Potions experts could have arrived at the real formula via the completely disfigured version they'd found in his laboratory. And even then, Malfoy would have had difficulties obtaining it, seeing as he'd been banished from England. Yes, there were owls and the like, but this kind of business was too potentially dangerous to be conducted via owl post or Floo. So Malfoy had it from the primary source. Seeing as how it had taken him considerable time to finalize the concoction, he'd either had trouble procuring the ingredients (not a likely possibility, considering whom Draco did business with) or the random pages the girl had duplicated hadn't been overly helpful.

With a scowl of disgust, Severus declined the waiter's offer of fish and opted for lamb instead. And a bottle of red wine.

If things were as bad as they seemed, he was going to need something much stronger.

There was definitely no point in trying to explain away the fact that Malfoy had the Draught. He had to accept this simple, if terrifying, truth and plan accordingly.

Although… he tasted the wine and nodded his approval to the waiter.
Although 'plan' might be something of an exaggeration. A Gryffindor sort of plan, maybe. He snorted. Go there, barge in, beat them up, get what you want, leave. The kind of plan Weasley would have made. Potter too, when he was younger. But years spent in a profession like diplomacy, which by definition called for dishonesty, and then politics, which was a term mutually exclusive with directness or straightforward honesty, had taught Potter the finesse he had lacked in previous times.

He cut a lamb chop in half and saw with satisfaction that it was done exactly as he liked it.

It had, of course, occurred to him to sic Potter and his bloodhounds on Malfoy. Exactly the kind of payback he craved. But not only would such a manoeuvre be very difficult to orchestrate—Malfoy was, after all, under French jurisdiction, which meant that the Brits would at least have to collaborate, if not leave the affair entirely to their French colleagues—Severus also didn't want to get the authorities involved into this business. On the contrary, if Malfoy really had the Draught, it had to remain as secret as possible. Especially from Potter.

There really was no other way. He had to go to Ouessant, in disguise of course, and deal with Malfoy himself. And he had no illusion as to what 'dealing with' meant in this case. Not that the world wouldn't be a better place without Draco Malfoy. That was not the problem. The problem was that he, Severus, already had one murder on his conscience. He'd shut it out of his mind as best he could. But he was pretty sure he couldn't deal with a second one.

Suddenly disgusted by the piece of meat he'd been about to put into his mouth, he shoved the plate to the other side of the table and signalled for the waiter to bring him the bill.

*

A few hundred miles south-east of Venice, Sirius and Moody were sitting on the beach, their eyes travelling across the black water along the luminous path the rising moon had cast.

It had been easy to identify the books Hermione had consulted at the library. The pages they lacked had been the last proof the two wizards had needed, in order to believe that Severus was indeed alive. Up till now, their certainty had been a merely logical one. Now they knew. And the librarian had told them about her predecessor, the now-deceased Mr. Pappadopoulos, whose eccentricity had been notorious, even when he was a mere step away from death. Or had they ever heard of a wizard who preferred breaking and burning his own wand instead of being buried with it? Well, that was Aristoteles for you, always good for a surprise.

The night wind had a certain bite to it, but it was fragrant and spicy, as it came from the mountains and pastures where herbs were already growing and blossoming. It was still too early for the almond trees to have burst into bloom, and so the cool air remained acerbic, devoid of sweetness. Sirius scooped up a handful of sand and let it trickle through his fingers.

"So, what are we going to do now?" he asked, addressing the moon rather than Moody.

"I wish I knew." Moody was staring out at the sea, watching the fish glide silently through dark waters with his magical eye. "Now that we know which wand he has, we could easily track him down."

"But would he want us to follow him? Not that I'm afraid, mind you, but we might all finish in Azkaban."

"Yeah." A meagre cat prowled past them, in search of nocturnal prey, and Moody rummaged in his pockets for an owl treat, which he threw to the animal with surprising accuracy. It jumped, hackles raised, and fled, but came back when it realized that the flying object hadn't been a stone but food. ""I keep telling myself that, if he doesn't make contact, he must have a good reason. On the other hand—" he stretched his crippled leg with a groan "—maybe if he knew that we know, he wouldn't mind. Especially if he's hiding far away from England."

The cat had finished devouring the treat and slunk off into the darkness. Silence set in again. The moon, almost full and honey-coloured, was now two hand-breadths above the horizon.

"Are you sure that rumour about Malfoy has absolutely no connection to what happened to Severus?"

Moody turned his head an looked at Sirius. "I'm sure of the contrary. I just didn't want to say so in front of the lass—don't want her to Apparate straight to that manor and pick a fight with Malfoy of all people."

"Should we have a word with him, maybe?"

"Hmm. No, I don't think that's a good idea. We don't have anything concrete, so he's free to just throw us out of his property. Maybe we ought to talk to the girl once more. That little viper didn't tell us the whole truth, I'm sure. She'll be less trouble than her father—we can simply obliviate her afterwards."

"Don't let Minerva hear that."

Moody shook his head. "I have no intention of involving Minerva into this. Too dangerous at this point."

"So?"

"So," Moody replied, getting up, "we go and have a nice Greek dinner. And afterwards, we go back to Hogwarts and question Lucertola Malfoy. Knowing you, you're able to enter the Ravenclaw quarters."

"Well…" Sirius grinned up at his friend. "Yes, as a matter of fact I am."