Pygmalion

Chapter 34

By Pigwidgeon37

The three-headed dog slowly opened one drowsy eye. Then it raised one of its heads; the other two still seemed to be asleep. Drool was dripping from its flews in great, frothy lumps, and its breath was so awful she had to back off by a few steps. Panicking, she looked behind her, but Harry and Ron weren't there anymore. She realized with a start that the scenery had changed as well—instead of in an ill-lit corridor somewhere in the castle, she was now standing on a clearing. She knew she'd already been here but was aware that it wasn't real. It was a dream landscape, one she had already visited.

The dog emitted a menacing growl and heaved its massive body up, stretching first its hind legs and then the front legs. The claws jutting out from its paws were almost as impressive as its fangs. And it was now towering over her. What was she to do? There was a way of appeasing it, but she didn't remember…

"What do you want?"

Hermione whirled around, but nobody was there. Her hands were trembling, and she closed her fingers more firmly around her wand. "Who's there? Show yourself!"

"What do you want?"

Now the voice was definitely coming from behind her, so it could only belong to… The dog? She turned slowly. "Did you just…" Her voice faltered. The beast was staring at her with all six eyes.

The three heads nodded. "I did. Tell me, what do you want?"

"I… I'm not sure… Are you Cerberus?" There was no answer, but then the question had been rather rhetoric. "Is this the entrance to the world of the dead?" she whispered, suddenly sure why she had come to this spot.

"You cannot see it, but it is here. So tell me, what do you want?"

"I want to see my husband… please?"

The dog emitted a strange sound, somewhere between laughter and a growl. "He is not down there. He has come very near a few times, but never crossed the border."

"I see." Now she was at a total loss. "I don't know what I want," she said, feeling utterly helpless. "There is something I need to know, but I seem to have forgotten what it was…" She looked down in shame, because she was Hermione Granger, and Hermione Granger never forgot anything; she was wearing her school robes, she noticed, and when she raised her head again, the Cerberus was gone. The surroundings, too, had changed. She was walking on the beach now. A gentle breeze was ruffling her hair; it smelled sweet, like almonds. Suddenly overcome by a sensation of complete peace, she sat down in the sand, sure that she was going to find what she needed right here, if only she waited long enough.

There were pebbles scattered in the sand, small flat stones, looking like the scales of a big reptile rather than pebbles, she thought. They were beautiful, turquoise with a green shimmer, and Hermione began to pick up as many of them as possible, until she had a little iridescent heap piled up next to her. She felt like playing with them, for that was what little girls did when at the seaside. So she put them back into the sand, like pieces of a mosaic, still unsure what she was doing. But somehow the pebbles seemed to arrange themselves into the picture of a dragon; she wasn't overly surprised that it was three-dimensional, a miniature dragon with three crests running from its head to the point of its tail. It spread its wings and took off, flying around her head in wide circles, spiralling higher and higher until it dissolved into the blue sky.

Hermione felt sad, because she had liked the animal. It was a Mesopotamian Triplecrest, as she now remembered, and she would have wanted to play with it for a while. But it was gone now. Her eyes burning from her intense scrutiny of the sky, she lowered her head and saw two people walking towards her, an old man and a young girl. The man smiled and waved at her, whereas the girl looked sullen and unwilling to move any closer to her. But the man dragged her along with him, and soon they were standing next to Hermione, looking down at her.

"The book is not in my library," the man whispered, "Not in my library. The centaur has taken it away. But he gave me this." He held out his hand, in the palm of which Hermione saw a small crystal sphere, maybe the size of an apricot. It was filled with a shimmering liquid, mauve-coloured with whirls of purple. "Tell her," he said to the girl, who was stubbornly looking down at her feet. "Tell her."

The girl shook her head. "She doesn't need to know." She had long, black hair and light-grey eyes, which now bored into Hermione's. "He isn't dead," she said, "He's alive. She doesn't need to know. She must forget."

"She must remember," the old man said. "It's not in my library, but she needs to know. Tell her, little lizard, tell her."

He handed Hermione the sphere, and she took it, marvelling at its perfection and the beauty of the liquid it held. The girl still didn't say anything. There was a rush of wings in the air, and suddenly the light was gone, for the sun had been obscured by black wings; their heavy beat stirred up the sea and sent waves of chilly air across the beach. Hermione shuddered. A black feather came tumbling down from the sky, spinning around itself, and landed on the greyish sand. The girl smiled and bent down to pick it up.

"Don't!" the old man hissed, holding her back when her fingers had almost reached the feather. "Don't! It's Death!"

The girl smiled up at him. "I know," she said calmly, and tried to snatch the feather.

Hermione looked at the globe between her fingers, and then at the feather the girl was attempting to take. There was some connection between the two objects, she was sure, she just couldn't work it out. Both had this strange opalescent shimmer. The sphere was warm, it almost felt alive. The feather, on the other hand, emanated an icy chill. The feather was Death. The globe was…

It rolled out of her hand. Hermione tried to catch it, but too late. It fell, very slowly, like a drop of honey, and landed on the black feather.

Then, everything seemed to explode in a flash of blinding light.

*

Thick sheets of rain whipped the trees and grass of Ouessant, the water coming almost horizontally because of the gale that was howling and whistling like an army of tortured souls. The temperature, too, was considerably lower than in Venice.

Sighing, Severus resigned himself to the thought that, if he survived his fight with Malfoy, he might die of pneumonia afterwards, and marched on towards the house. Or rather, towards the spot he knew the house was standing on. He'd Apparated there already once, and therefore was pretty sure he'd materialized in close vicinity of the mansion, but evidently his aim hadn't been too exact. Had his calculations been correct, he ought to see the lit windows now, despite the heavy rain. Peering through the darkness, he wondered by how much he'd missed his destination and shuddered briefly at the thought that he might just as well have landed in the water. He was completely lost in his thoughts for a moment; probably it was some time-honed instinct that made him stop dead in his tracks before he ran, head first, into a wall.

Strange, very strange. If this was the house, why weren't the windows lit, at least one or two of them? It wasn't that late yet, half past ten p.m., so at least Draco was likely to be up. In the end, he decided to light his wand—if he was at the wrong house, no harm was done, and if it was the Malfoys' mansion, well, everybody seemed to be asleep, so there was no harm done either.

The Lumos spell he pronounced merely served to give him a better sight of the masses of water pouring down, so he cast Lumos Fortifex, to produce a stronger beam of light. The quivering, luminous circle gliding over the wall in front of him told him clearly that he had chosen his Apparition point correctly. He checked his watch—ten thirty-five. And both Italy and France were in the same time zone. So why did the mansion seem so strangely deserted?

Another five minutes were spent in useless speculation. Then, he decided that he simply had to enter the house, if only to cast a few drying and warming spells, as his clothes—still the ones he'd worn in Venice—were soaked through, even his underwear was wet.

There were more wards on the entrance than he'd anticipated, but finally the door swung open and he stepped into the hallway and closed the heavy oak door behind him. He would have thought he'd gone deaf, so complete was the silence surrounding him, if not for the irregular pit-pat of water dripping off his sodden clothes and onto the stone floor. At a muttered spell, the candles and torches lit up.

One cursory glance around the room was enough to tell him that the house was uninhabited.

Just to be completely sure, he went through a few chambers, but the sight that greeted him was always the same: furniture covered in sheets, rectangular shapes on the walls—lighter or darker than the rest, depending on whether the wall was painted or covered by tapestry—where paintings had hung, rolled-up carpets and a general lack of knickknacks and other objects that rendered a home cosier, like potted plants or personal belongings left on tables or chairs. The Malfoys were definitely gone.

Well, at least he was out of the rain and cold. Severus magically dried his clothes and sat down in a sheet-covered armchair. Where the hell had that bastard gone? He knew Draco, better than he would ever have wanted to know that little shit, and therefore he also knew that Draco Malfoy was profoundly British and would never move farther from the Isle than he absolutely had to—hell, during Severus's visit here, his gracious host hadn't missed a single opportunity to whine about how much he missed England, and the manor, and Wiltshire, and…

Severus's head shot up. Of course. Come to think of it, it was as clear as daylight. Malfoy had told Potter about the Draught. Potter had probably lapped up the information. Was Malfoy the type who gave away precious information without claiming a reward? No, he wasn't. By denouncing Severus to the Minister for Magic, Draco Malfoy had bought himself the permission to return to his ancestral home. This, and nothing else, was the answer to the conundrum. He nodded to himself. But this meant he'd have to pay a visit to the Wiltshire Manor, a thought he intensely disliked. If anything went wrong, there'd be Aurors swooping down on him in less than no—

He stiffened. For there was something pressing into the sensitive spot where his skull ended and his neck began.

It was the tip of a wand.

*

"Ten o'clock," Moody muttered, as they approached the castle entrance, their robes and cloaks beating against their legs in the strong wind. "That's an hour past curfew, isn't it?"

"Yes. The Easter break starts tomorrow, so I suppose most of the students will be going to sleep early, the train departs at half past eight."

Moody grunted in response, then stopped walking. "I'll wait here," he said to Sirius. "Go get that cloak—you didn't give it back to the girl, did you?"

"I'm not daft, Alastor. Of course I didn't. All right, I'll be back in a few minutes."

He quickly strode towards the entrance door, and Moody remained where he was, his magical eye scanning the darkness for Aurors. With meteorological conditions like these, they were not likely to show much enthusiasm in patrolling the grounds. Probably they'd drawn straws, he thought with a wry grin, remembering his own days as a junior Auror, and the unfortunate individual who got the shortest piece was left behind in the wet cold, so he could alert his colleagues if anything out of the ordinary happened. Said colleagues had probably headed to the Three Broomsticks to warm themselves up with a few Firewhiskeys.

As he had promised, Sirius was back about ten minutes later, slightly out of breath and with the Invisibility Cloak slung over his arm. The two men entered the castle, crossed the entrance hall and, careful to synchronize their steps as much as possible, hurried to Sirius's quarters. Standing in front of the fireplace, they had a quick whisky, and then Sirius said, "It's almost half past ten now. I think it's safe for me to go and fetch the girl."

Again, Moody remained alone, though he was more comfortable now in the cosy, well-heated parlour with a roaring fire burning in the grate. He took a vial of Veritaserum out of the pocket of his robes—they'd Apparated to his house on their way back from Crete, in order to pick it up, as Miss Malfoy was highly unlikely to tell them the truth of her own volition—and sat down at the desk to calculate how many drops the girl ought to be given, considering her estimated weight of about eighty pounds. He was just about to write a letter to Mrs. Granger instructing her to keep Hermione where she was until he and Sirius returned, when he heard the entrance door open, its soft creaking followed by footsteps, and then the 'click' of the door closing again. The footsteps became louder, and Sirius materialized in the middle of the room, shaking off the cloak. A stunned Lucertola Malfoy, clad only in a nightgown, hung limply over his left shoulder.

"Piece of cake," he said grinning. "She'd already gone to bed but the other girls were still in the common room." He put the girl into a chair and summoned two more chairs for himself and Moody, positioning them strategically between their captive and the door, so she couldn't escape.

His wand was already pointed at Lucy to wake her up, when Moody said, "Don't you think a silencing spell might be a good idea? And lock the windows and the doors, for Merlin's sake—you never know what those teenagers might do if they're panicking. Last thing we need is a minced Malfoy under your window."

They worked in tandem, and once everything was locked, shut and secured—they even put a cushioning charm on the floor—Sirius again pointed his wand at the girl and pronounced "Enervate!"

“Miss Malfoy,” Moody growled, before the girl could even speak a single word, “There’s a few things we’d like to discuss with you.” Lucy’s eyes went even wider, and she shrunk back into the depths of the chair. “There’s no need for you to be afraid,” he continued, “If you tell us the truth, that is.”

Lucertola’s eyes darted across the room, evidently searching for a way out of her predicament, and finally came to rest on the small vial sitting on Sirius’s desk. “Is that… is that,” she squealed, her expression becoming more horrified by the second.

“It is indeed,” Sirius replied. “But we’re only going to use it if you continue with your lies.”

“I didn’t lie to you, I—”

“Oh yes, you did!” Moody thundered. Due to his more than fifty years of experience, he was well aware that increasing the nervousness of people he had to interrogate was still the best method of getting information out of them. Don’t give them a break, bully them, intimidate them, and you’ll get astonishing results—he remembered the words of his instructor exactly. And he’d reduced other opponents to shivering, sobbing wrecks than this slip of a girl. “You didn’t tell us the whole truth, did you?”

There were already tears in her eyes. “I… I don’t know what you—”

“Ah, so you don’t? Well, let me tell you something, lassie. Either you spill the beans now, or I’ll Crucio the truth out of your precious daddy, do you understand.”

She gasped. “But you can’t—you promised—”

“I don’t give a rotten newt’s turd about that promise, just so you know. And, in case you were wondering, I also won’t hesitate to use an Unforgivable on your father. Is that clear?”

They’d agreed on using the time-honed good-cop-bad-cop spiel, while having dinner in Crete; therefore Sirius, who had played the neutral bystander up to this point, took a step forward and said, in the most gentle and soothing tone he was capable of, “Now, Miss Malfoy, there’s no reason for you to be afraid. Just tell us everything, and you may go back to your quarters.”

Shivering, in spite of sitting near the fireplace, Lucy glanced up at him, tears running down her face. “I can’t, Professor, please try to understand, I really can’t!” She flinched when Moody placed a heavy hand on her shoulder.

“Mind my words, lass. You won’t leave this room before we know the truth. Either from yourself, or we’ll go and ask your father. Your choice.” He turned, without breaking the physical contact, and snatched the vial, to hold it in front of her face. “This,” he said, shaking the small glass tube between his thumb and forefinger, “will make the confession much easier.”

Hugging her knees and hunching her shoulders, Lucy pressed her lips together and shook her head.

The two wizards exchanged an exasperated glance. Either the girl knew that going to Malfoy Manor and questioning her father was impossible and hence merely an empty threat, or she was so frightened that all she could do was refuse—whichever the explanation, the problem remained the same: they had to get the truth out of her, and quickly. When Lucy remained silent and curled into a tight ball, Moody’s face took on an expression of grim resolve. “All right,” he muttered and raised his wand.

This was not part of the plan they’d discussed over dinner, and Sirius frowned at the old Auror with an imperceptible shake of his head. His silent question was ignored. Instead, Moody took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders and, wand pointed at Lucertola, pronounced, “Imperio!”

Sirius, who would have been ruthless enough to physically force the girl to ingest the Truth Serum, went pale. “Mad-Eye! You can’t—”

But Moody merely made an irritated gesture in his direction and told Lucy to open her mouth, which she did, obedient and without hesitation. “Or did you have a better idea?” he asked over his shoulder, while he closed the vial and put it back into his pocket.

“I… I suppose not,” Sirius replied weakly.

“Fine. Then kindly keep your mouth shut.” Moody drew one of the two empty chairs nearer to Lucertola and sat down. “Finite Incantatem! How do you feel?”

Lucy’s eyes, albeit having lost their unfocused emptiness, typical side effect of the Imperius Curse, were still wide open and a little too bright. The Veritaserum had taken effect. “I’m frightened. And angry,” she said, her voice flat and monotonous.

“No cramps? No difficulties breathing?” Moody asked—only very few people were allergic to the potion, but the anaphylactic reaction might lead to serious, even lethal consequences.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well, Miss Malfoy, it’s time for some questions and answers. Who told you to monitor the Headmaster’s actions?”

“I didn’t monitor the Headmaster’s actions. I was after the Mudblood.”

Sirius emitted a low growl, but Moody beckoned for him to keep quiet. “You mean the Headmaster’s wife? Why were you interested in what she did?”

“I wanted her—” Lucy visibly struggled against the effect the truth serum was having on her, but didn’t succeed “—wanted her out of the way,” she choked out.

“And why did you want to get rid of her?”

“I… I wa—I am in love with Headmaster Snape. I wanted him for myself.”

“Ah, so you told us the truth about that.” Moody nodded and, after a short pause, continued, “Did you have external help? From your father, maybe?”

“Not from my father, no. He didn’t know. My grandfather, Lucius, he—”

“What?” In spite of Moody’s disapproving glare, Sirius inquired, “What did your grandfather have to do with this business?”

“His portrait. I used to talk to his portrait, and he told me that he’d persuade my father to let me marry the Headmaster once the Mudblood was gone.”

Sirius turned abruptly and went to one of the windows. His fingers, which clutched the windowsill so tightly that his knuckles had gone white, and the slight tremor of his shoulders clearly indicated that he was having a hard time restraining himself.

“Such a charming family,” Moody muttered. “And now to the potion you told us about. What’s it supposed to do?”

“It brings…” Lucy’s face was flushed now, and her breath came in quick gasps. “It brings… people… people back from the dead.”

Her words were followed by stunned silence. Sirius released the windowsill and turned slowly to look at Moody, who was equally dumbfounded. “Well, if that isn’t—Are you sure?” he addressed the girl.

“Yes, I’m—”

Both wizards jumped at the sound of wings beating against one of the windows. Swearing under his breath, Sirius undid the locking charms and let in a drenched, totally disgruntled owl, which was carrying a small plastic bag. “What the hell…” he muttered, attempting to undo the complicated knot that fastened the object to the owl’s leg. “Do you know who’d use a plastic bag to—ouch!” The owl, which had been observing him with patient indulgence while he untied the missive from its leg, had given his forearm a sharp peck when he was about to open the bag and examine its contents. “Seems that this belongs to you.”

Frowning, Moody got up from his chair and took the bag which contained a small square of paper. He unfolded it and read,

Alastor,

I am writing this at the Leaky Cauldron. Mr. Tom recognized me and let me borrow one of his owls.
Maybe an hour ago, Hermione woke up in a state of excitement and distress—worse than I have ever seen her. I am really sorry, but it was impossible to hold her back. She Disapparated, but asked me to give you the following message:

She remembers (I asked her what but she said it was too complicated)
The potion brings people back from the dead (I asked her twice, but she insisted it was true)
A man called Drayco (spelling?) will use it to bring back his father, and she has to go there now, or it might be too late
Come as quickly as you can.

I hope you are able to make sense of this muddle. Please let me know if there is anything I can do.

Yours,
Marjorie

P.S.: I’m returning to Richmond now


“Shit!” Sirius said, “Let’s go get her.”

“Wait a minute. We can’t do this on our own.”

“Of course we—”

“Shut up and listen!” Moody roared. “She’s been there for an hour now,” he continued on a calmer tone, “If Malfoy has killed her already, time isn’t important anymore, and if he hasn’t, he probably intends to hold her hostage or whatever, and we can spare five minutes to do some planning. And close that window, for Merlin’s sake!”

“Er… right.” Evidently sobered up a little by Moody’s harsh words, Sirius did as he’d been told. “So,” he said, returning to his chair, “what do you think we ought to do?”

“I’m going to Malfoy Manor. Just in case that ferret-faced bastard intends to hold Hermione hostage so he can lure Severus there, I’m taking along the little girl.” He gestured at Lucy, who had been observing the scene in horrified silence. “You, my friend, will go and find Potter and take him to the Manor, whether he likes it or not. But—” he grinned “—if you tell him that Malfoy’s about to resuscitate his ol’ dad, I suppose he’ll agree to accompany you.”

“Are you sure you want to go alone? If he’s already brought Lucius back—”

“If Lucius is back, Hermione’s dead,” Moody interrupted him. “And I’ll try to kill both of them. And I’ll enjoy it. Stupefy!” Lucy went limp, and her head hit the armrest of her chair with an audible bump. “Now where’s that cloak?”

Wordlessly, Sirius picked it up and helped Moody hoist the girl out of the chair and over his shoulder. “Good luck then,” he said, draping the Invisibility Cloak over them both.

“Same to you,” Moody replied, before pulling the hood up and over his head. “See you in Wiltshire. My warmest regards to Potter.” The door opened and closed.

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” Sirius muttered.

*

Draco lowered his wand and grinned at Severus. “Nice glamours, Professor. It seems you have discovered the joys of foolish wand-waving.”

“Just as you seem to have discovered the joys of potion-making,” Severus replied laconically.

“Indeed. Pity, isn’t it, that glamours may fool the eye but not a couple of well-placed detection wards?” Draco sat down and crossed his legs. “Pray, have a seat, Professor. There’s a lot we have to talk about.”

“Is there?” Severus lowered himself into the chair he had been sitting in when Malfoy had surprised him. “I rather supposed you would take me straight to the Minister, for a repeat performance of my execution. What kind of reward do you intend to claim this time? Would you like him to cede his position to your father?”

Draco smirked. “There seems to be a small misunderstanding. First, I need you to give me the formula. Then, I might proceed as you suggested.”

“The formula?” Unable to completely hide his surprise, Severus raised his eyebrows. “I was under the impression you had completed the Draught.” Draco’s mocking smile and tongue-clucking made him want to punch his nose, but he wisely refrained from doing so.

“A few steps behind, aren’t you, Professor? Since when do you take rumours at face value?” He leaned back, the mocking expression firmly plastered to his face. He was obviously enjoying himself a lot. “Or—” his right eyebrow rose another fraction, impossible though it seemed “—didn’t you meet one of my, er, business partners?”

“Yes, I did meet a certain Pippo, in Venice. He let me read your letter—the part that wasn’t charmed to remain private, that is. I merely assumed that not even you had the cheek to sell something that doesn’t exist at all.”

“Sell?” Draco laughed. It was a harsh, entirely unnatural sound. Obviously, Severus thought, the boy was following an exact script, reading off the text his demented brain had composed some time ago. “No, I never intended to sell anything. It was a trap, esteemed Professor, merely a trap, excogitated by myself with a little help from my father. He has known you for so long…”

Severus chose not to rise to this bait, although it stuck in his mind like a poisoned arrow. Nothing was to be gained by entering into an argument with a madman. So he merely shot Draco a level stare but remained silent. He was pretty sure what was coming next. Malfoy was going to request that he write the formula down for him. And Severus’s mind, which remembered the recipe very well, was already working feverishly in order to determine which minuscule changes he might make. For what he needed was time, and he was going to buy himself as much of it as possible. Draco would have to keep him alive until the Draught was ready to use. One or two failures might even be pardoned. The equivalent of six days. Everything could happen in six days.