Pygmalion

Chapter 35

By Pigwidgeon37

The imposing sight of the Malfoys’ manor in Wiltshire was enough to further daunt Hermione’s already wavering spirits.

She had woken up to half-darkness in her mother’s living room; Mrs. Granger’s face was more shadowed than lit by a lamp, over the shade of which a foulard had been cast to soften its shine. Although, she mused, ‘woken up’ only very insufficiently described what had happened to her. She could only assume that, driven by her will to override the memory spell, her subconscious had finally broken through the barrier. Hint by tiny hint—death, the Mesopotamian Triplecrest, Crete, the Malfoy girl, Mr. Pappadopoulos, among many others—the tightly-bound secret had unravelled, until finally the charm had given way and broken apart in something like a mental explosion, which had left her nauseous, dizzy and terribly upset.

Hermione was more than a little surprised that this had even been possible. If memory spells were that easy to remove, why even bother casting them in the first place? Then again, only very rarely were the receivers (not to say victims) of such spells actively reminded of what they ought to have forgotten. Muggles for example: whenever the Law Enforcement obliviated them, new, different memories were being implanted into their minds. And they weren’t likely to be encouraged to remember.

Yes, Harry had made a big mistake, she thought, smiling in satisfaction. Well, more than one actually. He hadn’t replaced the memories he’d taken away. And he hadn’t reckoned with Severus’s tenacity and his will to contact her. Otherwise her dear ex-husband might even have succeeded. But he’d underestimated his opponents, as most megalomaniacs did.

Speaking of megalomaniacs…

Through the incessant drizzle of light rain, she squinted at the looming silhouette of the manor. Had she done the right thing? Shouldn’t she have waited for Sirius and Moody to join her? Heaven only knew where they were now, though. They’d gone to Crete, maybe they’d found a lead that took them elsewhere. She hoped her mother had remembered that the owl must be sent to Sirus’s quarters Hogwarts, not personally to one of the two wizards.

In any case, there definitely was no time to be wasted. The story Moody had told her and her own restored memory had merged into the terrifying realization that Draco Malfoy had somehow availed himself of the formula, only to brew the Draught of Life and bring back… She shuddered. Whether Lucius or Voldemort or both was a moot point; she had to act, as quickly as possible. She’d have the element of surprise on her side, at least. Only she wasn’t quite sure how to use it.

Berating herself for her display of typical Gryffindor foolhardiness, she came to a halt—the manor was still far enough away for her to remain unnoticed—cast a waterproof and a warming spell on herself and sat down on the soaked grass. She needed to think, because she needed a plan.

With a deep sigh, Hermione started making a mental list of facts she ought to consider.

If Malfoy had already finished the Draught, he was probably immune to the Killing Curse. Not that she would have willingly cast it—to own the truth, she didn’t even know whether she was capable of casting it—but Avada Kedavra had ceased to be a remote possibility. It was now absolutely out of the question, because it would merely backfire at her, as it had done with Voldemort.

Next problem: if the Draught was ready, and Draco had managed to resurrect his father, she’d have to face two dangerous opponents. Men who wouldn’t hesitate so much as a millisecond to hurl whichever curse they could think of at her. What was she to do if she found herself confronting both Malfoys, father and son? She’d have to cast as many Unforgivables as she could—only Imperius and Cruciatus, of course, and it didn’t matter whether they had any actual effect or not—try to survive for as long as possible and hope that the Ministry’s Aurors on duty would be alerted immediately by the alarms going off.

It still was a hair-raisingly dangerous, risky and essentially crazy plan, but at least it was a plan.

Hermione got up and, clenching her wand a little more tightly, marched towards the house. Ten p.m.—not bloody likely that she’d surprise them in their sleep, but there was no way she could wait any longer unless she wanted to say good bye to her courage and resolve.



Of all the things she would have expected to find at the manor—images of a mostly worm-eaten, zombie-like Lucius alternately hexing her and stuffing his eyeballs back into his skull had been haunting her on her way to the house—she certainly hadn’t anticipated the sight of Cho Malfoy, lying spread-eagled across a bed; the pale skin of her slender wrists had been sliced deeply, almost to the bone, and from the wounds, the rims of which were swollen and looked like open lips curled into a purple grin, blood was trickling on formerly cream-coloured, now dark-stained sheets that squelched with wetness when Hermione knelt on them.

She remembered enough of her sixth- and seventh-year Defence Against the Dark Arts classes—due to Voldemort’s return to power, the students had received a sound training in basic healing magic, so as to be prepared for a battle—to be able to stop the blood flow and mend the cuts. Cho’s pulse was weak, a faint flutter against her once again flawless white skin, which was smeared and sticky with drying blood. Hermione had always disliked Cho, but certainly not enough to let the young woman bleed to death; not if she could prevent it. She glanced at the sodden sheets, trying to estimate how much blood Cho might have lost. Quite a lot, she concluded, her assumption mainly based on the relatively small quantities that had been flowing from the cuts when Hermione found her.

Under different circumstances, she would simply have hurried downstairs to the great fireplace in the entrance hall and Floo-called St. Mungo’s. As things were, she was by no means willing to do so. First, she needed to bring Cho back to consciousness, in order to question her about Draco’s whereabouts. She mustn’t let that chance of gleaning information slip through her fingers.

A Sanguiplenus Potion would, of course, have been the easiest and most logical solution to her problem. It had saved her own life after considerable blood loss. But it was also a complicated concoction, and she really didn’t have much confidence in her brewing skills in a situation like this. And neither did she want to go searching for the Malfoys’ potions stores—the house was making her uncomfortable enough as it was; she didn’t need to venture down into the cellars to further increase her unease.

So she’d have to do things the Muggle way.

She’d passed the kitchens on her search for Draco, and thus knew where to find what she needed. There would be House Elves, but if she managed to convince them that she was only trying to help their Mistress, she hoped they’d refrain from hostilities. Besides, she thought on her way down the stairs, if Draco treated his elves as badly as his father used to, the poor creatures were probably going to kiss her feet instead of attacking her.



Half an hour and two litres of salt-in-water solution pumped into her system later, Cho’s eyelids fluttered open.

Hermione was sitting on the edge of the bed—the House Elves, more compliant even than she’d hoped they would be, had assisted her and changed the bedclothes—and measuring the other witch’s pulse. It was still feeble but regular. “Hello, Cho,” she said. “Long time, no see. How are you feeling?” The pulse under her fingers quickened perceptibly, and she smirked. “Just in case you were wondering, you’re not dead. And I’m not an angel,” she added, matter-of-factly.

Cho tried to speak, but all that came out was a hoarse whisper. Hermione held a glass of water to her lips, of which she drank a few sips. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m feeling—Hermione? What are you doing here?”

“I came here to have a little chat with your husband, didn’t find him anywhere, and started searching the house. And then I found you, almost bled to death. I healed your wrists—remember seventh-year DADA? We learned—oh, of course,” she interrupted herself, “you weren’t there anymore…”

Her last words seemed to have struck some sore spot, for Cho’s eyes filled with tears, and she averted her face.

Mentally hitting herself over the head—much like Dobby the House Elf used to do—for her tactlessness, Hermione remembered where exactly Cho had been during her own seventh and part of her sixth year. “I’m sorry. I was just… well, trying to make conversation, I guess.” She sighed and stroked Cho’s hand. “Why did you do this to yourself? If you want to tell me, that is.”

With visible effort, Cho turned her tear-streaked face back to look at Hermione. “I don’t think you’d understand.”

“Well, try me. I don’t have much time, but…” She paused and gave the other witch an encouraging smile. “Maybe telling me might help?”

Cho shook her head. “Nobody can possibly help me, Hermione. My life is…” She swallowed convulsively, but new tears welled up all the same.

With some trepidation, Hermione noticed that Cho’s pallor was increasing; her lips were blue and her skin clammy. She needed proper medical care, but right now that was out of the question. So Hermione, who hadn’t yet disposed of the IV needle, tube and other devices she had produced by transfiguring other items, transferred another half-litre of salt water into Cho’s blood circulation and sent the House Elves for some brandy. The cure, sloppy and unorthodox though it was, yielded a satisfying result.

“Why, Cho?” she asked again, once her patient had recovered somewhat. “You have a daughter—surely she would miss you?”

“Yes, I have a daughter. Do you know who the father is?”

“Er…” Hermione frowned. “Well, I assumed—”

“As did everybody. But Lucertola is Lucius’s child.”

“Oh. But—” she again took hold of Cho’s hand “—she’s still your daughter.”

The bluish lips curled into a faint smile. “I’ve never been a good mother. And they’ll take her away from me, you know. He said… Lucius said…” Another onslaught of tears interrupted her.

“Lucius?” Hermione felt her stomach contract into a tight knot of fear. “Where is he, Cho? Where is Lucius?”

But Cho didn’t seem to listen. Her eyes took on a faraway look, as she stared up at the canopy of her bed. “He’s too powerful, what could I do if he… and there’s Draco, too… I don’t love him, but…” Her voice faded, and she closed her eyes.

“Cho.” Hermione lightly squeezed her shoulder. “Cho, I need you to tell me the truth. Has Draco already brought his father back? Is Lucius alive?”

“Not yet. But—” she opened her eyes, which seemed huge in her hollow, pale face “—soon, very soon. He told, me you know. Lucius’s portrait, down in the library… told me everything… He’ll be back very soon…” Her breathing quickened and she squeezed Hermione’s hand. “I can’t go through this again, not again, I almost killed myself the first time when it happened, I just can’t take it again.”

Relief made Hermione so dizzy that she had to bend over, until her head touched her knees, to take a few calming breaths. The portrait, of course… Hadn’t Severus told her it never spoke? Well, evidently Lucius Malfoy had reconsidered his vow of silence, and nothing good had come from that decision, as was to be expected.

She sat up and put a comforting hand on Cho’s shoulder. “Just one more question, and then I’ll call the mediwizards, I promise I will. Where is Draco?” But Cho merely shook her head; she was losing colour again and would soon drift back to unconsciousness. “Cho, please! Please! Maybe I can stop him, but you have to tell me where he is!” She kneaded Cho’s hands and slapped her face. “Cho! Wake up, damn you, and tell me where I can find that bastard!”

“Ouessant,” Cho whispered, almost inaudibly but distinctly enough for Hermione to understand.

“Why would he—Never mind,” Hermione said, more to herself than to the now-unconscious Cho.

Four terrified House Elves were cowering outside in the hallway, near the bedroom door. Hermione sat down on her haunches. “One of you has to call St. Mungo’s,” she told them, and four heads bobbed up and down in unison. “You must tell the mediwizards to come immediately, do you understand?” The four nodded again. “Fine. And do me a favour: when they ask you who saved her life, don’t give an accurate description of me, will you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they chorused.

One of them, slightly shorter and more intelligent-looking than his peers, gave her a shrewd look. “You is Mrs. Potter, isn’t you?” he squeaked.

Hermione sighed. “I used to be Mrs. Potter, yes. Why?”

“You is very kind to House Elves. I is a friend of Queasy, His Excellency Minister Potter’s personal elf. He tells me everything, how friendly you is, and how kind-hearted. Shalls Binky take you to Ouessant?”

She almost fell over in surprise. “You would do that? Aren’t you bound—”

Binky waved a spindly hand. “House Elves has feelings, too,” he said. “And you has saved Mistress Cho’s life. You musts be a friend, is Binky right?” He winked at her.

“Er… yes, of course.” She winked back. “Yes, I’m a friend.”

After all, there was no need to specify whose friend.

*

Maybe it would have been wiser not to pull a Potions Master. Severus gingerly touched his swollen, bleeding nose. It hurt dreadfully, as broken noses are wont to do; Malfoy, that deranged bastard, was enjoying this way too much, however, to even think of casting a healing charm. Or stopping the blood from dribbling out of his nose, Severus thought wryly. It had, of course, been his own fault, he silently admitted to himself. Strange how twenty years were suddenly wiped away when he found himself trying to get instructions through some dunderhead’s thick skull. Suddenly, Malfoy was sixteen again, sullen and morose and not really brilliant at preparing potions, and Severus was his teacher, exasperated and already beyond the limit of his patience.

Only the Draco Malfoy of today, thirty-six, arrogant and quite obviously crazy, didn’t react well to being called a ‘silly boy’. He’d have to keep that in mind, Severus thought. For he needed his mind to be clear and in working order, not fuzzy with pain. Being able to breathe through his nose wouldn’t hurt, either. But the boy was constantly watching him out of the corner of his eye, while his clumsy hands were slicing and pounding ingredients, so there was no way he could use wandless magic to at least deflate his nose and put an end to the trickle of blood. Then there was, of course, the minor obstacle of his being tightly bound to a chair by magical ropes, which cut into his flesh through the fabric of his clothes. He urged his aching, pounding head to do some thinking and come up with a possibility to get out of that damned chair.

Well, maybe there was a possibility.

“I need to use the toilet,” Severus declared, and although it sounded like ‘I deed do doose de doined,’ Draco understood immediately.

“Just a moment,” he hissed, “I have to finish cutting this.” He pointed at the dried ginger root he was working on.

“I think I can find it on my own.”

“I’m sure you can. Although…” Draco looked up briefly and gave an evil grin. “I suppose you might have troubles seeing past your nose. Or out of your eyes, for that matter. So you ought to be grateful for being offered guidance.”

What did the little idiot expect him to do, if he behaved like a schoolboy? Such conduct was bound to trigger a long-forgotten response, didn’t Malfoy realize that? Severus did some complicated counting—in Latin, from The-One-Hundred-Fiftieth to The-One-Hundred-Eightieth, that never failed to have a calming effect—and concentrated on breathing. He had to focus on the situation at hand and try to find a way of escape. But his mind was being capricious and recalcitrant. It seemed determined to ignore the imminent danger; the eerie déjà-vu of a classroom situation was nothing but a defence mechanism, a clever trick to prevent his brain from short-circuiting.

Malfoy had already cast Crucio on him twice. Inept potion-maker though the boy was, his curses certainly didn’t lack power. Once upon a time, Severus had been used to a fairly constant, high level of pain, courtesy of Voldemort. But those times were long gone, he was older now and not able anymore to recover quickly from those amounts of pain. If Malfoy did it again—and if he continued to work like this, he’d botch the Draught halfway through and become very angry—he might die of suffocation unless he managed to patch up his nose. And even so… Severus cast a sideways glance down at his bound hands, which were trembling. Damn that boy and his magical power. Two Cruciatus curses in less than twenty minutes of work. The first because Severus pretended not to remember the exact amount of ginger root (he’d been so exhausted by the pain that afterwards he’d dictated the correct number, which angered him a lot) and the second because there were less phoenix tears in stock than he needed. Severus sincerely doubted that he’d survive the first time the Draught turned out to be useless without irreparable brain damage; unless he was able to escape soon, he’d either have to hand over the correct formula or find a way to kill himself. Not a pleasant prospective. He fully understood why his mind was so anxious to avoid acknowledging his predicament.

“Well?” Draco wiped his hands on a tea towel. “You seemed so eager to use the toilet some minutes ago… Or has fear taken care of that little problem, by any chance?” He pointedly scrutinized the crotch of Severus’s trousers. “Or maybe… What’s that glint in your bloodshot eye, Professor? Did you want to try a bit of wandless magic, in the hopes that I wasn’t going to look at you while you were peeing?”

Severus tried to control his facial expression—difficult, because he was equal parts shocked and angry—but Malfoy’s smirk told him that he hadn’t succeeded too well.

With a lazy gesture, Malfoy drew his wand and was already opening his mouth to cast another curse, when a high-pitched beeping sound cut through the silence. It was emitted by some kind of crystal ball Malfoy had put on the worktable before starting to prepare the ingredients for the Draught. “My improved version of the Sneakoscope,” he explained, pointing his wand at the object, which immediately stopped beeping. “Tells me when somebody is tampering with my wards. It seems that we have a visitor.” He raised his hands in an apologetic gesture. “I’m sorry, Professor, but—Petrificus Totalus! Better safe than sorry.”

Unable to budge, although his heart was beating wildly, Severus had to remain on his chair, a helpless statue that couldn’t even move its eyeballs. He was able to hear, though, and the sounds his ears registered weren’t reassuring at all. First, there were only Malfoy’s footsteps as he crossed the room; they grew fainter as he walked away, probably towards the stairs, as the workroom was below ground level. Yes, he was definitely climbing the stairs now, the slightly swishing tap-tap of his shoes against marble steps, almost inaudible though it was, told as much. Then, silence. A male voice, which Severus recognized as Draco’s, calling out; he was too far away now, so the words were indistinguishable. Silence again. Then, a heavy thud followed by the sound of breaking glass. More footsteps, quicker this time—somebody was running. Then, so close that Severus would have jumped in shock, had his muscles not been charmed into immobility, another shout, “Stupefy!” And another thud, softer this time, like that of a body falling heavily to the ground. And after that, Malfoy chuckling.

Severus had been looking at the Sneakoscope when Malfoy had petrified him, therefore he couldn’t see the door. Not that it would have made a real difference, but he would have preferred to look at the door, steel himself for the sight of whomever Malfoy had stunned out there, and recognize who it was as soon as Malfoy entered the room with his victim. At least that maniac hadn’t killed the intruder, whoever he or she was, immediately.

Draco stepped through the door; he was panting and walking quite slowly, so Severus assumed he was carrying the person. Another dull thud made him wince inwardly—evidently Malfoy wasn’t being too careful and had bumped his burden’s head against the door. Then, a rustle of fabric, and a heavy intake of breath. So Malfoy had deposited the body on the floor.

“Now that’s what I call a surprise,” he heard Malfoy’s voice from behind him. “Guess who broke through my wards to pay us a visit, Professor. Oh, I forgot. You can’t move. So let’s loosen up a bit, eh?”

The tip of his wand touched Severus’s jaw, so that he could open and close his mouth. The rest of his body, though, remained as immobile as it had been.

“Come on, Professor. Guess the identity of our guest.”

Mind racing, Severus tried to think of somebody he might name without putting them into danger. If he pronounced the names of Sirius or Alastor, let alone Hermione, Malfoy would go after them, believing that they knew about the Draught. There was only one person he could safely name, and he did so with relish.

“Potter?” Draco snorted. “No, Professor, I don’t think he’d come to your rescue. Try again.”

Rescue? Merlin’s beard, who on earth might possibly have come to his rescue? But that was what Malfoy had said, so it had to be one of his friends… With the horrible feeling of letting a lamb loose in a tiger’s cage (although the simile was quite incongruous, at least as far as the lamb was concerned) he ventured, “Moody?”

“Wrong again.” Draco tutted. “Now really, Professor. Guess again, and if you name the wrong person, this one—” Severus heard the impact of Malfoy’s boot on a body “—is going to be killed.”

The boy was every inch as bad as his father. Slytherin at its worst. The power to manipulate used for playing mind games, un-tempered by morals or ethics. And he was forcing Severus to make a choice, as unavoidable as it was terrible. After Moody was ruled out, the intruder could only be Sirius or Hermione. Maybe Minerva, but he doubted it. This was too dangerous and potentially illegal for his friends to have allowed her to come here. If the unconscious body on the floor belonged to Hermione, and he said Sirius, Malfoy was going to kill his wife. If he said Hermione, but Draco had stunned Sirius, the bastard was going to kill his best friend, only to go after his wife once he’d finished Black off. It was a lose-lose situation. Whatever he said, he was going to make it worse.

In the end, love won out over friendship. “My wife,” he choked out through clenched teeth.

“Excellent, Professor.” Severus closed his eyes, prey to a flood of relief mingled with anxiety. He was well aware of what the likes of Malfoy did in such a situation; he’d witnessed it often enough. Draco wanted information, and he knew that neither torture nor death threats would ever induce Severus to give it to him. But if he menaced to hurt Hermione… Please, ye gods, let her not have come here alone.

After a short pause, Draco continued, “I wonder how she found out—well, it doesn’t really matter, does it? Although…” He started pacing, always out of Severus’s line of view. “Maybe it does matter. Maybe she’s only the vanguard, and there’s more to come. I really ought to ask her… This will, of course, have the additional benefit that you, esteemed professor, shall hear her voice one last time.”

It was ridiculous to protest, but Severus spoke all the same. “You said you wouldn’t kill her if—”

“No, Professor. That was most emphatically not what I said. You ought to pay more attention to details. I said I was going to kill her if your third guess was wrong. But I didn’t say I would let her live if you guessed right.”

Time. Stall for time. Maybe Malfoy had been right in assuming that Hermione was only the first member of a larger group to arrive. Sirius would never have permitted her to embark on that foolish adventure all on her own. If she had told him… No. He simply mustn’t consider that possibility. They needed time, and he was going to try and get them as much of it as possible. “Of what use can her death possibly be to you, Malfoy?”

“That, esteemed Professor, largely depends on the definition of the word ‘use’. Killing her would give me a by no means inconsiderable amount of pleasure—quite lengthy, too, as I’m not going to use Avada Kedavra, just in case you were wondering. And while I’m experimenting with all those curses and hexes, I might move your chair, just a little, so you may witness her death. Witnessing the death of someone you love isn’t a pleasant experience. You put me through it once, so I suppose this ought to be called payback, don’t you think so?”

“Lucius need not have died. It was foolish of him to break through the circle and—”

“The same is true for your Mudblood wife, Professor. Or do you really fail to see the similarities?” He walked around Severus’s chair and bent down to look into his former teacher’s eyes. “I think not. You are well aware of the sufferance you caused me, aren’t you? I loved my father—”

“Much as it pains me to shatter your illusions, Malfoy, I have to tell you that he didn’t love you back.” Severus was unsure whether this was a good move or would lead right into catastrophe. But he supposed that much of what Draco did and thought was still being influenced by his father—Lucertola had told him about the portrait’s newfound powers of speech—and hoped that, if he managed to undermine the boy’s firm belief in his father’s intentions, he might dissuade him from going through with his plan. “Lucius Malfoy was incapable of love. He manipulated people and used them, and if in order to do so he had to feign love or affection, he was certainly capable of doing so. Think of—”

He thought his head was exploding when Draco dealt his already broken nose another vicious blow.

“How dare you!” Malfoy shrieked, “How dare you besmirch my father’s memory? He never—”

Ignoring the pain, difficult though it was, Severus interrupted him, “Just think of how he used your daughter.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly are you alluding to?”

“She told me everything, Malfoy. How her grandfather encouraged her to get my wife out of her way, how he assured her he’d convince you to let her marry me. How she spied on Hermione and sent you a copy of the Potters’ notes. Or who else did you think warned me, just in time so I was able to destroy the incriminating evidence?”

Draco rose and staggered backwards. “I—no. No, I don’t believe you. Lucy would never—”

“Lucy would never what? Recognize that she was wrong? Try to make amends? Grow up and find out that she has a mind of her own, which you sadly failed to do?”

“She would never…” Draco shook his head, his hands balled into fists. “She would never betray me. I love her. She’s all I have, she would never… She’s my daughter, and I love her—”

“Yeah, you already said so.”

Draco whirled round. Severus almost fainted with relief—he recognized that raucous, rumbling voice.

“Seeing as how you’re so taken with the wee lass, I’d suggest you think twice before you curse me, Malfoy. Wouldn’t like to hit the beloved daughter, now would we? Finite Incantatem! Enervate!”

Slowly, so as not to increase Malfoy’s panic—the boy might forego cursing Moody in favour of hurling some evil hex at Hermione or himself—Severus turned left. Hermione was sitting up with a groan, and he had to gather all his willpower to prevent himself from getting up and taking her into his arms. There was an ugly bruise forming on her forehead, and she evidently had problems using her left arm. But the smile she gave him was radiant. He returned it as best he could, somewhat hindered by his broken nose.

Moody gestured for her to move; Hermione nodded and obediently scooted backwards until she was hidden behind him.

Patting Lucertola’s back—the girl was limply hanging over his left shoulder—Moody grinned at Malfoy and said, “Time for a bit of negotiating, isn’t it?”