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~o0o~
The second night of brewing passes uneventfully, but Hermione's dreams are full of Professor Snape looming over her, looking down at her as if she were a piece of filth stuck to his shoe. He sneers at her, but his words are drowned out by the pounding of blood in her ears. He raises his wand and aims it between her eyes. She can feel his consciousness slide into her unresisting mind, and she feebly struggles as he peruses her darkest suspicions about him and her obsession with his book. He withdraws completely from her mind.
'Is this what you fear?'
She is utterly at his mercy, and her whole body quivers with anticipation. 'Yes.' Her voice cracks on the syllable.
He leans over her, and his face is so close to hers that she can feel his breath on her face. 'Is this what you want?'
'Yes,' she whispers.
His wand slashes through the air, and her body is hit with a powerful spasm of pleasure that jerks her into wakefulness, her nightdress twisted between her legs.
She does not sleep the rest of the night, and her thoughts are a tangled mess when she steps into the Potions classroom for the final stage of brewing. She is fifteen minutes early, and Professor Snape has not yet arrived. She casts a furtive look over her shoulder before approaching his desk and opening the drawers in search of the book. Unsurprisingly, it is not there.
She doesn't wholly understand why she can't stop thinking about the book. She tells herself it's because the book is rare and valuable — the only bookseller who has a copy is in Knockturn Alley, and they've priced it at five hundred Galleons. She tells herself that it's an exercise in thwarting censorship, since it's the only book she knows of that can't be sold to underage witches and wizards. She even manages to convince herself that once she reads it, she'll know if Snape is truly Dumbledore's man or Voldemort's. Even now, without complete understanding, there's a part of her compulsion that she doesn't want to examine.
She shakes her head as if to clear it and realizes that her ponytail has come lose. Tonight is the final night of brewing, and it won't do to have the previous days' painstaking work ruined by carelessness. She twists her hair into a tight bun and casts a Freezing Charm on it to keep it in place.
A glance at the clock tells her she's still ten minutes early, so she lights the burner and puts the cauldron on to heat while she fetches supplies from the cupboard. She knows not to begin preparing ingredients until Professor Snape arrives, and she glances at the clock once more. It's a minute past. He should be here by now. Surely he hasn't forgotten.
Hermione stops fiddling with the ingredients and walks to the door, where she looks out into the corridor. Her heart nearly stops when she sees him lying face down on the floor.
She rushes to his side and finds him barely conscious, his thin lips turning blue, and his breathing fast and shallow. Merlin on a Mooncalf, she started heating the potion before he had the Bubble-Head Charm in place!
She casts the charm quickly and shakes his shoulder. 'Professor Snape? Professor? Are you all right?'
He makes to look at her, but his head lolls to the side uncontrollably. He moans inarticulately, and there's white froth at the corner of his mouth.
She has to get him to the hospital wing. She Levitates his body into the classroom, removes the cauldron from the fire, grabs a handful of Floo Powder from the desk and casts it into the flames.
Madam Pomfrey is de-hexing a couple of first years but springs into action when Hermione brings Professor Snape through the fire.
'I found him like this in the hall. He was just lying there. I think it's because I started warming the potion before he got to the classroom and the fumes reached him before he had a chance to cast the Bubble-Head Charm, and I tried to wake him and—'
'Hush." Madam Pomfrey's voice is gentle but firm. She dispels Hermione's Bubble-Head Charm with a wave of her wand and bustles to the medicine chest to retrieve two phials. 'I warned them this would happen. But men will always play with fire.' She shows Hermione how to hold his head back as she pours a crimson potion down his throat, followed quickly by a green one. 'Don't worry, child. The first will settle the shock, and the second will make him sleep. He'll be right as rain in the morning. Now, back to the dungeon with you. I've things well in hand, and there's no sense in ruining that batch of Wolfsbane.'
Hermione is momentarily taken aback that the matron knows about the project when the Headmaster swore Hermione and Professor Snape to secrecy. But Madam Pomfrey clearly knows what ails Professor Snape, so perhaps she's treating his lycanthropy as well. She turns to go but stops as a wild idea occurs to her.
'Madam Pomfrey,' she says, not having to feign the uncertainty in her voice, 'Professor Snape was bringing me a book. He said it would help me understand the last stage of brewing—'
The matron briskly pats Professor Snape's robes, reaches into his waistcoat pocket, and pulls out a Shrunken volume with a peacock blue cover. Hermione holds her breath as she squints at the tiny print.
'Is that it?' she asks, handing it to Hermione. 'My eyes aren't what they once were, I'm afraid.'
'That's it.' She hopes the matron doesn't hear her voice shaking.
'Good. Off with you, then. And be a dear and bring the Wolfsbane up when you're finished.'
'I will,' says Hermione. Inspired, she adds, 'Since I'm brewing alone, it may take a bit longer than expected.'
'Well, if I've gone to bed by the time you finish, the potion should be safe here.'
'Thank you, Madam Pomfrey. I expect it will be.'
~o0o~
Lucius Malfoy's library is not what she is expecting. She imagines something like the restricted section of the Hogwarts library, but instead of dark, cramped shelves filled with chained and bloody books, she finds herself in a bright, airy room with dozens of floating shelves that move gently aside to admit her. Light pours in from a trio of mullioned windows that overlook the bridge.
She is surprised that his library is at least as well organised as her own, easily a hundred times as large, and infinitely more valuable. There are books bound in gold with precious jewels, books bound in carved wood and stamped leather, books containing fiction, drama, a hundred different dictionaries, scholarly works — everything. She can't help but wonder if he's bothered to read any of them. Her fingers itch to touch them, but she knows all too well how dangerous Malfoy's books can be. Steeling herself against temptation, she emerges from the shelves and finds Lucius and the man with the white whiskers taking tea by the fireplace.
'Hermione, how good of you to come,' says Lucius, rising and giving her a warm smile. 'Allow me to introduce Laurence d'Aubigny.'
Hermione's eyes widen in surprise. 'Laurence d'Aubigny of the Centre National de la Recherche Magique?'
'Yes. And you are Hermione Granger of St. Mungo's, I think." He rises to take her hand. His voice is slightly scratchy from his earlier ordeal, but it's a warm baritone, light and charmingly accented. 'I apologise that you took me by surprise earlier. I did not know that you and Lucius were acquainted.'
Hermione glances at Lucius, whose face betrays nothing as he conjures a third chair for her to use. Clearly, he has no interest in correcting d'Auigny's assumption that she is on social terms with him, and she's certainly not going to, not when it affords her the opportunity to pick the brain of one of the most brilliant magical theoreticians in the world.
'Hermione was telling me about her research earlier,' says Lucius. 'I imagine you'd find it quite interesting.'
'More work on magical sensitivities? The data you published in Proceedingscaused an uproar at the Sorbonne.'
'That's only because Jacques Thique is convinced that the patient's response is caused by a mutation in the allergen, not that he has any evidence that's what's happening.'
There is something familiar in the way d'Aubigny twists the tip of his moustache. 'And you have?'
'Nothing that demonstrates causation.'
'But a correlation?' d'Aubigny's dark eyes dance beneath white brows.
She can't help smiling. 'Yes. We've discovered a novel by-product of magical decay, just as your article in Magic Todaypredicted. We've conclusively linked it to patients experiencing a magical sensitivity.'
'Magnifique," he says, eyes glowing. 'Have you detected it anywhere else?'
'Not until today, unless I miss my guess,' says Lucius, sipping his tea.
d'Aubigny gives her a knowing look. 'Ah. The reason for your visit, I think.'
'Hermione's visit is every bit as welcome as it was unexpected.'
She manages to turn an indelicate snort into a cough. 'Regardless, you'll be reading all about the particles in November's issue of Theoretical Magic. That is, if we ever decide on nomenclature.'
Malfoy cocks an eyebrow at her, but d'Aubigny chuckles. 'Stumpf wants to call them something incendiary?'
'I wanted to call them thaumatons, since they seem to be a fundamental magical particle of some sort. But the editor thinks it's too esoteric and asked for something sexier. I told him to call them Merlin particles.'
This startles a laugh out of both men.
'What did the editor say?' asks Lucius.
'He said he'd sleep on it. It's been a week since then.'
'If he is sleeping on it for a week, then it's definitely sexy enough, n'est-ce pas?'
It's Hermione's turn to snicker. She has a moment of imbalance at the surreality of having a laugh with Lucius Malfoy and a department head at CNRM.
'I certainly hope so,' says Hermione. 'The whole thing is so silly. I theorised their existence and isolated them from samples taken from patients. I should be able to call them Ethelreds if that was my fancy. Getting away from that mess is the reason I decided to go on holiday, actually. Not that it has led to a detectable reduction in my stress level.'
'I am well versed in the art of attempting to get away from it all and failing,' says Lucius.
Hermione suspects that he's talking about more than her holiday.
'How did these particles bring you to Lucius's party?' asks d'Aubigny.
She explains about her watch and shows it to him, and his face grows thoughtful. Her eyes are drawn to the deep creases between his eyebrows and at the corners of his mouth, which are in sharp contrast to the smooth skin in his cheeks. Despite his shock of white hair and old-fashioned facial hair, he isn't as old as he appears. And yet, the scars suggested by the irregularities in his whiskers suggest that he has seen much of life.
Having read d'Aubigny's entire academic output, she has long admired him for his ability to turn accepted scientific paradigms on their heads. She isn't surprised to find that he is every bit as witty and clever as his writing would suggest, and yet, it's the suggestion that his life has been more than just of parties with the moneyed intelligentsia. She feels a thrill of excitement that he is listening to her so intently and is, to all appearances, as interested in her work as she is in his.
His lips are pursed his lips in thought. 'These Merlin particles. You say they are a by-product of magic breaking down. Have you tested for them in other circumstances under which a similar breakdown of magic is believed to occur?'
Hermione smiles. One of her anonymous peer reviewers asked the same question. She wonders if it was d'Aubigny. She gives him the expected answer. 'It's a set of experiments I'd like to conduct at some point in the future, but I'm afraid it's well beyond the scope of my current project.'
'If I may be so bold,' says Lucius, 'I might suggest that you're investigating that at present.'
Hermione looks at him sharply. He's right. Clearly, nobody in the house is currently suffering from acute magical sensitivity. So why are the Merlin particle levels so high? She allows her gaze to travel back and forth between the two of them, trying to figure out exactly whose idea it was to invite her and for what purpose.
Lucius smirks, as though reading her thoughts. 'I consider it to be a privilege to contribute to the greater good however I may. You may of course have free run of the house.'
'And I am as intrigued by the puzzle as you are,' d'Aubigny says.
'I daresay Laurence and I are at your disposal. I do hope you will use us as you see fit.'
His purring voice shakes Hermione out of her complacency. She should leave. She should go back to England and forget it all. Instead, she finds herself returning Lucius's languid smile. 'I'm certain I'll be able to find something for you to do.'
~o0o~
The book! The book is hers! The rush of triumph sings in her ears as she races down the stairs to the dungeon with the precious Shrunk object clasped tightly in her hand. She rushes into the empty classroom, locks the door physically and seals it magically behind her, and stops to catch her breath and focus.
The Wolfsbane. She mustcomplete the Wolfsbane, otherwise the plan falls apart. Professor Snape will figure it out. But she can read a few pages now. She can read during the numerous breaks while the potion simmers. She can read when the potion is complete for as long as she dares. But only if she can trust herself to stop in time to return the book to the hospital wing before Professor Snape wakes.
She puts the still-warm cauldron back on the burner and tosses the hawthorn blossoms in. The next steps must be done precisely, or the potion will be too sludgy to absorb more dry ingredients. She reaches into her bag and pulls out the Wolfsbane journal, which she places on the bench next to the purloined volume. When the petals turn purple, she sets her timer for fourteen minutes, Enlarges the blue book and opens it.
It does not disappoint. The first chapters introduce the main characters and their taste for rapaciousness, violence, incest, abductions, and philosophical libertinage. There is also a description of a cock so enormous that Hermione has to estimate against her arm to make sure she has read it correctly. The protagonists are all despicable and cowardly, and yet the narrator treats them with the same affection as he gives the reader.
And now, friend-reader, you must prepare your heart and your mind for the most impure tale that has ever been told since our world began, a book the likes of which are met with neither amongst the ancients nor amongst us moderns.
Hermione swallows hard and glances at the timer before reading on. A new section begins on the next page, but she really ought to stop here. But her greedy eyes seek the last few paragraphs.
Many of the extravagances you are about to see illustrated will doubtless displease you, yes, I am well aware of it, but there are amongst them a few which will warm you to the point of spending, and that, reader, is all we ask of you; if we have not said everything, analyzed everything, tax us not with partiality, for you cannot expect us to have guessed what suits you best. Rather it is up to you to take what you please and leave the rest alone, another reader will do the same, and little by little, everyone will find himself satisfied. Choose and let lie the rest without declaiming against that rest simply because it does not have the power to please you. Consider that it will enchant someone else, and be a philosopher.
She feels a flare of irritation when the timer goes off. She reluctantly lays the book down, which proves to be fortunate, since tendrils of not-quite-cobalt steam are rising from the surface of the potion. She pushes the reprehensible libertines and their chosen perversities from her mind and turns once more to her Wolfsbane notebook.
She steals a few more chapters in the six minutes between stages and is fascinated by the prostitutes the protagonists have hired to inflame their passions by telling stories from their lives. The stories very quickly becomes disgusting, and if not for de Sade's plea to take what she likes and ignore the rest, she might consider stopping.
Before long, the potion is finished, and Hermione seats herself at the desk, since the chair is much more comfortable, and reads as fast as her eyes will let her. This is partially because she knows she must return the book to Professor Snape and partially because there are long sections devoted to activities that are not just unsexy but make her feel queasy, She hopes to forget about them as soon as possible.
Having borrowed more than a few bodice-rippers from Parvati Patil's collection, she finds it interesting to read something from a male perspective, especially a male attempting to defend the indefensible. She is amazed and slightly horrified how easy it is to slip into the libertines' perspective, imagining ways to use the harem members in line with the day's story. It makes her feel a bit dirty, to feel fascinated by de Sade's audacity even as some of the individual elements disgust her. There's an elegance of form and structure to their libertinage, and she watches it unfold, aghast but unable to look away.
She suddenly realises that she needs to use the toilet, and she sees that it's very late — far later than she had thought. She's less than halfway through the book, but she must stop. She Shrinks the cauldron, seals the lid, and ducks into the girls' toilet.
While she is not typically the type to dawdle, she opens the book in the stall. She skips the rest of the simple perversions, the majority of which are truly disgusting, and skips about in the more horrific chapters. It's a bit about chopping off fingers that finally disturbs her into closing the book, and she Shrinks the book to prevent her reading further.
The hospital wing is empty except for Professor Snape. She places the cauldron by the medicine cabinet and approaches him. The matron has certainly gone to bed, and she has left Professor Snape recumbent, his arms at his sides, breathing slowly and evenly. She moves aside his teaching robe and slips the Shrunk book into his waistcoat pocket. She absently smooths the black and dark grey brocade with her hand before backing up.
His breathing has not changed, and Hermione breathes a sigh of relief. She crosses her arms, wrapping her robes against herself tightly, and tiptoes out of the infirmary.
She does not see him open his eyes.
~o0o~
Hermione feels a bit like Basil Rathbone's Sherlock Holmes swishing about Malfoy's chateau looking for clues with her wristwatch. The west wing yields no clues, and she sees no variation in residue levels until she comes to a nondescript door off the kitchen. A wave of mauve sweeps across the dial so quickly that she wonders if she's imagined it. She seizes the handle and pulls, but the door is locked.
'Batty, what's in here?'
'The pantry, Miss,' squeaks the elf.
'May I see it?'
He waves his hand, and the door swings obligingly forward. The pantry is cool, lit only by a single glowing sphere. It's filled with fresh vegetables and fruits, cheese, and a few preserved meats. It's difficult to see the dial in the low light, but it's definitely a lighter shade of purple. Feeling somewhat foolish, she waves her arm near the potatoes on the high shelf and the successively lower shelves. She is rewarded by another tendril of purple when she passes an enormous wheel of cheese balanced on its edge on the pantry floor.
She frowns. It makes no sense that cheese should exhibit magical decay. She takes a step towards the cheese to examine it more closely, when a floorboard squeaks under her foot.
Of course. All the floors in the chateau are stone. The particles aren't coming from the cheese, they're coming from what's beneaththe cheese. She rolls the cheese to the back of the pantry and clears the space around it. The weight of the wheel has raised the corner of one floorboard, and she prises it upwards. She kneels on the floor and lights her wand to look into the empty space beneath.
There's a stone staircase leading down into blackness. She glances at her watch and when the face blooms mauve, she decides to go on alone. A glance confirms that the kitchen elves aren't paying her the least bit of attention, so she closes the pantry door and pulls up enough floorboards to admit her. She slides between the crossbeams and climbs down the steps.
The staircase is square, and each flight comprises eight steps. The air is damp and cool, and she wonders if she is climbing down into the bridge's support structure, past the waterline. At the bottom of the eighth flight, there is a narrow passageway. Outside the range of her wandlight is utter darkness. She comes to an archway that reveals a rectangular room about the size of her flat's bedroom. In it, ten empty bed frames are pushed together, and ten chamber pots are stacked haphazardly by the door. Perhaps this was where men-at-arms were once quartered?
There is nothing else in the room, so she continues onward. She passes another similar sleeping quarters and walks until she arrives in a large room with four alcoves radiating outward from a raised dais. At the back of each alcove hangs an ancient, rotting curtain.
A cold feeling settles in Hermione's stomach. Something about the cruciform room feels ominously familiar, and before pulling back the curtain, she knows what she will find. It's a bedroom, but from the ceiling hang chains, and surrounding the bed are objects whose use she does not wish to imagine, including a brazier for heating them until they glow red. She feels the triumph of recognition, which is quickly followed by revulsion.
She knows this place. She read about it in a book eighteen years ago. This place is the product of prodigious imagination twisted by bitterness and entitlement into something monstrous. This is a place that has seen torture, rape, and murder. This place should not be real.
She returns to the cruciform room and stands on the stone dais, where the day's storyteller would have regaled the company with tales of licentious behaviour. On the one hand, she is horrified that the fictional world she allowed herself to revel in once actually exists and may have actually been used to host the kind of ghoulish gatherings de Sade wrote about. On the other hand, her cheeks grow warm as she imagines herself as the experienced woman with the ability to tell a story that arouses the listeners and spurs them to greater heights of villainy. She hasn't experienced the sorts of things that inflamed de Sade's libertines, and frankly, she's glad of that. But she has known suffering and cruelty, and on this subject she could speak at length. She gazes down at the alcoves where the libertines sat, and she imagines that they would be delighted by her words.
She nearly falls off the dais when she notices Lucius Malfoy watching her from the room's entrance.
'This place is familiar to you?' he asks.
She wills her hands to stop shaking. 'Yes.' Her voice sounds flat to her own ears, but at least it is steady.
He gives her an infinitesimal nod. 'It was built by my great-great-uncle thrice removed. I don't believe it's been used since his time.'
'Your great-great-uncle thrice removed was an admirer of the Marquis de Sade, I take it?'
'In a manner of speaking. He was the Marquis de Sade.'
Hermione knows better than to act surprised when she is not.
Malfoy enters the chamber and sits on the step leading to one of the four alcoves, where the mastermind of the ritualistic tableaux would have sat. And yet, he sits beneath her, as though she controls the situation. Even now, she knows she does not, any more than an actor controls the audience. She is alone with Lucius Malfoy in his own dungeon, armed only with her wand, which she dares not extinguish to cast any spells. Her fingers unconsciously dance along her collarbone, where a thin scar serves as a reminder of the last time she was in Malfoy's home.
She takes a deep breath, and meets his eyes. 'Is there more?' she asks, gesturing to the room. 'The punishment chamber? The banquet hall? The parlour?'
'There is no need for a separate dining hall when there is a perfectly serviceable one upstairs.'
Her lips quirk at the half-answer. 'And the rest?'
'Would you like to see it?'
She glances at her watch, which is fairly pulsing with red. 'It seems that I must.'
He rises, approaches the dais, and offers her his arm. 'Then it will be my pleasure to show you.'
She puts her hand on his forearm and allows her to lead her from the dais back to the corridor. That she's glad for his company and the warmth of his arm disturbs her nearly as much as the rooms they tour.
~o0o~
After returning the book to her unconscious professor in the hospital wing, Hermione sticks to the shadows on her way back to Gryffindor tower, narrowly evading Peeves, who is singing a rude version of 'Old One Hundredth' at the top of his lungs while riding the banister of a moving staircase, and Mrs Norris, who sniffs the entrance to an alcove whose curtain is rippling suspiciously.
She whispers the password to the Fat Lady, who feigns being asleep until she shoots sparks at the canvas. The portrait swings forward with an audible huff, and Hermione dashes up the stairs and pauses to catch her breath before opening the door to the dormitory as quietly as she can. She is relieved to find her room-mates asleep, and she ducks behind the curtains of her bed.
She's barely closed her eyes when one of the scenes from the book appears in her mind's eye — one of Duclos's tales from the monastery, and she pictures Professor Snape instructing her in the best way to please him in his classroom voice. Her hands are between her legs in an instant, and she frigs herself to climax in seconds. As she lies there, her intimate places pulsing in time with her elevated heartbeat, she stubbornly refuses to think about the broader implications and surrenders to sleep. Of course, her subconscious cannot ignore it, and she tosses and turns as Professor Snape's voice harangues her for her dishonesty. When he appears before her and backs her against the Potions bench, she knows she deserves everything she gets and surrenders to his punishing mouth. She feels like a rag doll, being tossed from side to side as his mouth devours her, teeth nipping and tongue twirling.
She cries out, and the shaking becomes more insistent. She jerks into wakefulness to a pair of concerned brown eyes.
'All right, Hermione?' asks Parvati. 'Nightmare?'
Hermione nods wordlessly, still breathing hard.
'Lavender had one last night, too. Must be the full moon tonight. Anyway, you'd better hurry. Breakfast is in ten minutes.'
'Oh!' Hermione is shocked how late she's slept. 'Thanks, Parvati.'
She splashes water on her face and makes an attempt to brush her hair before giving up and twisting it into a messy bun. At breakfast, both she and Harry receive mail addressed in the Headmaster's script. Judging from the eager determination in Harry's eyes, he has another special lesson tonight. Encouraged, Hermione opens her letter.
Dear Miss Granger,
Thank you for your excellent work on your special project. However, circumstances are such that it has come to an end. I have taken the liberty of returning your house's point total to the amount it had before yesterday's session and hope you will consider this will be sufficient thanks.
Hermione tries to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach. The twenty-five points that Professor Snape subtracted on the second night of brewing is a pittance to someone as free-handed with them as the Headmaster. How many points must Professor Snape have deducted? She risks a glance at the head table and finds the object of her thoughts glowering at her from behind his curtain of hair. She nearly faints with relief to see that he is no more irritated with her than usual, so the excessive penalty is for nearly killing him with Wolfsbane fumes, not for borrowing a contraband book. Her secret is safe.
She tries to look contrite, but the narrowing of his eyes makes her aware that he isn't fooled. She takes one last sip of tea before fleeing to Charms.
It's not until later that she recalls Parvati's words about the full moon that night. Yet Professor Snape looked perfectly normal at breakfast.
~o0o~
When Hermione and Lucius return to the library, d'Aubigny is bent over a large scroll written in French examining it through a pair of pince-nez. He looks up at them over the black frames.
'You have found what you were looking for?'
'I went looking for an answer,' she says, sitting. 'I found a mystery.'
'This is usually the way of things,' says d'Aubigny, with a wry smile that makes his eyes crinkle winsomely at the corners. 'Come, ma petite, I wish to show you something. You do read French, do you not?'
'Read? Oui. Speak? Comme ci, comme ça.'
'It will do. Look, if you will, here.'
'Clarify, if you will,' said the Duc. 'What is in this glorious concoction?'
'I do not know all, my lord,' replied Martaine, 'merely that it was turquoise in colour, smelled of juniper, and the primary ingredient was mandrake that had been ruined by rot. The recipe probably died with the apothecary.'
'It is not so,' said Curval. 'For that same apothecary came before me for some fatal error in brewing, and he offered his secrets in exchange for his life. I took his recipes and had him hanged. This particular potion is difficult to brew but produces the most delightful dampening of magic so that one may take a wizard or witch as easily as a Muggle without fear of accidental magical discharge.'
'Oh let it be made quickly,' exclaimed the Bishop. 'For my prick is hard and I wish to put it inside Zelmire, but she is protected by the power she knows not yet how to wield, and I do not desire scorch marks on my bum such as those the Duc received upon her posterior deflowering.'
'Good Gaia!' Hermione is utterly gobsmacked to see the original text of '120 Days of Sodom' in de Sade's own handwriting.
He gives her a shrewd look. 'You are offended by the contents?'
'No. I've read it. Most of it, anyway. Years ago.'
'If you will forgive the familiarity, but I suspect you rarely leave books unfinished."
His gaze is piercing, and she feels compelled to answer with the truth. 'I hadn't yet reached my majority at the time, but I borrowed a copy for a few hours.'
'One wonders from whom a Hogwarts student of Muggle parentage obtained it,' said Lucius, regarding her with curiosity rather than hostility. She is pleased to note that there is no scornful inflection on the word 'Muggle.'
She meets the men's eyes in turn, grey and deep brown, and feels the storyteller's mantle settle on her shoulders. Though it's a story she's never shared with anyone before, the details are clear in her mind, and it spills forth almost of its own accord.
'In my sixth year, I was given a special assignment by the Headmaster. It was overseen by one of my teachers, and I saw him reading the book.'
'He made no attempt to hide it?' asked Lucius.
'He didn't wave it about, but I spotted the title almost by accident. I was so surprised I broke two fingers with a pestle.'
'You had the presence of mind to take the book then?' asked Lucius.
'Oh no, I stole it when he was ill, but I had to return it before I finished.'
'So you have no idea what happens in the end?'
'I know enough from the Muggle version.'
'Were you never curious to finish the magical version?' asks d'Aubigny.
'My dear man, copies are difficult to obtain in England and quite dear. The teacher in question was our dear departed Severus, was it not?'
Lucius's mocking tone sets Hermione's teeth on edge. 'You assume a great deal.'
'Not at all. You see, it was my own translation that Severus was reading. Goodness, what you must have thought of him!'
Hermione recalls the incendiary dreams she had the night after reading the book. 'It was most educational.'
Both men smirk at that, but Hermione's eyes linger on d'Aubigny's. It's remarkably wicked, despite the avuncular whiskers.
'As fascinating as these reminiscences are,' says d'Aubigny, smoothing his moustache, 'my purpose in showing you this passage is to perhaps explain what you have seen here.'
Lucius examines the scroll where d'Aubigny indicates. 'You believe this potion caused the anomalous readings?'
'It temporarily drains a wizard of magic. This is similar to the effect Hermione has described when a wizard is in contact with a magical allergen, non?"
'The spoilt mandrake is suggestive,' says Hermione. 'Mandragora is a powerful restorative, but when combined with its fungal antithesis, it has been known to produce the opposite effect, though never predictably enough to use in a potion.'
As d'Aubigny explains to Lucius the finer points of magical rots, Hermione considers the presence of the Merlin particles. Having determined that Lucius is not hiding a host of ill witches and wizards in his dungeon, nothing remains but to determine the source of the particles, and d'Aubigny's explanation is simple and elegant. Still, to consider that de Sade actually made the potion and used it on people — it's nearly as troubling as her own disappointment that she no longer has an excuse to trespass on Lucius's generosity. She chooses not to think further on either subject and returns her attention to her companions.
'But that would make the potion toxic, wouldn't it?' asks Lucius.
'Of course, but you forget that nearly all potent ingredients are poisonous in large amounts. But if we use vanishingly small amounts, such as belladonna or holly berries, they become medicine, n'ecst pas?'
'That's it!'
Both men's heads snap towards her with twin looks of surprise, and she fights the urge to giggle.
'Medicine. Or rather, treatment. What if we used de Sade's magic dampening potion to treat people suffering from magical allergies?'
Lucius frowns. 'Wouldn't that simply result in a faster drain of power?'
'The book doesn't say anything about the potion draining wizards to the point of illness or death. Surely if that were a side effect, Curval would have said so. Besides, everything depends on the dosage.'
'You are of course assuming we will be able to re-create de Sade's potion from this manuscript. If it even exists.'
'De Sade has detailed notes for a number of unknown potions in his journals,' says Lucius. 'I can have the elves cross-reference the description from the book against his other papers.'
'You use house-elves for research?' Hermione can't decide if she's horrified or envious.
'It is a tradition at CNRM,' says d'Aubigny. 'Though we must use first year apprentices because we are unable to attract elves.'
Hermione grins and catches d'Aubigny's eye. His lips are thin and his teeth are uneven, but they do not detract from the winsomeness of the smile he gives her. 'Your enthusiasm is as contagious as it is charming, ma petite. I must return to Paris on Sunday night, but you may lay claim to the rest of my Saturday and the first half of my Sunday.'
'Monsieur d'Aubigny, I don't know what to say.'
'First, say 'Laurence,' he says with feigned sternness. 'Secondly, say 'Merci.''
'Merci beaucoup, Laurence.'
'Thirdly, you may say, 'Lucius, I would be proud to give you and your unparalleled collection an acknowledgement in the series of papers d'Aubigny and I will be co-publishing.''
d'Aubigny snorts, and Hermione parrots Lucius's words with a saucy toss of her hair.
'And fourthly,' says Lucius, 'You may offer me your cheek.'
Too surprised to do otherwise, she turns her face to the side as Lucius leans forward and brushes his lips against her cheek.
Utterly flummoxed, Hermione feels the blood rush to her face. Fortunately, Lucius doesn't seem to require any response.
'I'm afraid I'm being a negligent host to the rest of the guests,' he says, regret audible in his voice. 'But they will be trickling out once we've had afternoon tea. Minny, Batty, and Wimsey are at your disposal. Wimsey trained at Cordon Bleu, so his knife skills are exemplary, and all three may be trusted to prepare ingredients should you attempt brewing later.'
'As ever you are generosity personified, mon ami.'
Hermione hears an odd mix of exasperation and humor in d'Aubigny's voice. 'Thank you, Lucius.'
His expression is momentarily surprised as he registers the warmth in her voice, but he quickly covers it with a polite smile as he disappears into the floating bookshelves.
She turns toward d'Aubigny, who is smirking.
'I see my friend possesses exquisite taste,' says d'Aubigny.
'I think he's trying to keep me off balance,' says Hermione, willing herself not to think of Lucius's lips on her cheek.
'The two are not mutually exclusive, cherie. You know he has been separated from his wife for many years, no?'
'Laurence, I don't know how much you know about the conflict that took place in England almost twenty years ago, but let's just say that Lucius and I were on opposite sides. He and his colleagues did unspeakably awful things to me and my friends.'
'Would Lucius not say that you and your friends did unspeakable things to him and his?'
Hermione laughs. 'It would be most impolitic of him to say so, considering our side won. Besides, I suspect Lucius suffered more from his sworn master than from us.'
'If what you say is true, why then did he not stay in England?'
Hermione sees what d'Aubigny is implying, but keeps her voice light. 'I suspect you have greater insight into his motives than I do. I barely knew the man and haven't seen him in twenty years.'
'Touché . It is true, the Lucius I know and the Lucius you knew are likely to be very different. I hope you will be able to reconcile yourself to this version. He can be tres agréablewhen he has a desire to be so.'
'I'll consider it,' she says, surprised that she is not simply pacifying the old meddler but speaking the truth. 'However, his timing is terribly inconvenient. I hope you will not be shocked that I'd rather spend my limited time with you.'
His eyes twinkle like a cat's. 'Surprised, certainement. But displeased? Not at all.'
~o0o~
The morning after the full moon, Hermione is shocked and a little bit disappointed to see Professor Snape at breakfast looking like his usually dour self. In fact, he looks better than he did the day before, though that's unsurprising, given that he spent the night in the hospital wing. She knows that apart from her use of mint, the Wolfsbane was no different than the previous batch. Either Professor Snape is not a werewolf and his ill health was due to something completely different, or he's a far better actor than she ever gave him credit for. Neither explanation is wholly satisfactory. The latter is downright disconcerting.
Scenes from the book dance in her mind's eye as she finishes her toast, and she ponders anew why he would read such a thing. She dismisses idle curiosity out of hand. After being a Death Eater for over a decade, surely he has nothing to learn about cruelty. She smiles to herself. His teaching methods are proof positive of that. And surely if his sexual proclivities were any concern, he wouldn't be allowed to teach. Even Professor Dumbledore wouldn't be that desperate, would he?
Then again, the Headmaster allowed three children to face the protections surrounding the Philosopher's Stone, not to mention someone under Voldemort's influence. He managed to be wholly absent from the school when the Basilisk was on the loose. He refused to intervene the night Sirius was almost given the Dementor's Kiss, short of suggesting that she use the Time Turner if she wished to do anything about it. If Professor Snape is the Headmaster's only spy in Voldemort's camp, then he must have a great deal of leeway regarding his behaviour.
But the book — surely he knew she would be curious. He practically waved it under her nose and dared her to read it. The memory of his fury the night she commented on it makes her shiver. As he rises to leave, she wonders if he has the book with him.
During Defence, she fancies she sees the shape of it in his waistcoat pocket and is possessed with the wild desire to set some aconite afire in his vicinity and steal the book from him again, but she knows she'll be caught. Now that she's no longer brewing with him, that window is closed. She resolves to read the Muggle version of the book as soon as she can get her hands on it.
She glances at Ron, who is whispering with Harry about Quidditch. Despite their initial misunderstanding, she's quite looking forward to taking him to Slughorn's party. She wonders if he has any expectations about what they'll do afterwards. And if he has, she's fairly certain that she won't object. That is, if Professor Snape doesn't ban him from the party for drawing play diagrams on the back of his essay.
~o0o~
d'Aubigny is quiet as they read, but when he does speak, Hermione listens. His voice is as pleasing to her ear as his comments are to her mind. Lucius is still away charming his guests, but he sends Batty with a tray of sandwiches and tea. d'Aubigny is poring over the manuscript and Hermione is elbow-deep in de Sade's journals, household books, and diaries. She is surprised by some of the personal reflections, particularly those after the Reign of Terror. Apparently, the man who murdered for his own pleasure and gain was considerably more squeamish about a political movement doing the same. Perhaps it was the idea that strict ideals could be every bit as immoral as libertinage.
'You see something amusant, Hermione?'
She speaks her thoughts aloud and d'Aubigny nods thoughtfully. 'I think this is a key to understanding the man. Indeed, it is one thing to espouse a belief in principle. It is another thing entirely to have it brought home.'
She doubts d'Aubigny is speaking only of the Marquis and briefly wonders how long d'Aubigny has known Lucius.
At last, the cloud cover begins to break up, and Hermione is struck by d'Aubigny's profile against the sunlit window. The light renders his white whiskers translucent, and she can examine the shape of his face. The profile is all angles, save for the great curve of the nose, and Hermione appreciates the way his whiskers soften the sharp planes. She doubts his face would have the same kind of avuncular charm without them. And yet, she imagines it would be an arresting face, one that has no trouble commanding authority.
Belatedly, she realises d'Aubigny is speaking. She starts, and he smiles gently at her. 'You are lost in thought?'
'Not lost — deliberately exploring.'
'Mais oui,' he says. 'Then do not let me stop you exercising your little grey cells.'
Hermione smiles, and d'Aubigny returns to his work. She is grateful that d'Aubigny is bent over the manuscript when the familiar words hit home. Little grey cells. She resumes her perusal of his face, when he takes a nearby book and props it up on the spine of another book. He licks his finger before gently separating two layers of paper — a gesture that resonates in her memory nearly as much as the words. A line forms between his eyebrows, and suddenly, Hermione knows. She knows him by his gestures and by the shape of his hands. She knows his current persona to be a façade, though opposite of the one he presented when she knew him last.
'Laurence, have you read any Agatha Christie?'
He looks up, to all appearances confused by the abrupt change of topic. 'She is one of your English authors, yes? Quite famous?'
'Yes. She wrote detective stories. You just used one of her characters' famous catchphrases, and I wondered.'
'Ah! You speak of Hercule Poirot. Many years ago, I saw a film in a Muggle cinema about a murder on a train. I think it was there that I met the Belgian and his 'little grey cells.''
The explanation is simple, direct, and has the ring of truth. And yet, now that Hermione is listening for it, she knows it's not the entire truth. Her mind is abuzz, and she has no idea how or even if to broach the subject. She eventually decides that saying nothing is the most prudent course of action and returns to the journals, especially when there is work to be done. However, she can't help but steal glimpses when he isn't looking, and can feel the familiar buzz of excitement at his proximity.
The sun is low in the sky when Lucius returns to the library.
'At last, my home is my own once more,' he announces, sinking dramatically into one of the armchairs by the fire.
d'Aubigny raises an eyebrow at him. 'It was not before?'
'Can a place inhabited by intolerable bores be truly mine?'
'You invited them, didn't you?' asks Hermione.
'Of course, but I did so as a courtesy.'
'Never social-climbing,' says d'Aubigny.
'There is no need to make vulgar accusations simply because I have the manners to return hospitality,' says Lucius. 'In fact, I can't recall ever having received an invitation to visit Chez d'Aubigny.'
d'Aubigny doesn't look put out in the slightest. 'I fear I would be unable to entertain you in the manner to which you are accustomed, mon ami. I am a man of simple tastes.'
'So says the man who polished off a whole pheasant and a plate of fois gras at supper last night,' says Lucius to Hermione in a stage whisper.
d'Aubigny looks down his nose at Lucius. 'I make no claims to asceticism.'
Lucius smiles at him fondly. 'Thank Merlin for that. You'd be even more insufferable, else.'
Where Lucius's romantic attentions unsettle her, his good-natured ribbing elicits genuine laughter. She will always carry with her the memory of being assaulted in his home, but she is confident that she has nothing to fear from this Lucius.
For his part, d'Aubigny's mouth twitches, and Lucius claps his hands. A bottle of champagne appears in front of him with three glasses. He waves his wand and Vanishes the cage and foil, but to Hermione's surprise, he opens the bottle by hand. The contents give a soft hiss as he gently draws out the cork.
He hands Hermione a glass with an endearment in French and offers one to d'Aubigny. 'I apologise for not offering you water but hope this will suffice.'
The bubbles are exquisitely fine, and Hermione catches a whiff of creamy crispness.
Lucius raises his glass. 'To old friends and delightful new acquaintances.'
d'Aubigny follows suit. 'To discovering the undiscovered.'
Hermione touches her rim to both of theirs. 'To Severus Snape.'
~o0o~