II
I don't know what I expected. Answers, probably. Something that would tell us the where and the when and the why and the how.
I didn't expect another corridor.
Fortunately, this one is different. There are no stasis chambers, for starters. And it's much shorter, and wider, and it curves a little, and I see more doors along one side of it … and round little windows along the other wall.
I forget about everything else and rush to the first little window I see.
At first, all I see is darkness. Vast and limitless darkness, deeper than any night sky I've ever seen. Then I start noticing the details – tiny pinpricks of light clustered in some parts of it, as if someone had taken a needle with a very fine point and randomly stabbed at backlit black cloth a few dozen times. And some parts of it look a bit more black while others, still black, seem lighter, somehow, and it almost looks as if they move, crawling along at a snail's pace.
I know, of course, deep down, that it's us who are moving, but right now, I don't want to think about that yet.
Snape is standing at another porthole, for that's what these round little windows must be, staring right ahead. Even in the muted light I can see a vein pulsing in his temple. His back is stiff as a ramrod and his hands are clenched into fists. I wonder what he's thinking about.
I clear my throat. He doesn't turn to me, but the way his body tenses and then relaxes again tells me that he heard me. I've become better at reading people's body language since I started working at the Ministry; it's so boring there, and people so often pretend to ignore others, or pretend to listen to them, or pretend to be interested – or bored – that it's become a necessity of a kind … at least to those of us who intend to move onwards and upwards.
This isn't quite the onwards and upwards that I had in mind, I have to say.
I really do want to say something. This silence … It's weighing me down. I enjoy silence –sometimes, when I'm home alone – when it's a welcome respite from the constant noise everywhere. But here and now, it's oppressive. I have no idea what is going on and I hate that, and I need to talk to someone about it, but there's only Snape here and I fear that he'd hate functioning as a sounding board to me.
Why does it have to be Snape? Why couldn't it be someone else to wake up when I did?
I could really use Harry's companionship here and now, and the problem solving skills he's been developing in Auror training. Or Ron – I wish it was him here with me. In a fit of honesty I admit to myself that he probably wouldn't be of any use trying to get to the bottom of this, but at least I'd feel less alone.
Frankly, if I could choose only one, the person I'd prefer to have with me would be Kingsley – smart and skilled and brave and friendly – or Bill, for the same reasons. But I don't even know whether they're here, in one of those boxes we passed, or not.
However, wishes don't count, and all I have is Snape. Snape will have to do.
'This explains so much,' Snape mutters, so quietly that I wonder if he's even realised he's said the words aloud.
I don't know about him, but it explains nothing to me. So I clear my throat again, trying to find the best way to formulate my questions – or the way least likely to get my head bitten off – when he continues, in a louder voice this time, so I'm clearly expected to pay attention.
'The disappearances,' he says. 'Do you remember the disappearances?'
He turns to me at last. Finally, a question I can answer.
'Of course I remember. I mean, it's been front page news in the Daily Prophet for months now. There were just a dozen new cases yesterday …'
I trail off, as I realise what he means. It feels like a dam has broken in my mind and the memories start flooding back. The people – some of the names I recognised, they were names I'd seen in the news. People who had disappeared mysteriously overnight. It had started around six months ago; no one paid attention to it at first, with only a few people going missing here and there. It was only when Eos Gamp, one of the better-liked members of the Wizengamot disappeared, that people really started taking notice.
At one point, we'd all been scared. I know Harry and the other Aurors were working on finding the vanished people, and that rogue Death Eaters were suspected as the culprits, but then the disappearances seemed to have stopped and … Well, no one I actually knew had gone missing, and while it was somewhat worrying, there didn't seem to be much I could do about it personally, or at least that was what I – and others – told myself at the time.
Until people had started disappearing again, about two weeks ago. From Hogsmeade, London, and the Ministry; known Death Eater sympathizers as well as people who had fought against Voldemort. There was no pattern. And no one knew what was going on.
'You went missing,' Snape says, 'yesterday. Or at least what I think of as yesterday. The day before the last day I remember.'
I try to think about it, but my mind is a blank.
'My theory is,' he continues, 'that whoever took us also Obliviated our short-term memories. You cannot recall anything from your disappearance, can you?'
'No.'
He nods. 'I thought as much.'
He doesn't say so, but I assume he remembers nothing either.
We stay quiet for a while. I'm mulling over the new information. Snape is staring out of the porthole again.
'Where are we?' I ask at last, raising my voice. I'm not expecting him to answer but I cannot keep the question inside me any longer.
'You are on board the New World 14, Class A intergalactic starship, C wing, section 34.'
The voice is smooth, friendly, female, and obviously computerised. And it makes me jump.
Snape is looking at the ceiling now. I look up, too, but can't see a thing … Oh. There's a tiny grill right above us, no bigger than my thumbnail. This must be the loudspeaker.
I'm still trying to process the words we just heard. I mean, obviously I'd already realised it on some level – the stasis chambers, the sterile corridors, the portholes, the view outside – but to have it confirmed …
This cannot be real. This must be someone's idea of a joke. This cannot be happening. Or it must be an experiment ... It would be easy enough to replicate the view and the surroundings, even the stasis chambers – Muggles could do it with their technology, never mind what could be done with magic.
Then my mind flashes back to what was once Miles Bletchley, and I gag.
Not a joke.
'Who is in charge of the ship?' Snape asks, authority in his voice.
'This information is classified. Level one authorisation required.'
He swears under his breath. 'Is anyone else … Are there any other people awake?'
'My records show two life forms currently not in stasis.'
'That's us,' I say.
He throws me an irritated glance. 'Thank you. I realised that.'
I wince. And say, directing my question to the ceiling, feeling silly as I do so, before I have time to reconsider, 'Could you direct us to the nearest toilets?'
'Certainly. To reach the nearest facilities, take the third door to your left, and then go straight ahead.'
The computerised voice is polite and impersonal. I could get used to this. She makes a better partner for conversation than Snape, in any case.
I start towards the door, when Snape asks the computer: 'Where are our wands?'
'This information is classified. Level one authorisation required.'
I don't like the sound of this. I wonder how one gets level one authorisation … Still, right now there are other, more pressing concerns. I don't care if Snape has more questions to ask; there is time for more questions later.
To my relief, the door opens automatically.
I find the loos without problems. It's a fascinating room – large and round, with a multitude of separate cubicles. The ship, if this is what it really is, must be meant for a large crew.
I'm afraid for a moment that 'the facilities' would be too futuristic and confusing, but apart from everything being automatic, it's much the same as what I'm used to. Except for the lack of toilet paper; I gasp as I find out to my surprise that the toilet has an automatic, built-in bidet. After that, the warm air, also dispensed automatically, doesn't shock me.
I wash my hands in the sink inside the cubicle and take the welcome opportunity to rinse my mouth and drink. The water tastes of nothing but smells stale, as does everything here; stale and processed. I have some vague memories of hearing about water purification and recycling systems on Muggle spaceships, which I currently wish I didn't have.
I leave the cubicle feeling at least somewhat refreshed. Snape steps out of another one at the far end of the room, a sour look on his face. My brain supplies the memory of the surprise bidet, and I try to hide a smile at that thought.
'I asked the computer about the location of the control room,' he says as we leave the toilets. 'I don't know if we'll find anything useful there, but unless you have any other ideas, I think we should start there.'
I'm still surprised at him sharing any information with me voluntarily, but I agree quickly. It's worth a try, and I don't want us to split up in any case.
The walk to the control room is long and boring. I used to dream about travelling to space as a little girl, years before I knew anything about magic being real or about me being a witch. It seemed so glamorous then – exciting, adventurous, heroic.
It never occurred to me then that travelling in space could mean endless treks through long, dull corridors.
Snape doesn't bother to tell me the directions, but as I trust him not to run off and leave me behind, I'm happy enough just to follow him. At some point, I'm sure I will insist on a more active involvement, but right now, it's more important to conserve my energy.
Eventually we reach the control room. The door slides open as soon as Snape touches the panel; I guess that if no one is supposed to be awake on the ship, there is little need for keeping doors locked. Although that does make one wonder why bother locking the door leading to the stasis chambers.
The hum in the control room is different than in the rest of the ship. More insistent. I can actually hear it, not just feel it.
The room is octagonal; the walls are completely covered with panels, monitors, instruments and machinery of every possible kind. There is a short old-fashioned spiral staircase in the middle of the room, leading up to a second level. I'm surprised; I'd have expected something more high-tech. A lift, at least. But then, I'd also have expected the corridors to have moving strips of floor, like they do in Muggle airports, considering the length of them.
There are probably good reasons for all this.
It occurs to me that I don't even know whether this is a Muggle spaceship or a Wizarding one. Looking at all the technology, I'd think Muggle. But Muggles in 2001 wouldn't have technology like this … Would they?
Snape is already hurrying up the staircase.
'Granger!' he shouts, his voice unnaturally loud in this room full of echoes. 'Come here!'
I hurry up, joining him just as he reaches the upper level.
'The view,' I whisper. 'It's amazing.'
Snape says something that I miss, because my eyes are riveted to the transparent walls surrounding us. We're standing in the middle of space, a vast darkness, separated from it only by a nearly invisible layer of glass. My head spins for a moment and I grasp the handrail of the staircase to steady myself.
It's a cliché, and I wince when I catch myself at the thought, but once my head stops spinning, my heart soars at this sight. It does. I mean, I can almost feel it leap in my chest, so that my hand goes instinctively to my breast to keep it from escaping.
I don't think I'll ever want to leave this place.
Snape is holding on to the thin railing running along the walls. His knuckles are white and his face is unreadable.
A few minutes later, he turns around sharply and takes the stairs back to the control room. I glance at him as he goes but decide to stay up here a bit longer, unable to tear myself away from the magnificence surrounding me.
When I look down again, I see Snape tapping away at a keyboard. He's standing with his back stooped, and the staircase obstructs my view, so if there's a monitor in front of him, I cannot see it. I take one last look at the space around me and climb down with a heavy heart, curiosity getting the better of me at last.
'Bastards,' he mutters. 'Fucking bastards. I can't believe they did this.'
I perk my ears up at this. Has he found out something?
Lines of text are running down the screen overlooking the keyboard. Names, nothing but names. Wizarding names. Familiar names. Names of friends; names of people I know in passing. Names and numbers.
'They're all here.' Snape's voice – the voice that has haunted both my dreams and nightmares, doling out hurtful remarks in smooth, silky tones – is cold and flat. 'Everyone. Except for a handful of high-ranking Ministry officials, including the Minister himself.'
So they didn't get Kingsley, I think in relief. Whoever 'they' are.
'Harry?' I ask then, my heart thumping in my chest, hoping against hope. 'And Ron?'
I fear the obvious answer – Which part of 'everyone' did you not understand, Miss Granger? – but Snape just nods. 'Your friends as well.'
I clench my teeth, but there is a part of me that is relieved at this. If they're here, they're alive. We can get them out and work things out together. Once we've found a way to release the people from stasis.
I am not thinking about Bletchley; I'm not.
I look at Snape again, those long pale fingers running over the keys as if he's been doing it all his life. I've seen him holding a quill, dipping it into red ink; I've seen him holding a knife and chopping ingredients; I've seen him holding a wand and wielding it with such effortless elegance. This is a man who was born to be a wizard. I could never have imagined him doing something so … Muggle.
'I didn't know you could use a computer,' I say at last.
'There are many things you don't know about me.'
He's right, of course. Still, I wonder where he learned. And more to the point, even if he had reason to learn to use a Muggle computer, that is one thing … tapping away at a keyboard in a spaceship control room is something else.
I open my mouth to ask him about it when he continues, his eyes still on the keys and the screen.
'Under ordinary circumstances, I'd never tell you this, Granger. Make no mistake about it,' he says, and I believe him. 'However, everything I've seen during the last hour … I still don't know exactly what is going on here, and why, out of everyone on board, only you and I are awake, but as it is, if we're to find answers, it might help if you knew some things about me.'
I nod; then I realise his back is still turned to me and he cannot see me. I open my mouth again, but – again – before I can say anything, he continues talking, clearly in full lecture mode by now.
'I never considered returning to Hogwarts,' he says. 'Instead, I was approached by certain people I'd known for a while, and they made me a rather interesting job offer. I agreed; it would be something to keep me busy and at the same time make sure I would stay out of the public eye.'
The wheels in my mind are whirring and turning, clicking into place. Or so I hope.
'Are you an Unspeakable?' I blurt out.
'I am.'
I grin, happy that I worked that out before he could tell me.
'As it happens, our department has been – had been, I suppose, for there is hardly a department left now – looking into the disappearances. Along with many other departments, of course; I'm sure that you know that the Aurors haven't been idle either. However, we have certain … unique … skills and methods, which enabled us to dig deeper. Or so we thought.'
He's standing upright now, his shoulders tense.
'We seemed to run into obstacles at every turn. The Minister himself promised us every possible assistance; he said he'd do whatever it took to help us to get to the bottom of this. However, and it pains me to say so as I used to hold Shacklebolt in high esteem, I have reason to believe that he was, shall we say, not entirely honest with us.'
I shake my head. There must be something wrong with my ears. I cannot possibly have heard what I think I just did. Kingsley, having something to do with this?
He turns and looks at me at last. 'I'm sorry, Granger. I know you and Shacklebolt were on friendly terms.'
To say the least, yes. Although of course it's been a while now, and we did remain friends.
I wonder why he'd even know that. Perhaps it was part of his job to know what the Minister was up to; perhaps it's simply his past as a spy. Information being important, all that.
'Computer, pause,' he says, and the names on the screen stop scrolling.
'So you never really found out what was happening?' I ask.
He shrugs. 'No. Only that more people were disappearing, at a faster rate, than was reported. But we haven't found out – didn't find out – what happened to them.'
'Well, we know that now,' I mutter.
'Indeed.'
He is scrutinising the list of names again. 'I think … We need to go over this in detail later. There may be something here that points us the right way.'
I like the way he says 'we'. I don't know what has happened to the Snape I used to know – it's still the same man, clearly, but he seems mellower, somehow.
Perhaps he's still recovering from the effects of stasis.
