Disclaimer: If I was JKR, I'd be practically made of money and magic. Sadly, I am not.


The Unspeakable Files: Godspell

An HP Fanfic

By AnotherSpoonyBard

Chapter 6: Connections


Alexandria, Egypt


Eating unfamiliar foods in a highly public location with one of his most Gryffindor former students was not exactly how Severus Snape had pictured his postwar activities. Granted, he had mostly suspected that he would be dead by the time this particular year came about, so perhaps it was not a singularly unfortunate occurrence. Indeed, though he would never utter a single syllable to the effect, he did not find Miss Granger's company to be wholly unpleasant.

She was expressive, in the way that former members of her House tended to be, though obviously she retained enough dignity so as not to be childish. Sometimes, Snape forgot what the ordinary range of human emotion looked like; he saw only about five people on a regular basis, and none of them were particularly open with their more visceral responses. Miss Granger allowed her feelings to be writ freely across her face, and perhaps it was just the length of time since he'd last seen someone so obviously content, but he found it fascinating, in some small way.

Lunch, such as it was, mostly passed in silence upon his part, though he did not refrain from asking the occasional astute question when she explained her recent research to him. Apparently after Hogwarts, she'd taken an apprenticeship with one of the archivists at the Wizarding Library at Athens, after which she had been transferred here for her first permanent posting, since she had specialized in ancient runes and texts, a subject for which the most extensive collection was to be found in Alexandria.

Presently, she had explained with barely-contained gesturing, she was at work decrypting a series of tomb inscriptions with the cooperation of Bill Weasley and Blaise Zabini, themselves both curse-breakers who now most often worked on excavation sites, taking down the old magical wards and hexes used to guard such places from unwary invaders. Her first paper had just been accepted for publication by a very reputable journal, and she was by all measures doing quite well for herself.

It was, obviously, nothing less than he'd expected. Though he'd often berated her for drawing her answers directly from text without a hint of innovation, the fact of the matter was that, even considering this irritating tendency, she was a highly-competent witch, and the field suited her. She was logical and organized and patient, as well as clever in the extreme, so what she did now played to her strengths, while not requiring aptitude in the areas she was weaker. He did not choose to disclose any of the details of his own life, which he had gathered quite quickly that she was seeking with the grace of the average bludger, but in the end, she didn't much seem to mind.

Their walk back to the library was passed in silence, though it was surprisingly amicable. Snape could not and did not wish to speak of his own work, or his personal life (not that he really had one), or any of the matters that had passed since they were last acquainted, and though her disappointment was easy enough to read, she seemed to know better than to ask outright.

When they found themselves once again in her office, each of them had a letter waiting, the missives apparently having arrived by owl-post while they were out. Miss Granger examined the unruly handwriting on hers and frowned slightly, more from evident confusion than displeasure, but she opened the correspondence immediately. Severus did the same, though he did not immediately recognize the penmanship and checked the envelope thoroughly for spells first.

It smelled vaguely of peppermint and something floral, which only served to further puzzle him until he scanned its contents.

S,

I hope this finds you well, and that our mutual friend in Egypt has helped you find what you're looking for. I'm writing because I have determined that my patient requires a procedure that I would not be comfortable performing alone. He has expressed reluctance to go elsewhere, for the usual reasons. I was hoping that your knowledge of certain matters of the mind would make your assistance possible. I also think that it would help him if he were familiar with at least one of the parties involved.

If you could please arrange transport to the place you'd expect, I would be most relieved.

-L

He decided that his estimation of Miss Lovegood's intelligence had not been off- she knew not to name anything too specific in correspondence that might be intercepted. What she said was troubling, however, because if a trained mediwitch required assistance that he could provide for a medical procedure, it meant she was most likely venturing into mindhealing, and that was something he did not have great familiarity with.

"Professor?" Miss Granger's voice was tentative, and he realized his displeasure must have been more obvious than he'd intended. "I'm not exactly sure how to put this, but… the Auror Office has called me in to consult on something. I can delay if necessary, but… Ron says it's about murders, and…"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Go. I've been called away also. I will report our findings and return later if it is necessary."

"Of course. Um…" Her continued hesitance caused him to look up, and he observed that she was biting her lip again, a sure sign of nervousness. His own face did not change as he waited for her to spit it out, whatever it turned out to be.

"Look, if you need any more help with… whatever's happening to Malfoy, I already know a good portion of it, and there's the Vow, so don't hesitate to ask." She looked almost hopeful, and he felt as though he may have to revise his estimation of her common sense. He had been the perfect git to her and all of her little friends for the better part of seven years, and here she was, apparently pleased by the prospect of offering further assistance. Either this was some overwrought form of passive-aggressive response, or something was occurring that he did not fully grasp.

Rather than letting the speculation hit the still air between them, however, he simply did the practical thing and inclined his head slightly. "Of course, Miss Granger. Your assistance thus far is… appreciated." He still wasn't certain how he felt about expressing gratitude one of the infamous Golden Trio, but unlike Draco, he had mostly moved past his hangups in this regard and was simply a reticent person by nature, so he was not above putting at least this much to words.

She seemed to take it as full thanks, for she smiled broadly. "You're welcome. I hope you figure out what's wrong with him. Well, aside from the usual." Miss Granger scrunched up her nose, and he resisted the urge to sigh. Severus Snape did not sigh, but truly, sometimes he was nearly driven to it. Two of the most intelligent people he knew, and neither could see that their old animosities would serve them ill.

He did not dignify the comment with a response, fixing her with a withering look until she was quite clearly uncomfortable, then turned smartly on his heel, sweeping out of the room with a fluttering of black fabric.


British Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement


Hermione entered the Aurors' Office to find the place in complete disarray. Several memos brushed past her as she pulled open the door, and she had to duck to the side to prevent one from nicking her cheek. Blinking, she wondered if she dare enter, but of course Ron had asked her to come, and so she would risk it.

The desks of the Auror field officers and inspectors were in a larger central area, with a break room off to one side and several more private offices behind doors labeled with the names of their occupants. Presently, parchments were heaped over most of the wooden workspaces, occasionally displacing quills, inkpots, or yet more papers onto the floor. Several Aurors, in the traditional dark blue robes of their profession, had their heads stuck in fireplaces, clearly secure floo lines. Those that remained had uniformly dark circles under their eyes, and more than one head of hair was disheveled or askew.

Stepping carefully around the edges of the room, Hermione crept as unobtrusively as possible towards Harry's door, rapping her knuckles lightly on the walnut panels and hoping she wasn't interrupting anything too important. Ron's letter had been vague about the details of what was going on, and she certainly had not expected this.

A weary murmur sounded from behind the door, and it swung open. There was Ron, even more slouched than usual and wearing rumpled clothes that spoke to a number of consecutive days in the office. He managed a flimsy smile, and Hermione frowned. Still, he did have the presence of mind to hug her and usher her into Harry's office. Glancing about, she noted that several others were present: Harry, of course, and a grey-haired woman Hermione recognized as his second-in-command. Seated on chairs facing Harry's desk were two other men, one of whom's red ponytail gave him away as Bill Weasley. The other, she didn't recognize until he turned and inclined his head.

Hermione blinked, but returned the gesture. Bill and Blaise were not in law enforcement; the fact that she worked with them on occasion assured her of it. So what were they doing here of all places?

"Hermione," Harry's voice was a slightly-raspy exhale, and he looked a little worse than even Ron. She was willing to bet he'd been living on coffee, pepper-up, and toast for days at least.

Apparently, whatever was going on had the entire office scrambling to fix it. Glancing up to the wall behind Harry's head, she stifled a gasp. Affixed to the stone with adhesive spells were dozens of photos. Most were of young women in the nude, lying prostrate upon the ground, marks cut into their backs in what appeared to be random patterns. A few more were of the Ouroboros, carved into edifices and walkways, in the constant animation of eating its own tail. "Harry… what's going on?"

Her friend sighed, tracking her stare without needing to turn back and look himself. "Murders, Hermione. Muggle women, but dumped in very populous wizard areas. The Ouroboros is at every scene, but this time there was a message, too. Bill and Blaise have been helping the investigation for a while now, trying to figure out the hex that's being used on the women, but this message, well… we thought that it was more your thing."

Harry stood, picking something up from among the scads of parchments on his desk, and held it out towards her. Not sure she really wanted to know, Hermione nevertheless stepped forward and took it, looking down only once it was within her grasp. There was the serpent again, eating its tail. Beneath it was a series of runes. "Sanskrit? That's mixing mythologies at best."

"That's what I said," put in Bill, speaking for the first time since she'd entered. Blaise nodded silently. "I can't read it, but I recognized it, anyway. The Ouroboros is Norse, it has nothing to do with Sanskrit anything."

Hermione's brows knit together. "Not necessarily. The symbolism is very Norse, yes, but what it symbolizes… nearly every prominent historical mythology has had some parable or symbol relating to eternity or rebirth, it's actually a fairly common motif—" the young woman's eyes lit with recognition. Rebirth… renewal… it couldn't be, could it?

"You make a good point," Bill replied, "but why use such obscure ways of getting the message across if that was all you're driving at?"

"More importantly, why make your message difficult to read at all?" Ron put in. "I mean, Aurors aren't stupid, but we don't know any of this stuff. What's the point of sending a message if nobody understands it?" The others nodded, but Harry's green eyes were firmly fixed on Hermione.

"You figured something out." It wasn't a question. The two of them had known each other so well for so long that recognizing little facial expressions was second nature to them.

Hermione had to think fast. "Oh yes, well… I was just thinking that this relates really well to something I was reading the other day." She gave a sheepish smile, well-aware that the answer was so prototypically her that everyone would believe it without a doubt. Ron chuckled and patted her shoulder, and that was that. She wasn't sure how much she'd be able to explain, given the terms of the Unbreakable Vow, but she hated lying to them.

It was just something she'd have to mention to Snape. The Auror's Office was known to occasionally collaborate with the Unspeakables, so maybe there was a way to share the necessary information without violating the agreement she'd made to keep her work with the former Professor a secret. Harry just had to have clearance that high, didn't he? She made a mental note to ask, through owl post if nothing else. Given how fruitless their search had been so far, she wasn't really certain if Snape planned on returning or not. She hoped he would, of course, but…

"I suppose," Blaise contributed in a deadpan, "that it depends on who your audience is." His mild expression was a marked contrast to Bill beside him, whose eyes widened even as he rubbed at his cheek stubble with one hand.

"That is a possibility," he mused. "Perhaps whomever is doing this is targeting someone specific with the message."

"Like who?" Ron shot back. "You can't mean to say that this guy knew 'Mione could read it or something?" The incredulous look he gave his older brother said it all.

Hermione shook her head slowly. "No," she echoed faintly. "Not me… but someone who would know to ask me, maybe." It was a bit too much of a stretch at this point, but at the same time, she had no other leads. She needed to speak with Snape, in person, as soon as possible. Probably Malfoy, too. Two possible references to cataclysmic renewals, so close together? The idea that they were not connected somehow was far more absurd than the supposition that they were. This wasn't the sort of thing one just encountered in everyday life.

Harry was halfway bent over his desk, rubbing at his temples. Just how long has it been since you've slept? Hermione wondered, though of course she didn't dare ask at the moment. Harry and Ron both were stubbornly resolute when it came to cases, especially the big ones, and she knew by now that nothing she said would make a difference to either of her best friends.

There was a way she could help, though. Right now, Hermione suspected she was the only link between what the Aurors knew and what the Unspeakables knew, which put her in an excellent position to help both groups. Unfortunately, she was also aware that it would be a delicate balance, especially since the way in which the two things connected was still an unknown quantity, and even knowing what she did advanced her no closer to producing a likely culprit.

For now, she needed to translate this Sanskrit, and then she would have to write to Snape.


Malfoy Manor, Gardens


At around the same time as Hermione was coming to this realization, Draco was taking lunch with his mother out in the gardens of Malfoy Manor. Lovegood had disappeared some time ago, and he hadn't bothered to inquire after her location. He knew she was somewhere on the grounds; she certainly wouldn't leave while he was still afflicted with whatever this was.

He'd been irate at the suggestion that he needed a mindhealer, and fortunately in this case, logic was on his side. There was simply no way they could risk exposing the details of their work to the world, especially because to do so would lose them not only Draco's cover, but Snape's, and he wasn't going to allow that. The Malfoys by this time knew exactly what it was like to be treated as social pariahs, and what Snape would endure if he was once again placed in the spotlight might be worse. Certainly, he'd been doing Dumbledore's will the entire time, but few would bother with the truth. The media never did (as even Potter would admit), and most would never understand the former Professor enough to know the difference.

Draco himself was charismatic enough in a certain fashion to have diverted most of the negativity and concentrated media attacks on his family into useless speculation about his wild lifestyle, and in that sense, things had gone back to normal. He was certainly notorious, but there were useful ways to ply that image, to turn it from 'henchman to a madman' notorious to 'darkly charming playboy heir' notorious. Pathetic, actually, how simple it had been. People wanted to forget that shadowed moment in time, and so they did.

But unless he wanted more scrutiny of a markedly less-benign kind, he would be staying well away from St. Mungo's, and Lovegood could deal with it.

"Draco, what has you so occupied today?" Narcissa asked, fixing him with a keen gaze. There was a barely-perceptible glint of amusement in his mother's eyes, one that he knew well.

"Nothing in particular, mother." He shrugged diffidently, casting his eyes over the rosebushes as if to prove it.

Narcissa wasn't convinced. "Perhaps it is our poor houseguest who produces that thoughtful frown of yours?" She asked lightly, bringing her glass of white wine to her lips casually.

Draco's brows knit together. "Lovegood? And why would I be thinking about her?" He realized belatedly that he actually had been, after a fashion, and it had been a good few hours since he'd seen her last, which was unusual. Normally, she was insistent in checking up on his condition several times a day, and often followed him from room to room as he went about his business, settling herself in this or that corner, usually to read or stare vacantly at the ceiling like his own personal shadow. It was… strange, now that she was not doing so.

Narcissa tilted her head to one side, regarding him with what appeared to be apathy but carried a small amount of disdain. "I do believe I taught you to be both more observant and more polite than that." His only response was a blank look, and she sighed heavily, placing her wineglass back down on the white tablecloth.

"You do remember the… circumstances under which she was last here?" Draco blinked. He could not recall Lovegood having ever been on the property before a few weeks ago. His mother's lips pursed into a tight line. "Yes, well, I suppose you had other things to think about at the time. She was in the dungeons for several months, Draco. While you were away at school, she became a favorite of Bella's." Narcissa clearly had to force her sister's name past her lips, and it came out as much a low hiss as a word.

Draco swallowed. His aunt had been insane, and perhaps the cruelest of the Dark Lord's minions for that. "What? She has never said anything of the sort." He fought to keep his tone bored. Surely he could not have missed something so important…?

His mother raised a delicately-arched eyebrow. "No, she has not. I imagine that when you put so much effort into caring for your patients, you do not wish to remind them of unpleasant things. I, however, have no such reservations." Narcissa regarded him coolly, clearly waiting for some kind of reaction.

"She does not seem troubled," he said, defending his own inability to recognize the situation.

Closing her eyes for a long couple of seconds, the elegant woman exhaled through her nose, a slow, measured breath. "How closely have you bothered to examine? Truly, Draco, for one so cunning, your selective blindness is extraordinary. Take a look at the girl. And I mean really look. What you see may surprise you. …It certainly surprised me," the last was muttered so softly he wasn't sure he was meant to hear it. His mother rose and departed from the table then, leaving her son baffled behind her. She rarely ever criticized him, preferring to leave that task to his father, as Lucius found it much easier. Furthermore, why would she tell him about Lovegood's problems anyway, especially if the woman herself was trying to hide them? Narcissa did not do things so directly unless she had a very good reason to do so.

Damn if he knew what it was.


Bangladesh


The nightclub was full, the smell of sweaty humanity prevalent in the stale air, laced with the heady mixture of aftershave, cologne, and perfume that only such places ever produced. It was murder on his senses all around; the loud music pounding in his ears was bound to give him a headache, and the writhing masses on the dance floor with their more reserved counterparts at the bar did nothing for his eyes.

He had always been a connoisseur of the finer, more refined things in the world, and this was certainly not where one went looking for them. Still, he understood his task, and soon enough, one of these would be the canvas for his art, willing or not. A tableau of struggle, a melody proclaiming resistance in futile cries, and that thing he savored the most: the slow bleed of life, the dimming of the light behind her eyes as her vitality would leave her.

His work so far had been flawed, but not by any fault of his own. No, no; the master had reassured him that of course the corrupted palette could not produce true art. He needed better colors to work with, a purer surface on which to paint the brush-strokes of agony and rapture that held him captive in his dreams. He was looking for her, the perfect tabula rasa on which to compose his masterwork. Some small part of him knew he would not find her here, amidst the sinners and the impure, but he had to perfect his technique, for he would have only one chance to leave transcendent mastery behind him.

Eyes, his but not his, roved over the crowd, and a head of flaxen hair caught his attention. It belonged to a pale, slender woman of the age he preferred, and a slow smile broke out on his face, the wicked quality to it easily overlooked in a den of seduction and sin such as this. Smoothly, he worked the half-familiar limbs through the crowd, brushing up behind her and allowing the length of this sinuous body to press up against hers, moving in tandem.

The sultry glance she sent over her shoulder was replaced by wide-eyed recognition, and he nearly cursed. She knew him. It seemed, however, that this was not important, or maybe it was all that was important, for the surprise was superseded by something greater than he could have hoped for.

She wanted him, the foolish chit, and she would be his in all the ways she was not expecting.

Bending down, he let his hot breath linger on the shell of her ear for a few seconds before adding a throaty whisper of sound. "Let's get out of here," he urged, running a hand up the inside of her thigh. She sighed, leaning back into him, and his satisfied smirk was obviously in-character, for she fluttered her lashes at him and turned into his body, planting a hot open-mouthed kiss on his lips.

"Oh Draco, I thought you'd never ask."


Alexandria, Egypt, Hermione Granger's Residence


Latest Victim of Mysterious Slasher Found Dead Near Ministry of Magic

By Rita Skeeter

Many of the wizarding world's darkest suspicions were confirmed this morning, when yet another victim of the magical community's newest serial killer was found disrobed and mutilated in front of the Ministry building this morning. The killing marks the latest attack by the unknown assailant, and this time, the statement seems to be personal.

The victim, identified within minutes as Miss Astoria Greengrass, was seen leaving a nightclub in Bangladesh by friends last night, but the young witch apparently never made it home. The nature of the victimall of the prior killings were of Mugglesas well as the location of the dump site both suggest an escalation. Ministry officials and the Auror's Office both declined to comment, leaving the populace wondering whether or not their law enforcement is even capable of

Hermione threw down her morning copy of the Daily Prophet with a scowl, swallowing too much of her tea and accidentally burning her mouth. She'd sent an owl to Snape yesterday, requesting a meeting at his earliest convenience, but apparently whatever had demanded his attention was taking place today, and she was simply going to have to wait. Truth be told, she understood, but she couldn't help but feel that she had to share her information with him as soon as possible. There was no telling when the next young woman would show up dead.

The brightest witch of her age was certainly smart enough to notice a pattern—all of the victims had been young, attractive, and blond females. Knowing more than a few people who fit that description was not easing her mind in the slightest, and she worried for her friends and coworkers. Of course, not many of the people she associated with frequented nightclubs or bars, but… still.

Glaring at the paper, she set her jaw and went about resolutely cleaning up after breakfast. She'd just have to keep at it by herself until Snape showed up. There was no way that Sanskrit was just going to translate itself, after all.


Oh Rita, always stirring up trouble where you shouldn't be. Anyway, this chapter was mostly transitional, but it sets up some things I'm really eager to write next time, like a trip into Draco's mind and Hermione and Snape doing detective things! I hope it was to your enjoyment, and that the threads of the plot are kind of starting to weave themselves together for you.

Reviews fuel my muse, but I've starved the poor thing before, so don't worry about me holding chapters hostage or anything. A review is a gift, not a bribe. That said, I do love presents. ^_^

~Spoony