Chapter 32 Faint Heart Never Won Fair Lady
Maura explored every inch of the room in which Malfoy had imprisoned her. The one lone window was high up, near the ceiling. There was only one door, and that solidly bolted. Maura stomped on the floor, listening for a hollow sound that might indicate a trap-door, but the floor was evidently made of planks laid over stone; it sounded 'dead.' She sat down in the corner, hugging her knees. She was exhausted; she was hungry and dirty and worse than dirty; she could still feel Malfoy's unearthly smooth skin on her body. She shuddered.
I can't write myself out of here, not really, she thought. Maybe I should do it anyway, just to escape this horrible place for a while…. She heard a faint sound and looked around. It sounded like scratching. Rats…oh, God… Something moved, up in the window.
Miau! Maura looked up and barely made out the outline of a feline form. A cat? What was a cat doing looking in the dungeon window? What good was a cat, anyway? As she watched, the cat squeezed itself between the bars of the window and stood poised on the sill, all four feet together. Stupid cat, it's too far to jump, she thought.
Miau! The cat launched itself off the window sill. Maura held her breath, but the cat landed as lightly as a feather, sat down and began to groom itself. Tears ran down Maura's face. She missed Pumpkin; oh, to have Pumpkin, to hold his solid, warm form, feel his strong purr…
The cat finished its toilette and jumped onto her lap. A velvet paw came up and patted away her tears. Wide amber eyes looked into hers, and she stroked the silky tabby fur. "You're a pretty thing, aren't you? Such beautiful markings, bracelets, eyeliner – you look like you're wearing glasses!" She chucked the cat under the chin. The cat turned its purr motor on to High, and Maura put her arms around its vibrating form and let herself be comforted.
After a while, the cat stood up, jumped off her lap and became Minerva McGonagall. Maura thought she would faint. The witch bent down to her: "How are you, dear? Are you all right?"
Maura burst into tears on McGonagall's shoulder, and the witch smoothed her hair and held her for a few moments. "Yes, well, we shall sort it all out, shan't we? Come on, dear, the Headmaster is waiting." She stood up and held out her hand.
Maura got to her feet. "Where – where, how…."
"Let us be very quiet," said McGonagall. "Look, there he is." Maura followed the witch's pointing finger. A large black raven stood on the window sill, cocking his head to the side. He held something in his beak; he dropped it and McGonagall caught it. Then he flew down and perched on Maura's shoulder, looking at her with his wise, sharp eyes. They twinkled.
McGonagall held a small earthenware bowl. "Put your hand on it, dear," she said, and witch, raven and writer whirled away.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was beginning to resemble an armed camp. The First Year children had been sent to safety at Beauxbatons, where the formidable Madame Maxime would care for them; the older students were busy preparing for the coming battle. Prefects were given the responsibility of battalion leaders. Quarterstaff classes practised in the Great Hall, archers in one of the long corridors. No-one had all of their magic back, but there was enough to cast Leg-lock and similar curses, and to levitate and hurl pieces of furniture. Harry and Ron were in charge of building a ballista, to be mounted in the balcony surrounding the Great Hall. The ballista would hurl buckets of exploding gumballs soaked in Awful Eyeful Grit, which would blind anyone near the explosion.
Professor Flitwick was busy with a group of boys and girls who showed promise in defending themselves against curses; they would deflect Stupefy and other hexes. Since hand to hand combat would not be possible, pairs of students would concentrate on one Death Eater, and do their utmost to disable him before he could injure anyone.
In the dungeon laboratory, Draco was finishing the last batch of curative serum; almost all of the students had been inoculated and were recovering. He took off his dragonhide gloves and stretched his back, then looked over to where Severus Snape and Sherlock Holmes were working on the modified potion that would turn Voldemort's curses back upon himself.
He stirred his cauldron once more and turned off the burner. He was thinking about his experience in the Infirmary. True, he was filled with terror at the thought of disclosing his Dark Mark; true, he hoped that he could fake illness well enough so that he would not have to choose, then and there, between the Death Eaters, including his father, and the rest of his peers, who affiliated themselves with the Light. That fear had made him oversensitive; he had become hysterical when he observed his godfather treating an unknown female with what he thought was preferential attention.
How dare he? His own Head of House and godfather, ignoring him for that Muggle? When he drummed up his courage and asked Snape about it, he had been surprised to learn exactly who 'that Muggle bint' was, and how her courage in taking the vaccine shot and volunteering her blood enabled Snape to develop the serum that saved lives from the influenza.
He was even more astonished when he learned that Snape himself had provided the blood for the magic-restoring qualities of the serum, at great peril to himself. He was astonished and abashed; here he was surrounded by courage, bravery and self-sacrifice, and what was he nattering on about? Whiskey, which he learned was used as an antiseptic and not as a beverage! Well, he had never lost his magic, and he would surely use it in the battle with Voldemort. "The old reptile will never suspect me," he thought. "Neither will my father."
He sniggered to himself. Clever Snape, preparing that disgusting preparation, knowing he wouldn't take it, and thereby he would give himself away! "He had me there," he said to himself. Still, his godfather did not have him altogether to rights; he knew what he knew. He knew Snape was soft on Granger, and he would hold on to that information until it suited his purposes to disclose it.