Disclaimer: See Prologue
This chapter contains some nasties that some people may not like reading about. These scenes are supposed to be horrific and are not intended to be any form of erotic display. You have been warned...
Chapter 19
Resolution
The sky opened with sudden ferocity and sheets of dark rain ripped and flapped like wind whipped banners over the Quidditch pitch.
Harry stood in the sodden street, unable to move, numbed by fear and frozen by the cold rain. His wet hair was plastered flat to his head and hung in wet ropey lengths to his shoulders. His clothes pasted themselves to his skin, and the absurd notion that he must get in out of the rain lest he catch cold ran through his head so quickly that he almost laughed. But he could not move. His feet felt stuck and despite being wet his body seemed oblivious to the sudden storm and the cold air. His eyes were owlishly large, as though he were high. The strange smile that had appeared on his face faded and he felt his features contort in shock.
He could still hear Draco's voice in his head, screaming out his name. He could hear the sound of panic ringing in the air, echoed in the howling wind and tormenting Harry. Taunting him with the fact that he had failed. He had come out too late. Draco was gone and it was all Harry's fault.
Lightening cracked the sky open and for a brief moment the pouring rain glittered with a preternatural light that seemed to come from heaven itself. Then the subsequent thunder rolled away and Harry was left alone in the flooding street.
Harry took a step forward, uncertain of exactly what he should do. Standing there, soaked to the skin in the rain, Harry Potter's famous resilience failed him. He didn't know what to do. He did not know what first move he should make. He could not fathom what had happened. One minute Draco had been there, the next he was gone. There had been a man there. Tall and willowy. Old. He had smiled at Harry, as if to mock him, and then he had taken Draco away.
In the street, threatened by the rushing water from the gutters, lay Draco's wand and nearby, falling between the cobblestones, Harry could see the pendant that Draco never removed and something else.
Harry crouched down, sitting on his haunches and scooped up these precious things in freezing hands. Tangled with the chain of the pendant were the remains of the tiny phial of Navitas. It had broken when it had hit the hard stones. The last of the luminous green liquid washed away through Harry's fingers. Harry made to sigh but was startled by the sound that came from his throat. A high pitched half sob that rent the air above the sound of rain. These were Draco's things, so personal to him that Harry could almost feel Draco's aura seeping from every part of them and permeating the flesh of Harry's palms. He lifted the locket to his mouth. It was cold; Harry could feel the grit from the street against the soft skin on his lip. He pulled it away and shivered. The locket had been scratched. Harry doubted that anyone had ever dropped it before. It had been a gift of love from Lucius Malfoy to his wife, and Narcissa Malfoy would never have let it fall. Neither would Draco. The broken chain was evidence enough that it had been torn from around his neck. Torn and allowed to fall, as though it was nothing.
The man who had come and taken Draco did not care about him. The man who had taken the love of Harry's life did not know him. He did not know that Draco needed the Navitas Serum to survive. He did not know how special that locket was. Had he cared and had he known, he would never have let these things fall. The man had simply taken him and he did not care what Draco needed.
And then, as suddenly as the rain had come, the realization hit Harry full force.
Some one had come and taken Draco. A man had stupefied him and taken him. Taken him away from Harry. And Harry suddenly felt hollowed out, as though there was nothing left inside him at all. It had all gone with Draco.
Hunching over the things in his hands Harry knew that he had to act. He had to pull himself together. From inside the building behind him he was suddenly aware of the dull throb of music, barely heard over the roar of the rain. Harry knew her couldn't stay here. He could not stay squatting in the street and staring at Draco's things. He rocked himself back and forth in the same way he had as a neglected child, trying desperately to comfort himself. In his hands he nursed Draco's possessions, knowing that doing this was not going to bring Draco back.
But despair had reached into his chest and grabbed his heart in icy fingers and now all he could see was the image of Draco's panicked face, as though it was some hideous and threatening vision.
Harry frowned at his own weakness. How could he be falling apart? He was Harry Potter! This was the one thing he was good at! He had always saved people. He had always charged off without hesitation to confront the bad guy. He did not know fear, he had been trained to confront and destroy his enemies, he had been trained to save the world!
So why couldn't he move now? Why wasn't he leaping into action and seeking out the man who had taken Draco away?
Because he loved Draco too much and all he could think was what if he found him could be too late? If Draco was dead Harry couldn't stand to see it. He couldn't stand to see Draco lying somewhere with his beautiful grey eyes staring sightlessly into space. Harry had seen so much death. He had seen loved ones die – but he knew he couldn't see this one.
And so he stayed where he was, squatting on his haunches and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, getting drenched to the skin in the rain. All around him was the wet smell of rain and beneath that the earthy scent of the forest that surrounded the village and castle. The smell of the foliage seemed close, a damp undercurrent of decay that invaded Harry's senses. It had been an evil night and Harry grasped Draco's things tighter, clutching them to his heart. He couldn't stand this. It was too hard.
But out there somewhere Draco was waiting for him.
A group of people came out of the club behind him and the sudden sound of laughter and merry chatter brought him to himself. Harry forced himself to stand, Draco's wand and locket still clasped tightly in his hand. Draco was waiting for him, Harry was sure of it. Draco would fight any attack, no matter how futile the fight. Draco was strong mentally if not physically. He would hold on as long as he could. And so Harry had to find him before his need for Navitas killed him – or the man who took him did.
Who had taken him? Why had a man came and stolen him away?
Harry took one step forward, and then another. Although the rain was cold he had begun to sweat. And then, as though something unspoken clicked within him, he began to run towards the forest and the castle that lay beyond.
There was no time to go back to the road that led back to the castle. Harry had wasted whatever time he'd had by shivering in shock. He made for the forest, knowing that if he crossed it he would reach the castle walls. He ran through the stinging rain and up the rugged hill and he felt as though he had never run so fast. He ran as though the devil was behind him, his arms tucked close to his sides, gasping for breath, his legs pumping hard, each stride jarring him to the bone.
Ahead lay Hogwarts and inside the only salvation he had ever known. Dumbledore would know what to do. Dumbledore would overcome the shock that had numbed Harry's brain; Dumbledore would know how to act. Harry kept these mantras' going, chanting them over and over through his mind and using the panic to propel him forward.
Lightening again slashed open the belly of the sky and Harry almost stopped as the castle was illuminated in the foreground. It seemed so close, and he felt as though he could reach out to touch it, but he knew he had a way to go.
Salvation. That was what the castle had always been to Harry. There were thousands of places to hide there, places where Harry had hidden for years. It was also a place of wise council, even if Harry rarely took much notice of it. It was a place where help was always available to those who asked for it.
He kept running, redoubling his efforts to reach his sanctuary. The ground was wet beneath his feet, spongy and slippery and seeking to trap him. Harry expected to fall at least once because something had to go wrong, but he didn't. He kept his footing as he plunged through the trees, plunging through the darkness of shadows and lush undergrowth. He began to think that perhaps there was a chance- maybe only a small chance, but a chance none the less – that he might just be able to get to Draco in time.
*******
For a man who had spent his entire life calculating his every move, Severus Snape had gone decidedly overboard on impulsive acts this year. Some people enjoyed change, they enjoyed life when it took turns to the unexpected and thrived on surprises. Snape was not one of these people. He enjoyed the outcome of a well orchestrated plan, the monotony of his life had made it predictable, and changes as vast as the ones his life had recently undergone caused him to thrill with terror. He felt out of control for the first time in a good many years, as though life was flying along and he was hanging on for dear life with a death like grip.
Not that all change was necessarily a bad thing. Lying on the floor of Harry Potter's house in London with his wife (well almost wife, they had to wait a month to get married after registering the papers) straddling him was certainly a change, but he would not call it a bad one. Hermione was sitting astride him, holding her hand out to the fire light to admire her new diamond ring. Severus had wanted to get her something like an Elysium stone or something equally as powerful. Diamonds had little magical merit and in the Wizarding world they were considered something of a pauper's stone and he was quite frank in his reasoning that he didn't want to appear cheap. Hermione insisted on the diamond however. She had grown up with Muggles and they apparently placed great worth in the stones and so she had chosen a setting that she loved and now she was sitting happily atop Severus' belly admiring the way it glittered in the fire light.
"You like your ring?" He asked needlessly.
"I love my ring," Hermione replied pulling her gaze away from her finger, "it is so beautiful, just like my grandmother's."
Severus did not know if that was such a good thing. He didn't like the idea that he had purchased something that resembled some old Muggle bauble.
"I used to take her rings off her dresser and try them on. I always wanted her wedding rings." Hermione looked dreamy for a moment and then she suddenly giggled as though still a little giddy.
Then her expression demurred and she ran her hands down the length of his arms and clamped his wrists down to the floor.
"Now, Professor," She said seductively, "you are my captive."
He smirked. "You are going to have to let go of me to take your clothes off."
"Now, now Professor, don't get ahead of yourself, and who said anything about me taking my clothes off?"
"Oh, I think you'll be naked before the night is through."
Hermione released him and held her hand out to the fire light again. "Even though I can let go at any time," she said breezily, "it doesn't mean you can escape." She yawned dramatically and stretched, ensuring that her diamond glittered for her. "Besides, I think I'll be taking your clothes off, not mine."
"You think so?"
"I do." She giggled again and ran her fingers down the front of his shirt, fiddling with his buttons as she did so. "Now, this is a really dodgy shirt, you really don't need this shirt."
"You prefer robes?"
"On you, definitely."
He didn't take offence. He was a Wizard, and it was only natural that Magical garb would suit him infinitely better than shabby old Muggle clothes. And as she was currently popping the buttons off the shirt with her wand, taking offence seemed a little pointless.
Hermione lifted herself a little so that she could pull the shirt tails out of his pants and then she settled herself back down and pulled the shirt open to reveal the pale flesh beneath. She felt him breath in, exposing ribs jutting out in stark relief from his body. He was not beautiful. She was not so blinded by love that she could not see him for what he was. He was thin and pale with a great hooked nose and greasy hair.
"How did you do it?" She asked.
"How did I do what?"
"At the party, for New Years…how did you make yourself look like that?"
"I didn't look like me?"
"No…yes. You looked like you – but you looked different."
"It was Minerva. She spent most of her day doing various glamour's to hide my vast array of imperfections. Why? Would you prefer it if I hid them for you?"
"Would you?"
He considered this. "Yes," he said carefully, "if that's what you want."
She looked down at him, taking in his body, his sharp jaw, the heaviness of his brow and the beak like hook of his nose. "No," she said, "I wouldn't have you change anything. You're perfect just the way you are."
"Hardly perfect."
"You're perfect for me," she said.
And he was. She sighed softly at her choice. He was complex and dark, and yet over the past year he had learned more about him than she would ever have considered possible. She could finally see what she had always suspected but could scarce believe was there. She could see the good in him. He was no romantic hero, but he was all hers. Every complex part of him. She could lose herself in his darkness and bathe in his light. He was everything she could ever have hoped for and she was lucky because she didn't have to spend her lifetime searching for him. He had always been there, and he always would be.
He lay compliantly beneath her as she slid his sleeves down his arms and helped her when she couldn't unbutton the cuffs. Once she had the shirt off, she slid down his body and began unbuttoning his trousers. He raised himself up on his elbows and watched her, smiling a tiny smile at the look of concentration on her face as she slid the zip over the growing ridge of his erection.
"I don't know where you got these trousers," she muttered shaking her head. "You have a nice suit, so it's not that you don't have any taste in clothes…"
"Sabine brought the suit," he admitted.
"Professor Delancet?"
"She has better taste in Muggle clothes than I do." He scowled at his own admission.
"So, who got you these awful things?"
"Oh, that was me. I got them some time in the late eighties for emergency trips into the Muggle world."
"Well they have to go."
"I thought you were getting rid of them," he prompted.
She laughed and started to pull his trousers down.
"You need to take the boots off first," he said.
Hermione wasn't listening, intent on her task, as she yanked and pulled his trousers slowly down towards his feet.
"Hermione, you need to take my boots off first…Hermione…boots first…Hermione…OW!"
She rolled her eyes and scoffed at him. "Oh, that didn't hurt!"
"It did!"
"It did not! How could that have hurt?"
"You tried to pull my foot off!"
She stuck her tongue out and started working on his boots and socks and he lay back down and covered his eyes with his arms, deciding that it might be better not to watch her progress.
She slipped off her own shoes and knelt down beside him. His legs were long and pale and covered with dark hairs which she loved the feel of beneath her palm as she skimmed her hand over his thighs.
She finally managed to pull the offending clothes off him and then ran her fingers up his legs. He bent one boney knee and she slipped her hand ticklishly over the inside of this thigh. His muscles tensed and he moaned, low and soft. He didn't look at her. He wasn't sure if he could without coming all over his belly.
Devilish fingers tickled his balls and he thunked his head back against the floor. "Hermione…" He made a frustrated sound in his throat, "Enough of this…let's get to it!"
Hermione chuckled with a sound that was nothing short of evil. "Now, I thought you were all about patience, Professor?"
"Where did you learn this?" He growled.
Hermione looked doe eyed. "Why, you taught me Professor," she said innocently, "and I always thought you were a very good teacher – despite your disposition."
He peered out from under the visor of his arms. "I am a Potions Master Miss Granger, and you learnt all of this on your own."
Hermione chuckled again and silently thanked Lavender, Harry and Draco for having no discretion about where they discussed their sex life and who they discussed it in front of. "Well then, perhaps there are some lessons you would like to learn."
He made the same frustrated sound he had made a moment earlier before saying; "I could have you under me in a matter of seconds, you do realize that don't you?"
She batted her eyes coquettishly in a way that disturbingly reminded him of Lavender Brown. "But don't you want to know what I'll take off next?"
They both looked down his body to his black underwear.
Hermione licked her lips like an evil little kitten. "Or how I'll remove it?" she purred.
Severus groaned and decided that he could possibly hold on for a few more minutes.
She inched her fingers under the band of his underwear and was amazed by the heat she found there. Her clever fingers sort out the source of that heat and it stirred, swelling just that little bit more, and for some absurd reason she felt the need to laugh. She tried to smother the sound but couldn't stop the resulting snigger.
Severus jack-knifed up to a sitting position and glared. "What are you doing? What are you laughing at?"
"Nothing!" She smiled and the snigger came out again. She clamped her mouth shut as she saw his look. "I'm sorry, it's just so hot down there…it's like you're going to combust."
He scowled and peeled out of his underwear in an instant, moving so fast she almost missed what happened. Then he threw the offending garment over her shoulder and flinched when they landed dangerously close to the fire.
Hermione pressed her mouth into a Minerva-like line and shook her head. "Severus, you are not a very good student! Throwing your underpants at the fire, they could have caught and the house could have burned down!"
"That is highly unlikely, Hermione."
Her smile returned and she tickled him under his chin. "Good. Now lie down so I can get on with the lesson."
Severus collapsed with another frustrated groan.
Hermione studied him, taking in the sight of him lying naked on the floor. All hers to do with as she pleased. In the firelight his erection had a primal beauty, like some kind of ancient fertility symbol. She tentatively ran her fingers along the length of his cock and smiled at his sharp intake of breath. He smelled musky and clean and she lowered her head, seeking to take him into her mouth.
"No…" he stopped her, lifting her face with his long fingers, "I can't…" his breathing was ragged, "I need you now, I can't wait…"
Hermione looked at him, her eyes wide and belying the sexual innocence that was still left in her. She was amazed that he could want her so much and for the first time she was struck by the extent of her feminine powers. More so than her own magic, she was powerful in this way and she could hold her power over her lover. One day she would use this power with agonizing skill during their erotic play, but on this night she was still unsure as to how far she could push him – and her own need was becoming great.
She stripped off her own panties and lifted herself onto his supine body. She pulled her skirt up over her hips as his engorged cock insinuated itself along her crevice.
Snape's hands fastened on her waist and she rose at their urging. She leaned forward slightly, her hand splaying across his slick chest for balance. With trembling fingers she guided him so the blunt tip of his cock was poised at her entrance. Her thighs tensed and she paused for a long moment as anticipation gilded her senses, then slowly she sank herself onto him, until his distended thrusting shaft was fully enveloped inside her. A carnal moan flew uninhibited from her mouth in response to the thrill of being so licentiously filled.
Her hips rocked in a sensuous rhythm; her eyes rolled beneath downcast lids. He felt so good. It felt so good to have every part of her filled. "Is this why you want to marry me?" she asked in dulcet tones.
He grunted. She could feel his hips working, his buttocks clenching and unclenching. "No…" he grunted again at the effort of working in and out of her, "I want to marry you because I love you….fucking you is just cream on the side."
She slid up the length of him and impaled herself on his thickness again and again. Snape tightened his grip on her waist and rammed her down as his hips rose with equal force and she cried out, exulted as she was showered by sparks of sizzling pleasure that seemed to rain over her skin.
He thrust up into her over and over, establishing a hard steady rhythm. She threw back her head and rode him wildly, the overwhelming sensation of sizzling sparks intensified and doubled and redoubled until she felt herself reach tinder point as she came, her flesh burning in waves of convulsive ecstasy.
And yet, he was still hard inside her and she couldn't quite believe she had come first. Out of breath she slumped forward and once again steadied herself with a hand on his chest. He murmured a question, letting his hand slide down to her hips to help her grind against him in unison with his own.
"No," she panted, her body still shaking , "keep going…it's good…keep going…" The solid gratification of having him inside her was all consuming; her blood still ran hot through her veins and her desire renewed itself as she came alive and began to rock again.
He reached up and tore at the buttons down the front of her shirt until it hung open and he could slid fingers under the lacey cups of her pale pink bra. She leaned forward, wanting only to kiss him, but instead of a kiss he grabbed her and rolled and suddenly she found herself flat on the floor as he had threatened and he was mounted on top of her, still inside her, still thrusting hard into her body.
"Told you so," he gloated and his lip curled into an evil smile.
She sighed sweetly, happy for him to be right and so pleased with the sensation of being taken that she didn't notice his hand slide down between them both until his fingertip found the hardened pearl of her clit. She drew a sharp breath and writhed as he kept up relentless pressure on the over sensitized bud.
"Don't," she sobbed raggedly, "It's too much…it's too good."
But he had her wide open and he was unrelenting. He stared at her as he worked in and out of her, his black eyes seemed not like eyes but dark pools with no end. "I want to see your face," he whispered, "I want to see you come."
And then he thrust so deep into her that she felt his presence in every cell of her body. As if his words released her she felt another climax take hold and rock through her with such force that she couldn't discern whether she felt pleasure or pain.
His mouth clamped down over hers in hot obsession as his own coursing climax arrived. Her fingers plunged into his hair, pulling painfully and holding him fast as their kisses deepened and became almost suffocating. When finally his thrusts subsided, he collapsed beside her, pulling her with him into his arms so that their contact was not broken for a moment.
It seemed an age that they lay there and it wasn't until they grew cold that they realized that the fire had died down. He stroked the soft swell of her stomach, brushing his fingers from hip bone to hip bone and idly wondered just how a child would fit into such a small space. She would grow and her belly would distend and the child would live in there. His child would live there. Their child. But for now her belly was little more than a small mound, soft to the touch and yet hard if he exerted any pressure.
With a purring sound she moved herself against him and wound her arms around his neck and tucked her head into the hollow of his shoulder. Her lips moved against his skin.
He waited for her to speak, but she didn't.
"We have to go back tomorrow," he murmured, tangling fingers through her thick hair.
"I know," she said and kissed his cooling flesh. "I don't want to think about it."
"It won't be for long, exams are next month." He shifted, sitting up and drawing her up with him, "it's cold down here. We should go to bed before you get sick."
Hermione breathed in, stretched and suddenly she coughed out a laugh, unsure if she should tell Harry that she had just christened his lounge room floor.
*******
Ron Weasley gnawed on his thumb nail and stared at his battered chess board. His few remaining pieces stared back at him helplessly, some called out suggestions, most just looked at him with dismay that he was losing yet another game to the dark haired girl sitting opposite. They were sitting cross legged on the floor and Ron hunched down to contemplate the fact that he just couldn't seem to beat her.
As far as chess went, Pansy Parkinson had his balls in a vice. He had always thought her so utterly vapid and yet she successfully kicked his arse almost every time they played. He had thought that perhaps once he left the hospital and was home, in his own surrounds, he would regain his edge with the game. But he had not. He was not even close. And he had no idea if it was because she was just too good or because he was losing it altogether.
She was very good at this game.
And this house was no longer his home. He should never have seen coming here as some kind of salvation. It wasn't. He should have demanded to go home. Home was in London now. Home was Grimmauld Place. The Burrow had ceased to be his home so long ago and it was less so now.
Especially now.
"Alright both of you, it's getting late. I have medicine for both of you and then it's off to bed."
Ron cringed inwardly at the unnaturally happy tone in his mother's voice. She was smiling the same awful smile that she had been wearing since he'd arrived at The Burrow. He hated that sound and he hated that smile and he hated the unspoken "your own separate beds" that seemed to hover over the end of every night when she cheerfully said that same line no matter what they were doing. "Alright both of you, it's getting late. I have medicine for both of you and then it's off to bed. (Your own separate beds)"
Ron tried to offer some kind of reassuring smile and wished that his mother would just say what was on her mind. He watched her eyes sweep over him, past his face and down his long slender arms. His smile faltered. He should never have worn a T-shirt today. He should have pulled a jumper on when it grew cool instead of casting a warming charm over himself. But he hadn't, and Molly's eyes caught on the long purple scars running down the pale flesh of his inner arms and she pulled away, her face contorted.
Pansy looked at Ron dismayed and Ron rubbed his arms subconsciously. Molly had retreated to the safety of the kitchen and was staring at the clock on the shelf. Ron knew what she was looking at. The hand that told her that he was home, safe and sound. He pushed himself up off the floor and went to his mother, unsure of exactly what to say to her but hoping that whatever did come out his mouth might open her up a little. "It's alright mum," he said, "I'm fine…"
Molly jumped a little and turned away from the clock. She bustled to the small bench space and began preparing the sedation brew that St Mungo's had sent home with her two charges.
Ron looked at the hated potion and grimaced. He wished she would speak. He wished she would say something other than the obligatory niceties that were required of a nursemaid. He wished she would yell or scream or something.
"I'm sorry," he said from behind her, "mum, I'm really sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for darling," Molly said briskly. She measured the brew into glasses. "We all know what happened. Angelina caused this, she planned it and she succeeded…" she closed her eyes and corrected herself, "almost succeeded."
"Mum…" Ron stopped, not sure if he could stand going over the same ground yet again. He would apologize and she would dismiss him. Then he would be left with the same nagging feeling in his gut – that they couldn't stay here. Or at least, he couldn't stay here. Molly treated Pansy well enough, but then Pansy had no choice in her malady and Ron – well Ron had chosen his path – or at least that was the way Ron saw it.
He wouldn't have been surprised to find that he was not far from the truth in that assumption. Molly added a fairly heavy dose of guilt into the mix.
"Here you go," Molly said, he forced cheer returning with her fake smile as she handed the glass of sedation draft over to Ron, "you drink this and I'll make you some hot chocolate to take to bed with you."
Ron accepted the glass but didn't drink it. He tipped it into a potted plant that was looking a little worse for its diet over the last week. Molly was giving Pansy her own glass and Pansy was accepting and giving Ron a guilty look just before taking a sip big enough to satisfy Molly and then quickly disposing of the rest as soon as Molly turned away. It was a tactic they had agreed on in the rare moments when they could have a private conversation.
Molly collected Ron's glass and gave him a quizzical look. For a moment he was convinced that she knew and waited for her to say something about it. Nothing was uttered however and he felt a little loss for it. He had no intentions other than going to bed and going to sleep, but he just didn't want to be drugged to do it. He felt a measure of guilt about deceiving his mother, but they had discussed it whilst he was still in the hospital and she felt secure knowing he was drugged asleep in his bed at night. She lived in dread at the idea that she would wake one morning to find him dead and Ron had to admit that the melancholia that plagued him was still there – but it had abated considerably since Pansy had come to The Burrow with him.
"Do you want Hot Chocolate?" Molly asked and for a brief moment she sounded like his mother again and not the strangely sweet nurse that had replaced her.
Ron, who had eaten more in the last two weeks than he had in months, smiled gently and replied; "yeah, that'd be nice mum."
Molly seemed to let out a held breath. She bustled back to the archway that led to the lounge. "Pansy, come and have
some hot chocolate dear, and then you can get off to bed."
*********
The air in the bedroom was cold and Hermione watched Severus set a fire in the grate. She had thought it wise to put on some nightclothes and once again set to cursing Lavender for taking her practical pajamas out of her bag and replacing them with silk nightgowns. Severus would keep her warm however, of that she had little doubt.
"Severus?" she asked, not really thinking about what she was saying.
"Mmm?"
"Lucius Malfoy…" She stopped, instantly realizing what she was saying and knowing that perhaps it was not the wisest topic she ever brought up.
Severus stood up in front of the fire and beneath the harsh cotton of his nightshirt she saw his body stiffen. "What about Lucius?"
"Nothing…it was nothing."
Which of course instantly alerted him the fact that it was indeed something. "What did you want to know?" he asked, and his voice was slightly more formal and as stiff as his body.
"What…" she began to chew her lip and he knew then that she was hiding something from him.
"What's wrong?" he asked, "what do you want to know about Lucius?"
"It's not so much about Mr. Malfoy," she said, "it's more about you."
If this surprised him he didn't let it show. "What did you want to know about me?" he asked quietly.
"What were you planning to do with him?"
He frowned. "Planning to do with him? What do you mean?"
"In his journal there is a potion and an incantation and a lot of different notes that you made, and if I follow what you've written, I can only think that Mr. Malfoy is not entirely…gone and that you have put some kind of spy in the museum...someone he can communicate with...and that this potion he wrote down is in fact some way to help release him from whatever state he is in."
He remained silent while she said this all in one breath, and then when she finished he checked his temper and said in a voice barely above a whisper; "and how do you know all of this?"
"I…" she blushed and began to gnaw at her mouth again. "I read his journal."
"Recently I assume?"
She hesitated. "Well…yes," she said defiantly, "I read it recently."
"Interesting that you have read it recently when try as I might I have been unable to find it."
She swallowed and straightened herself, unable to look him in the eye but trying to appear confident anyway. "I took it," she said as plainly as she could.
"I see." He sat on the edge of the bed, but his expression had darkened, his voice had become silky and suddenly he was talking to a student again, and not the woman he was going to marry. "And what made you think you should do that?"
"I only wanted to read it," she explained, but it sounded to her ears as though she was protesting something. "But then when I did read it we realized what you were going to do and we couldn't let you do that – so we kept it."
"We?" A grim smile, a triumphant one, flashed across his mouth for a moment, "You and Potter." It was not a question, because Severus knew instinctively just who had read the journal.
"Harry had nothing to do with taking it. I got it because he wanted to understand something about Draco and I thought it might help. And I remembered reading something about a potion on Valentine's Day, and I wanted to find out more about that." She frowned at him, "But, all of that is beside the point! Severus, how can you even contemplate setting that man loose?"
Severus stared at her. "Why do you think you know what I was going to do? The last time I checked you had not managed to master Legilimancy, and even if you had I keep my mind closed so you would never have been able to tell." He didn't wait for her to answer. "If you had bothered to ask…"
"You wouldn't have told me! You weren't even speaking to me at that…"
"If you had managed to ask," he said a little more forcefully, "I would have told you what my plan was."
"And what was your plan?"
"Arthur Weasley will be made Minister of Magic next month…"
"That's not a certainty," Hermione interjected.
"He will be Minister," Severus insisted. "One of his first orders of business will be to overhaul Azkaban. The Dementors' are to be dismissed. My plan was to speak with Arthur Weasley and to make some kind of arrangement for Lucius to go to Azkaban."
"But Lucius Malfoy could escape from Azkaban, even with Dementors," Hermione said, "you know that!"
"There are ways around that, things that can be done to prevent him from going anywhere."
"How?" she demanded.
"There's a potion," he said uncomfortably. "It's ancient, and it does not have a name."
"What does it do?"
He looked horribly grim for a moment. "It stops people like Lucius Malfoy escaping from Azkaban."
"How?"
He looked at her, wondering how it was that he had come to be with such a demanding woman. Was there no end to her questions? Could she not simply believe him?
"How?" she asked again. She glared at him, demanding to know everything and he knew he would have to tell her.
"It is not a potion that is spoken of in our world, the Gods only know why it was created in the first place and its use has long been considered unthinkable."
"What does it do?" she asked. "What could be a worse than the Dementors?"
"What does a Pureblood – especially one like Lucius Malfoy – prize above all things?"
"Money?"
Severus smiled at her naivety. "No, my darling, not money. He likes money, but it is not what he prizes above all things."
"Then what is it, what could Lucius Malfoy love more than money?"
"Many things, his son for one – but that's not the point either. His greatest asset and the thing he prizes above all others is his power."
"He has no power now," she protested, "even if you released him he has no power in our world. Everyone knows what he is now, he has no power here."
"No, not political power, his powers. His magic."
It took a few moments for the full implications of his words to sink in. And then her eyes widened. "There's a potion that can take away our powers?"
"As I said, it isn't something we speak about. Most Purebloods would prefer being given to the Dementors than to live their lives powerless…like Muggles."
She couldn't help but flinch at the sneer in his voice when he said the word Muggles.
"But…would you do that to him? Maybe he would prefer death!"
"Knowing Lucius, he would, but I am hoping that he will see reason and think about someone other than himself."
"Think about Draco?"
"Basically. Draco needs him alive and coherent, now more than ever. He's on a downward slide since that ridiculous friend of yours took the moral high ground and left him. Now, the only person he will listen to is his father…"
"Harry isn't ridiculous, he did what he thought was right."
"What he thought was right? What does Potter know of right and wrong when it comes to his relationships?"
"About as much as you I'd say. Didn't you leave me because you thought you were doing the right thing?"
"The circumstances are completely different."
"No, they aren't! You…"
"What ever the outcome of these speculations, the result is the same."
"So you would do this, go to all this trouble for the sake of Draco Malfoy?"
Severus shuffled uncomfortably, unsure of just how much she needed to know about his relationship with Lucius Malfoy. But she ended any speculation by smiling gently.
"I read the journal, Severus, Mr. Malfoy was very diligent in recording everything he ever did…including you."
"And so you know, but it still doesn't affect my decisions when it comes to his fate however."
"How could it not? You loved him I think…and I think he loved you too."
"It wasn't a love affair, Hermione." He almost laughed at the absurdity of the idea. "It was a misguided attraction; there was no relationship to speak of."
"But you were friends."
"That is true."
"It must have hurt you to hand him over after the war."
"I know what he is, Hermione and I know what he is capable of."
"But now you would seek to help him."
"If he lets me."
"Why wouldn't he?"
"He thinks that I would be endangering Draco. Apparently the Curator of the Museum wants Draco for some reason of his own. Lucius had Non place a charm on a pet that will keep Draco in the castle."
"And what happens after school?"
"I have no idea."
"Does Draco know?"
"No. Draco is too stubborn. He'd go after the Curator and Lucius obviously thinks that the man will best him. I'm sure that once Weasley is Minister however, he will end this disgusting exhibition and return Lucius to Draco's custody - and we will be free to work out what to do with Lucius then."
"Have you made the potion yet? The one that will release him?"
"I've started it…but there are some ingredients that are either unclear or I just can't find. And there is more to the incantation than the page I have found. The journal is like a puzzle, he wrote anywhere he could find a page."
"I noticed that," she admitted, "but you ask it a question and it shows you where to look."
And he had to admit that he hadn't even thought of that. Something so simple.
"I can help you," she prompted, "I can help decipher the incantation and brew the potion."
"I don't know if I can finish the potion…we need things that are not even available in the realm. Angel oil, feathers and blood. I don't even know where to start looking for them. Regina was supposed to help us get them. She's a Muggle but she can walk between worlds…but of course she turned out to be utterly insane."
It all fell into place. Draco tortured Regina because she knew things that could help his father. She was the one who could get the last of the potions ingredients. By not sleeping with her he had given up his father. Hermione made a note to tell Harry, he had to know; he had to see it from that perspective.
"But you have oil," she said quickly, "down in your store room, you have Angel oil."
At this he looked thoroughly confused. The secret store room had existed for a long time; he had found it quite by accident when searching for a suitable place to put his own personal supplies. He had catalogued what he'd found there once, but that was some 16 years ago and he had well and truly forgotten half of what he'd written down.
"I can help you," she said again.
"We'll wait," he said, "until we get back to Hogwarts. I've got the potion brewing in my chambers. When we get back you can bring the journal to me and we will look at it then. In the meantime, I suggest we try and get some sleep. It's late and you need your rest."
"Are you mad at me?"
"Yes."
She bit her lip. "Do you still love me?"
"Of course."
"And you'll let me help you?"
"Tomorrow," he said, "we'll talk about it tomorrow."
********
Arthur Weasley had not visited Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for a social reason in a good many years and whilst he had managed to convince himself that this was indeed a social trip, he knew himself well enough that he was there to ensure Albus Dumbledore's support when the Wizengamot voted the following month. Not that he had to ensure Dumbledore's support. It had been Dumbledore who had pushed him to challenge Fudge, but still, it didn't hurt to be sure. In recent times his visits to the castle had been unfortunate affairs. The war, protecting innocent children from Death Eaters who cared little for their ages, his son deciding that life wasn't worth living any more, and bribing the son of his childhood enemy into backing him in his endeavor to have supposed heroes of the war tried for crimes. He had a great fear that Dumbledore would think less of him after the last two.
He had not understood all that had happened with Ron. Now, months later, he still didn't understand it. Angelina was falling deeper into madness inside Azkaban and his youngest son would probably never be what he once one. Ron seemed to have aged a decade since February and somehow he had missed all of the signs. Arthur liked to think that it was because Ron had been at school and he hadn't been there to witness his sons slide. But that wasn't entirely true. Ron had been at home for two weeks over Christmas and everything had apparently been happening then – he had simply been too preoccupied to see it.
His sudden career orientation had cost him dear. Not that Ron ever blamed him. No one else had laid the blame at his door either. They all told him that he was doing the right thing, putting the needs of his world above those of himself or his family. It was a noble sacrifice. But in the face of his dying son he'd had to question that reasoning.
It was all a moot point now however. Ron was at home, safe and sound and with a girl who was fast becoming a part of the family.
But still, something niggled at him. Perhaps his journey to see Dumbledore was not only to ensure support, perhaps it was also to seek reassurance that he was indeed doing the right thing.
Arthur had his own agenda. At the end of the war, with Voldemort finally dead and gone, Fudge had unleashed his own personal army of Aurors to track down those Death Eaters who had escaped the final battle. And there were those whose hatred of their enemy was so great that they flocked to the banner despite their personal distaste for Fudge himself. Alastor Moody was one of those men. He had fought hard; he had fought for the good of their world. It was after the war that he went too far. In what many saw as Fudge's personal agenda to rid their world of many old family lines, no one was spared. Children were torn out of the relative safety of Hogwarts and used as pawns to force their parents confessions – the rate of these same children disappearing or turning up dead was alarming.
Arthur didn't understand it. Why would Fudge, who had always been so outspoken on the supremacy of the Pureblood lineage, seek to destroy them? Theories began to sprout, a popular one being that the Minister was trying to cover his tracks. That perhaps he had been a Death Eater himself during Voldemort's first attacks years before and once he had reached office had sought to distance himself from his past when he had received the Minister-ship. By destroying the old families he was effectively destroying all trace of his own past.
Arthur wasn't sure if he believed this. In his own mind he was sure that Cornelius Fudge wasn't that complex and that it was simply a greedy love of his office that drove him on to what he thought would be a popular move.
But in Arthur's mind, Fudge's motives meant nothing. Nothing could reconcile Arthur to the idea of killing children – no matter how bad the child had been. Ron had come home from school year after year complaining about Draco Malfoy and his thugs Crabbe and Goyle, but Arthur had seen the bodies of those children after they had been tortured and beaten and left somewhere to die and he could never rejoice in their deaths. They had been bullies to be sure, but they did deserve the chance to grow up. No one knew what they could become. The ones responsible must be brought to justice or the war would never ever be really over.
The trials were Arthur's own quest and one he thought might lose him the Minister's role. But it seemed his thinking had support within the Wizangamot. They had all seen the results of Fudge's trials. They had all seen dead children. They had all seen too much death.
And so he put his hat into the ring for the Minister's job and if he was made Minister, he vowed that there would be sweeping reforms.
All of this was on his mind as he sat in the comfortably appointed chambers of Albus Dumbledore. It had always been a lovely place. Less of an office and more like a lounge room. It was a peaceful place and Arthur had always liked it, and although his mind was racing, he felt physically relaxed.
"Is Molly coming?" Minerva asked. She was standing by a cabinet full of good quality crystal and had a number of goblets in her hands.
"No," Arthur said absently, "Molly's at home spying on Ron."
"Spying on Ron?" Minerva laughed, a little incredulous at the thought. "Why on earth would she do that?"
Arthur shook his head with a 'you don't want to know' expression on his face. He did offer up an explanation however. "We have young Pansy staying with us and Molly is convinced that if she leaves them alone for a second they will end up in bed together."
Albus and Minerva exchanged a look but said nothing.
"Of course, I pointed out that they are both of age and they can do whatever they please." Arthur frowned, "I figure we can't exactly stop them from doing it, and I told her as much. Molly; of course, lost her temper and started on about them learning to have more respect for us and that they should be grateful that we let Pansy stay in the first place. And then she berated me by saying that, of course the pair of them have done nothing at all and were probably just enjoying each others company, and we are jumping the gun entirely."
Once again Minerva and Dumbledore exchanged glances and finally Dumbledore chuckled. "I see. Well, Arthur, take that problem and multiply it by several hundred and you have what it's like being the Headmaster of Hogwarts."
Arthur had to concede that point. "Of course, Molly won't say anything to Ron at all. She's convinced that if she says anything to him that is less than positive then he's going to go and jump off the roof."
"And how does Ron feel about all of this?" Minerva asked.
Arthur fell silent, unable to admit out loud that he really didn't know. He hadn't been able to speak to Ron above a few token words of encouragement since Valentine's Day. He picked up an ornate paper weight and began to turn it over in his hands as once again he felt himself engulfed in his inadequacies. Perhaps the price of becoming Minister was too high.
"I learnt a long time ago," Dumbledore said, letting him off the hook, "that you can watch them like a hawk, but they will always find a way around you. Leave them alone, and they might surprise you."
"You have far more faith than Molly I'm afraid."
Minerva poured out some good quality Faerie wine and exchanged the paper weight for a glass. She then sat herself down and sank blissfully into a soft chair. She rubbed her hip which had been paining her and then changed the topic entirely. "So, are you still planning to put Fudge's Aurors on trial?"
And so they had brought it up without his help. Arthur steeled his nerves. "Yes," he said carefully. "I've spoken to Pansy and she has agreed to testify against the men who violated her. Draco Malfoy was a little harder to coax, but I think I managed to strike a deal with him."
"Oh?" Minerva looked a little concerned, "You made a deal with Draco Malfoy?"
"Yes, he wanted his father back. I told him I would arrange to have Lucius returned if he testified."
And at this Minerva looked horrified. "Oh Arthur! That's a terrible thing to do!"
Arthur felt his face redden and he placed his glass uncertainly on a side table. "You…you think I made a mistake? That I did the wrong thing?"
"Holding his father hostage until he does what you want? Yes I do! What was the alternative? Leave his father in that dreadful exhibition?"
Arthur sighed and sank into his chair. "Of course not. I've already spoken to that…bizarre Curator and I've told him that the moment I'm made Minister that the exhibition is finished. I plan to have Azkaban overhauled, the Dementors will be dismissed once and for all and conditions will be improved. The Death Eaters who have received the Kiss can be returned to the Prison and cared for there. That was the alternative."
Minerva relaxed a little but she still look disgruntled.
"I would have given his father back regardless," Arthur said, "What harm can he do now? I thought I would use what political clout I could muster to get him to agree. I need him to do this," Arthur said, an air of desperation washing over him. "There are so few victims of the Inquisitors left alive, and he is one of the few that can still walk and talk."
"But would he be considered a credible witness?" Dumbledore asked jovially, "Draco is not entirely meek and mild and there are a good many people out there who think he corrupted Harry somehow."
"Corrupted Harry?" Arthur actually laughed at the idea, "I am fairly certain Harry was corrupted long before Draco Malfoy ever got his hands on him."
"You think so? Didn't you hear about that silly contract?" Minerva asked.
"You can still be a virgin and be on a slide," Arthur said, "I watched Harry and Ron smoking whatever they could get their hands on, and you let them do it."
Dumbledore could hardly argue with the analysis. He had been lenient with Harry towards the end, possibly because he had begun to believe that his little warrior was not going to survive the war. Harry had proved him wrong and Dumbledore could not have been happier about it. He nodded, conceding the truth. "But besides all of that, people look at Draco and they don't see the boy…"
"They see the father not the son," Arthur agreed, "but he is not his father, Dumbledore, and we can't treat him like he is!"
"And I have no inclination to do so, Arthur," Dumbledore scoffed. "I am trying to help you to see that the boy may not be the best witness you could find."
"I have photographs, Albus, I have pictures of what he looked like when they found him…I'll tear the shirt off his back and show them if I have to."
"Well, he won't thank you for that. Are you sure that you aren't trying for a conviction at any cost, Arthur? It was tried before…you're standing up against the results now."
"They killed children, Albus. Children. If I have to blackmail Draco Malfoy to get them convicted I will."
"Draco Malfoy doesn't usually respond well to threats," Minerva observed wryly. "What did he say when you put it to him?"
Arthur relaxed a little and allowed himself a smile. "Well…he wasn't what I expected at all."
"He wasn't like his father?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes twinkling and a half smile touching his lips.
"Exactly. He's not as self assured as his father. Don't get me wrong, he is self assured, but not the way Lucius was. He's not vicious. That surprised me."
"The same couldn't be said a year or so ago," Minerva said, "so let's say that he's adaptable. But I would be waiting for the sting in the tail of any deal you made with Draco Malfoy."
"You don't like him?" Arthur asked.
"I never said that!" Minerva protested, "He's my star pupil and with a very small amount of work will probably be the youngest Transfigurations Master in a century. He is in fact very personable and I know that I've developed a great deal of affection for him over the last year…but he is still Lucius Malfoy's son. Don't underestimate him."
"What do you plan to do with the Dementors?" Dumbledore asked, deciding that it might be a good idea to change the subject and bolster the next Minister of Magic up again.
Arthur looked thoroughly relieved at this move. "I will put it to a committee, but I am hoping to send them back to their realm."
"They won't return to the Dark lands willingly," Dumbledore warned, "the feeding here is far too easy for them."
"Fudge should have banished them after the war, but oh no, not Cornelius Fudge. The damn fool welcomes them back to Azkaban with open arms! And what's the first thing he does? He has them Kiss the very Death Eaters they had once been allied with! The fact that they had no problem with doing it should have given him some indication of the kind of creatures they are!
"He does know what kind of creatures they are," Dumbledore said, "but Cornelius wanted our world to go back to the way it was and he tried to do it the only way he knew how. Of course what he didn't realize was that he was destroying the very people that were keeping him in office in the first place. And our world needs to change. Many of the old ways are dead and gone, and it is a new era. We need to learn from our mistakes not repeat them.
Arthur relaxed considerably. Dumbledore was starting to look rosy cheeked from the wine and he was certainly warming to his subject. Arthur felt sure that he could settle back now, and reasonably expect an evening of very wise council.
********