"Miss Granger, welcome."
"Hermione, please," she insists again, although she's feeling rather prickly towards the Healer. Perhaps Elena can tell. She rests against her desk, arms folded, and surveys Hermione with a serious expression.
"I do apologise for the delays." She removes the sample of curse and sets the vial on the desk. Hermione stares at it, fascinated. She'd seen it weeks ago, of course, but the way it presents inside the vial draws her eye.
It's a transparent purple, varying shades as it moves about. And it is moving, she's sure of it. It's floating around, like a mist that wants free. There are no indications of flame-like tendrils, but the confines of the vial likely prevent it. She must assume it would look the same inside her. If she were a ghost, her body transparent and ethereal, would she be purple-tinged vapour?
She shudders and looks back at Elena. "Have you learned anything?"
She's neither accepted the apology nor said anything outright confrontational, but unspoken is her quiet challenge that with two postponements, she certainly hopes Elena has learned something. While she hasn't paid Elena any money yet, that's part of today's purpose and what Elena is doing for Hermione is not a favour; it's an arrangement. This does not pass Elena unnoticed, and a corner of her mouth lifts.
"I did. Let's talk about the potions you take for it, first, though." She removes those samples as well. "Let me preface by saying I do not have a potions mastery. The alchemy of these two potions is far beyond my skill and I'd very much like to speak with Horace Slughorn, if you'll permit me."
Hermione says she'll consider it. "Is there anything else noteworthy about them?"
Elena taps her foot, debating. "Difficult to say – well, plenty, yes. They're remarkable. But as they pertain to you, I'd hoped we could begin a test of reducing your use of them and seeing what happens."
"I'd also like to try that, if we think it's a viable option."
"I think it could be," the Healer hedges with caution, "but we need to talk more about the curse itself before we decide on a potential plan of action regarding your treatment of it."
"I thought last time we essentially decided I've been treating the symptoms all along," Hermione challenges, "not the curse. Nothing those potions do is eliminating the curse."
"And I still believe that. I'll feel more confident after speaking with Mr Slughorn, but even with the lingering ambiguity there, I think it's a possibility. There are significant risks, however, which we need to try and parse through as much as we can. We are still operating with a great deal of unknown variables, and the risks of altering anything are high. You're at a point of stasis and -"
"That stasis is driving me mad," Hermione says bluntly.
"I understand. And perhaps this is a good transition point to what I've learned." Elena moves behind her desk and sits, lifting various enchantments – many of which Hermione recognises on her own desk – and removing a set of notes from a drawer. She rifles through, glancing occasionally at the vial as if expecting it to move on its own.
Hermione feels a soft brush against her ankles and jumps. Salvatore winds his tail across her shin on his way by and she reaches down to scratch his back. His yellow gaze meets hers and he propels himself into her lap.
"Hello, there," she whispers softly, scratching beneath his chin. He preens there, stretching his neck for her.
"With your attacker deceased, we're forced to work with a set of assumptions. As ever, when there are several to consider, branches of possibilities begin to splinter off."
Elena stands and begins sketching her wand in the air.
"I'm certain it was originally a Mind Flayer. Cast to your brain, it would have driven you mad, peeling back layer after layer of functioning and reason. How fast that happened would have been determined by the caster. Since it was cast to your abdomen, we must consider two possibilities: his aim was accidental," she sketches a branch to the south, "and that peeling back of functioning would manifest as internal injuries of increasing magnitude, unless halted.
"Or his aim was intentional," another branch, "and we then need to consider why. Had he been trying to modify it specifically for internal organ failure, instead of brain failure?"
"But it's not purely a Mind Flayer, even a miscast one."
"No, it doesn't seem to be. Thus, more speculation. There is a unique sort of glamour on it, and my tentative guess is that he wanted to mask that it was a Mind Flayer long enough for the internal damage to become permanent. Quite nasty work, much crueller than simply killing you."
"Why hasn't anyone been able to identify it until now?"
"It's definitely miscast; there's no doubt about it. Not just the ill-advised location, which is not what the curse was designed for, but the clunky cobbling of the glamour on top. He was experimenting for something new. Again, I think part of the glamour's purpose was to disguise the original curse. And let's not forget that ideally, you'd have died before anybody could pinpoint what it was that he'd done. It would have made it nearly impossible to counteract in battles."
Hermione sits there for a long while, bemused.
"He did a shoddy job, make no mistake. His own tinkerings with how to draw out the pain and suffering internally were extending the potential treatment window of it."
Something that's keeping her alive to this day. "Alright," Hermione says slowly, eyeing the 'accidental' branch hovering in the air. "I really wouldn't have thought he had it in him, but say he was experimenting. Let's go back to thinking it was intended for my brain all along. Maybe he stumbled; I don't know. How would his modifications have affected my mind instead of my abdomen?"
Elena taps her wand against her lips in thought. "If we assume it was a terribly-cast Mind Flayer, that he was an absolute buffoon who had no idea what he was doing and hadn't been experimenting with changing it, why the glamour?"
"Yes. Is it the glamour making it shimmer like that in the vial?" Hermione picks it up with distaste, tilting it back and forth in the light. The curse, to her horror, presses itself against the vial where her fingers touch the glass. It gravitates to either side like a purple phantom seeking her out, and she sets it back down.
"It is. I cast and trapped a Mind Flayer to compare -"
Hermione blanches. How? But Elena is already withdrawing a second vial to place beside the first one. It's a deeper purple, though still transparent. It seems more concentrated, but that could be a larger sample size in an identical vial. She reaches for it and isn't disappointed. It, too, leeches towards her fingertips. She's not sure if that makes her feel better or worse.
"Back to your question. Why use the glamour if he was a buffoon who tripped while trying to cast a Mind Flayer? I'm speculating again, mind."
Hermione nods and Elena stares at the vial with the glamour in it.
"There is a component of delayed onset to it, and I haven't the slightest clue if it was intentional. That only adds more branches of possibilities. But I believe the two most likely are these: (1) it's a deliberately modified Mind Flayer for internal organ damage masked by a unique glamour and delayed onset to prevent or postpone identification and treatment, drawing out pain and suffering. Or (2) it was intended for your mind all along, because your mind is your greatest asset, Hermione."
Elena meets her eyes, serious and respectful. "You are a famous witch. Your intellect is well-regarded. Just after the war, once the world became aware of what had been going on and how it was fought, you were considered the intelligence behind the entire Order of the Phoenix."
Hermione scoffs, raising a hand – Dumbledore, and Moody, and Kingsley, and – but Elena overrides her. "The intelligence behind Harry Potter's surprising level of success, at a minimum, even when you were all still at school. I don't mean to overinflate things; I hadn't heard of you then, specifically, but I'm sure the Death Eaters had information on everyone Harry Potter was close to. Even if it was still two years before Voldemort's fall, they knew who you were."
Hermione can't dispute this but it still makes her uncomfortable.
"You were widely referred to as the brightest witch of your age. His intention could have been to deliberately strip you of that, slowly, letting you descend into madness – or, at a bare minimum, reduce your mental functioning to that of a small child. The glamour would have delayed diagnosis, the slow onset would have tortured you, and you'd have been reduced to insanity. You'd have been aware it was happening and could have done nothing about it."
"That makes it sound like he designed it for me."
Elena shrugs, almost casual. "Who's to say he didn't? Or maybe he didn't design it at all. Maybe he simply leveraged something beyond his skillset. But would it be out of the realm of possibility that someone could have been trying to strip the Order of its intelligence? There would have been more targets than you to maim."
"Either way, whatever he – or someone else – intended, I was hit in the torso. What is it doing to me?"
The Healer looks far more uncomfortable than Hermione would prefer to see, especially given the professional tone of the discussion thus far. "I need to speak with Mr Slughorn."
"'Internal organ damage'," Hermione repeats, growing irritated. "I presume it's causing some."
"Well, that brings me to my intention to reduce your potions treatment and why I worry we shouldn't – yet. I think it would be interesting to see the changes, if only you weren't holding it at bay with your daily regimen."
"Stotch thinks it's masking the curse and that one day it'll simply… stop. That I'll just die. How could that be, if it's being held at bay? How could it be that sudden at the end?"
"Stotch might be wrong," Elena shrugs, as if this isn't the most earth-tilting announcement Hermione's heard in the last decade. As she gapes, feeling her vision tunnel a bit around the edges, Elena continues, oblivious.
"I do think that eventually, the efficacy of the potions will reduce and you'll begin seeing consequences of that organ damage. That's another reason I'd like to consult with Slughorn."
Struggling to breathe, Hermione tries to collect herself. "So… you believe it will still kill me. It just won't be a sudden death? I'll have – kidney failure, or heart failure, or -" -or something she could see coming? her brain finishes. She might have a way to track the progression of it?
Elena nods, cottoning on that this news is a bit more momentous to Hermione than how she'd delivered it. She says the next part far more gently.
"- or reproductive failure."
"Well, that wouldn't be what kills me. That's not fatal. I've expected that, anyway," Hermione says bitterly. "I've been on a long-term contraceptive for years. I wouldn't risk getting pregnant to either a catastrophic pregnancy or dying at any time with young children left behind."
Elena is watching her with sympathy, her eyes thoughtful. Hermione's struck by something. "The months before the final battle, when I was off the potions – was I incurring organ damage then?"
"I must assume so, although I don't have a comparison point of your health before that time. You said you collapsed?"
"Without warning."
Elena considers, tapping her wand again absently. It shoots mild pink sparks into the air, decoratively glinting off the shining glass vials. Salvatore reaches out to bat at one from his perch on Hermione's lap.
"I'd like to speak to Stotch, too -"
"At the time, I was being treated by Poppy Pomfrey, the Hogwarts' Healer."
Elena brightens at once, and Hermione's reminded that she is the Durmstrang Institute Healer. "Poppy! In that case, could I speak with her about it? My best guess is that you were probably incurring damage over those months, yes, and your body finally went into a state of shock about it. Had you had any symptoms at all in the months prior?"
"Well, we'd all lost a lot of weight, on the run. We weren't living healthy. We were all under tremendous stress with a lot of emotional volatility. None of us felt our best, and all I can say is – probably. Difficult to tell what came from what."
"Yes, which came first – the Ashwinder or its egg?" Elena muses. "You collapsed just after the final battle?"
"Two days after. I was back at Hogwarts to survey the aftermath. We explained it away as emotional upheaval for me, exhaustion, needed rest. Poppy put me back on the potions and I recovered."
After another moment, Elena stands and gestures for Hermione to stand. She displaces Salvatore, who hops down in a displeased huff. Elena casts the Dark magic diagnostic again and surveys it.
"Might I take another set of samples? I'm nowhere near done looking into it. I think there's a decent chance there's still something else at play, as if there isn't enough to be going on with already. But I want to make sure there isn't another component extremely well blended into the alchemy of it."
Hermione nods and prepares for the mildly-unpleasant pulling sensation. "You'd referred to the application of the glamour as 'clunky.' How would a new component be more expertly woven through? Like I said the first time we met, the man who cursed me wasn't thought of as a brilliant wizard."
"I'm not certain and it makes me uneasy. Back to what we discussed earlier, I think that the curse was being tinkered with not by your attacker, but by someone more skilled. The Death Eaters had plans for this curse; someone was developing it. Your attacker bumbled a glamour on top for his own pursuit of extending the pain and suffering."
Maybe it had come from the Department of Mysteries after all, Hermione muses, or maybe a more talented Death Eater had been working on specialised curses. Bellatrix Lestrange comes to mind and she shudders.
"In short, I do think it's causing damage. I think it will eventually be fatal, but I disagree with Stotch on the manner of it. I think the potions still need to be taken daily – until we know more – and I would like to consult with both Poppy and Slughorn to investigate those further. Will you permit it?"
"Yes."
"You'll need to set it up, so they know it was done with your permission. Do you mind?"
"Not at all."
"Again, Hermione, I apologise this follow-up took so long. I don't anticipate delays like this in future. I can meet with Poppy and Slughorn at their earliest convenience."
They sort out payment and Hermione notices Elena hesitate. "What?"
"Well, you know Mr Malfoy was planning to pay me. You may want to discuss the matter with him."
That is probably sound advice. Hermione's a little surprised he hasn't brought it up, now that she thinks about it. He didn't mention it the other day when he asked her opinion of Elena. Elena, meanwhile, looks like she might have something to add but waves it off at Hermione's quizzical look.
"Let's meet again with Poppy and Slughorn. I don't think there's a need for us to meet privately before then, although if I discover something new I'll owl you."
That seems like a decent plan to be going on with, and Hermione braces herself for the stomach-lurching cross-continental Floo home.
She's moderately encouraged, although she told Draco she needed a night to herself. She wants to think through the implications of this on her own for a night. Elena didn't say a single thing about a cure or any other sort of solution, but Hermione would be thrilled to think she'd know before the end approaches. How soon, though? A week of notice would be better than none, but still not enough to do right by the people she loves.
Wasting ten years of Draco's life to die with a week's warning is only somewhat better than dying overnight. At least she could make sure he doesn't find her dead body, but she's hoping for more than that.
Her bed is empty and cold. Her mattress does not squeak every time she flops over, and it diverts her endless cycle of thoughts at long last. Had he fixed it? Of course, he did.
It hasn't even been two full months and Hermione's missing having him in her bed. She misses him.
She has to think about this, though, really think. It all comes down to the next collaborations of her whole Healer team. If she could get ten years with Draco, would she? Would she just tell him and let him make his own decision at that point? But if she could only get a year or two – she should end it. She should end it, right? Give him as much time as possible to find someone to fall in love with and have a family, have a life. He should live his.
Wrapping her fingers in her pillow, she cries herself to sleep into it.
"Let's go on holiday," Draco announces, causing her to nearly choke on her tea. She's not even properly dressed again yet, finding that she rather enjoys the recent and consistent emptiness of her lab. Draco seems to appreciate her partial (or entire) nudity.
"What? When? Where?"
He takes a long look around. "Now? And wherever you like. Where have you always wanted to go and never gotten to? Although I'll throw out a suggestion of Amsterdam. They're very sex-positive over there, you know."
"Don't you have work to do, though? And I'm fairly certain they get tired of people coming specifically for the red-light district. I don't think they appreciate the single-minded tourism focus. I don't think we would, if it were London."
"Let's go find out, shall we? And of course I can take a long weekend if I like. There's nothing on my desk that couldn't wait until next week."
Hermione considers. Why not? And she's never been. "Alright. Let me lock up here, go home and pack a bag."
She scribbles a quick note that she plasters to her door with an immovable sticking charm.
Out for a few days. Back Monday. – HG
Stay out, T&B.
"They won't come back in," Draco looks properly chastised. "I promise. No more snooping in your lab, if for no other reason than I can't have you feeling compelled to punish them like you punished me."
"Not a chance."
They Floo into the Hotel Estheréa. The Floo journey, while still not excellent, was not quite as nausea-inducing as going to Elena's lab and Hermione finds herself readily agreeing to lunch after they get settled in.
She's floored by the hotel, the décor unique and somehow seeming both extravagant and historic at once.
"Every room is different," the proprietor tells them as they bustle along. "The building was built in the mid sixteen-hundreds and is on the Muggles' world heritage list of sites."
Since they Floo'ed in, they're clearly magical. The woman notices Hermione looking at a name badge fastened securely to her blouse. It simply reads 'Esther,' but Hermione thinks she detects a bit of charm to it.
"Ah, yes," she says, holding out her hand. "My full name is Estheréa. Not the founder of the hotel, of course, but a descendant. But that tends to throw off the Muggles. They don't have a common practice of passing along female names."
A mischievous gleam in her eye makes Hermione wonder if this is strictly true, and notices Draco eyeing the name badge as well.
"We have ninety-one Muggle rooms," Estheréa continues, walking them towards theirs. "And another fifteen magical ones. Should you feel like exiting to the Muggle portion of the hotel and out to the canal – which you most certainly should, it's quite lovely – make a right past the fireplace you came in through and give the password 'banden die binden' to the large portrait of Septimus Malfoy."
Draco chokes, doubling over with a fist to his chest. He seems to have swallowed the wrong way and Hermione, with a quick glance of concern at him, takes over. "I beg your pardon?"
Estheréa eyes him as well but says, "It means 'the ties that bind' in Dutch. I'm sure you know why many tourists visit Amsterdam, and -"
"No, the portrait. You said Septimus Malfoy?"
Now the pieces fall into place. Estheréa's face lights up as she looks at Draco. "Oh, how marvellous! I'm so accustomed to him being there, we just think of him as 'Septimus,' of course, that incorrigible rogue, but he's your ancestor! How lovely!"
"How -" Draco sputters, not yet breathing normally again.
"Septimus spent a great deal of time here in Amsterdam in his youth in the eighteenth century. He was massive patron of the… the arts here and visited frequently. The Hotel Estheréa was his favourite spot to stay and he bequeathed large donations to us on occasion."
"Were these occasions usually after exceptionally noteworthy visits to the arts locale?" Hermione asks innocently and Draco steps on her foot.
Estheréa either doesn't cotton on to the meaning or classifies it as an entirely appropriate enquiry. She doesn't blink. "But of course. He so loved it here that he wished to have a portrait hung after his passing. In his will, he ensured that the Hotel Estheréa would never want for funding. He refused to risk it falling out of favour, thus losing his portrait's preferred hanging place. We are more than happy to oblige. He is a vibrant member of our little hotel community here."
"Did he – er, choose the password?"
Estheréa gives her a sly grin. "He has several he enjoys rotating among. He likes making the tourists who are not here for the, er, arts scene uncomfortable. A small little joy, you understand."
They're arrived at their room and Draco enters in a bit of a hurry. Hermione bids Estheréa a fond 'thank you' for her assistance, and the proprietor departs after a small bow.
Draco's hand is covering his mouth and he stares at Hermione, fully agog. "He's my great-grandfather. I think. How… much time do you think he spent here? Maybe he was here for other things. He was a collector. Loads of things in the Manor came from him: paintings, sculptures, rare edition books."
"Oh, I think she made it very clear what he was here for. Maybe the other things were a bonus," Hermione offers kindly. "Do you think he saw us come in?"
Draco doesn't seem concerned about this possibility in the slightest. "I wonder how old he was when he married my great-grandmother Catharina."
"More to the point, I wonder where he met Catharina. That's the Dutch version of Catherine, which shouldn't come as a surprise."
His eyes get even wider. "Oh, gods. Is there a chance my great-grandparents met in the red-light district of Amsterdam in the seventeen-hundreds?"
"Now, now," Hermione soothes. "He could have met her at an art gallery here. A museum. Maybe one without copious nudity. And 'the ties that bind' as a password could refer to anything."
"Don't tease."
"Who cares? It's no one's business anyway, no more than we're going to tell people what we get up while we're here. If it makes you feel better, I highly doubt they met there. In the seventeen-hundreds, women frequenting those places would have been beyond scandalous; much less a woman your great-grandfather would have considered suitable for marriage."
Pansy's words come back to her now, about the stuffy, boring, traditional pureblood aristocracy having equally boring sex. Well, maybe most of them. Septimus Malfoy clearly wasn't among them. She hides a snort.
This seems to be resonating with Draco at last. Somewhat. "Family stories refer to her as 'Kitty' a lot of the time. That has a different tone to it now."
Hermione swats him. "So what if they had wild, adventurous sex? Good on them! Are you not going to shag me on every surface in this hotel room?"
He looks at her, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smirk. "And many outside of it."
"Well, I'm hungry, so hurry up and pick one so we can crack on for lunch. We'll explore other options after."
They take Septimus Malfoy's password selection to heart.
Draco chooses 'cummerbund' as a safe word.
Septimus spots them at once and bellows across the lobby, "You! You there! Come here!"
Heading that way anyway, Draco sighs in an air of resignation. "Hello, Septimus. Forgive me for not going the 'great-grandfather' route. Bit of a mouthful."
Septimus looks haughtily down and Hermione gets a short chill. He looks so much like Lucius; more than Draco does, whose hair and general demeanour are much more modern. Lucius still dresses and acts – the last time Hermione saw him, anyway – like he's in the eighteenth century, with the long hair to match. With a slightly thinner nose and without the small cleft in Septimus's chin, the resemblance would almost be eerie.
"Load of tosh. Only one syllable less," Draco's ancestor sniffs. "Now, if you were to go with 'Great-grandfather Septimus,' I'd grant you that it's beginning to get excessive. First time in Amsterdam?"
They nod obediently and he crosses one leg over the other, folding his hands over his knee. "Right. You're obviously here for pleasure, not business. One need only look at your hair to tell. Are you here for the sexy or the macabre?"
Hermione's stuck on why he only offered two options – and why her (their?) hair's appearance would come into the latter of them at all – while Draco hurries to choose whatever isn't sexy. "Macabre."
Septimus brightens. "Delightful! Now, keep in mind these are only recommendations, as I haven't been myself. But one does overhear plenty of things hanging here, and I pride myself on trying to help. Visit the Dungeon for a truly eye-opening show of Amsterdam's darkest history. It's fully immersive. It'll tantalise your senses – all of them, so do be careful. I've heard the witch burning attraction is particularly thrilling, for those of us who know how inaccurate it is. The actresses playing the witches are actual witches. Bit perverse, I think, to
re-enact being burned alive a dozen times a day, but to each their own.
After that, Madame Toussad's Wax Museum should be next."
"A wax museum?" Draco whispers under his breath to Hermione, who is similarly confused. 'Wax' got her interest but it doesn't sound that kind of place.
"I'll give you no more than that," Septimus declines, which Hermione deems suspicious after his loquacious detail of what the Dungeon has to offer them. "But you must tell me what you think upon your return."
"Er, what about a spot for lunch?"
"Cannibale Royale," Septimus proclaims with a flourish, no hesitation whatsoever, and Draco looks justifiably wary.
"And we're still in the macabre genre on purpose?" After the wax museum recommendation, neither of them can be certain.
"Yes!" his great-grandfather booms.
"Do I want to inquire further about the menu?"
"No!" And with that, he swings forward to permit them passage.
"We didn't even get to say the password," Hermione whispers.
"I think we'll get a chance. Something tells me he just likes to hear people say it."
They eat a filling lunch at the restaurant Ambassade right on the canal front, making an unspoken agreement to try the Cannibale Royale another time – perhaps after the Dungeon.
"Does he have a portrait in the Manor?" Hermione asks over appetisers.
Draco nods. "Oh, yes – along with a hundred and fifty other assorted portraits, so I can't say I've spent much time standing in front of his and speaking with him. I don't even remember offhand which room his hangs in."
"What else do you know about him?"
"Well, until an hour ago, I thought I had it well in hand. He was a very influential advisor to the Minister for Magic in the late eighteenth century, resided in Malfoy Manor, which his great-great-grandfather established after coming over from France. Wed to Catharina… something or other. Bollocks, what was it? Either way, they had Abraxas, who married my grandmother Tosia Crouch, and they had my father – although Tosia died in childbirth."
Draco rattles this off without pause but seems vexed at the loss of Catharina's original family surname. Presumably he'd been quizzed on the family history as a child. As he mulls it over, Hermione thinks of something else.
"…didn't your mother also nearly die in childbirth?"
He looks at her, focussed once more. "From what I've heard, it's hard to tell which was harder on her: the pregnancy or the childbirth. Neither of my parents like to talk about it. But yes, she almost died. I think my father would have gone mad."
"Does your family always have only one male heir?"
Draco shakes his head. "In modern times, yes. But Septimus was one of seven. I believe he was the last one to have been part of a multi-child family."
This line of questioning is nothing more than historical curiosity for Hermione, but Draco grows concerned.
"I'm not worried about that," he says quietly, taking her hand from across the table. "I don't care about any of that; the name, the line. It was full of Dark magic and horrible people."
She cracks a smile. "Septimus doesn't seem so bad." Although, she thinks, Septimus doesn't know she's a Muggle-born.
"And maybe he isn't," Draco agrees and gives her hand a squeeze. "But I still don't care about it. I only want you."
To keep from dwelling on that depressing statement, Hermione looks out over the canal. She needs to owl back to Elena that Poppy and Horace can meet on Tuesday next. It's just a few days away. She knows there probably won't be anything new, but a collaborative working session could bring a lot of things to light – maybe. Hermione hopes so.
"Hey." Draco shakes her hand lightly, getting her attention. "Where did you go just now?"
"Just trying to think of all the rote, predictable touristy things I want to do while we're here."
"Such as?"
"There's a Van Gogh museum I want to see, and the Rijksmuseum is just around the corner. And the -"
"- Wax museum, don't forget. Septimus specifically told us to report back what we thought. And if we're doing that, we may as well hit the Dungeon."
Hermione agrees. "If we show we appreciate his recommendations, maybe he'll recommend some things for us to do tonight."
She smirks at Draco, who looks as though this gives him a stomachache.
"Van Gogh was a wizard, you know," she drops casually as they walk. "The removal of his ear was with an early iteration of the slicing hex, probably the one that eventually evolved to become Sectumsempra. It could never be reattached."
"Was he mad or just experimental?"
"Maybe both?" Hermione shrugs. "He'd always suffered from psychotic episodes and delusions; or so the Muggles believe, anyway. He reportedly had both visions and hallucinations. My theory is that he was a Seer. It drove much of his artistic output and creativity, but his mind slowly began to deteriorate."
"I didn't think you believed in Divination." Draco smirks at her.
"Generally speaking, I don't. I believe most people who claim to have the 'true' sight are exaggerating or outright defrauding people, the vast majority of the time. That being said, I can't deny that some prophecies made have come true, and I can easily see how real visions could drive a person mad."
"Speaking of mad, didn't he send the ear to his girlfriend?"
"Unclear. And the reason behind him cutting it off isn't clear, either. Some say he had an argument with a fellow artist. Some say it was news of his brother's engagement that did it."
"Maybe he loved his brother's fiancé," Draco suggests idly.
"Could be. Either way, I don't believe she was the recipient of the severed ear. One story says he gave it to a prostitute in a brothel, although maybe she was also his girlfriend – who knows?"
Hermione is exceedingly glad they preface the Wax Museum with both other, more traditional, museum options. Those are lovely, filled with brilliant artistic masterpieces and she could easily fill three whole days combing through each museum at her leisure.
Madame Toussad's Wax Museum is a different story. At the entrance, she huffs, "We could have got tickets for both attractions for less money."
"I doubt it would ever have occurred to my great-grandfather to listen for a bargain, much less recommend one to his relative."
They wander in slowly, slowly, and come to a petrified stop.
"What the bloody hell are these things?" Draco hisses in her ear.
Hermione truly does not know. She prods at one after casting a surreptitious glance over her shoulder. It's wax, there's no doubt about it. There's also no doubt at all that it's bizarre at best, and terrifying at worst.
"Hermione, I don't want to get into detail about what sorts of collections may or may not reside in Malfoy Manor or the family vault, but this is the most horrifying lot I've ever seen."
It's hard to dispute. They don't move – although Hermione isn't sure she'd want them to – and they're perfectly life-sized.
"Exceedingly spine-chilling," she agrees absently, circling another one.
"Who the hell are they?"
She skims a couple of placards. "A mix. Muggle world leaders or people of notable acclaim. Looks like some assorted celebrities, though I'm not exactly an expert."
"Do they… request a wax statue of themselves? Alternatively, if they also found this abhorrent, could they decline?"
"I've no idea. There are some witches and wizards, though, if only by accident."
She points to a wax figure of Albert Einstein. "He doesn't get half the recognition he deserves. Not only did he make some truly ground-breaking scientific discoveries, he found out how to do them the Muggle way, too. He was a true bridge between the two populations and no one will ever know it."
Draco considers this for a brief moment before spinning her around. "Alright, what's that?"
This one does take her a minute. She wanders over, squinting at the placard. "A Muggle superhero. He's fictional," she clarifies, "and so is his outfit."
Draco is surveying the female superhero next to the first one. She's clad in black leather, nearly head to foot, which happen to be encased in knee-high boots with heels. "Is this outfit fictional? Or could this one be real?"
Hermione tilts her head. As potential sexy outfits go, it's not bad, considering. "I have a feeling some of the shops in the red-light district might have things like this on offer. We could go peruse."
Draco looks ready to leave, eyeing the exit, and Hermione concedes. She's seen enough of this particular attraction, anyway.
"Just think, though," she says as they walk, a little hustle now in Draco's stride, "even if the figures themselves are just wax and creepy as hell, what it takes for a Muggle to make one. It really is astonishing, what they can do without magic. Although that doesn't take into account whatever batty reason made them bother in the first place."
"Mm," is all she gets back and she tugs Draco to a stop.
She feels the distinct shimmer of magic from the building to their left. There's a placard here, too, a simple metal rectangle to the right of the door.
The Sacred Convent of Saint Lidwina of Scheidam
