Roman Holiday

Chapter Thirty-Four

Even before he’d had the good taste to appreciate Hermione Granger’s many attractive qualities in a strictly personal sense, Draco had known this about her: she never did anything halfway.

This was no exception.

She’d decided, apparently, that Salazar Slytherin was their most valuable ally to date in their little extracurricular Knowledge Quest - it wasn’t every day, after all, that one ran across a wizard with first-hand knowledge of obscure ancient curses. Not only that, but they were pretty sure that everything they told him would remain confidential.

Having had time to think about it, Draco was personally reconsidering his decision not to take his news to Dumbledore … the more he knew about the Fils du Couteau, the less he liked it, and they’d be turning the calendar over to October any day now. Before he knew it, the Christmas holidays would be here, and by that point he needed to be either invulnerable or very well hidden.

Even so, they had managed to turn a lot of stones on their own, and Slytherin’s information was quite useful. Hermione, for her part, had made it her personal goal to cultivate that source as far as she could, and Draco was finding the results to be fascinating.

Take the sex out of it, take the death-defying adventure out of it, and hanging out with her would still be a hell of a lot more exciting than listening to Crabbe and Goyle chortle over knock-knock jokes. The famous Granger Brain in motion on a bona fide project was nothing short of extraordinary.

Time for a really good bribe, she said with a conspiriatorial smirk, and owled home for her CD collection and a shiny little machine she called a Discman. Draco, who was of course familiar with the Wizarding Wireless Network, was nevertheless fascinated with the gleaming prisms of the flat metal wafers in their colorful jackets, and genuinely astonished the first time the funny little plugs went into his ears; with a touch of a button, he heard the wild sweep of strings, playing clear and sweet straight into his brain as if the Kronos Quartet themselves were sitting on his shoulders. His mouth fell open.

“This is amazing,” he said, examining the Discman’s LCD display with interest. “And not the least bit magical, you say?”

“Not inherently,” Hermione said with a shrug. “I did have to enchant it, to make it function inside the castle. But that’s pretty simple.” She looked at him curiously. “I’m surprised you haven’t seen one of these before. I’ve always left my CDs at home because I usually have too many books in my trunk - but lots of students have them here.”

“Not in Slytherin House,” Draco said dryly. “If we want music, we have to bang two sticks together.”

Hermione snorted.

**

There was still the matter of Transfiguring the Discman into something a ghost could actually handle … did they need to, or not? This had been a topic of much whispered discussion - could he turn the pages of the books? How was it that he’d come by that shadowy silver wand? … or did all ghosts have them?

“I’ll clear this up,” Hermione said finally, looking determined. Harry and Draco exchanged glances behind her back.

This ought to be interesting.

She was as good as her word. The next night at dinner, she took a resolute bite of her potatoes, laid down her fork, and brazenly popped the Wand Question to Nearly Headless Nick: did he still have his, she wondered, and could she see it, if he did?

The phallic implications of this salvo convulsed Ron, and - by transference - Harry, into fits of pre-adolescent snickering. Draco, who was following the exchange covertly from the Slytherin table, rolled his eyes.

Honestly.

“Oh, no,” Sir Nicholas said, flushing dark grey and sounding, if not exactly offended, certainly a bit stiff. “Ghosts don’t keep their wands unless they die in wizarding duels.” He sniffed at the sordidness of this thought; apparently, among your more socially conscious ghosts, being hacked to death with an axe was a bit more high-class. “And they can’t actually use them, even then,” he continued. Hermione’s eyebrows shot into her hairline.

“No?” she asked doubtfully. “Not ever? Are you sure?”

Sir Nicholas frowned. “Well …” he said reluctantly. “Hypothetically, it could happen, I suppose. One case in a hundred million. But it would require very Dark magic, mind, very difficult - and, of course, it goes without saying that you’d have to be very powerful. The core of the wand would lose all but a shadow of its former potency, so the magic would have to be fueled mainly from another source.”

“Dark magic, you say,” Hermione mused, as if to herself. Nick sighed and cast a glance around him, to make sure no one was listening to them. Luckily, Seamus had just overturned a pitcher of pumpkin juice into Lavender’s lap farther down the table, helped along by the judicious application of Harry’s elbow to his ribs at a crucial moment. Hermione threw Harry a wink and turned back to Sir Nicholas.

“You were saying …?” she prompted.

Nick looked resigned - he’d encountered this particular brand of candy-coated Granger persistence before, and there was no way he could get away without an explanation now. “Well,” he said. “You already know the difference between a ghost and a poltergeist. Correct?”

Hermione nodded. “A poltergeist can move physical objects. A ghost can’t.” Sir Nicholas nodded.

“All ghosts have unfinished business in the physical realm, of course - otherwise, we wouldn’t remain here,” he said. “Sometimes it’s love, sometimes it’s hate, sometimes it’s that someone owes us money, sometimes we just can’t bear to leave.” He looked very somber. “Just as all human beings have distinct personalities and coping mechanisms, so it is with ghosts. We all deal with our existence in unique ways.”

“So what exactly makes a poltergeist, then?” Hermione said, looking around to make sure Peeves wasn’t anywhere to be found. Nick’s shaggy grey eyebrows closed into a V.

“Well,” he said tactfully, “as I was saying, some of it’s due to personality; poltergeists tend to have been naturally mischievous, highly kinetic human beings. But also -“ here he lowered his voice - “there’s generally some kind of nasty incident or other in the mix, something to make that person’s high spirits take a turn for the belligerent. Where the majority of the ghost population merely want tranquility, or at the most redress for wrongs done, the average poltergeist exists because he wants revenge.”

“Right,” Hermione said, privately making a note to find out what had happened to Peeves, the next time she had a spare moment in the library. “So - are you saying that any ghost able to use a wand is really a poltergeist?”

Sir Nicholas looked thoughtful for a minute. “No,” he said finally. “There are certain parallels to be drawn there - the trauma of experiencing the Killing Curse, the natural thirst for vengeance that would arise from that - but there’s one very important distinction there, and it’s essentially an issue of control.”

“Control?” Hermione repeated.

“Control,” Nick said firmly. “Peeves, for example, doesn’t have any - he could no sooner rein in that malevolent energy of his than fly to the moon.” He adjusted his ruff thoughtfully. “But a ghost who manages to use a wand could only do so by channeling into it all of his darkest impulses, plus the residual Dark magic remaining in his body from the Avada Kedavra.” He gave Hermione a warning look. “I must emphasize, however, that I’ve never actually seen this happen - it’s all purely theoretical.”

“Why do you think it’s so rare?” Hermione asked him, keeping her voice low. “I mean, think of all the wizards and witches over the years who have been killed in duels - why couldn’t they all come back?”

“Interesting question,” Nick said, looking grave. “But think about all the elements that would have to be present to make it possible.” He began to tick them off on the elegant fingers of one silvery hand. “Massive amounts - inhuman amounts, I would say, if you’ll pardon the pun - of sheer inherent power. A strong bond with a particular place, for a particular reason. Enough mental fortitude to harness and use the Dark Forces - not to mention a lack of squeamishness about doing so. And -“ He paused. “Again, all this is guesswork. But it stands to reason, if the residue of the Killing Curse were to be used as a power source, that the murderer would have to be equally strong, perhaps even stronger, than the victim.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. Nick looked - if possible - a tiny bit smug.

“So you see,” he said. “It’s virtually impossible.”

Hermione nodded. “Virtually impossible,” she echoed, and turned her attention back to her stone-cold creamed potatoes. Her brain was churning madly.

Died in his sleep, eh? she thought, and stabbed savagely at her beef Wellington.

The next time she saw Salazar Slytherin, he was bloody well going to give her the real story, or she’d know the reason why.

**

Unbeknownst to Hermione, Draco had embarked on a project of his own. It didn’t involve centuries-dead wizards or malevolent curses, but that didn’t make it any easier.

He was going to befriend Ron Weasley.

He’d spent a night or two worth of sleepless hours, contemplating the issue. Potter was being pretty decent to him, actually, considering all the nastiness that had passed between them for the past four years. If Draco were in Harry’s shoes, he wouldn’t have been inclined to overlook that comment about Diggory on the train last spring, for example.

Draco wasn’t stupid. He saw what was under his nose. Every time Potter and he said two civil words to each other in a row, Hermione glowed like she’d been lit with a match. Reason enough right there to bend over backwards preserving their fragile armistice - after all, he was a man in love, right?

Harry wasn’t the big problem anymore. And yet he was. Draco readjusted his pillow and frowned.

If Weasley found out - and it was only by the grace of God and the Golden Snitch that he hadn’t yet - he’d go through the roof. Unlike Harry, who tended to take people and events at face value and adjust his worldview accordingly, Ron was suspicious by nature and wary of change. Not only that, but he’d been reared in a wizarding family, with all the attendant knowledge and supposition that implied. And Arthur Weasley was in a blood feud with Draco’s father.

No, it didn’t look good. For any of them.

Hermione, as the main perpetrator of the betrayal, would come in for most of Ron’s fury. Draco he despised already, so things wouldn’t change there, so much as intensify. Harry, however … that was tricky.

Harry might fall under fire as an accessory to the deception. But ultimately, Ron would expect him to choose up sides. And it didn’t take a genius to figure that one out, Draco thought glumly.

Harry loved Hermione. But his bond with Weasley was almost palpable. If pressed, he’d side with Ron.

And that would be the end of all of it. Draco pulled his knees up to his chin and scowled at a loose thread on the front of his robes.

For a girl who spent every night in his arms, she still held a lot of mysteries. He didn’t know what she’d do, if forced to choose between friends or lover, and he didn’t have the stones to ask her.

It was up to him, then, to make sure she didn’t have to make the choice.

He rolled back over and started, grimly, to contemplate his strategy.

**