Roman Holiday

Chapter Thirty-Seven

It was over.

Gasping like a landed fish, Severus propped himself up in his chair and turned his attention to the little matter of breathing.

In. Out. Long, slow, shuddering.

Steady now, he told himself, and tried to force his hands not to tremble.

He couldn’t remember anything in his life that had ever hurt quite so much as the last few minutes, as the Dark Mark writhed in its death-throes and flickered on his arm like a guttering candle. Not even the Cruciatus had been like this, psychic pain as much as physical, as if the Mark were some twining, parasitic plant determined to tear as much of himself away with it when it went.

As always, he’d felt the Dark Lord’s displeasure as if it were his own: bewilderment, outrage, terror - and in that last moment, a terrible high keening cry, a promise of vengeance, that rang in his ears and reverberated in the marrow of his bones, even as his body threatened to rip itself apart from the inside out.

And then, silence.

Slowly, haltingly, he turned his forearm over.

The shape of the Mark stood out in relief against the pale olive of his arm: skim-milk, fish-belly white. Skin that hadn’t seen the sun for almost two decades. But his own skin, untouched by Dark magic.

At that thought, Severus let out a breath that was almost a sob, and cupped that vulnerable pale patch of skin with his opposite hand as if it were a wound.

He’d never been able to bring himself to touch the Mark.

He’d thought he’d wear it forever.

You deserved to wear it forever, you know, said a voice in his brain. This is a gift you’re not worthy of.

At that thought, his teeth ground together.

Yes. He knew.

That didn’t change the fact that Hermione Granger’s extra-credit Potions project had driven He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named out of the body he’d occupied for nearly half its existence, howling like a stray dog before a lit torch.

With a supreme effort of will, Severus pulled himself out of the chair and limped unsteadily over to the fireplace. Withdrawing a pinch of Floo powder from its storage urn on the hearth, he tossed it into the dying flames, stepped in, and said grimly, “Dumbledore.”

News like this couldn’t wait until morning.

**

Despite the late hour, the house-elves had welcomed Hermione and Draco with open arms. Dobby, in particular, had been most eager to talk - and so it was past midnight when they finally re-emerged into the corridor, walking in by-now-familiar lockstep under the Invisibility Cloak, Draco cuddling a warm thermos of chocolate under his arm.

For complete safety’s sake, he supposed they should return to Gryffindor Tower to add the Illuminata - but tomorrow was a school day, after all, and he was reluctant to take the time. Pulling Hermione into the empty Charms classroom, he warded the door, set down the thermos on the nearest desk, and unscrewed the lid.

Wordlessly, Hermione withdrew the stoppered test-tube of Illuminata from the pocket of her robes and poured it into the cocoa, where it disappeared without a trace. “Should we try it?” she whispered, and Draco shrugged.

“Guess we’d better, before we give it to Filch,” he said. “Just to be on the safe side. I’ll go first.”

Hermione watched with tense expectation as he tipped a scant swallow of the steaming brown liquid into the cap of the thermos and threw it back. “Well?” she demanded.

Draco looked thoughtful for a minute. “Good,” he said. “Very warming - my feet were a little cold, and now I can feel my toes tingling. It’s like drinking medi-chocolate after you’ve seen a dementor. Try some.”

Hermione took a cautious sip and nodded in agreement. Added to the hot chocolate, in this small dosage at least, the Illuminata merely added a subtle frisson of well-being to the mix. Filch shouldn’t even be aware he’d been medicated; the drink would simply make him feel better.

Perfect. She grinned at Draco.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

They re-capped the doctored chocolate, folded themselves back into the Invisibility Cloak, cautiously opened the door, and slipped out into the corridor.

And ran straight into the Headmaster, decked out for a good night’s sleep in flannel robes, a tasselled nightcap, and fuzzy slippers.

**

“Accio Invisibility Cloak,” Dumbledore said calmly, and folded it over his arm as his two startled prefects gaped at him like fish, their eyes unwillingly drawn to the plush dragon’s-heads adorning his toes. “Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy. Good evening.” He nodded at the thermos under Draco’s arm. “Picnic?”

“Um …” Draco began.

“Well, that is …” Hermione said desperately.

They looked at Dumbledore, at each other, and fell into miserable silence. He gave them a reassuring smile.

“I believe,” he said gently, “that prefects have special night patrolling privileges, do they not? It’s not for the violation of any rules that I need to speak to the both of you. Though I do imagine that any scientific experiments intended for Mr. Filch’s consumption -“ and here his eyes twinkled madly - “should be processed through Madam Pomfrey first.” He held out one hand. “May I?”

Wordlessly, Draco handed him the thermos of chocolate. Dumbledore uncapped it, sniffed beatifically at the curl of fragrant steam which rose into the chilly corridor, and poured a measure into the cap.

“Amazing,” he said when he’d swallowed it. “Truly amazing.” He smiled at them again. “A most fortuitous discovery, Miss Granger. As you’re about to find out.”

“Sir?” Hermione wasn’t following this at all.

“Professor Snape,” Dumbledore said quietly, “has been conducting some experiments of his own this evening. With most remarkable results.” He looked pensive for a moment. “The Illuminata,” he said, “may be just the formidable weapon for which we have been searching.”

Hermione swallowed hard. Behind their backs, Draco’s fingers found hers and squeezed reassuringly.

“To my office, if you please,” Dumbledore said, and shot a searching glance at Draco. “And you as well, Mr. Malfoy.”

“But …” Draco protested. “I didn’t have anything to do with developing the Illuminata, Professor.”

Dumbledore raised one bushy white eyebrow. “Draco,” he said softly. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me about the Fils du Couteau?”

**

Morning. The Great Hall.

Hermione spooned up an indifferent bite of soggy cornflakes and stifled a yawn. These late nights were getting to her. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Draco wasn’t faring much better - his silky platinum head was drooped over his eggs like a sickly dandelion.

Snape hadn’t appeared at all: according to a couple of Ravenclaws who had been down to the dungeons before breakfast to hand in late essays, there was a note on his door cancelling Potions for the day. From the looks of him last night, Hermione thought a day’s holiday was well-deserved - though how Dumbledore had convinced him to take the day off was beyond her weary imagination.

They hadn’t made it to bed until well past three o’ clock. Faced with Dumbledore’s gentle probing and the comforting weight of Fawkes on his lap, Draco had taken a deep shuddering breath and then spilled out his story in what seemed like one long run-on sentence, while he stroked the phoenix with one hand and held Hermione’s fingers in a death grip with the other.

For the most part, Hermione had let him talk, though she found herself filling in spots here and there. When they were finished, the Headmaster had leaned back, laced his hands behind his head, and studied them consideringly.

“Most enterprising,” he’d said. “You seem to be quite well-informed about the process by which the curse functions. I confess that I find your knowledge fascinating, as I was unaware of it myself, and am fairly certain that it doesn’t exist in our library.”

At this, Draco and Hermione exchanged dark looks. Albus Dumbledore might look harmless, but he didn’t miss much. And as vague as they’d tried to be about their sources, the existence of Slytherin’s ghost was a sizable hole in their story that couldn’t be completely glossed over.

To tell or not to tell? Hermione, after a brief mental battle, decided to hold her peace. Any ghost who’d managed to conceal his presence at Hogwarts for almost a century had definite reasons for doing so. And until she’d gotten the chance to find out how and why he’d really died, and exactly why he’d chosen to classify that information, she was going to keep him to herself.

“Are you sure, Professor?” she’d asked, keeping her expression as bland as possible. “It’s surprising what one can find in the Hogwarts library; it’s amazingly well-stocked.”

This piece of borderline impertinence had earned her another one of Dumbledore’s patented searchlight stares. It was late, however, and he hadn’t pressed the issue.

“Indeed,” he’d sighed. “Well, then. Professor Snape tells me you intend to begin preliminary testing with the Armoring Fluid tomorrow … er, this evening. Correct?”

Hermione nodded.

“Then perhaps Mr. Malfoy should join you for this part of the project, since its outcome is of particular interest to him.” Dumbledore’s blue eyes took on a wicked sparkle. “And since this experiment is of vital importance to the wizarding community at large, perhaps the two of you should have some private space in which to research.”

He rummaged in a desk drawer for a moment, then hummed in triumph and withdrew a pair of tiny silver skeleton keys on a ring, which he held out to them. “We have a limited amount of private rooms off the library,” he said, “which Madam Pince uses for storage and research. This one in particular is well-suited for purposes of … chemistry; take her the keys tomorrow and she’ll show you in.”

Stunned, they’d taken the keys and stammered thanks, which the Headmaster waved nonchalantly away.

“This school,” he said cryptically, “has always rewarded hard work and initiative. It may not appear to place such a high value on innovation - or, for that matter, on inter-House co-operation - but I assure you, the faculty and I are devoted to nurturing such noble aims, when we recognize them.” His gaze sharpened, taking on a hard edge. “Believe me,” he said gravely, “to succeed against our common enemies, we cannot stand on our own.”

Then he’d presented both of them with sugar quills and shooed them off to bed, keeping the Illuminated cocoa - he’d murmured something about Madam Pomfrey finding it interesting, but Hermione suspected he had a nightcap in mind.

She ought to have slept well; her whole body ached with exhaustion. But as she lay spread-eagled in her four-poster, savoring the luxury of having the entire double bed to herself for once, she couldn’t help trembling with the euphoria of scientific discovery.

She’d been afraid, so afraid, that there wouldn’t be a fit use for the Illuminata. And tonight, thanks to the potion she’d rediscovered, one reluctant Death-Eater had thrown off his chains.

All her life, she’d wanted to change the world.

It looked like she just might get her wish.

**