Roman Holiday

Chapter Forty-Two

By the time Draco finally looked down at his watch, he was two minutes late.

He’d been dancing with Ginny Weasley for a solid hour and a quarter. Guiltily, he looked around the room, but didn’t see Hermione anywhere among its head-tossing, high-stepping occupants. Gone already, he guessed, and felt a twinge of shame that he hadn’t noticed her leave.

It had been a long time since he’d put his brain on hold like this.

He ladled punch into a glass and, as unobtrusively as possible, herded Ginny into a corner under the pretext of giving it to her. She pushed her bright fall of hair off her forehead, took a less-than-dainty sip (their dancing had fallen more into the ‘athletic’ category than the ‘romantic’, and they were both sweating), and grinned at him, her eyes merry over the rim of her glass.

“What’s up?”

“I have to meet Hermione,” Draco muttered. “I’m late already.” He smiled at her nervously. “Business, not pleasure.”

Now why had he felt compelled to add that?

The dancing eyes sharpened in speculation. “What sort of business?”

Draco bit his lip. “Long story. We have to meet someone.”

“Everyone’s here,” she pointed out mildly, sweeping out a graceful bare arm to indicate the crowded Great Hall. Not for the first time, Draco caught a glimpse of the iron core behind her delicate appearance.

Why that should shake him up so much, he had no idea.

“Someone else.” He gulped. “It’s sort of … a secret.”

“Really,” Ginny said, immediately interested. Draco groaned inwardly.

Oh, that’s smooth, Malfoy, he told himself furiously. Really smooth. Nice going.

Damn it, he was a Slytherin - he was supposed to be good at subterfuge. Especially around petite Gryffindor redheads whose enchanting little pixie-faces lit up when they heard the word ‘secret’. Draco glanced at his watch again, trying not to grimace.

Ten minutes late.

“Look,” he said. “You’re a great dancer and I’ve had a fantastic time, but I’ve really got to go now. Okay?”

In response to this, Ginny took a considering sip of her punch.

“If you disappear without me, it’s going to look like we quarreled,” she said. “On the other hand, if we leave at the same time, no one will think anything of it.”

Draco shot her an incredulous look. “You want to come along?”

Women. The day he understood one would be the day he fell down dead.

Which, in all fairness, could be sooner than he thought. He dismissed that grim thought - the first one he’d had in hours - and, with a bit of effort, closed his open mouth. Ginny, clearly pleased at catching him off-guard, slanted him one of her naughty-angel looks and drained the rest of her punch.

“Well, it sounds like an adventure to me,” she said archly. “You grow up with five older brothers, you know one when you hear one. Besides,” she added in an undertone, jerking her head toward the opposite wall, “if you disappear on me I’m going to spend the rest of the night being trod upon by Neville. And that’s the kind of adventure I’d rather avoid. So if the two of you aren’t just going off to neck in the gardens …” She shrugged expressively.

Draco glanced over his shoulder. Indeed - Neville Longbottom was watching them from the other side of the Great Hall, a distinctly disconsolate expression on his normally good-natured face. He sighed.

“Okay,” he said. “Come on. We’ll fill you in on the details on the way.”

**

Hermione, who was running late herself and had guiltily steeled herself for curious questions, was most gratified to be the first person behind the tapestry door. She took advantage of her unexpected solitude to pull herself together and change out of her gown, and was just zipping up her black robes when from the other side of the door came a muttered “Coleridge!” and Draco, followed by Ginny Weasley, came sliding into the secret passageway.

Under certain circumstances, Hermione might have found the presence of an additional comrade-in-arms odd … especially a dainty-looking little Tinkerbell like Ginny. Certainly Draco was shooting anxious sideways glances in her direction, trying to gauge her reaction. But under the initial frisson of suspicion at the sight of Draco’s mussed hair and Ginny’s shining eyes, Hermione honestly felt more relieved than anything else.

First of all, Ginny hadn’t grown up in the Weasley household without learning how to keep her own counsel when it was important.

Second of all, Slytherin’s quarters were a looooong walk away, and bringing Ginny along meant the conversation wouldn’t falter. Nor - more importantly - was it likely to turn to the uncomfortable subject of where - and with whom - Hermione had been for the past hour.

Finally, she was hardly in a position to complain, was she?

“Hi,” she said, and summoned her brightest smile. “Ready to go?”

**

It took them a few minutes to get started. Draco, like Hermione, had provided himself with a bag containing standard student robes and comfortable walking shoes. While he ducked around a corner to change, Hermione ran a considering eye over Ginny’s emerald-silk sheath.

“Um .. you might be a bit chilly in that,” she said, gesturing toward the deep neckline and spaghetti straps. “Do you want to borrow my cloak?”

In response, Ginny shook her head. “Not necessary,” she said, reaching into her décolletage and withdrawing - to Hermione’s look of speculative admiration - a much-Reduced wand, slender as a matchstick and about as long as her little finger.

So that’s how the pureblood witches do it. Hermione filed that piece of information away for another day and took the tiny wand Ginny held out to her.

“Engorgio, right?” she queried. “That’s a good idea - I never would have thought of it.”

“It’ll still work,” Ginny assured her. “It’s just kind of hard to aim.”

To Hermione’s surprise, Ginny then turned the newly-restored wand on herself, shot Hermione a conspiratorial wink, and whispered, “Finite Incantatem!”

“The Cinderella Charm - old trick of Mum’s,” she explained a bit self-consciously, smoothing down what were now unmistakably plain black student robes. “Not as good as the real thing, of course; if you get hit with a stray hex, it’s all over - and it would have worn off at midnight anyway. But, if you’re short on pocket money …” She trailed off with a carefully casual shrug.

Hermione felt a stab of empathy. Fred and George might have schemed their way out of penury (Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, for an infant business still in its first year out of mail-order, was raking in the Galleons, a handful of Knuts at a time) - Percy might salaam his way up the corporate ladder at the Ministry - and Ron might sit around and kvetch like an old man about his lack of funds. But she’d never thought before how the Weasleys’ precarious finances affected their only daughter.

Clearly, though, Ginny could hold her own.

To hide her thoughts, she pasted on a smile and linked her arm with Ginny’s. “You’re going to need to know a few things,” she said, and started down the corridor. “How much has Draco told you?”

**

Taking the trip into the subdungeons was, Hermione thought, much more pleasant when you had company. Besides, the Illuminata/Salazar Slytherin/Fils du Couteau epic made for a good story - and Ginny was as appreciative an audience as they could have wished for, oohing and ahhing and asking sharp incisive questions in all the right places.

“Wow,” she said finally, after both Hermione and Draco had fallen silent. “Wow. What can you say to that?” Her dark eyes narrowed. “And how do the two of you keep your grades up, when you’ve got this mess to worry about?”

“Where there’s a will,” Draco said lightly, and smiled at her as if he hadn’t just been discussing his own possible, highly unpleasant and very pre-meditated demise at the hands of an evil madman. Hermione’s eyebrows shot up.

Someone was really turning on the charm, wasn’t he?

No time to dwell on that now, though - patting the inside pocket of her robes to make sure the CD and the Discman were safe, she towed her entourage around the final corner and quickened her steps. Behind her, Ginny gasped and Draco drew his breath in sharply.

From his armchair in front of the fire, Salazar Slytherin looked up and sent them an amiable smile.

“Good evening,” he said, his eyes drifting appreciatively over Ginny and more speculatively over Draco. “The lovely Miss Granger, back for a holiday visit - and with friends. I’m honoured.” He gestured toward the spare armchair and ottoman. “Sit down, won’t you?”

“Ginny, Draco, this is Salazar Slytherin,” Hermione said. “Mr. Slytherin - um, that is, Salazar,” she amended, as the ghost sent her a reproachful look - “these are my friends Draco Malfoy and Virginia Weasley. I believe you’ve met Ginny’s older brothers already.”

Ginny’s eyes took on a calculating gleam at this; Hermione had inadvertently forgotten to tell her about Fred and George’s bit of dungeon-graffiti, and she was clearly filing that particular little bibelot away for possible blackmail purposes later. “How do you do,” she said, curtsying, and didn’t flinch as the old ghost gravely kissed her hand.

“You don’t mean to say that those two rogues are related to this sweet young lady?” Slytherin said gallantly, pretending surprise. “My dear. What an improvement you are over the previous model. Your parents must be so pleased.”

Charmed, Ginny giggled. Draco rolled his eyes.

“And Draco,” Hermione soldiered on, “is the friend I mentioned to you before. With the, um, curse issue.”

Salazar’s expression changed immediately from pure flirtation to straight business. His smile, however, didn’t falter.

“Indeed,” he said. “The Fils du Couteau himself. This is an occasion, isn’t it?” His amused-but-calculating glance swung over to Hermione. “If it’s information you need, Hermione, I trust you’ve brought a tune in trade.”

Hermione grinned at him. “I’ve done better than that,” she said. “Check this out, will you?”

With the triumphant air of a parlor magician finishing up a well-rehearsed rabbit trick, she drew out the Discman and popped in the CD. “Sonorus!” she murmured at the headphones, and pushed ‘Play’ with a slightly trembling forefinger.

Okay, Vladimir, she thought. Do your stuff.

**

Hermione was fairly certain that neither Draco nor Ginny had heard Rachmaninov before. The Malfoys, of course, wouldn’t have had Muggle music in the house. And at the Weasley household, Molly generally kept the old wireless tuned to Celestina Warbeck, a sweet-voiced warbler in the Breathless Mahoney vein who mostly ripped off old Edith Piaf tunes.

It was Salazar that she was watching, however, as the piano’s deliberate opening chords went from a whisper to a shout and the strings swept in underneath like exultant hurricane breakers.

This, after all, was a man who’d never even heard Mozart.

These chords, these tunes, half of these instruments even, including the solo piano, hadn’t even existed the last time he was out of the dungeon. Either he’d love this or hate it, and from the intent, utterly focussed way he was staring at the little silver Discman, as if he’d be holding his breath if he still had it to hold, she couldn’t tell which it was yet.

A silver rocket of piano arpeggio shot off the high end of the keyboard; the sawing strings subsided to a gentle mutter. Hermione bit her lip - here came the tune, the movie theme, her trump card.

If this wasn’t worth everything in the world he knew, she didn’t know what was.

No orchestra, just naked piano, in the most searching, reaching, revealing melody she knew, the quiet notes falling pure and clear into the silence of the dungeon like funeral bells. Beside her, Hermione heard Ginny draw in a surprised breath and let it out again in a whispered sigh of pleasure.

Beautiful, beautiful - the second statement of the melody merely confirming to your dazzled ears that you really had heard that, that it wasn’t just wishful thinking … and then building, building, building with those urgently murmuring strings underneath, and it was back again - the same tune, but triumphant and defiant and …

“Turn it off.”

Hermione blinked. “Sorry?”

“Turn it off,” Slytherin ordered, and Hermione was shocked to see the glitter of tears in his pale grey eyes. Hurriedly, she hit the Stop button.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I thought you’d like it …”

He shook his head, barked out a harsh laugh, and wiped his eyes with the back of one shaking translucent hand. “Like it?” He shook his head again. “Like it,” he repeated, more quietly. Hermione watched him anxiously.

She’d entertained the possibility that he might not like it, but she’d never thought that it would upset him.

“Do you?” she queried timidly, turning the little machine over and over in her hands. Draco and Ginny were pretending tactful interest in the bookshelves; she and Slytherin might as well have been alone. He withdrew a pearly-grey handkerchief from the inside of his ghostly robes and carefully blotted his eyes with it.

“It’s too beautiful,” he said finally. “Beyond my understanding. Like Dark magic for your ears.” He pointed at the Discman. “That … that thing - it’s smaller than my hand. How can it sound like that?”

Oh, Hermione thought, suddenly understanding. “The machine doesn’t make the music,” she said. “It just plays it back. It’s a recording.” She extracted and held up the CD, which Slytherin peered at closely. “The music’s on this,” she explained. “The musicians play it, and it’s held here.”

“A Trapping Spell,” Slytherin said slowly. Hermione shook her head. Whatever a Trapping Spell was, she’d never heard of it.

Sounded useful, though. She made a mental note to look it up.

“In a way, I guess it would be similar. But it’s a Muggle device. No magic - just science.” She met his eyes. “It’s yours,” she said. “Signed, sealed, and delivered. Just tell me anything you can that will help us.”

**

To their surprise, Slytherin was most interested in their Protection Potion research. “Fascinating,” he said, studying the neat pages of notes Hermione had tucked into her rucksack. “So you’ve got a substance here that will resist a blade for, what? Four minutes or so?”

“About that,” Draco said. “After that, a superficial wound will heal a couple of times … but if you repeat the cutting enough, the effects eventually wear off altogether.”

“Hm,” Slytherin said, looking thoughtful. “Most useful. Didn’t exist when I was alive, of course.” He nodded toward the notebook, flipping pages with a flick of his wand. “Isn’t going to do you much good against young Tom Riddle, though, not after those first few minutes.”

Draco and Hermione exchanged significant glances.

“Why is that, exactly?” Hermione asked, keeping her voice as calm as she could. Slytherin directed a slightly pained look in Draco’s direction, then grimaced and spread his hands meaningfully.

“Means of death is dismemberment,” he said shortly, ignoring the little outcry that came from Ginny at this news. “One piece at a time. Wrists, ankles, elbows, knees, shoulders, hips. Then the neck … but not until after the body’s cold.” He shot the white-faced Draco a look that was not unkind. “Not that it will come to that, I hope.”

“You and the rest of us,” Hermione said grimly. Salazar stared into the fire, then looked back at them.

“You’ve got a couple of things in your favor, Draco,” he said finally. “First thing is, you’ve put a bit of Miss Granger in your veins, and that’s the smartest thing you could have done. If it’s true that Riddle’s version of the Fils du Couteau must use a pureblood for its sacrifice, then he’ll know the minute he draws first blood that the ritual won’t work.”

He thought for a moment, then continued. “I’d count on a public place for it,” he said. “He’s held a grudge against Albus Dumbledore for a long time, and to pull something like this off under Dumbledore’s nose would be a major coup - oh, I read the Daily Prophet,” he said, darkly amused at their looks of surprise. “Seclusion doesn’t have to mean ignorance. And most of this ritual can be done beforehand; no chanting, no potions, no invocations, not even a wand. Just a knife to the wrist will start the ceremony going, once it’s in place - and I’ll wager that he’s counting on the resulting panic to make sure no one interferes.”

“So,” Hermione said, slightly cheered by this. “Four minutes may be all we need.”

“Possibly,” Slytherin said, but his pale face was shadowy with tension. “But if I were you, I’d work on strengthening that potion. And don’t,” he said to Draco, “leave the castle, unless you have it with you. Because you never know who’s out there.”

**

On this grim note, they moved on to happier topics - Hermione demonstrated the Discman’s uses briefly and vaporized both it and the Horowitz CD into ghost-compatibility with “Perlucio!” Slytherin looked impressed.

“That,” he said, “will be most useful when my next shipment of books arrives. I’m in your debt.” Hermione eyed him narrowly.

“You certainly are,” she said crisply. “My sources say that however you died, it wasn’t in your sleep. I’m looking forward to hearing the real story - especially considering that I traded you a perfectly good lullaby for that conversation.”

Slytherin’s beard twitched, but his eyes had taken on that buccaneer’s gleam again. “My rates have gone up, Miss Granger,” he said. “And that’s quite a story - worth far more than a snippet of Brahms, I’m afraid.” He patted the Discman’s pearly finish. “I might be persuaded to part with it, however, if the compensation were up to standard.”

Hermione glared at him, then smiled reluctantly.

He was a sneak, all right. But a charming sneak.

“Count on it,” she said over her shoulder, following Draco and Ginny toward the corridor. “You haven’t seen the last of me yet.”

**