Roman Holiday

Chapter Forty-Eight

Slytherin, as it turned out, was completely unfazed by the Trapping of Mrs. Norris.

“I hold a special grudge against that cat,” he said. “Always nosing around the library when I’m trying to pick up my new book shipments … as if I haven’t better things to do than avoid her and that crazed old ghoul whose company she keeps.” He smirked. “I’ve Stunned her so many times that her brains are probably pickled.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Draco said, grinning.

Hermione frowned and turned away, fussing with the chain of the pendant to conceal her suddenly outraged sense of fair play. Sure, Mrs. Norris was annoying … but Stunning seemed a bit extreme, didn’t it?

Who are you to talk? her conscience sniffed disapprovingly. Bad enough you’re prepared to use Entrapment on your classmates; was it really necessary to do it to Filch’s cat, too?

Hermione shoved that bit of self-analysis to the back of her brain, and lifted out the pendant so that it lay on top of her robes. “I know I was supposed to practice on Draco tonight,” she said, worrying the jewel with the pad of her thumb. “But the first time I Release him, Mrs. Norris will get free, too. How do we get around that?”

Salazar shrugged. “We can practice on her instead,” he said; “it doesn’t matter. You’ll have to do an Obliviate afterwards, once you get her up to the main level … but you would have had to do that anyway.”

You’ll have to do an Obliviate.

Hermione’s whole body went stiff.

She knew the Ministry of Magic used Memory Charms all the time - they seemed to be the first line of defense against curious Muggles - but that didn’t mean she had to like them. Obliviate wasn’t Dark magic, exactly, she supposed … dirty gray, maybe. Still, it seemed like a charm of convenience rather than one of necessity, cast to cover up mistakes and - more unscrupulously yet - to rewrite the past.

She’d burned all six of Gilderoy Lockhart’s books, plus the get-well card he’d sent her - they’d been ashes even before her bags were unpacked from second-year - but his betrayal would live forever in her memory, in lurid, grinning Technicolor. If she looked for a thousand years, she’d never find a better example of the truism Handsome Is As Handsome Does.

When you were thirteen, that was a hard lesson to learn.

Pretty and Good, she’d told herself sternly as that wide, white smile flaked into ash, are two different things. And don’t you forget it.

She’d been deeply suspicious of Obliviate ever since; she associated it with things slipshod and mercenary and not-to-be-trusted. And as for Sal, her wickedly charming mentor in the Dark Arts, he might be an endlessly fascinating fount of knowledge, and more than halfway to being a good friend - but that didn’t mean she was going to let him bully her into doing something that felt this wrong.

She decided to approach the subject by a side route.

“Sal,” she said, “can Mrs. Norris hear us talking right now? Does she know what’s happening to her?”

Slytherin, surprised, shook his head. “No,” he said. “You’re more aware of her right now than she is of you - the object of a Trapping Spell is confined not only in the physical space of the receptacle, but also in the moment directly before the spell was cast. The cat doesn’t know she’s been Trapped; she’s still stuck in a time loop up in the trophy room.” He glanced knowingly at the pendant. “Buzzing a bit, is it?”

“It feels …” Hermione searched for words. “Angry. Panicked. Afraid.”

“Mm.” Slytherin nodded. “Don’t let it throw you, Hermione - the emotions contained in the receptacle reflect how she was feeling at that moment, not how she’s feeling now.” He paused, frowning. “Well, I suppose technically she is feeling it now,” he clarified. “But that’s a perception thing, really.”

If he was trying to reassure her, he’d fallen well short of the mark. Hermione chose her words carefully.

“If Mrs. Norris isn’t operating in real-time, now that she’s Trapped,” she said, “why do we need Obliviate?” She bit her lip. “I don’t like that spell,” she explained sulkily. “It’s so .. so underhanded. So slimy. So …”

“So Slytherin?” Draco suggested idly, glancing up from the copy of Portnoy’s Complaint that he had plucked off Sal’s bookshelf and was skimming for the pornographic bits. Hermione glared at him.

“I wasn’t implying that,” she said.

Slytherin laughed.

“Well, I did have quite a reputation, back in the day,” he admitted. “But consider this, Hermione - often what people think of as ‘underhanded’ behaviour is really just characteristic of a good logician.” He had a devil’s-advocate gleam in his eye, and a cagey little smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “If you think farther ahead than your opponent, does that make you underhanded and - what was your term again? Oh, yes - slimy? Or are you just better-prepared?”

Hermione looked skeptical. “If we’d thought ahead or been well-prepared,” she said acerbically, “we would have been under the Invisibility Cloak, and I would never have been tempted to Trap Mrs. Norris in the first place.” She eyed him scathingly. “Using Obliviate under this circumstance isn’t evidence of logic, Sal, no matter how you spin the semantics. It’s a cover-up for a bad decision and my own cocky, ill-considered behaviour.” She glared at him. “And I don’t like it.”

Chin jutting, eyes narrow, she stared him down.

Salazar, in return, studied her intently for a moment, then unexpectedly threw back his head and laughed until the tears ran.

“Sorry,” he gasped, still hiccoughing. “You don’t know how like Godric you were, just now. Gryffindors.” He shook his head admiringly. “And you, girlie,” he said. “You’ll play my slippery little games up to a point, and then you put your foot down, don’t you? Good for you.”

He linked his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “As far as the cat’s concerned,” he said affably, “it’s a small matter - you can just take her up and turn her loose, though I’d be ready to disappear at a moment’s notice; that old buzzard of a caretaker is just itching to pin all those Stunnings on a student.” His brow wrinkled. “As for the other Trappings you’ve got planned, though, we may have a problem. Using a Memory Charm to follow up Entrapment is a fairly standard procedure … if you don’t modify their memories to prohibit the spell being traced back to you, what’s the point of doing it? You’re just causing more trouble for yourself.”

“What about the Invisibility Cloak?” Draco asked, not taking his eyes off the page (apparently Portnoy didn’t have too much to complain about, at the moment). “If she’s invisible, all they’ll remember is a voice. And I know that lot - pile all eight brains on top of one another and they still don’t add up to a rocket scientist. There’s no way they’d be able to identify her from hearing just one word.”

Hermione looked hopefully at Salazar, who was studying the fine transparent hairs on his knuckles. “I think that’s a good idea,” she ventured. “After all, Memory Charms can be reversed … sure, it’s dangerous, but I think Voldemort would do it if it served his interests. He doesn’t care whose brain he fries.” She looked troubled for a moment. “Wouldn’t it be safer in the long run - for them, too - if there was really nothing in their memories to be recovered?”

Salazar scowled half-heartedly.

“You modern kids and your fancy toys,” he grumbled. “Time was, Invisibility Cloaks were hard to come by even for a wizard with a legitimate war to wage. They’re meant for espionage. Ambush. They didn’t use to be just lying around in fancy shops so you overprivileged brats could run around out of bed and snog under them.”

“Oh, they’re still hard to come by,” Draco said absently, his bright head still bent over the book. “Lucius would never have sprung for mine if I hadn’t told him Potter already had one.”

Hermione snickered. “And we don’t use the Cloak for snogging anymore, Sal,” she said. “The Headmaster’s given us a perfectly good secret room for that purpose. Gryffindor-Slytherin fraternizing is on the Endangered list - he must figure we’re a protected species.” The amusement died on her face. “Seriously, though, if what we’re planning isn’t part of a ‘legitimate war’, I don’t know what is. I personally don’t think the word ‘ambush’ is too far off the mark.”

Salazar shrugged amiably. “You may have a point there,” he said. “Well, then, by all means, take the cat up and turn her loose. Just be careful; if that grim little beast of a caretaker catches you you’ll be in detention until you graduate. Then get out the Invisibility Cloak and practice your Traps and Releases on Draco. If anything goes wrong, you know where to find me.”

His amused glance traveled over to the other armchair and rested on Draco. “Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco jumped and looked up guiltily, a faint stain of pink marring his cheekbones. “Um. Yes?”

“You can borrow the book,” Sal said. “Just don’t bring it back with the pages stuck together.”

Draco went red to the roots of his hair.

**

In all their nocturnal comings and goings through the Trophy Room, they hadn’t caught sight of Snape once. Despite this, Hermione felt certain that he’d been back to see Sal: certain books went periodically missing from the shelves, the second armchair was tilted at a different angle from visit to visit, and she’d once caught sight of a half-empty teacup on the sideboard.

Her suspicions were confirmed at dinner, the last night before the holidays began. “Post owl, Hermione,” Ron said, and squinted suspiciously at the small parchment envelope. “More poetry again?”

Hermione slit the envelope open with her table knife and scanned the card inside. “No,” she said slowly. “Just a note from Snape. He wants to talk about the final grade for my extra-credit project.”

She, Harry and Ginny exchanged hooded glances. A quick look in the direction of the Slytherin table confirmed that Draco had noted the exchange. She gave him a quick, surreptitious nod.

Inside her chest, which felt suddenly, ridiculously tight, an invisible timer started to tick.

It was almost showtime.

**

“So what does it say?” Ginny asked. They were gathered around the low table in Elysium: Hermione and Harry in the armchairs, Ginny stretched out on the chaise, Draco pacing a measured path around the hearth. “Is it really from Snape?”

Hermione nodded. “Looks like Sal filled him in on our plans,” she said, and flipped the card onto the table. Harry picked it up.

“Will wonders never cease,” he said wonderingly. “Snape’s providing us with intelligence - I’ll never know how you managed that, Hermione. The eight of them have been directed to stay behind when the train leaves tomorrow morning and walk down to the front gates, where they’ll be … collected. Wonder who he overheard that from?”

Draco shrugged. “Someone was bound to let it slip,” he said. “Big news. They’re the Chosen Ones.”

They looked grimly at each other.

“I wish we were staying,” Ginny said suddenly. “I feel like I’m deserting you.” Hermione waved this away.

“You’ve been plenty of help,” she said; “if you hadn’t volunteered yourselves as experiment material, I’d be even more nervous than I am. As it is, I’m pretty confident I can take them all at once.”

“Eight of them,” Harry pointed out. “Only four of us.”

“Well, yes,” Hermione agreed. “But one of you is a thousand-year-old sorcerer-ghost, and one of you’s the Boy Who Lived. I think I’ll be fine.” She frowned consideringly. “Besides, it’s for the best,” she said. “The Death Eaters are going to be angry enough as it is when their initiates don’t show; best not to have any Potters or Weasleys still in the castle, to pin the blame on. That would be way too convenient.” She rolled her eyes. “I have an ironclad excuse - I’ll be studying; no one’s going to find that unusual.”

“And me?” Draco asked. Hermione jerked her head toward the card in Harry’s hand.

“This is what I’m thinking,” she said. “Snape’s going to collar the Slytherins as they leave the dungeons - as they’re walking out the front doors, you should meet them on the steps and pretend to need to speak to him. They’re going to want to get away from him anyway; the minute you pull him into a conversation, they’ll start down to the gate without him. That way, you’ve both got an alibi.”

“Where are you going to be?” he asked. Hermione swallowed hard.

“Right behind them,” she said. “Halfway between the front gates and the castle, they have to pass the lake - there’s a spot there that’s not visible from either place. I’ll do it then.” She shrugged nervously. “If all goes well, they’ll seem to have vanished midpoint, with no one implicated or even aware of their disappearance until they’re missed by whoever it is they’re meeting.”

“What if it doesn’t go well?” Harry asked. Hermione grimaced.

“Then it’s a good thing I’ll be invisible, isn’t it?”

**

Her alarm went off at five a.m., but she was already awake. Outside her window, nothing but darkness and howling wind; they hadn’t had snow yet this winter, but temperatures had plummeted steadily for a week now, and the frost on her windowsill was so thick that it could have passed for a dusting of snow.

The train left at six. The house-elves served an early breakfast in the Great Hall for the students who were travelling, but Hermione didn’t intend to show. Better that she be assumed to be still sleeping.

So she’d said her goodbyes to Harry and Ginny last night in Elysium, and then walked back with them to Gryffindor Tower. Ron had been in the common room when they came in, playing one side of his chessboard moodily against the other. Seeing him sitting there, broad-shouldered and flame-haired and utterly oblivious to the moral havoc being wreaked around him, Hermione had felt affection clutch at her throat.

“Have a happy holiday, Ron,” she said, coming over to perch on the arm of his chair and dropping a friendly kiss on his cheek. He blushed, but didn’t pull away.

“You too,” he said. “Sure you don’t want to come with us, after all? Mum would love to have you.”

“I’d love to be there,” Hermione said, and it was the truth - right then, she couldn’t have thought of a more uncomplicated, inviting place than the Burrow. “But I have things to do. You’ll just have to wait and get your presents by owl this year.”

“Bugger the presents,” Ron said unexpectedly. “Don’t work too hard, Hermione.” His gaze was almost troubled as it slid over her, as if he knew more than he was letting on. And then he hugged her, and to her intense embarrassment Hermione felt the prick of tears under her lashes.

“Sentimental,” she said with shaky-voiced self-mockery. “Ron, let me go before I sniffle all over you. I’ll owl you, all right?”

**

And now it was morning, and in another twenty minutes the school would be reduced to a ghost of itself, all the chattering bustling noisy life of it siphoned away by the clattering carriages. Hermione pulled on a pair of dungarees and a sweatshirt and dug through her underwear drawer for a pair of thermal socks.

Five-thirty. She could hear the first birdlike cries of student farewells, far below her window - or was that just the wind? Somewhere in the morass of holiday expectations and cheery good wishes stood eight would-be Death Eaters, Hermione mused, and wondered: did they feel the icy fingers of dread clutching at their guts?

Or was that just her?

She looped the pendant over her head, pulled closed the Invisibility Cloak, and pocketed her wand. Ready or not, she thought - here I come … and went out to meet Draco.

She passed him on the steps of the Great Hall, pink-cheeked and windblown and looking at once excited and a bit dejected, rather as if he’d just kissed someone goodbye. Knowing him, he probably had - Harry and Ron would be fuming all the way to King’s Cross. Hermione fought back a snicker.

“Hi,” she hissed in his ear. “They’re right behind me, coming up the stairs. Good luck.”

And then the front door opened, and there they were: eight white-faced, glitter-eyed children off to lose what little remained of their innocence, forever. Behind them was Snape, his face set in uncharacteristically unpleasant lines.

“Professor!” Draco said, feigning surprised delight. Not exactly in character, Hermione supposed, but still, worthy of the Academy’s consideration; Snape, at least, looked genuinely startled. “I’ve been looking all over for you - do you have a moment? It’s about that course of summer study I was telling you about; I got the application in yesterday’s post, and I was wondering …”

He shouldered his way through the Slytherins, who shot him venomous stares of dislike, and dragged Snape a few feet back into the Hall. Hermione saw Pansy and Avery exchange glances.

“Now,” Avery hissed, and the Slytherins hurried down the steps in a quick-moving rush of mingled anxiety and relief. Hermione shadowed them, her heart fluttering in her throat.

She’d expected to overhear some of the juicy details concerning the upcoming ceremony, but they were silent and oddly subdued. Hermione supposed that as coming-of-age rituals went, this one wouldn’t be especially warm and fuzzy, and noted that Millicent Bulstrode, in particular, looked like she was about to be ill. Even Pansy and Avery, for all their bluster down by the Potions classroom, didn’t look exactly eager to get where they were going.

It was strange how diminished the eight of them seemed, in only their own company. Less malicious, certainly. Less like their parents - and more like what they really were: a disconsolate huddle of rookie kamikazes. Oddly enough, this made Hermione feel better about her upcoming interference in their holiday plans. The thought that they might be getting cold feet almost managed to qualify the Trapping Spell as a ‘rescue’, rather than a subversion of fate and a violation of free will.

Almost.

Sentimental, she chided herself again. That’s going to get you into trouble someday. Even so, it was the image of Millicent’s scared white face, as they rounded a second corner and lost sight of the castle altogether, that gave her the courage to pull out her wand.

To Trap multiple objects or people required complete sustained focus and precision wand-work. No room for error, in other words - she’d only get one shot. And though it would have been simpler, and certainly safer, to hex them from behind, Hermione just couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Now or never, she thought, and cleared her throat as loudly as she could.

The sound cut through the still semi-darkness like a gunshot. The Slytherins jumped like rabbits and whirled guiltily in the direction of the castle, fumbling for their wands.

“Inlacqueo!” Hermione whispered, the word harsh and unrecognizable to her own ears. She had just enough time to register the eight frightened faces in front of her before they - and their owners - blinked abruptly out of existence.

**