Roman Holiday

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Draco Malfoy was crying.

They were all back at Hogwarts - Ginny had found Minerva in the Three Broomsticks, blurted out the story, and every student in the town had been rounded up and shipped back to their common rooms, faster than you could say “Quidditch is cancelled”. Now, they were waiting for Albus in his study … and Minerva was in full cry.

“ … don’t know what possessed you to let her out of your sight,” she was fuming. “And for the sake of a broomstick. You foolish, foolish boy. And you three!”

She turned on her Gryffindors - Harry, Ron, and Ginny - with a ferocity that made even Potter squirm in his chair. Underneath their worry and obvious remorse, they looked nevertheless sulky at the thought of a scolding; young Malfoy, however, was too destroyed even to hear her, or to process what was said to him. The moment Albus’s Location Charm had failed, Draco had begun to weep - and it seemed now that he might never stop.

Severus supposed dully that he should speak up now in Malfoy’s defense - his sin had been one of poor judgment, not malice, and it was clear to see he was his own worst punishment. And Minerva, gripped as she was by a fury born of frustrated anxiety, was only making the situation worse.

But he was afraid to move, afraid to speak.

One wrong word, and he might end up in tears himself.

Grief and guilt and desolation bubbled in his chest, black and bilious and debilitating. He, of all people, knew what Voldemort was capable of, had witnessed it firsthand time and again … and now, it was taking every gram of self-possession he had, not to think about the last time he’d seen Hermione, entering the Weasley twins’ shop three hours ago - pink-cheeked with cold, arm in arm with Draco like the Sun with her attendant Moon, glowing and golden with youth and health and high spirits.

No, he told himself fiercely, don’t think about it - not about that, and not about what might become of her … what bastards like Lucius Malfoy and Tom Riddle could do to a beautiful and brilliant young woman to cripple her promise and blacken her hope.

Assuming that they hadn’t already killed her.

Bile rose in his throat at that thought, thick enough to choke him, and only receded when the door opened in the middle of Minerva’s diatribe and a thoroughly cowed Rita Skeeter appeared, flanked by a Ministry Auror on one side and an uncharacteristically grim Dumbledore on the other.

“Severus, you wanted to join us for this?”

At last, a purpose. “I wouldn’t miss it,” he said viciously, rising from his chair with the bottle of Veritaserum damp and sweaty in his clenched fist, and had the very great pleasure of seeing Rita go sheet-white underneath her cosmetics charms.

If the only useful skills he could bring to the table were a talent for potions and his inherent nastiness, he was damn well going to take advantage of them.

**

Hermione had never seen Lord Voldemort firsthand, but she’d heard enough from Harry to know what to expect: a skeletal, glowing-eyed, slit-nosed caricature; something not quite human. So her first glimpse of him surprised her: the tall, slender man in the sober black robes, who paused to murmur something to Malfoy and then crossed into her peripheral vision, looked more like a Faustian Mephistopheles than the monster of Harry’s nightmares.

That didn’t, Hermione reminded herself, render him any less dangerous.

He gifted her with a thin, passably charming smile that she didn’t return. “Lucius, where are your manners?” he chided, cold voice sharpened with an edge of gallows humour, and flicked his wand lazily in Hermione’s direction. She immediately found herself draped in a Muggle-style dressing gown - black silk - that fell to mid-calf and belted demurely in the front.

Much, much better. But damned if she’d be grateful. She kept her gaze stony.

“Miss Granger,” Voldemort said with another one of those thin, persuasive smiles. “One of our great young minds; I’ve been hearing so much about you.” He took a step closer. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Hermione lifted one eyebrow. “You’re most kind, Mr. Riddle,” she said dryly, and watched a shadow pass over his saturnine features at the mention of his birth name. “I was beginning to fear I’d catch a chill.”

Twenty-eight minutes. And ticking away with every breath she drew. Possibly, Hermione thought, it wasn’t a good idea to get too cheeky.

She returned his steady gaze for a moment longer, then made a show of dropping her eyes, so he’d move in and tip her chin up again. That’s right, counselled Gram, her Internal Acting Coach. Be a little afraid. Give him too much lip, and he’ll know you’re up to something.

She pretended to shiver as one long, bone-white fingertip traced the inner whorls of her ear. Inside, she was shaking like a leaf, but for a different reason.

Far above her head, out of his current line of vision, she’d just managed to loop the chain of the bracelet with the index finger of her left hand. Gingerly, she tugged to the left, and felt the cat-charm slip out of her palm and fall to the side of her wrist. She eased the bracelet around by another link, the fingers of her right hand poised to identify the next charm upon its arrival.

With any luck, she’d be able to slide the bracelet all the way around to its clasp and try to undo it with her left hand. It was, however, slow going.

And she was down to twenty-five minutes.

“You’ll excuse us, Lucius? Miss Granger and I have matters to discuss in private.”

She didn’t see him leave, but she heard the door close behind him. Whether this was a good omen or a bad one, she didn’t know. She gave the bracelet another tug.

“I confess to some curiosity in a certain matter,” murmured Voldemort. Hermione let her lip tremble.

“Yes?”

“Your Professor Snape,” he said - softly, but with the edge of something violent underneath. “Was one of mine, and is no longer. I want to know how.”

“Um.” She’d been prepared for a question about the Initiates, or even about the Protection Potion - about this, however, she didn’t have a plausible invention close at hand. “Uh, I don’t really know Professor Snape that well,” she lied. “I mean, he’s my project advisor, but we don’t talk about, um, personal stuff.”

Another link. Her fingers felt something pointy and sharp - ah, yes. The witch’s hat.

Try again.

“Are you saying you don’t know?” Voldemort breathed in her ear. Hermione gulped.

“Why would I know?”

Another link. Another. She was getting better at this.

Twenty minutes. Deep breath.

“Come now, Miss Granger,” he coaxed. “Such a mind as yours - you can’t possibly have a faulty memory.”

Hermione felt the tiny cauldron slide into her fingers. Damn. No clasp yet.

“Miss Granger?” Edge of impatience in his voice; as she looked at him, she could see a faint shimmer around his profile, as he subdued his annoyance.

Aha. A glamour. No wonder he looks well-rested.

“My memory’s fine,” she said tartly, suddenly tired of his soft voice and his inch-deep respectability. “It’s my scruples I’m hung up on. I wouldn’t give away the time of day to you, never mind a secret like that one. I’m no Peter Pettigrew.”

The air shimmered once more, and she caught a glimpse of a mad-eyed, rictus-grinned death’s head, shining like a premonition through his suave exterior before he could tug the glamour back into place. “Indeed you’re not,” he said, his voice alive with sudden malevolence, and Hermione saw with a jolt of gut-deep fear that the pupils of his eyes were glaring blood-red. “Poor Wormtail doesn’t seem to have many admirers. But pitiable as he is, he knows something you haven’t learned yet, my noble little Gryffindor Mudblood. Would you like to hear it?”

“Knowledge is power,” Hermione said, as coolly as she could manage, and forced herself to look him straight in the eye. Voldemort let out an icy, high-pitched laugh that froze her to the bone.

“One of your Muggle proverbs,” he said, “ironically enough. But I find it fitting. It is better to be a living dog than a dead lion.”

And with that, he raised his wand.

**

Severus exchanged an exhausted glance with Dumbledore as Rita Skeeter was led away, still glassy-eyed with the effects of the Veritaserum, by the Ministry Auror. “I rather wish,” he said heavily, “that she’d tried to Transform. I don’t mind insects normally, but I’d have taken great pleasure in squashing that one.”

Dumbledore nodded absently in agreement, but Severus could tell he was thinking of other things, none of them pleasant. He could relate.

What Skeeter had said to the students back at the café was indeed the truth; she really hadn’t known anything. All they’d been able to discern from her confession was that she held a two-year-old grudge against Hermione concerning her status as an illegal Animagus, that she’d heard a passing bit of gossip about the miraculous properties of the Protection Potion from a Ministry contact, and that she’d been subsequently approached by Lucius Malfoy, presumably because of the negative articles she’d once written about Hermione during the Tri-Wizard Tournament.

Malfoy had had in his possession, at their meeting, two hairs - one of Draco’s, one of Hermione’s - that he said he’d taken off one of his son’s school robes. Rita hadn’t been surprised at all that he disapproved of the match - after all, the Malfoys’ attitude toward Muggle-borns was no secret. And she had thought it quite ingenious, that Lucius had hit on the idea of impersonating his son in order to break off the relationship. Participating in the charade offered her a surefire way to gather inside information about the patented potion, while evening her score with the ‘officious little sneak’ who had singlehandedly (according to Rita) wrecked her career.

But she didn’t know anything about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, in connection with the kidnapping. And no, she hadn’t been told where Lucius was taking the girl - she didn’t know, and she didn’t care.

In other words, a strikeout. They sat in silence for a few minutes - Dumbledore deep in thought, Severus nauseous with despair. Finally, Albus broke the silence.

“She may have taken the potion,” he said. “And she’s wearing the key to one of the study apartments off the library around her wrist. If they don’t take the bracelet away from her …”

He sounded like what he was: a man grasping at straws. Severus closed his eyes against the hot red wave of sickness threatening to engulf him.

“ … then she’s got twelve minutes,” he finished, and dropped his head into his hands.

They settled down to do the only thing they could.

Wait.

**

“Crucio!” Voldemort cried, and Hermione felt the shock of the Unforgivable hit her body like a battering ram.

The Protection Potion wavered under the strain, but held. She watched the jet of green light bounce back without touching her and ricochet straight toward Voldemort; unfortunately, he stepped out of the way just in time to avoid it. The gentleman’s mask slipped another notch, however - he turned away for a moment to regain his composure, and Hermione yanked nervously at the bracelet, her hands slippery with dread.

She had ten minutes, and the Protection Potion had never been tested against the Unforgivables - from the jolt she’d just taken, she’d bet money that she only had about one hit left before it gave out, time or no time. She had to get out of here, or she’d be creamed eels on toast.

And where was the fucking clasp?

Her damp fingers scrabbled for the next charm - long and thin, this one; it had to be the wand.

Wait a minute.

If that was the wand - and it was, oh, it was - then the next charm on the bracelet was …

Voldemort turned back around, and she lost her train of thought.

“Let’s try that again,” he growled; “I may have missed once, but I won’t again.”

Another jet of green light; another bone-jarring jolt, as the weakening Protection Potion held fast. It was gone, now - Hermione could feel that layer of chemical safety evaporating from her pores.

Oh, God.

But he’d been hit - he hadn’t moved quickly enough this time; he was clutching his stomach, grimacing … oh, please, Hermione thought, let it slow him down long enough for me to …

Because it was clear in her head what she was going to do, as clear and blue as the sapphire lying warm and smooth against her wrist.

They’re hard to aim, she remembered Ginny saying, back on the other side of the tapestry door, and twisted her hand painfully until the little wand was pointed squarely at the gasping figure in front of her - who was even now straightening up, all pretense at civility gone, and purposefully pointing his wand.

“Avad---“ he began, but Hermione was faster than he was.

Oh, Sal, let it work, she prayed desperately, her eyes shut tight against the sight of him, and swallowed hard.

“Inlaqueo!” she croaked, and with the last of her courage, cautiously opened her eyes.

Lord Voldemort was gone.

**