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LAST TANGO IN PARIS “Shipwrecked?” Hermione suggested. Severus shook his head.
“Someone’s still accessing the Nameless account, aren’t they?” he asked. “Must be, if they’re financing the Knights of the Golden Wand – that particular little group of nasties hasn’t been around but three hundred years or so.” He focussed in on the worn shag of the carpet, frowning hard. “There must be a de Fondant descendant running around loose somewhere.”
“Well, if there is,” Linchpin said, “I’d certainly like to get my claws into him.” She shrugged, self-deprecatingly, when the other three turned to look at her. “The French Crown wasn’t very good at hanging onto its winnings, back then,” she said. “Not long after the fall of the Templars, we acquired the mortgage on most of those properties … including all outstanding debts attached to them. Counting interest, there’s probably close to ten million Galleons due in back taxes by now.”
A pensive, faraway look crossed her face; for a moment, she seemed lost in fantasy. “Whoever brings that bit of recovery income in to the Advisory Board … well, let’s just say she could choose her own office.”
You sound like Gabrielle, Hermione thought to herself, then blinked.
Who’s Gabrielle?
Shaking her head, she struggled to catch up to the conversation that had gone on without her. “What about Muggle banks?” she asked. “Could he have taken the money elsewhere?”
Linchpin frowned. “We don’t think so,” she said. “We tend to keep track of other institutions’ large deposits, and there’s nothing around that time to suggest that de Fondant put the money anywhere at all. Not to mention that the disappearance of the Templar fortune was at least as big a Muggle scandal as it was in the magical world – more, probably. Everyone was looking for it. Either he was clever enough to keep it awhile, then deposit it a bit at a time, under an assumed name –“ here she looked dark, as if the very idea were reprehensible – “or, as we suspect, it’s buried somewhere, and warded heavily enough that no one’s ever found it.”
“The goblins’ Holy Grail,” Sal murmured. Linchpin looked sour.
“Something like that.”
“Now there’s a secret,” Severus said slowly, “that someone would kill to protect.”
After that, no one could think of much of anything to add.
**
Fascinating as all the pirate-treasure business was, Severus had more pressing matters on his mind – namely, the contents of the binders he and Hermione had brought back from Cairo the day before. Arriving back at the cabin from their impromptu treehouse summit, only to find Neville and Joséphine drinking coffee at the very back-porch table where he’d hoped to spread out his papers, did nothing to dispel the urgency of his mood.
“Aren’t you expected back at Hogwarts?” he snarled at Joséphine. She rolled a sip of coffee around in her mouth, swallowed leisurely, and grinned up at him.
“I’m heading out this afternoon.”
It wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting; as such, it took him a bit aback. “Oh. Well – good.”
One slim dark finger was tracing its way coyly up Neville’s forearm. “Both of us are, actually. We figured we’d spend the weekend together in Paris before I’m due back in classes Monday.” She shot him a guileless look from beneath those thick dark lashes. “Besides. We’ve imposed long enough.”
“Well, as long as you realise it,” Severus said – but found it difficult, under the circumstances, to hold on to his customary sneer. In fact, the prospect of getting his quiet house back – sort of, anyway – mollified him enough to go away and find somewhere else to put his binders for the moment.
Sal was in the kitchen, cohabitating with a half-empty bottle of Perlucioed Pinot Grigio and recklessly marinating chicken breasts in some runny concoction that smelt strongly of curry. Hermione, who’d beaten both of them back to the house, was cross-legged on the Transfigured bed in his study, already so deeply engrossed in a book on Memory Charms that she didn’t even look up when he opened the door.
That left him the comfortable armchair in the parlour, which wasn’t, after all, such a bad place to tackle a spot of heavy reading. Severus watched her bright head bent over the book for a moment longer, perhaps, than was strictly necessary, then backed quietly out and closed the door behind him.
The fact that last night had happened, and that she was still here, was a miracle he couldn’t afford to think about. Not just yet.
The binder proved to be more distraction than even he could have hoped.
**
As a student, she’d been a tireless researcher and a meticulous, if not always inspired, logician. As she’d gained confidence in her subject, during those later years at Hogwarts, he’d noticed her sense of inquiry expanding beyond the borders of the Restricted Section and venturing into the Unknown Beyond; the Illuminata project had turned out to be the culmination of this, catapulting her abruptly from the category of Talented Student out into the real world – Cairo, the Consortium, patents and grants and all the white-coated fame and infamy that came with that implied territory.
Had she known, Severus wondered, the degree to which her experimental forays into magical-Muggle relations would threaten the unseen hands that held the reins? Had Areli warned her of the dangers she’d face, farther down that glittering garden path?
Or had she been so dazzled by her pretty office and her handsome young husband and her villa in the suburbs that she hadn’t thought to ask?
Even she didn’t know the answer to that question anymore. He decided to quit thinking about it, and opened the binder instead.
The first document was a print copy of an email, sent from an Eli Lilly address. Like all the other papers in the binder, she’d filed it carefully in a transparent plastic sleeve:
** Hermione – Sales are up fifteen percent from last quarter. You’re making me a very happy man – not to mention one who might just be able to comfortably educate his children, after all. I’m having Marjorie send you the latest stack of interview requests and a copy of the findings from the AMA’s Skelegel trials. She’ll also be calling about the trade show in August – it’s in Cincinnati this year. We’d like to do a booth, and your input is always welcome.
Speaking of the trade show – not to mention the current market – does the Consortium have anything in the works that might be applicable for Alzheimer’s? We’d like to be able to announce that we’ve got something in field-testing – it’s turning into such an epidemic that they’re doing a focus group on it this year.
And you know I’m the money man, but it’s not just that. Sarah’s mother was just diagnosed last month. And it’s getting harder and harder to find anyone whose family isn’t affected by it somehow, these days.
Let me know. Take care.
--Brad Conlin **
Alzheimer’s? Severus tapped the glossy page thoughtfully with one forefinger – only an American, he thought, would have put such personal information in his business correspondence, and managed to pull it off – then turned to the letter in the next sleeve. This one was handwritten on lilac-coloured lined paper in a round feminine hand, and dated a month later to the day:
** Dear Hermione –
I know I ought to call and tell you this, but I just can’t stand to talk to anyone right now – not even you. You remember how vague Gram was that weekend in March when you came to visit? Well, she’s seemed tired lately, not herself – you know, sort of forgetful – and finally your father convinced her to go for a checkup. Dr. Wallace had her take some sort of test in the office, and then he ordered a CAT scan … and I can’t even write it down, it’s too upsetting, but we had wondered about it when you were here last, and it’s that awful thing we were afraid of.
You should call her. Your father and I have been taking turns going to see her every few days, but she seems depressed and a little hostile, and she’s not eating at all. If anyone can cheer her up, it’s you and Bill.
Hope work is going well. Call if you need to talk.
Love, Mum
Oh, Severus thought, a sinking feeling in his chest, and glanced instinctively at the closed door to his study. It was a long moment before he turned to the third page.
This one wasn’t dated – it was a sheet from a legal pad, folded in half, with a few lines on it in Hermione’s writing:
** Memory performs the impossible for man by the strength of his divine arms; holds together past and present, beholding both, existing in both, abides in the flowing, and gives continuity and dignity to human life. It holds us to our family, to our friends. Hereby a home is possible; hereby only a new fact has value.
Without it, all life and thought were an unrelated succession.
--Emerson **
The ink was smudged in one place by a round water-stain the size of a small grape. Severus closed his eyes.
Ironic, he thought, that the book she was presently reading was one she’d probably read before.
And even without going a step further in the binder, one mystery, at least, had been permanently solved for him: it was suddenly very, very clear why someone had sent an assassin to stop the completion of her research.
Headaches came and went. Bones broke – and were healed. But to make the past live again, to reveal old and well-hid secrets … well, that was dangerous work indeed.
He turned to the next page in the binder with a slightly shaking hand.
** |