LAST TANGO IN PARIS It looked much the same as it had the last time she'd left it, except that the expandable chaise was its narrow, uninhabited self instead of a single bed containing one pissed-off-but-still-pretty ex-boyfriend. Hermione took a moment to dwell on that memory – blundering wet-eyed through the darkness of the after-hours library, up till all hours muttering to herself and plowing through that awful deconstruction of Veritaserum by some imbecile whose name she couldn't remember (Razorstrap? Razorscruff?), what had she been thinking? – then shook her head, dropped her bag on the nearest counter, and went to examine the bookshelf. Not much change here, either – lots of these books she recognized from their Illuminata-research days, though there were one or two interesting-looking new titles on the casting, prevention, and treatment of the Unforgiveables. Beyond this section (if you could call it that), Dumbledore must have assumed that she was bringing her research with her – either that, or this little venture was farther out into uncharted territory than she'd previously imagined. Hermione thought longingly of her old office at the Consortium – high-speed Internet access, shelves of pertinent books, a five-minute walk from the University of Cairo's medical library – then shrugged to herself and started unpacking. At least she still had her notes. The thing was, as successful as the whole Vanesca episode had been, Crucio and Obliviate didn't have very much in common … she didn't think, anyway. The whole rationale that made her little purple strips work both on Alzheimer's disease and botched Memory Charms was the same one making most of her prior research useless now. No ugly black morass of tangles here, no sticky silver web to isolate and Vanish like an unwanted stain from a tablecloth – until she saw the Longbottoms' MRI results, of course, she couldn't be sure, but from what she'd read Hermione rather suspected that Crucio wouldn't leave behind much physical evidence of itself at all. As far as she could tell from her research, there wasn't even a specific part of the brain responsible for feeling pain … which meant that she didn't have any idea where to start. In fact, the more she read about the brain, the more overwhelmed she felt. Here was a subject that the Muggles had studied for centuries, and had just now gotten to the place where they could admit they didn't know a whole hell of a lot about it, beyond the fact that mostly it worked, and that when it stopped working, one or more of a million fascinating kinds of internal drama took the stage and refused to break for intermission. Muggle neurospecialists had managed to document the behaviours, they'd even isolated the parts of the brain responsible for different functions, but in terms of what could actually go wrong and how to fix it, they were still at sea – their treatments too broad and clumsy and intrusive, like someone trying to fix a pair of eyeglasses with a monkey wrench. And then there were the wizards, who were still in denial about the whole thing as far as Hermione was concerned. The milder of their head-cases they tolerated or ignored – was there really any other explanation for Mundungus Fletcher? for Aberforth Dumbledore? – and the more severe, they incarcerated. Very nineteenth-century. If anyone had ever tried to treat a Cruciatus victim by magical means beyond the usual côterie of comfort-charms and sedation spells, Hermione thought, they certainly hadn't written down anything useful about the experience afterwards. Or maybe it was that they had tried, and nothing had worked. Well, that's why she was here, right? To bring a new perspective to the situation? Hermione flipped her notebook open, poised her ball-point pen over a fresh sheet of lined paper, and started to re-read her notes, yet again, with an implacable eye. There had to be at least a bit of a connection. She just hadn't seen it yet. ** By the time Sal floated through her wall to inform her that she was missing dinner, she still hadn't found the link she was looking for. “Don't ask,” she said without looking up. “It's not going so well.” Sal shrugged and came over to peer over her shoulder. “Left-hemi damage,” he read from her notes, ”equals depression and melancholia. Right-hemi damage equals unconcern and lack of self-awareness. What's a ‘hemi'?” “Hemisphere,” Hermione said. “Half of your brain.” Her neck and shoulders were stiff from hours of hunching over her books; she rotated her head slowly, suppressing a yelp as her hair brushed Sal's arm and promptly stood itself on end. “Move back a little, will you? You're so close you're making my whole left side go numb.” “Sorry,” Sal said, levitating himself to a cross-legged position atop the table. “So what's the significance of the two halves?” Hermione flipped a couple of pages. “Well, the left side is supposedly the side that handles logic and decisions,” she said. “And it's also the side that governs speech. The right side's more emotional and creative, but nonverbal in its own right. Parvati and Lavender were always reading books about trying to Get In Touch with it.” She shrugged. “Anyway, if one side's damaged or routed out or whatever, it affects the balance between optimism and pessimism. Doesn't help me much with the Longbottoms, really, but it does sort of explain Lockhart.” She paused. “And Snape.” Sal laughed. “Speaking of whom,” he said. “He asked me to tell you that he's gone back to the cabin to pick up some books he left behind. He'll be back tonight.” “Oh. Thanks.” A wicked sideways look. “Took the two of you long enough to get Joséphine's note, didn't it? We thought you'd never make it here.” “Don't start, Sal.” He ignored her. “Oh, I do like a happy ending.” “Happy ending?” Hermione rolled her eyes. “Who's got a happy ending? There's a bunch of mysterious pureblood-supremacist creepos out there somewhere who'd like nothing more than to see us six feet under. Until we've dealt with that, let's not jinx ourselves.” She gave him a hard look. “And weren't you supposed to be researching that angle of things? What've you come up with?” “Not much,” Sal said. “Until recently, that is. Your goblin friend in Cairo's managed to track down a rare-book trader who claims to own the original log-book from de Fondant's pirate ship. I'm off to Cairo tonight to swindle him out of it. Thought I could sweet-talk my way into your vault, if there's any more research you need from it.” “Oh.” Hermione thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I think I'm all set. Thanks.” “Suit yourself.” He stretched, unfolded himself from his lotus position in the middle of the table, and shot her a wink. “I'll be back sometime tomorrow. Tonight, if I get lucky.” “Have fun,” Hermione said absently, already reaching for her bag and starting to rummage through it. She'd just thought of something. ** He hadn't really forgotten a book. He just didn't want to be there for dinner – either with Hermione or without her. Dine with her privately, and the faculty would wink and nod – publicly, and the whole of wizarding Britain would be on the Floo within half an hour: Emeline, you'll never believe who that clever little Granger girl's gone and harnessed herself to. Or maybe he was assigning himself too much significance? Either way, it was bad enough to be here without having to endure a cartload of asinine gossip in the bargain. And if, as he rather suspected she would be, she was determined to work through dinner – well, then, he'd just as soon pop home and avoid the Hogwarts social scene altogether. It was just dusk by the time he'd walked down to the school gates and prepared to Apparate, which meant that the bright late-morning glare of a Montana mountain in sunlight made him blink and stumble a bit. Still, the cabin itself was cool and dim and quieter than it'd been in months. No Sal, no Hermione, no liplocked Longbottom or dilettante body-pierced Boadicea of a Potions Mistress. Even Cleo was at Hogwarts – probably dining on half of the Forbidden Forest by now, Severus thought, and smiled as he pushed open the door of his study. Ah. Solitude. He reclaimed his chair with a little sigh of satisfaction and set the corner hot-plate to glowing with a flick of his wand. Tea, and a little reading perhaps. It wasn't as if he was in any hurry to get back; Hermione was bound to work far into the night, tucked away in her little library bolthole, and comfortable as the castle guest-rooms were, he'd just as soon not get sucked into well-intentioned but inane catching-up with Filius or Minerva – or, Merlin preserve him, Albus. No, he'd just stay here and play bachelor for the evening. The kettle was on the verge of whistling; wonder if there's any carrot-cake left, Severus thought, and went to go and see. There was. Licking a stray dollop of cream-cheese icing from his thumb, he set down the cake plate on his desk and started over toward the kettle, tea-ball in hand. The kettle was shrieking. He turned off the burner, stooped to take the canister of loose tea from the cabinet under the hot plate, and found his eye caught by a stray bit of sparkle. Cautiously he edged the ring out from under the cabinet and picked off a bit of lint that had adhered to it. It sparkled serenely up at him, warming to his palm. Bill's diamond. What was it Linchpin had said? Get one of them out of the box and put it in a setting. Make her wear it. Which would have been all well and good, Severus thought, closing his hand over the ring and hauling himself to his feet. If he'd given it to her when he meant to … before she'd stormed into his study and insinuated her way into his lap, before she'd melted a little purple strip of remembrance across her tongue and taken back her memory with clutching, resolute hands. Back then, in the post-Obliviate days, a diamond might just have been a diamond – even coming from him. Now, he knew better. This thing won't end easily. And we can't help her if we don't know where she is. He hesitated for a moment, then slid the diamond into his pocket and took out the canister of tea. Later. ** |