A Dish Served Cold

Chapter 26 - Force

Lucius sat back, contemplating the tiny fireplace and the glittering scales of the huge snake lying in front of it. A plush carpet was laid out in front of the dancing flames and the wooden paneling gleamed with the care of expensive oil. It was an exceptionally pleasant sitting room; except for his companions, Lucius would have been quite content.

Lord Voldemort sat across from Lucius with his half-lidded red eyes fixed on some distant vision of the future. At his knee was Bella, staring up at him with vapid adoration. Her black hair, all wild and untamed, and her fish-pale skin made her look rather like Ophelia after the drowning. Peter Pettigrew sat huddled in a corner staring at his silver hand with an unfocused gaze that spoke of a different sort of madness. Lucius was the only person in the whole room sane enough to carry on a conversation and yet he was the only one not speaking.

“Poor Severus can barely stand to touch the filthy creature of course, but he does get some satisfaction from her pain and humiliation. He is watched too closely by that old fool to dispose of her, but I hear reports that already she is being broken by him,” Voldemort was grinning as he said this. The expression was less than attractive on his nose-less, thin-lipped face.

Lucius crossed his ankles and twirled his cane as he listened. It was true that Severus’ torture of the Mudblood amused him; he saw it as her repayment for daring to stand against his family. Her behavior towards Draco had been insufferable. However, Voldemort had been gloating over it for the last half hour and, frankly, Lucius was growing bored.

“I hear that many of the impure are already fleeing the Wizarding World after the obituaries from this morning,” Lucius gently redirected the conversation.

“I hear that you managed to get a pureblood for your son and even arranged to have the Minister himself get her for you,” Voldemort replied with a sudden shift to lucidity. Lucius nodded in response, wary now. When the Dark Lord was rambling and plotting he was far less dangerous then when he was suddenly sharp and aware. These were the moments where the lunatic was truly dangerous.

“Susan Bones,” Bella whispered with a small, cruel smile. “There is such irony in that, Lucius.” Her eyes were fierce and her small white teeth gleamed as she spoke. “Haven’t you killed about half of her family?”

“One or two perhaps, but I had little to do with the rest of them,” Lucius shrugged modestly. “They have always been an unlucky bunch,” he added maliciously and the room erupted into laughter.

“Indeed, that was cleverly done, Lucius.” Voldemort was watching him with a little too much interest and Lucius decided now was the time to curry favor.

“Nothing compared to your genius, my Lord, but I hope it meets with your approval?” Lucius flattered the dangerous lunatic and watched as the brief flare of suspicion died down behind the Dark Lord’s eyes.

“Yes, though I wonder at your motivation. I had thought that you were determined to avoid matrimony for young Draco.” Voldemort was now merely curious and Lucius allowed himself to relax a fraction.

“I had, but my informant at the Ministry gave me some interesting news. It seems that the fleeing of so many of the impure is making the Ministry consider…other options. If I did not want Draco shackled to some Mudblood, I had to work fast.” Lucius frowned at the thought. He had been having such fun, too.

“You are talking about the compulsion spells, aren’t you?” Peter commented from the corner, his beady eyes darting about the room.

“I think that they are referring to them as ‘Added Encouragement’ but it comes to the same thing,” Lucius replied serenely. The Ministry was going to have a riot on its hand when this news came out, but that was hardly Lucius’ problem. In fact, he had gently encouraged Fudge in that direction.

“Yes, it even occurs to me that if the Ministry continues on this course, I may not have to attack them at all. Outraged Witches and Wizards may topple the current government for me,” Voldemort chortled and rubbed his hands together like a melodrama villain.

“I doubt it will actually be implemented. Fudge hasn’t the spine for it,” Bella interjected disdainfully. Lucius nodded.

“Probably not, but I couldn’t take that chance. No half blood or Mudblood will ever bear a Malfoy heir.” It was one thing on which Lucius was absolutely adamant.

“Hear, hear,” Voldemort agreed and then the conversation turned to other things.

Hermione heard the screech and the splash but couldn’t make her mind wrap around the noises. The yowl of her familiar, however, bypassed her sleepy mind and jolted her body out of bed by sheer habit. The number of times that particular sound had preceded some disaster had conditioned her to respond immediately.

She rolled onto the floor and scrabbled to her feet to find out what was going on. The sight that met her bleary eyes froze her to the spot.
The splashing was coming from the hot springs in the corner of the bedroom. Two pale, green-skinned merfolk were leaning out of the water, engaged in a tug of war with Crookshanks. The object of their mutual desire was a large, wet slimy fish. Crooks had hold of the head with his mouth and forefeet while his back legs were clinging fiercely to the carpeting. The merfolk were yanking on the tail and the noises they were making sounded anything but friendly.

Mouth agape, Hermione tried desperately to think of anything but the wet puddles spreading across the floor and the amount of work this was making for the house-elves. It occurred to her that she ought to do something, but it wasn’t a situation usually covered in her classes.
The merfolk made a concerted effort to pull the fish into the pool and the wash of water kicked up by their fins sent a wave crashing across the room, soaking the bed and the rather groggy man in it.

He bolted from the bed, dripping wet, quite nude, with his drenched hair plastered to his head and glared at the merfolk who drew back in alarm. The merfolk set up a screeching that was nearly deafening.

“Aridus!” Severus’ voice cut across the cacophony and the water vanished. “Proficisci!” He commanded again with a decisive wand wave and the two merfolk dived under the water and were gone.

An extremely smug Crookshanks was left victorious on the field of battle. Fish in mouth, he trotted past Severus and briefly rubbed against his bare leg as he departed the bedroom.

Severus’ expression could have curdled milk.

Hermione kept her eyes averted from her naked husband as he stalked over to his robe and pulled it on. She didn’t say a word as he slammed from the room in high dudgeon and waited a full five minutes to be sure that he was out of earshot before she dissolved into laughter.

The mermaid pool was proving to be an unexpected source of amusement. In fact, she was starting to like Salazar Slytherin’s outré sense of humor. She only hoped her husband would survive it without having a coronary.

Georgian twirled a quill and considered the matrimonial state. According to the papers that he had perused in Albus’ office, the Hogwarts staff – well, those of childbearing years anyway – were to ‘set an example’ for the rest of the Wizarding World.

For many long years, Georgian had resisted the lure of marriage, convinced that not only would he be no good at it, but that it was more prudent to resist inflicting his permanent company on any woman. His parents’ marriage hadn’t inspired him much either.

He thought about the choices in front of him though, and felt a vague stirring of interest. It occurred to him that while marriage itself had little appeal, he did want children. Even teaching hadn’t dimmed his interest in children and spending hours a day with teenagers ought to have cured him of that.

The only issue was who to offer for.

Avram Yidoni returned to the chambers that his family shared at Hogwarts bursting with information.

His mother, Rifkah, and his Aunt Tzipporah were waiting for him. He grinned and gave them a bow as he caught sight of them. His mother was curly-haired, round-faced and bright-eyed, while his Aunt Tzipporah was like a less refined copy of her mother, Grandmother Sarit: small, intense and thin. The two women were like day and night in looks and mannerisms, but they were identical in purpose and will.

“Well?” Aunt Tzipporah asked with an impatient air.

“She gave the statuette to Cousin Severus. He seemed suspicious, but he accepted it.” Avram tipped his head to one side as he sucked in his lower lip. “She has definitely ‘Seen’ something, because she was nice to him.”

His mother nodded, then leaned back in the blue and white patterned chair. The rooms that they had been given were pretty enough – the chairs were comfortable and the service excellent - but Avram just wanted to go home, away from the hostile gazes of these English Wizards and Witches.

“He must be the Seer, that is the only explanation,” Rifkah Yidoni murmured thoughtfully while Tzipporah frowned.

“Surely there would be some signs of it though?” Her tone was dubious, but Rifkah merely gazed out the window at the cold gray Scottish landscape, looking serene.

“We know that it is none of us. His mother was the Seer for her generation and he is the only one we haven’t tested. It is the only thing that makes sense.”

“Do you think she knows?” Avram asked in a low voice. There was only one ‘She’ and that was grandmother Sarit. His mother and aunt exchanged looks and then shook their heads.

“Mother can be surprisingly dense at times. She hated Kaleen and Taliesin too much to see my nephew clearly,” Tzipporah answered him and Avram relaxed. “That doesn’t mean that he isn’t still in danger,” she chided, and he nodded solemnly.

“So what next?” Avram asked.

“We continue to do what we can to keep him from her grasp. Our only chance is to prevent her gaining control of him or any other Seer child there might be,” His mother replied with a shrug. “Beyond that, there is little we can do but wait for her to die.”

“I wish she would just leave us alone,” Avram sighed as he went to sit before the fireplace. Scotland was too cold for him. “I want to go home.”

“There are bigger issues at stake than our own wants and desires,” his mother reminded him gently. Avram sighed. His whole life, he had been playing a game of deception. He was tired of it and just wished it were over.

“We have to keep her from exerting her control over the next generations of Seers, child, or there may not be a home to return to,” his aunt added with a grim expression. Avram shuddered at the thought. There was much yet to do.

Ron twitched his robes into order and frowned at his reflection in the mirror. Behind him Harry rolled his eyes and Ron stuck out a tongue at his best friend.

“You look fine, Ron,” Harry reassured with the air of a man near the end of his rope. Ron supposed that he was being a little neurotic, but it was his wedding day. If a man didn’t have a right to be a little nervous on that day when did he?

“I don’t want Luna to be embarrassed by me,” Ron stared at his image once more, looking for faults.

“She was going on about Crumple-billed Snorkacks or something earlier and you are worried about embarrassing HER?” Harry gave him an incredulous look while Ron blushed a little.

“That’s different.” He couldn’t explain what he was feeling anymore than he could fly without a broom, but Harry gave him an understanding look.

“You’ll be fine, Ron.” The rather long-suffering look that Ron spied behind the sheen of Harry’s spectacles made Ron subside.

“Stopping. Right now. Really,” he assured Harry with his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“Thank you.”

“Um, Harry…”

“Yes, Ron?”

“If we don’t get to finish off He-who-must-not-be-named this year, are you taking Moira to live at the Dursleys’?”

“Ron.”

“Yes Harry?”

“Shut up.”

“Yes Harry.”

Hermione watched her best friends getting married and couldn’t help comparing it to her own wedding: Ron stood beside Luna with an expression of incandescent happiness who, in turn, beamed back at him; Harry looked solemn, but his gaze on Moira’s face was tenderly contented and her eyes on him were sure and steady; the school was jubilant and the families were beaming – it was the exact opposite of the ceremony that bound her to Severus.

Moira’s parents were grinning fit to burst and Luna’s father looked puzzled but pleased. Arthur and Molly Weasley, who had presided over the marriage of three children in the last week, seemed a trifle weary but also quietly happy. Compared to the marriages of Percy and Ginny, this must have been pretty idyllic for them, she thought sadly. She thought back to her own parents’ faces, feeling a burst of envy. She wished that things could have been different.

She sat beside Severus for the feast and didn’t have to feign a lack of appetite. Every time she raised her head she met hostile, gleeful or pitying faces. She was horribly uncomfortable, feeling terribly exposed. Neville’s wedding had been entirely different for some reason. It was like with every passing day she became more and more ‘Mrs. Snape’ and less and less ‘Hermione’ in their eyes.

Draco was sitting beside Crabbe and Goyle and, for once, he was ignoring her. Hermione followed Draco’s gaze to Susan Bones, who was sitting with a bunch of fellow Hufflepuffs at the far end of the table. Susan was studiously ignoring Draco, but there was some strange undercurrent there that Hermione couldn’t figure out.

As the feast broke up, Hermione watched the couples wandering off with smiles and laughter on their lips while she felt a black depression settling on her. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling ill and miserable. She could feel a headache coming on and she wished she could just go back to their rooms to get some analgesic potion.

“Mrs. Snape?” A sweet, cheerful voice broke into her misery. Hermione looked up at an unfamiliar face. Plain but earnest, a pair of blue eyes studied her.

“Yes?” Hermione was desperately trying to place the woman who was speaking to her and having little success.

“I think you need a quick trip to the Hospital Wing. You are obviously feeling poorly.” Ah, it was coming back to her; this was Mistress Goody, Madame Pomfrey’s new assistant.

“That sounds good,” Hermione agreed. Her stomach was rebelling against the rich food and poor company.

Mistress Goody had her by the elbow and Hermione quickly found herself in the hospital wing being plied with soothing words and potions. For a plain little mouse of a woman, Mistress Goody was incredibly competent, Hermione mused.

“Just drink this up, it will control the nausea,” she was murmuring as Hermione drank with alacrity. Her stomach calmed, her head cleared and she breathed out in relief.

“Thank you so much, I feel a hundred times better,” Hermione smiled at the mediwitch in gratitude.

“Not at all, Mrs. Snape, though I would advise you take it a bit easier from now on. It looks as if your body is having some trouble adjusting and I suspect that you will wear out rather quickly from now on.” Hermione tried to sort out the woman’s words but was having no luck.

“Adjusting to what?” she asked, perplexed, and Mistress Goody blinked in surprise.

“Mrs. Snape, your husband is a Potions Master, surely he…” she trailed off and took a breath. “I’m sorry, let me try that again.” A quick, nervous smile and another deep breath: “Mrs. Snape, you are pregnant.”

Hermione stared at the mediwitch for a long time and resisted the urge to ask if she was sure. It was a stupid question; more of a way of delaying the inevitable than anything else.

“I see,” Hermione replied, hearing the tremor in her voice with dismay. “So soon?” she nearly whispered.

“It can happen the first time, you know,” Mistress Goody replied and patted her gently on the arm.

“Theoretically, yes. I just wasn’t expecting…” Hermione was now breathing heavily, feeling her emotions tumbling about inside of her like acrobats on a bender.

“Well, now you are expecting.” It was a joke, but delivered gently and with sympathy. Hermione knew that she was in a state of shock, but felt that after all she had gone through, she deserved a few moments of self-indulgent hysteria.

“Thank you.” Hermione got the words out, but she wasn’t sure what she was thanking the woman for. She just felt sick. She had known that children were coming, but the reality of being seventeen and pregnant was too much for her at that moment.

She sat there for a long time, staring blindly out the window.

A dark shape appeared in front of her and she looked up into her husband’s grave face.

“Time to go, Hermione.” His voice was like chocolate liquor: smooth, sweet, intoxicating. She got up automatically and let him lead her away.
She had no idea how she felt. All she knew was that she was young, scared and unprepared. She hardly even noticed the pool of silence that seemed to spread out from her as she walked through the corridors of the castle.

She just knew that she was far too young to have a baby.