A Dish Served Cold

Chapter 36 – Gryffindors

Ginny grinned at Susan as she stepped out of the hospital wing. The Hufflepuff girl looked like she had run a marathon, but she also had a new confidence in her eyes as well.

“Well?” Ginny asked with a raised eyebrow.

“You were right,” Susan replied with a wondering tone. “He can be managed.”

“Told you so,” Ginny chortled.

“It doesn’t mean that I am happy about this,” Susan added and Ginny nodded back at her.

“He’s still a prat and a dangerous one at that,” Ginny agreed. After all, managing Draco was rather like trying to befriend his namesake; the likelihood of getting flamed was high.

“Yes, he is,” Susan replied, with a grim tone.

Studying the round face and washed out eyes of her friend, it occurred to Ginny that Susan wasn’t really attractive enough to keep Draco’s attention for long anyway. Despite whatever bogus Soulmate spell the Minister might have used, there was no way that Draco was going to be faithful to his unattractive wife. Though to be completely honest, Ginny doubted whether he would have been faithful to any wife, regardless of looks. He was utterly spoiled and had a sense of entitlement bigger than the entire planet.

There was an idea in that.

“You know, there is a way to keep him away from you for most of the time,” Ginny ventured, with a particularly evil smile.

“Oh?” Susan’s voice sounded rather alarmed and Ginny smirked even more broadly.

“All we have to do is find him a mistress or two. That will keep him so busy he won’t have time to bother you.” Ginny felt quite proud of her idea.

“Where are we going to find someone willing to sleep with Draco, who can be trusted to not conspire in my murder?” Susan retorted in dismissive tones. Ginny merely shrugged, because she knew just who to apply to for this particular task.

Professor Snape could kill two birds with one stone. He could plant a spy in Draco’s bed and keep Amelia Bones from burning down the Ministry.

It was quite perfect.

Now all she had to do was convince Snape.

Hermione hated the dreams the most. No one had told her that being pregnant caused one to have weird nighttime perambulations across the globe. It was pleasant to dream of the Bahamas or London, but to suddenly show up in a rickety tenement in India, or a hillside shack in Argentina was unpalatable to say the least. She was getting quite an education each night, but it was exhausting and she woke feeling more tired than when she had gone to bed.

If she had had the option and maybe a couple of quid, she would have escaped from Hogwarts and gone off to Muggle London for a quick chat with a psychiatrist. Unfortunately, she was entirely without Muggle currency and Voldemort’s interest in her precluded her leaving the castle without her husband in attendance. After all, she was supposed to be the abused and cruelly used wife of a Death Eater.

Hermione snorted at that image. It was so very far from the truth. Not that she was the petted and cosseted wife of a sweetly devoted spouse either, but she was certainly not being beaten or mistreated.

“Madam, it is naptime.” The no-nonsense tone of voice stifled her urge to rebel and she rose wearily in obedience to her husband’s command. She was certainly being nagged, but by someone who had only her best interests at heart, which made it slightly more palatable.

“Bully,” she retorted, but her tone was mild and she accompanied it with a tired smile.

“As you say,” he answered with an utterly bland expression. He was obviously unmoved by her verbal repartee.

“For someone who is up at all hours of the night, you are very particular about my sleep times,” she groused, mostly for form’s sake.

“I am not pregnant,” he pointed out.

“I am sure that with some ingenuity and magic, that condition could be changed!” she growled, suddenly rather peeved by his sublime indifference.

“That is an idiotic idea; men lack all of the necessary equipment for that particular function and no amount of wishful thinking and ridiculous spell casting can change that,” he sneered back at her with a roll of his eyes. “Only someone with no understanding of the process would imagine for a second that such a thing were feasible. I had thought you to be far more intelligent than that, Madam.”
She counted to ten. Slowly. It helped very little.

“I am going to bed,” she announced through clenched teeth.

“Which, if you recall, was precisely where I suggested you go,” was his retort, delivered in tones of smug satisfaction.

She only kept herself from hexing him by thinking of the Order’s need for a good spy. It was a close thing though.

She was sound asleep when Ginny Weasley came knocking on the door and never even heard the low-voiced conversation that followed.

Harry Potter was sitting by the window looking out through the wavy glass at a moonlit night. Moira was already asleep in the big wooden bed with its copper and gold counterpane and warm rosewood frame.

The room was a compromise in every way. Moira liked to be warm when she slept, so there were heavy blankets on the bed; Harry liked the cold, so there was a stone window ledge for him to perch on and lean against the chilly glass. Her things, his things, all mingled together; every item representing an agreement they had come to.

Harry had never lived alone. He’d been isolated at the Dursley’s, but never alone. Dudley would tromp through and torment him endlessly, or Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would be sneering and sniping at him. Then there had been Hogwarts, a dormitory was anything but private and, for all that he loved the other boys like brothers, the shock of sleeping somewhere other than a cupboard under the stairs had been hard to overcome. It had taken months for him to get used to undressing in front of them without cringing, waiting for the usual witticisms and jibes that he was accustomed to.

Moira was strong-willed, opinionated, and very clear about what she wanted. He loved that about her, but it had made adjusting to living with her rather trying at times. He smiled affectionately down on his sleeping wife and tried to imagine his life without her.

It was hard. She was essential to him in so many ways.

Still.

Sometimes he hated Fudge more than he had once hated Snape. He would never have a little flat in London now, where he could invite over his mates and get quietly pissed with them. He was married and soon there would be children.

He wished that he had had, somewhere between fighting for his life and dying, just a little time to be young.

Ron finished up his homework with a yawn. There were definite plusses to being married to a Ravenclaw, like getting really good homework help. He missed Hermione, of course, but Luna could help without lecturing, and without making him feel stupid. Not, he knew, that Hermione had ever intended that. Her insecurity was what had driven her need to be smarter than everyone else.

“Are you coming to bed?” Luna blinked up at him through the gauzy curtains that surrounded the bed and smiled dreamily. Ron had let her do what she wanted with their rooms as long as he got to put up his Chudley Cannons posters somewhere. She had agreed and the study had become red and orange while the rest of the rooms were soft greens and blues.

“Yup, just finished,” he answered with a content smile. Luna was just what he had always wanted, someone calm and relaxing, sort of the anti-Molly. His parents were happy and loving, but all through his loud raucous childhood, Ron had dreamed of quiet.

He went to bed in a happy haze of warm affection.

Remus Lupin slowly and deliberately lifted his feet and placed on them on the edge of his desk. He kept his movements unhurried for two reasons, firstly because last night’s transformation had left him bruised and aching from head to toe, and secondly because he didn’t want the other Order members to see how much pain he was in.

The monthly meeting was positioned awkwardly this time and cut a little close to the full moon, but he hadn’t wanted to protest. He hated seeming weak in front of these very bright, healthy people and he especially didn’t want to draw attention to his disability.

If Severus was right about things, his problems in that area would soon be solved, one way or another.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Of course he had always loathed his illness and feared what he was capable of while under its influence. But at the same time, there had been a familiarity to it, it was a part of him and he wasn’t sure who he would be if he wasn’t a werewolf: his illness had defined him for so long. It would be strange to lose that part of him forever.

“Constant Vigilance!” roared Moody from his usual position, his back against the wall, arms crossed over his greatcoat, magic eye swiveling endlessly in its search for danger and enemies. Remus realized that he had missed part of the conversation while he had been lost in his musings.

“Yes, yes,” Tonks agreed with a weary grimace, “but Fudge is as much a danger now as You-Know-Who. He is too easily manipulated: look at the contract between Susan Bones and Draco Malfoy, it stinks to high heaven of Lucius’ touch.”

“Replacing him will take our attention away from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at a critical time!” Moody answered with a caustic tone and a rather frightening scowl.

“What good is it to win the war, if when you come back from the battle, the entire world has already been handed over?” Percy replied with a touch of exasperation.

Moody fell silent at that, his expression forbidding, but contemplative.

Albus did as he always did, sat quietly, and listened. He only spoke when either the discussion was descending into bickering or he was asked a direct question, yet somehow his very presence seemed to weigh in the discussion. Those sharp blue eyes watching you had the power to stop stupid questions behind your teeth and make you thoroughly examine your premise before speaking.

No one liked to look a fool in front of Albus Dumbledore, even if your folly was treated ever so gently by the man himself.

Snape was all in shadow by the back door: there and yet not there. The flash of his eyes or teeth could be seen when he shifted or spoke, but mostly he was just a shadow among shadows, a nearly invisible man. Remus wondered if he did it because he knew he made most everyone uncomfortable, or if he just really liked to lurk.

“Right, so Fudge needs to go then, does he?” Kingsley muttered into the sudden silence, his right hand fidgeting with the golden hoop in his ear. “Anyone have any suggestions about how to arrange that?” Kingsley grinned at the younger man, as though daring him to say something clever.

“We ask him to resign and then hold a new election,” Percy said in a deadly quiet voice. Remus looked at the young man, his eyes hidden by the shine of his glasses and felt a small chill. Molly and Arthur were looking at him with something akin to shock and only Snape seemed both interested and pleased by his words.

“You want us to threaten him,” Moody challenged with a blank expression.

“I very much doubt that we will have to do more than suggest,” that cold voice returned. Percy sighed, then tugged off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “Look, you all know that he is visiting Lucius in prison, that he is heavily influenced by people we know are Death Eaters and that he is completely uninterested in defending the Wizarding World from danger. I know from first hand experience just how easy it can be to rationalize away the truth and close your eyes to danger, hoping it will all just go away on its own.” His voice was bitter as he spoke and the self-recrimination was hard to hear.

Tonks reached out a hand and placed it gently on his knee and the rueful expression she gave him was surprising to someone who knew how hard she had fought to avoid this marriage. Remus wondered what had changed between them in the last few months that they were so much in accord now.

“No one cares about that now,” Albus brushed Percy’s past misconduct away with a compassionate look and a wave of his hand. “But you are both right about Minister Fudge. Cornelius is fast giving away everything that we are fighting to protect.”

In that one sentence, the Minister’s fate was decided. After that, it was just a question of when and how.

Sabine was leaning over to pour the tea for him, when it occurred to Albus that she was a valuable source of information that he really hadn’t tapped fully. After all, it had been a running joke for years that if you wanted to know what any Slytherin was up to, Sabine was most likely to know. Of course the corollary to that was that she was also least likely to tell. Getting information out of her was a game that he enjoyed playing, but it required some delicacy. He judged it better to start with a small gambit, move out a pawn, and then observe her response.

“Draco Malfoy’s marriage to Susan Bones is tomorrow,” he essayed casually. Sharp black eyes glanced at him and a dark eyebrow arched in an eerily familiar manner. How did that sort of mannerism become genetic, he pondered? Taliesin never used it, yet Severus mimicked it precisely.

“Poor Amelia must be beside herself, torn between her hatred for the Malfoys and her coveting of their china pattern,” she drawled back at him. It was a particularly catty comment, despite the few grains of truth in it, so he frowned in response.

“I think her grand daughter’s life outweighs interest in china patterns,” he retorted.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Amelia Bones has never forgiven Augustus for not marrying her so that she could get that china and now here’s her chance. I would be surprised if Lucius hasn’t offered her a setting or some such as bride gift,” she shot back with an arch smile and he sighed, knowing that she was baiting him.

“Apparently he had Minister Fudge do a Soulmate spell - Mirror of Dreams, to be precise - and that is how he lighted upon Susan,” Albus kept his voice even and unconcerned and tried to hide his intense curiosity.

Sabine snorted in amusement. “He hardly needed to do that spell, Musetta foresaw that match when Draco was still in his cradle.” Albus tucked the information away with satisfaction.

“Musetta Cleary? The Seer?” He gave his wife a look of wide-eyed interest, but kept his real agenda hidden for now.

“Oh yes, all the best pureblood families have her come read for newborns, how else can they weed out the squibs?” There was real anger in her voice now, a contempt for those that would push away their own children because they lacked magic. Albus knew that Sabine had lost two infants before Taliesin had been born; carrying children had been brutally hard on her while she was under the curse. Her grief had made her all the more furious at the cruel abandonment of squib children in Muggle orphanages.

“So Lucius knew the outcome of the spell before he asked for it to be cast.” It was a confirmation of what he had already suspected.

“Lucius Malfoy doesn’t leave anything to chance if he can help it Albus,” she answered with an expression of wry amusement. Her hair was coming lose from its tight confinement, the softening of its severity made his heart melt a little and he wondered if he would ever tell her just how long he had been in love with her.

Looking at the mocking black eyes with their cynical humor, he knew that he never would.

Minerva McGonagall turned over the pages of her diary and tried to think about something other than the complete lack of offers she had received so far.

On the one hand, she was deeply relieved that no one had taken the opportunity to make her acutely miserable, but on the other hand, she was wondering what was wrong with her. Female vanity at its most contradictory, she thought irritably.

Trelawney and Hooch were headed to the altar, for goodness sake, and it was beyond belief that anyone would want to marry that bug-eyed, muttering, platter-faced nutter or the equally unattractive, brusque, sport fiend. Yet, they were both spoken for and Minerva, who had been considered the prettiest girl in her year, so many years ago, was left standing alone.

It was inconceivable, yet there it was.

A part of her recognized the jealousy that was driving her unkind assessment of the other women and was ashamed, but most of her was just sad and lonely.

She looked up at the portrait of her dead husband with a pang of grief. It didn’t matter how many years had passed, the pain was always fresh, and it quickly brought tears to her eyes. There he sat, preserved from the passage of time, still young, handsome, and charming.
She looked into the painted eyes and wondered what she could have done differently. Was there some sign that she had missed? Was there something that she could have said or done to change the outcome? Fifty years later and she still wondered why he had done it.

She was glad sometimes that it wasn’t a moving portrait. They had been young and poor and couldn’t afford a painting of that quality. Sometimes though, she wished desperately that the painting would move. That it would turn, and he would look at her and say the words that she so badly needed to hear.

“It wasn’t your fault, Minerva.”

She started, thinking that the painting had finally spoken, only to turn and see Severus in the doorway, his eyes shadowed and his face a mask behind which he hid his deep compassion.

“Some days I know that and some days I can’t make myself believe it,” she answered with a greater degree of frankness than she had intended.

“I understand,” he murmured and she knew that he did. How many nights had he lain awake flogging himself mentally for his own blindness and his own mistakes and his were far more egregious than her own.

“I was just feeling sorry for myself,” she countered briskly and rose to accompany him down to dinner. Hermione would meet him at the High Table, which now included several spouses, though not Sabine Dumbledore.

Minerva envied the other woman. Mrs. Dumbledore had managed to completely avoid the nightly inspection and gossip fest that was laughingly called Dinner. If only Minerva could arrange that for herself.

With a sigh, she headed down to face the ordeal that was dinner with a school full of married couples.

Behind her, the portrait of her dead husband remained as still and lifeless as the man who had once sat for it.

Bill Weasley scampered over the clay rooftops, his slippered feet noiseless, and a concealment charm rendering him invisible. He had finally found what he was looking for and now he was about to use every ounce of his talent and power to break a particularly nasty curse.

Part of him regretted that his next actions would likely destroy his friendship with young Avram Yidoni, but most of him was caught up in the adventure. His grandfather had been a curse breaker as well. George Woodbine had, in fact, been one of the best.

He clearly remembered sitting at the old man’s knee and listening with wide-eyes to his tales of adventure. His mother had cast worried glances, knowing all to well how George’s life had been nearly lost a dozen times and more over the years, but Bill had only heard the yearning in his grandfather’s voice. They were the same spirit even though separated by a generation.

He felt the joy of answering the call to action even as his grandfather had and so he slipped past the Yidoni wards with only the tiniest twinge of concern.

He had a job to do and a curse to break.