A Dish Served Cold

Chapter 38 – Curses

There were moments in his life when Bill Weasley suspected that he was really pushing his luck. He knew that he was not as reckless as Fred and George, but he also knew he wasn’t as prudent as Percy either. This moment, as he stared into the eyes of a rather fiercely irritated dragon, he knew that discretion would have been the better part of valor.

His first thought, as he dropped from the windowsill to the floor, was that he needed to cast a Fire Protection spell. His second thought was that Sarit Yidoni was bonkers to keep a juvenile Hungarian Horntail in her cellar.

The sinewy neck whipped a head towards him that was covered in far too many spiked bits to make him at all comfortable. He had a feeling that running like hell was his best option.

Severus dropped his head into his hands and tried not to imagine Firenze over a spit with an apple in his mouth.

“You must try to flow with the visions, letting them lead you, not forcing them into a mold of your own preconceptions,” the centaur was saying with the same patient placidity that he had used for the last hour and a half.

Severus was feeling anything but placid. He had a migraine coming on and his vision kept going all yellow and blurry as he stared at the wall and tried to “flow with the visions”, as he had been instructed. It wasn’t as easy as it sounded.

It was like watching a Muggle film, only one where the film had come off the sprockets and was jumping around. Bits and pieces of moments that might never happen kept bouncing around inside his skull like toddlers on a sugar high. Nothing was as clear and clean as that first rush of imagery had been. That moment in the Headmaster’s office with his grandmother and Albus he had had a glimpse of his own potential, but now it felt like he was wading through treacle.

If this were a gift, he would hate to be the recipient of a curse. With gritted teeth he tried again.

George and Emma Granger stood on either side of Mrs. Frewer, George physically supporting the other woman. The casket of Emily Frewer was being slowly lowered into the ground and the heart-rending sobs of her mother were tearing at Emma. The Muggle Mothers’ Support Group had turned into one of the few lifelines many of the parents of Muggleborns and Half bloods had to cling to and the Grangers were attending a lot of funerals lately.

The bright green of the grass, the rich smell of the earth, the sobbing figures draped in black, it was starting to haunt her dreams at night. Emma’s knowledge of her own daughter’s safety was both a comfort and a source of guilt these days.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the vicar recited with deep solemnity and George looked over Mrs. Frewer’s head towards his wife. Emma met his gaze steadily, but it was harder and harder each funeral they attended. Never in her life had she felt so helpless.

Besides them, there were all the girl’s Muggle family and one lone woman, thin and with huge dark eyes, wearing the oddly mismatched clothes that proclaimed her a pureblood witch. She was an oddity, because most of the funerals the Grangers had attended found the pureblood families conspicuous in their absence.

They claimed it wasn’t safe, with You-Know-Who around and she grudgingly admitted that they had a point. Yet, it was also obvious that the families had conspired to kill these young brides and felt no need to display mock-grief at the funeral just for the sake of some Muggles.

After the service Emma approached the woman. It was extremely difficult to guess the age of a witch; they all aged so slowly once they hit twenty or so that it made it nearly impossible to tell. Still, from the hesitant way the girl stood and the nervous way she brushed her thick, dark hair from her eyes, Emma guessed her to be somewhere between eighteen and twenty-five.

“How do you do?” Emma ventured with a touch of wariness. She had not been suspicious or hostile to the witches and wizards she had met in Diagon Alley when shopping with Hermione, but much had changed since then and she was growing cautious.

“I’m Tamari Greenwillow, Emily was my sister-in-law, for about a week,” the girl sighed and there was bitterness and sorrow in her eyes and voice. She looked down at the ground and dug her toes in the grass. “I liked her.” The last was said with a touch of defiance that Emma understood all too well.

“I’m Emma Granger, “ she said by way of introduction. “I liked her too, she was a very kind, sweet girl,” Emma responded to the comment, her voice gentle. Tamari’s mouth worked soundlessly and then her lip started to tremble.

“They’ve made my little brother a murderer, they’ve killed a good witch and they have done it all for the sake of a purity that was already killing us all.” The girl looked at Emma with such pain that as a mother, she could do nothing else but reach out and enfold the younger woman in her arms.

“I know,” Emma soothed.

“My mother had three squibs and four still-births, my brother and I are the only magical children born this generation. Emily was smart and funny and she would have been a great mother…” Tamari’s words dissolved into tears as she clung to Emma and sobbed. She had the hiccupy sobs of a small child and it roused something protective in Emma.

“Child, you should get somewhere safe…if someone should see you here…”

“I am going away today,” the girl admitted, drawing back and dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I can’t stand what our world is turning into.” The two women, one Muggle and one Witch nodded at each other in perfect accord and then parted.

It occurred to Emma Granger that Voldemort might be getting more than he bargained for with this law.

Bill scrabbled across the floor, dodging sharp claws, a mouth full of six-inch long teeth, a barbed tail, and the occasional blast of fire. He was having acute feelings of sympathy for mice and birds at the moment, as the dragon toyed with him.

He really hoped he would find an exit from this cellar soon.

Blaise Zabini sat calmly in the Headmaster’s office with his white-faced wife in a chair beside him.

“So since I will not murder my wife, I came straight to you,” he finished and noted the Headmaster’s serene gaze with some irritation. Surely the man should have some reaction to all this?

“You were right to do so, Mr. Zabini,” Dumbledore affirmed and Blaise relaxed fractionally. “I will protect you both.”

“What can you do?” Lisa accused. “You couldn’t stop my marriage, you couldn’t save those other girls, why should I believe that you can keep me alive?” Blaise winced at her tone, he understood her bitterness, but you just didn’t speak that way to a Dumbledore.

“Because Hogwarts itself will defend you, Mrs. Zabini. My own power may not be strong enough to protect every girl in Great Britain, but as long as you are here in Hogwarts you are safer than you might imagine.” Dumbledore’s voice was certain and calm, but Blaise could sense concern underneath it all. All the legends and stories of his childhood about Hogwarts and the Founders ran through his head and he wondered if the fact that Voldemort was Salazar’s Heir was what made the Headmaster nervous.

“He was the Heir of Slytherin, he knew about the Chamber, do you think there are other things he knows that make us vulnerable?” Blaise asked, following his thoughts to their logical conclusion.

“No, if there was another vulnerability he would have used it years ago to get at me,” Dumbledore waved off that thought and Blaise felt his sincerity to be genuine. What then made Dumbledore nervous? Without further research, Blaise couldn’t be certain. He put the thought aside and concentrated on finding a way to keep his wife alive.

There was much yet to discuss.

The dragon breathed a cloud of flames at him and a pile of crates next to Bill caught fire. The heat was barely tolerable, even through the fire protection charm, and Bill knew that it was reaching its limits. He spotted a door hidden behind a pile of Persian carpets and angled himself in that direction. He just hoped he could get through the door and away.

The dragon was obviously enjoying itself immensely, it must be damnably boring down here, but Bill wasn’t having anywhere near as much fun.

He really wished that he had paid more attention to Charlie when he had rambled on about dragons, rather than tuning him out. He promised himself that if he survived this he would really listen to his younger brother next time.

Sabine sat primly in her favorite chair and forced her expression to remain grave and sober as the large, hairy half-giant described his problem to her. Maintaining a straight face was imperative but also extremely difficult.

“So ya see, since yer a girl an all, I though’ maybe ya could tell me wha I said wrong ta her,” he concluded with beetled brows and a look of earnest good will.

Sabine took a deep breath and suppressed every one of the sarcastic comments that bubbled up in her mind.

“Well, Hagrid, few women are entirely comfortable about their weight and even the implication that she was heavy might be problematical, but to actually say she weighed as much as a good sized dragon, was perhaps unwise.” Looking back over the sentence, Sabine was pleased that she had remained polite.

“Ah, I hadn’ thought of that,” he answered with a small frown. “I like dragons, ya know,” he added with a sigh.

“So I have heard,” she murmured, trying to suppress a shudder at what a dragon might have done to a student had it been allowed to remain. “Also, when you compared her beauty to a mountain, you perhaps should have stopped with strong and majestic and not continued on use such adjectives as “Sturdy, solid and like a really good granite” which are not really feminine descriptors,” she continued.

He gave her a puzzled look and she sighed to herself. If someone had told her a year ago that she would be an agony aunt for a pair of half-giants she would have thought them daft, yet here she was.

“Most women like to be thought of as lovely, feminine creatures. Try saying that she is beautiful and elegant, or perhaps graceful and swan-like,” she advised gently. Hagrid nodded enthusiastically and Sabine hoped, for his sake, that he was actually absorbing the information.

“Yer a great lady, Mrs. Dumbledore,” he gushed with absolute sincerity and Sabine found that she couldn’t help but smile gently back at him. He was endearing, like a giant-sized puppy: he might widdle on the carpet, but he’d be very sorry about it afterwards. She clamped her mouth shut over a slightly hysterical giggle at that thought and rose to bid him farewell.

She hadn’t realized that marrying Albus meant being wedded to Hogwarts and its terribly eccentric residents. It was enough to make a woman feel rather daunted. What had she got herself into?

Bill managed to use Accio to clear away the carpets and flung open the door. He darted through it and slammed it behind him with some force. He paused to make sure that it was strongly warded and that no dragon was coming through it to get to him and then he slumped to the floor in a boneless heap.

He looked up and saw that he was in a vast underground room carved from gold-toned rock, with a cistern in the center of it and pillars marching down the either side carved from the same stone. The whole room had been dug out and the ceiling was the same rough-hewn substance as the rest of it. A precarious looking staircase had been gouged out of the stone on one wall and light came from torches on brackets nailed to the walls.

It was better than the dragon, he decided.

That was when the hissing began.

Helena dug her fingers into the dark loam and turned the soil with her bare fingers. A spade would have worked just as well, but it wouldn’t have had the same visceral quality.

Professor Sprout was continuing the lecture and Helena was listening with half an ear. She had covered most of this at Beauxbatons, but the plump Herbology teacher had some interesting details that Madame Verdigris hadn’t mentioned.

Beside her Neville was prepared his own pot to receive the little flox flower that was today’s lesson. A dainty thing with triangular leaves and a cluster of sweet smelling creamy colored blossoms, it was very hard to keep alive. The flower was very picky about its soil and water and Helena was determined to provide it with excellent care.

Across from her Susan Malfoy was staring at her plant balefully as if daring it to mess with her. Helena wondered if she were planning on intimidating it into growing well.

Since her marriage, Susan had been decidedly sharp with everyone, though no one blamed her in the slightest. If anything, everyone treated her very carefully, as though she were made of spun glass. Helena had tried to keep acting normally towards her, but it was really much harder to act normally when you were conscious of it all the time.

Ginny Lupin was the only one who acted as though Susan were fine, but then she was married to a werewolf.

“You may place your plants into their pots now,” Professor Sprout announced and Helena checked her soil one last time before she gently unspotted the flox and tucked it into its new home.

Ron’s flox wilted immediately and Helena suppressed a sigh. Ron had a black thumb, though he was really good at Transfigurations, where Helena was weak. Surprisingly Harry’s flower stayed straight and tall, though even he looked amazed at that. Draco Malfoy shoved his into its pot and watched it droop with a look of exasperation, as though the plant were deliberately trying to irritate him.

Neville’s flox spread out its leaves with a contented air and Helena smiled at him. She was so very happy with the choices fate had forced on her. Looking across at Susan she wished that the other girl could feel the same.

Draco’s peevish expression and now dead flower made that seem quite unlikely.

Snakes, Bill grumbled to himself, why did it have to be snakes? There were very few anti-snake spells and he really wished Harry were here with his Parseltongue to call off the asps that were slithering towards him at an alarming rate.

Bill looked up and noted the rough texture of the ceiling. He pulled out his climbing gloves and ran to the nearest pillar. Scampering up it like a monkey up a coconut tree, the magically sticky pads on the gloves found traction where his bare fingers never would have.

Soon he was moving hand over hand across the ceiling, dangling above the snakes and praying that the gloves would really function as advertised. He was nearly to the staircase when he began to feel the gloves slipping.

Hermione tucked her feet underneath her and tried not to feel like a blimp. Across from her Harry, Moira, Ron, Luna, Neville and Helena circled the little tea table and the babble of their voices was a soothing addition to the crackling of the fire, the sound of rain pouring down the windows and Hedwig’s hooting.

She really liked Harry and Moira’s rooms; they were cheery, charming, and cozy. After months of Salazar’s outré tastes, something on a smaller scale was quite refreshing.

Of the women in the room, only Helena wasn’t visibly pregnant which did make for a slightly surreal gathering. Still waddling students with swollen ankles were becoming a common sight at Hogwarts and it was only occasionally that Hermione suffered a disconnect and the whole thing became entirely unreal.

Severus was at another dull Death Eater meeting and he had left her in Harry’s care, after making him vow on his parent’s graves that he would take good care of her. Hermione had watched the whole exchange with a feeling of irritation, the very idea that she wasn’t fully capable of taking care of herself made her want to scratch out her husband’s eyes.

On the other hand, everything was making her irritable these days.

Irritable and hungry.

“Are you going to eat that?” she asked Ron as he pushed away a plate with half a scone on it. He gave her a startled look and then shook his head.

Hermione swooped down on the defenseless scone and devoured it. Moira, watching this, turned green and ran from the room.

“She still can’t eat?” Neville asked Harry with a look of concern.

“Nope, I have to pour nutrient potions down her every few hours,” Harry admitted and ran a weary hand through his hair. “She’s the only woman I know of who is losing weight while pregnant.”

“That’s not good, Harry,” Helena frowned and tilted her head as she spoke. “Have you tried cowslip tea?”

“No, is that good?” Harry asked.

“Hello!” Ron interrupted. “We got together to discuss how to defeat You-know-who! Remember?” He sounded as irritated as Hermione was feeling and everyone turned their attention to him in surprise.

“Ron…” Harry began.

“No, I mean it. We might as well give up if we are going to let ourselves natter on about tea and pregnancies instead of doing something to fight,” he bit out angrily.

“Ron’s right,” Hermione forestalled the argument she could see brewing. “We keep on like this and Voldemort will have won already.”
The group of friends looked at each other and nodded slowly.

“All right,” Harry said, with calm strength. “Time to get serious.”

With that, they began to plan in earnest, though Hermione still felt like a blimp.