A Dish Served Cold

Chapter 43 – Marbles

Avram rolled the marble around in his palm and thought about what Professor Dumbledore had said to him. If protection had ever been needed by anyone, Avram needed it now. The problem is that he had no idea how to activate the small glass orb with its swirling, dancing, internal flames.

He put it back into his pocket with a sigh and waited for the port key to activate. He hated traveling.

“Of course, the real problem is in the timing. Tom knows when he is going to attack and we do not. It would be much easier if we could have him attack when we want him to, so that we are ready for him,” Albus finished with a sigh. Sabine cocked her head at him and sighed gustily.

“You can be so very Gryffindor sometimes, Albus,” she retorted sharply. “Why don’t you just make him attack you when you want him to?”

“And how, oh sneaky and deceptive one, would you arrange such a thing,” he shot back with a look of disbelief and a tone filled with derision. She forgave him his lack of faith, because he had obviously gone soft in the head from being around so many children for so long.

“Silly man, you know why he doesn’t attack, right?” she asked with admirable patience, she felt.

“Yes, he knows that he can’t beat me, especially at Hogwarts,” he replied, still with irritation, but with interest starting to spark in his eyes. He wasn’t stupid, she knew, just not as devious as she was.

“Then let us arrange for your very public and spectacular death,” she replied with a grin.

“So eager to be a widow?” he mocked her with false sorrow and hurt.

“No, just play let’s pretend and lull the little maniac into making a false move,” she retorted, knowing from the gleam in his eye that she had him interested now.

“It is an idea that has its merits, but how would we pull it off?” He was stroking his beard and pacing now, so she knew his mind was fully on the plan. Having done the hard part, she sat back and let him go. He tossed off ideas in a staccato rhythm, set up scenarios, then discarded them, and she let him run on until her own plan was gelled in her mind.

“Fire spell, Apparation and a nice pile of ashes from the grate ought to do it,” she finally interrupted and he gave her a long look.

“I like my Draught of Living Death idea.”

“What if he wants a trophy, like your head?” she pointed out and watched him deflate visibly.

“And here I had a dramatic swoon all planned out,” he complained, but she knew that he was merely teasing her again. She raised an eyebrow at him and watched him subside with a smile.

“Yes well, I will have to burn some hair and fingernail parings just in case he checks,” he added and Sabine nodded placidly, knowing that the plan was now set.

A wave of nausea overtook her and she ran to the bathroom.

She was really looking forwards to Voldemort’s death; it was the least she could do to him for getting her into this rather silly predicament. She certainly didn’t want him running the world, Slytherin or not. No male should ever be allowed absolute power; they just hadn’t the brains for it.

The letter had come that morning and she had read it over Draco’s shoulder. Their mutual resolution required no words and they had packed in silence. Voldemort’s missive had been left in their chambers for whoever found it to deal with. His demands would go unanswered and they knew that their plans for escape would make them very hard to find.

Susan looked back over her shoulder at the school and sighed. Draco paused and gave her a look of impatience.

“I’m going to miss it,” she explained and he snorted in disgust.

“I’m not,” he replied with a frown. “I hated being treated like dirt by the other Houses. I hated Potter winning the cup for Gryffindor every year after we had done best in points all year long. I hated the whispers and the stares. I hated Dumbledore’s whole sympathetic grandfather act, while we knew he was waiting for us to become Death Eaters. I am not going to miss this place one bit.” His tone had become more and more bitter as the speech had progressed and Susan felt a sudden welling of mingled pity and irritation.

“You can be such a prick, Draco,” she sighed wearily. He gave her a long look and then shrugged.

“It took you this long to figure that out?” he retorted and they continued the walk down into Hogsmeade. She stole one last look over her shoulder and then turned resolutely back towards the road.

Voldemort would never touch their child and if she had to kill every Death Eater in the world to be sure of it, well, that was fine by her.

“Bring it on,” she whispered to the crisp morning air and once they were outside the wards, Draco and Susan Malfoy apparated away to safety.

Georgian listened to the Headmaster reading out the letter at the staff meeting with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“I can certainly understand why they ran,” Hooch muttered grimly.

“Surely they were safer here,” Minerva shot back, with her face a scowl of irritation.

“He’s a Malfoy, he probably had three different escape plans set up since he was ten and has added one a year since then,” Severus retorted with an airy wave of his hand.

“Like father, like son, you mean?” Maggie inquired, hands steepled before her on the table. Severus snorted derisively in reply.

“No, Lucius would have made nice with Voldemort while looking carefully for the place to stick the knife in. Draco lacks his…subtlety.” Severus was turning a quill over in his hands, fiddling with it in a quite uncharacteristic manner. Georgian wondered why he was so unsettled and nervous today.

“You mean he is somewhat more honest?” Maggie asked with an incredulous look.

“No, I meant exactly what I said.” Severus sounded exasperated, which was also odd, since normally he was so controlled.

Georgian put a hand on his wife’s knee, restraining her from snapping back a sharp comment at the Potions Master.
She gave him a glare that told him an explanation was coming for him later, but subsided.

“Where do you think they went?” Albus asked Severus with a gentle expression that told Georgian that the old wizard had also noticed Severus’ abstraction.

“The French estates are unplottable and Voldemort never got the keys to that place. I should think that they would start out there,” Severus mused idly, his eyes on the ceiling and his hands still restlessly fussing with the quill.

“Very well.” The Headmaster sighed and rubbed his eyes with a tired gesture. “There is little we can do for them now, but wish them well.”

“We must go after them, get them back where they will be safe!” Sprout protested, but the other teachers’ looks of resignation and sorrow stopped any further expressions of her distress.

“I will make sure that an eye is kept out from them, but anything we do to find them could lead Voldemort right to them,” Albus soothed the plump Hufflepuff with a sad smile.

“Trust me, wherever they are off to they are well out of it,” Severus added with a shrug.

Georgian was now seriously worried about his friend’s state of mind.

Hermione shifted in her chair and resisted the urge to find a really awful hex and go and hunt down ex-Minister Fudge.
She had been confined to bed rest and was utterly furious about it.

On the one hand, she was getting a lot of studying done for her NEWTS, but the down side was that she was missing classes. Severus’ comments about other students finally getting the opportunity to speak in class did little to make her mood sweeter.

Crookshanks hopped up to settle beside her in the huge overstuffed armchair. He could no longer fit himself into her lap, so he just leaned against her swollen belly and purred loudly. It was strangely soothing, though she suspected he was passing subliminal messages to the baby, things like “feed the orange kitty lots of tuna” and the like. She scrubbed his ears in just the right spot and he rubbed his head under her hand demanding more.

From nearby she could hear Lupin and Ginny talking. They were here, in Sal’s little bordello, more often than not these days. At first, she thought that they were here to keep an eye on Harry, but recently she had begun to suspect that it was herself that they were guarding.

Her real question was why?

Severus slammed down the parchment in frustration and rounded on the centaur.

“There is nothing here!” he spat out.

“It is not a well researched subject,” Firenze replied with an expression of serenity that Severus found utterly repugnant.

“Yes, well, that doesn’t help me, now does it?” He kept his tone as civil as possible, since he still needed the other fellow’s help. His own knowledge about Seer powers was minimal and while Firenze’s information was applicable mostly to four legged folks, it did seem to be somewhat useful.

“I doubt that the baby could have come into Seer powers while still in the womb, Professor Snape,” Firenze repeated calmly.

“Then explain to me the dreams and the inability to sleep?” he retorted with a scowl.

“There is another explanation,” Firenze began with a halting tone. There was a long pause.

“I am waiting rather patiently Firenze,” Severus reminded him from between clenched teeth.

“She could be being haunted.”

Helena carefully snipped the dead foliage from the Spiderus Malificus plant, deftly avoiding the sharp spines and dripping fangs. A great deal of concentration was required for the task, as the fuzzy leaves were fast moving and agile. Her abstraction provided her husband with ample time to creep up behind her without her noticing.

He waited patiently for her to step back from the plant and out of harms way before he leaned forward and whispered in her ear.

“Boo.” It was a soft sound but Helena jumped a foot in the air and shrieked. She spun and stared at her mate with an expression of aggravation, mixed with relief.

“Neville! You scared the life out of me!” she scolded and he grinned back at her unrepentant.

“Draco’s gone and I can’t say that I shall miss him,” Neville informed her with a smug grin. Susan studied him with some interest, because he rarely expressed dislike for anyone. Draco must have really been rotten to him for the mild tempered Neville to be quite so jubilant.

“What about Susan?” she asked gently and his face fell in reply.

“I hope she’s all right,” he answered softly. With a deep feeling of tenderness, she gently stroked his cheek and thanked the gods of magic once more for her good fortune.

“I do too,” she agreed and they headed out of the greenhouses rather somberly.

With a shy smile, Neville patted her belly.

“Hello little Longbottom,” he murmured to the small person growing inside of her. “I hope that you haven’t been kicking your mama too hard this morning,” he continued.

“Very little, actually. The baby is quite even tempered normally,” she answered with a grin. “It was only that Transfiguration lesson that got a very excited reaction. Professor McGonagall hopes that it means the next generation will take to subject.”

“I like Transfigurations, I’m just better at Herbology,” Neville shrugged.

“Yes, well, I am not doing…” she trailed off and they both turned to watch Harry running pell-mell back towards the castle.

“Harry!” Neville called, but the black haired man ignored him and ran like his life depended on it.

“Voldemort?” Helena asked, suddenly anxious.

“No, worse, I think. Moira,” Neville answered and the cold chill of fear passed through them both. Hand in hand they ran as fast as Helena was able towards the infirmary.

Maggie cast the charm with a feeling of dread. She’d seen a great many pregnancies in her years as a midwife, but this one had been going wrong since the beginning and she just didn’t know why.

A small bubble materialized above Moira’s belly and it pulsed in an uneven, spastic rhythm that concerned Maggie greatly. The infant’s heartbeat was far too ragged and fast. A quick wand wave and some muttered phrases did nothing to correct that and Maggie changed her focus.

There was nothing that she could do for the baby at this point, but she still hoped that she could save Moira.

Harry was pacing back and forth in the hospital wing, feeling helpless and miserable.

Ron and Luna, their arms about each other, sat silently on one of the beds nearby. Hermione, her belly swollen and her feet propped up on an ottoman, sat tense and miserable in a wingchair that Madame Pomfrey had placed for her.

Neville and Helena came clattering in, looking worried and distraught and Ron waved them to another bed, where they sat looking back and forth between the door to the Midwifery room and Harry.

Trying to find words nearly defeated him, but Harry tried anyway.

“She just started bleeding,” he choked out. It felt like there was burning dirt in his eyes and his head felt stuffed with wool. He couldn’t think and he could barely breathe.

“Oh Harry,” Helena murmured softly. She got up and crossed the room to him, wrapping him up in her arms. He leaned into her and felt the strength and sweetness of her. He put his head on her shoulder and let himself be weak for that moment.
He desperately wished he still had a mother.

Hermione felt paralyzed. She couldn’t waddle over to Harry and comfort him as the far less pregnant Helena could. She had no one to cling to herself, as Severus was conspicuously absent. There were no clever spells or old books to look in to find the answers and she was at a complete loss.

Her mind ran through everything she had studied about pregnancy and bleeding was definitely a bad sign. Madame Pomfrey had vanished to help Madame Tamarind with Moira and Neville was sitting on the bed looking at his own wife with an expression of concern and fear.

Hermione wondered if this was the first time that he had realized that even in this day and age, women still died in labor. She looked down at her own belly at that sobering thought. Her own pregnancy had hardly been complication free and there were always risks, especially with all of them so young.

Which reminded her: she really did have to pay back Fudge for this one day. There were certainly more than enough old tomes for her to study to that end.

The door to the infirmary banged open and Severus raced past them all with a couple of stopped vials in his hands.

“Snape?” Harry choked out in shock.

“I told you first year that I could put a stopper in death, Potter,” he barked back, without slowing. Severus was through the other door and gone before any of them could formulate a reply.

Hermione relaxed and leaned back in her large comfy chair, suddenly unconcerned.

Severus would fix things, she thought, with a satisfied feeling inside of her. A sudden twinge of worry sat her back up straight again.

He’d find a way if anyone could, but what if it was too late? Hermione clenched her hands together and looked at her best friend standing pale and desperate, his clothing askew, with his glasses having slipped halfway down his nose, and his face a mask of agony.

Voldemort might win after all, because she was not certain Harry could survive another catastrophic loss. If Moira died, they all might.