Chapters 151-160

Tea with the Headmistress

A hand on her arm penetrated the warm fuzziness of sleep.

‘Hmm?’

‘I will only talk to you if you open your eyes,’ a silky voice whispered close to her ear. A shiver ran down her neck and slid over her skin, raising her nipples hard against the fabric of her nightshift.

Hermione blinked her eyes open. The first things she saw were her husband’s eyes, warm and dark. Then she noticed that his hair was freshly washed and combed, and that he was dressed. She couldn’t prevent a disappointed sigh from slipping out.

A slight smile curved his thin lips. His hand stroked her skin, tenderly cupping her cheek. He drew back, then his fingertips trailed the outline of her face, temples, ear, jaw…

‘You fell asleep reading this morning,’ Severus murmured.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s just, I worry so much. And maybe there’s something somewhere, in a book or in a scroll that can help you.’

She wanted to kiss him so much. No. She wanted him. So much. She felt short of breath from the bittersweet pain of wanting him: those fathomless eyes, lanky hair, thin lips, clever fingers, slender-sinewy-solid body smelling of nutmeg, vetyver, bergamot—

‘It’s just that I feel I’m missing something,’ she forced herself to go on. No time for what she wanted now; first things first. ‘I’ve been researching the different versions of the legends for the Deathly Hallows for days now. And—’

Shaking his head, Severus placed a finger on her lips. ‘Did I say that Gryffindors are reckless? “Relentless” might have been more appropriate.’

oooOooo

In spite of the roaring fire, it was chilly in the office. Of course that might simply indicate that the situation was getting to her at last, Minerva McGonagall mused as she sat down on the wrong side of her desk and pulled the implements for her afternoon tea towards her.

She gazed at the paralysed portrait of Albus Dumbledore and shook her head. With the broad strokes of paint and the stark colours, the painting could have won prizes at any exhibition for expressionist art.

Minerva poured herself a cup and concentrated on preparing it the way she liked it. A generous dollop of milk for her inner cat, and just a hint of sugar. For a moment she stared at her hands, the slender fingers curled around the handle, the papery skin on the back of her hands, the faint blue-green tracery of veins. At last she sighed and looked up.

‘Well, Albus. Another week is over, and next week most students will leave for the holidays. We’re keeping all students of Muggle origin here this year. The wards of Hogwarts provide some protection against the leeching spell.’ She raised her cup and took a sip. ‘Severus, Harry, and Madame Dubois have discovered that the magical power is siphoned off to somewhere deep within the Realm of Death, at the very least beyond the First Gate. By now I fear it is too much to hope for that your condition and the leeching spell are not linked.’

Minerva toyed with her spoon. ‘Draco and Percy have been trying to find out if—or probably rather who at the Ministry is involved. Their prime suspect is Umbridge. But I find it hard to believe that this brainless cretin could successfully employ powerful magic of any kind, least of all Necromantic magic. Draco has searched her office and found no evidence for any misdeed. But that means nothing, of course.

‘Healer Mugwort and Madame Dubois have come up with a way to counteract the leeching spell. A second tattoo with the rune Eihwaz on the other arm can be used to contain the effect of the curse.

‘The problem is that the counter-tattoos increase the strength of the spell for the other affected witches and wizards. That means once a critical number of counter-tattoos is reached, the remaining witches and wizards will die. The counter-tattoos provide only some respite. At the moment the Order is attempting to provide counter-tattoos for the weakest—the very young and the very old, the sick.

‘We need to find the source of the curse and to break it. And the perpetrators responsible for it.

‘I’m worried about Shacklebolt, Albus. The pressure is getting to him. Yes, yes, I know that he’s a very talented politician. But he’s still very young, and his position with the Wizengamot is still precarious. As there is still the chance that someone at the Ministry is involved in all of this, he feels that he can trust no one at all. I fear it was a mistake not to integrate the Order in the Ministry. Then Kingsley wouldn’t be as alone in all of this. And the position and the influence of the Order…I keep thinking of what happened to Severus—’ Her voice faltered. ‘If we might have been able to prevent it.’ Minerva frowned, trying to discern a face, an echo of twinkling eyes in the garish colours on the canvas, but failed. ‘I know, Albus, I know—I remember everything you said about the Order’s independence, how the Order must not be turned into a secret service. But things have changed since you died, and even more since you—’ She shook her head. For a long while she remained silent, gazing at the strange painting behind her desk. Now and again she took a swallow of tea, although it had grown quite cold by now.

‘I wish there was something I could do. But as an Animagus, my powers belong to life and the living—I am completely useless in this case,’ Minerva McGonagall whispered. ‘I am just so worried about Harry.’

She stared at her hand as if her piercing glare could keep it from shaking.

‘And Hermione.’

The cup clattered down on the saucer.

‘And Severus.’

The painting of Albus Dumbledore remained still, while the occupants of the other portraits shifted uncomfortably in their frames.