Chapters 231-240

So Sad

Alina’s quill scribbled angrily, fluffing its feather at Crudass. Alina didn’t even bother with using her wand anymore. Before her tête-à-tête with Death, she had been one of the quickest students of her year. Now she was easily the slowest. On the other hand, when she had finally mastered a spell, she usually performed it not only voiceless, but also wandless. It had come natural to her, and she didn’t give it a second thought. It was simply much more convenient not to use a wand to direct her parchment and Dictaquill to do her bidding.

Alina was tired and cranky. Usually, her lack of hearing and speech didn’t bother her much (or at least that’s what she kept trying to tell herself.) But the practice sessions for lip reading were an ordeal.

Geilis turned to face her, so Alina would have no trouble seeing the movements of her lips. With her right hand, Alina’s friend directed a Dictaquill of her own to simultaneously write down her words on a lop-sided piece of parchment that hovered near her right ear.

Alina scowled at her friend and opened her mouth in a silent sigh. Slowly her Dictaquill spelled out the words:

Geilis hugged her friend. Her parchment and quill fell unnoticed to the ground and Crudass shifted awkwardly next to them, obviously unsure what to do—if he was allowed to hug Alina, too.

‘Thanks,’ Alina mouthed silently to Gilly. Then she jerked her head up at her parchment.

Crudass couldn’t get the hang of Wingardium Leviosa, so he simply held the results of his Dictaquill spell up for Alina to read. Unfortunately, his penmanship transferred to the spell. Alina rolled her eyes, but by now she was pretty good at deciphering even the most illegible scribbling.

Glancing around warily, Alina called down her parchment, caught the Dictaquill and wrote by hand:

Her fellow Slytherin and dorm mate, Geilis, nodded at once. Crudass, Gryffindor and rather left-handed at Potions, grimaced.

‘He won’t be alone,’ he said. ‘Easter hols are short. All the teachers stay here. And some students.’

This time, Alina got the gist of what he was saying. She shrugged, wrote something in very small letters and showed it only to Geilis, while Crudass tried remain aloof and ignore the secretive aside and failed horribly.

Alina had written.

oooOooo

‘Alina is getting on much better than I would have believed possible after such a short time,’ Minerva McGonagall remarked, watching Alina and her friends from the High Table at tea time. Next to her, Severus stiffened.

‘She has made immense progress during the last few weeks thanks to your lessons, Severus,’ Minerva went on, pointedly ignoring the shadow of pain that flowed over her colleague’s face. ‘I still have high hopes for her.’

She said aloud what nearly all teachers were thinking. Yes—Alina’s handicaps were a tragedy. But with Severus’ lessons in voiceless and wandless magic, she was turning them into an advantage. Her progress might be slower than that of her classmates now, but her successful spells possessed the focus and the power of an adult.

Severus didn’t bother to comment, but the harsh lines that bracketed his mouth deepened.

‘Severus, you cannot blame yourself. Alina’s actions saved your life and Harry’s.’ Her voice hardened. ‘And even if you don’t believe that your lives are worth Alina’s health, what’s done is done. Look at her! Is she beating herself up? Does she blame you, Harry or Professor Weasley? No. She lives with the choices she made.’

‘She is too young to have to live with such choices,’ Severus muttered. He looked down at his plate and pushed it away, the sandwich untouched.

Minerva shook her head and decided not to pursue the topic any further. It was easier to persuade a tea pot to tap-dance than to talk sense into Severus Snape. Briskly, she changed the topic, addressing an even touchier subject. ‘When our visitors arrive in half an hour, I expect you to be polite and cooperative. I know you do not trust the Ministry or that commission at the Vatican or the Muggle police. You have made that exceedingly plain.’

So plain that several experts from St. Mungo’s had been involved in sorting out the results of Severus’ fit of temper.

‘Yes.’

‘Severus, at the moment we must assume that we are dealing with a group of rogue priests or monks who may have hidden Hermione among unsuspecting Muggles. It does make sense to search for her by magical and Muggle means. And if that means handing over photographs and a piece of clothing for the sniffer dogs, you should do so without making a fuss.’

‘Yes.’

‘And if Father Brown asks you something, it is in your and Hermione’s best interest if you don’t answer in monosyllables.’

‘Yes.’

oooOooo

‘You don’t trust me.’ Father Brown was small, squat, stout and unassuming. And Severus didn’t trust the priest any further than he could throw him Muggle-style. Which was not far enough.

‘No.’ Severus had lived within a web of lies within lies for far too many years. Was there a better way to prepare a final attack on the wizarding world than to lull them in a false sense of security based on a façade of cooperation?

And he hated showing Hermione’s personal things to the priest and the Muggle police officer. Her books. Her photographs. Her clothes.

‘What can I do?’ the Priest asked.

Wild rage and bitter grief twisted his guts.

‘Nothing,’ Severus spat.