The Taking of Tea

CHAPTER 12: HELEN

All Greece hates
the still eyes in the white face,
the luster as of olives
where she stands,
and the white hands.

All Greece reviles
the wan face when she smiles,
hating it deeper still
when it grows wan and white,
remembering past enchantments
and past ills.

Greece sees unmoved,
God’s daughter, born of love,
the beauty of cool feet
and slender knees,
could love indeed the maid,
only if she were laid,
white ash amid funeral cypresses.

Hermione stared at the boots for a long, suspended moment, something needling the back of her brain. That day in Knockturn Alley. Buying the dragon scales from Beezle, that crooked apothecary. The flash of light and the “thock” of being whacked soundly in the head. The blood and the struggle, the single memory upon waking up in St. Mungo’s—of grey calfskin boots.

“No,” Hermione whispered, choking on a deep, desperate inhalation of breath. “No, no,” she put her hands on Malfoy’s shoulders and gave a hard push, which he misinterpreted as a passionate gesture until she began to struggle in earnest. “No! Oh, god—get off!”

Lucius rose up from her body, leaning above her and pinning her arms to the ground, keeping her hips anchored with his own.

“You’ve remembered, then,” he said, voice soft and lips wet. “I would have obliviated you, had you regained consciousness in time. I never meant for you to remember.” There was acquiescence in his voice, though it didn’t carry over to apology—some tone rising from the heritage of chivalrous landed gentry, when raping slaves wasn’t a crime.

“Get off!” Hermione screamed, “get away from me!” She wanted to be Judith, a brave warrior lopping off his head. Instead she felt shocked and terrified.

“Hush,” Lucius answered, bringing his head close to hers and putting his mouth to her ear. “I can be gentle, Hermione. I never meant,” he paused, “haven’t I healed you? Haven’t I been kind? I can please you, you know I can. Let me be gentle,” he said, raising his face to look at her, wearing a placating smile that twisted her gut.

Hermione twisted fiercely beneath him, kicking her legs, digging her fingers through the cloak and into the soft earth as she tried to claw her way free.

“Hermione, stop,” Lucius said, pinning her easily in place. She felt the heat of tears at her eyes, and clenched her throat against the urge to gag. She was no match for him without a wand; he was well over six feet and nearly eighteen stone. Still she struggled and kicked.

“Let me go,” she wailed, still clawing desperately at the ground. “Let me go!”

“Where would you go?” He asked, voice soft and eerily gentle. “You’re lost and outmatched.”

When she began to hyperventilate, Lucius pointed his wand at her with a heavy sigh.

“Somnus.”




When Hermione woke she was back in the soft, wide bed. Her ruined clothes had been replaced by green flannel pajamas, warm and comforting against her skin. She could smell lavender incense—meant to calm her, no doubt. Several candles lit the room, and when she turned her head she noticed that the large windows had been repaired. She also noticed Lucius Malfoy, seated in a high-backed chair at the foot of the bed and reading Malecrit.

“The windows have been charmed as well as fixed, of course,” Lucius said, not looking up from his book. “I can’t imagine why they weren’t charmed in the first place, although I’ll certainly speak to Yaxley about it.” He looked up at Hermione, who immediately scrambled to the bed corner farthest from him. “Would you like a calming draught?”

“What happened? What did you do?” She demanded.

“I cast a sleeping spell, as you were working yourself in hysterics. As I said previously, what happened last year was…regrettable. In my defense, I was rather overwrought; Draco had just been sentenced, and you’d given a rather ill-mannered statement to the Prophet about the trial’s outcome.”

Hermione had told Dempster Wiggleswade that Draco had gotten what he deserved, which she hardly considered ill-mannered. But then, a muggle-born speaking out in such a way was probably beyond the pale to Lucius Malfoy. Which raised the obvious question: why in heaven’s name was Malfoy behaving this way? She’d have half a mind to ask, were she not sure that his answer would be useless and condescending.

“You prefer to think of me as a brute, I’m sure, and at the moment I suspect you’re rather disinclined to take up the offer I made to you earlier. It seems you’ll yet have time to reconsider, though, as Mr. Potter is taking an exorbitant amount of time to find you—despite the clues we’ve laid at his feet.” Lucius closed his book and rose from the chair. “However I have arranged for another visitor, albeit a reluctant one,” he added, briefly unwarding the door to leave.

No sooner had he left than another wizard entered, in the person of Severus Snape.

“Oh my god.” Not especially articulate, but the only thing Hermione could think to say. She stared at him, innumerable questions running through her mind, while he stood, hands clasped behind his back, still close to the door. Hermione’s brain finally gave her a solid nudge. “What are you doing here? Where did you go? How did you manage to stay hidden? Why did you kill Dumbledore?”

Snape grimaced. “I’m not here to be interrogated, Ms. Granger. In fact I’m only here under duress.”

“Here with Voldemort? Why can’t you escape?” She asked.

“No,” he shook his head. “You misunderstand. I am here with you under duress, at Lucius’ behest. He’s always enjoyed watching me squirm—I’m surprised he’s not here doing so right now, in fact.”

“But you,” she went red-faced. “But we, that is,”

“That was a very long time ago, Ms. Granger,” he sighed. “However, in the spirit of last requests, I shall endeavor to answer your questions, but let me first fetch us something to drink.” Severus disappeared through the door, returning moments later with two cups of tea on a narrow serving tray. Into one he poured cream and the other he left untouched, before handing it to her and taking a seat in the chair Lucius had left. Hermione sniffed the cup’s contents.

“Green tea,” Snape answered, “you hardly need a stimulant at the moment. It’s not adulterated, if that is your concern.” He crossed ankle over knee, blowing softly over his own drink before taking a sip. He looked rather different, Hermione thought. His hair had grown to his shoulders, and was tied back at the nape. He was without his Hogwarts greatcoat, though still in black dress, wearing trousers and a vest buttoned over a pressed shirt.

“Shall I answer your questions in order, then?” He asked, not waiting for an answer. “I am here because this is my home. It was previously the home of Evan Rosier, an old school mate of mine who was killed by aurors some twenty years ago. I was, of course, unable to return to Spinner’s End after Dumbledore’s death, and so the Dark Lord allowed me to make residence here. We are in France, and the aurors are unaware that this property exists—that answers your first three questions, I believe. As for the last, I killed Dumbledore because Draco was unable to do so, and I had made an oath to Narcissa that I would fill Draco’s obligation if circumstances demanded. Which they did, of course,” Snape grunted, “thanks to Draco’s gross incompetence.” His eyes remained fixed on Hermione throughout his explanation. “Have you any more questions?”

To her great surprise, Hermione laughed. “A great many. I’d like to know if you were ever on our side to begin with, and how you could possibly bring yourself to kill Dumbledore, who was the kindest of men even to you. I’d like to know why Malfoy brought me to your home, of all places. But most of all I’d like to know why you did what you did that night, and why you said what you said to me.”

“I beg your pardon?” Snape asked, though his face held no traces of puzzlement.

“You certainly don’t. The night you…” she faltered, “that night I was in your chambers, after you’d fixed that whole mess with Thomas Gray. Why did you say,” again, she couldn’t bring herself to finish her thought, “why did you behave as you did?”

“It surprises me that your adult self cannot see the perversity of my behavior that night,” Snape said. “You were a child and I took advantage of you, though I cannot say that I’m sorry. As for what I said, as was not insincere. I’m not bothered by your being muggle-born any more than I mind being a half-blood, myself. There are fanatics for the cause, of course, but most of us simply want muggle-borns to keep out of the way and know their place. Unfortunately, your kind have a tendency to think that the muggle concept of equality has some place in the wizarding world, which it does not.”

“Pity Sinistra isn’t keeping the racist tradition alive, now that she’s head of Slytherin.”

“So I’ve heard,” he drawled, clearly uninterested. “Again, you mistakenly attempt to use muggle thinking in wizard politics. No one forces you, or any muggle-born, to live as witch or wizard. You choose to live in our society, and as such you are inevitably the bottom caste. You have no heritage and no history, and if you were allowed to do as you think yourself entitled—to hold power, to intermarry with purebloods, and the like, the great traditions that we have worked so carefully to preserve would be meaningless. The houses, the families, the timelines—they would be nothing.”

“And what’s so wrong with that?”

Shape shook his head. “I suppose it’s beyond your understanding, which is a shame. I’ve always thought it a shame that you weren’t better born, as well. But things are as they are in this world, as you will very soon come to understand.”




A/N: According to the fabulous Harry Potter Lexicon, Dumbledore casts a sleeping bewitchment (in GF) for which no incantation is given. “Somnus,” to my limited understanding, is the Latin word for sleep, so I’ve titled the incantation thus for my purposes here. The poem is by H.D.