Mordant

Chapter Eighteen: After the Battle

“I wonder why Remus hasn’t sent word.” Celia looked out over Diagon Alley and drummed her fingers on the windowsill. “It isn’t like him to be late.”

“Perhaps he’s got ... other things going on.” Linus glanced toward the copy of the Daily Prophet that rested on top of a crate of Skiving Snackboxes. The paper had come late that day. When it finally arrived, the headlines were at once sensational – DEATH EATERS CAPTURED IN MINISTRY BREAK-IN; PUBLIC CALLS FOR FUDGE’S RESIGNATION – and frustratingly guarded. He couldn’t tell who had been involved in the capture, and the paper was silent on the subject of injuries and deaths.

The handful of shoppers in the street below huddled together in tense frightened knots, and even Fred and George Weasley seemed subdued. They had locked themselves in the back room for most of the day, experimenting with something they called Shield Hats. Only the occasional ricochet of a deflected spell or muffled burst of swearing let their guests know that the twins were still in one piece.

“Perhaps we ought to help the boys stock some of the shelves in the main room,” said Celia, coming away from the window at last.

“We don’t know what’s supposed to go where,” Linus pointed out.

“Oh. Right.” Celia toyed with her bracelet – an inexpensive bit of costume jewelry that had been a present from Remus – picked up the paper as if she were planning to read it for the fourth time, and almost immediately put it down.

“I expect he’s got more important things to do than trying to worm a confession out of Dolores Umbridge,” said Linus.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose he would.”

“We could go and speak to Umbridge,” said Linus suddenly. “Remus is just as much an amateur as we are – and this is really my battle to fight, not anybody else’s.”

Celia looked at him as if he were utterly mad. Perhaps he was; why else would he have suggested that they take themselves off to Scotland on a day when most people were afraid to leave their houses?

Then she laughed. “Why not? It’s not as if we have anything better to do. I’ll just leave a note for Fred and George, and we’ll be off.”

 

                                                            *          *          *

Rubeus Hagrid, who had been friendly with Linus until he was expelled in their third year, let them onto the Hogwarts grounds with only a minimum of scrutiny. His face darkened when Linus said that they wanted to speak to Dolores Umbridge, but cleared again when he grasped that the interview was not likely to be a pleasant one for Dolores.

“Ar, yeh’ll find the old harpy in the Hospital Wing, but good luck gettin’ anything out o’ her.”

“Why?” asked Linus. “What happened?”

“Couldn’ keep from meddlin’ with people she knows nowt about, could she?”

Linus and Celia looked at each other, puzzled. This was certainly an accurate description of Umbridge, but as an explanation of how she came to be in the Hospital Wing it was rather cryptic.

Poppy Pomfrey, who presided over the Hospital Wing, was a near-stranger to Linus, but she greeted Celia like an old friend – one of the few perks of having an illness-prone child, Linus supposed. His own daughter had rarely had much wrong with her, and when she did, his ex-wife was the one who generally got called in.

“What can I do for you, Celia?” Poppy asked after the introductions had been made.

“We need to see Dolores Umbridge. I’m sorry to interrupt your work, but we need some information from her – it’s important.”

“Well, you see...” Poppy looked awkward. “I need your word that this won’t get out – we’ve had enough trouble with the Ministry as it is – but the fact is, Professor Umbridge has met with – with an accident.”

“What sort of accident?” asked Celia.

“A run-in with centaurs, apparently.”

 

“Centaurs? She’s been shot with arrows?”

 

Poppy shook her head. “Not a scratch on her, and no sign of what they did to her, but she appears to be too traumatized to speak. Frankly –” she looked around the ward and lowered her voice – “it’s my opinion that all they had to do was lay hands on her, and she went into shock from the insult. Small-minded, bigoted woman – can’t abide what she calls ‘part-humans’... Anyway, you’re welcome to visit her, but I don’t think she’ll be in any condition to help you.”

 

She drew the curtain away from a bed at the end of the ward. Dolores Umbridge lay flat on her back, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her tangled hair was spread out on the pillow with bits of twigs sticking out of it at odd angles. Incongruously, there seemed to be the remnants of a pink ribbon buried somewhere amid the snarls.

 

“Madame Umbridge?” Celia tried cautiously, but the patient gave no sign of noticing the visitors.

 

Linus tried a more direct approach. “I’m Linus Berowne. Martin Miggs, remember? You set a werewolf on me once to shut me up, but it didn’t work.”

 

Dolores Umbridge continued to stare blankly at the ceiling. Her face was slack and expressionless, rather less toadlike than it had been, though still distinctly unattractive.

 

“Poppy?” asked Celia. “Is there any way we could have access to her office?”

 

The nurse looked dubious. “It’s against the rules – but since it’s you – and since it’s her...” She gave another quick glance around the ward and took a ring of keys out from underneath her robes. “Follow me.”

 

“Good God,” said Linus when he got his first glimpse of Umbridge’s office. “It looks like – like Madam Puddifoot threw up all over it.”

 

Poppy and Celia laughed nervously.

 

“Where do you think she would keep – anything that might incriminate her?” he wondered aloud, with a sidelong glance at Poppy, who shrugged.

 

“There,” said Celia after considering the office’s furnishings for a moment. She indicated a cabinet that was nearly obscured by an enormous vase of flowers and covered with a lace tablecloth. “One doesn’t put tablecloths on things with drawers, normally – and she seems to have gone out of her way to block it with the other furniture.”

 

While looking through the cabinet, Linus thought that Celia might be right, but Dolores certainly had an odd collection of incriminating items. Among other things, he discovered a sharp-looking black quill, the point of which seemed to be stained with rust-colored ink; a vial that looked as if it had once contained some sort of potion; and innumerable copies of Rita’s interview with Harry Potter.

 

And, in the very bottom drawer, he found the January issue of Martin Miggs.

 

It was hard to believe that it had been worth the trouble of breaking into a house and destroying a man’s life, and that only six months earlier. The animation had worn off, and the cartoons were tattered bits of paper covered in dated jokes; a curiosity more than anything.

 

“Are you going to publish it?” Celia asked.

 

“It’s too late, now. Its time has passed.” Linus folded the sheets of parchment in two and slipped them into the pocket of his robes. “I’ll keep it. As a memento.”

 

“A memento of what?”

 

“I don’t know. The power of human folly.” He looked around the deserted office, with the flowers beginning to wither and the garishly colored kittens skipping silently from plate to plate, and wondered if its owner would ever return to it. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

 

                                                            *          *          *

 

The night after the Department of Mysteries battle, Remus was keeping a lonely vigil on a ward at St. Mungo’s. It had been nearly two days since he’d slept, and the full moon was drawing ever closer. His bones ached and he felt lightheaded.

 

He hadn’t known that Metamorphmagi reverted to their true physical form when they were unconscious. The fine, straight hair spread out against the pillow was closer to brown than blonde, but otherwise she was the spitting image of a young Narcissa Black. No wonder she preferred bubble-gum pink spikes.

 

Tonks stirred, for the first time in the twenty-four hours he’d been here, and he felt his knees go weak with relief. He hadn’t realized, until that very moment, how dreadfully afraid he’d been that they were going to lose her too.

 

Her eyes opened. “Malfoy,” she murmured.

 

“He’s been arrested,” said Remus quietly. “Almost all of them have been arrested. We did well.” He couldn’t bring himself to tell her about Sirius yet. Not after they’d fought so hard to save his sanity, for so many months. There would be time enough in the future. A thousand tomorrows wouldn’t bring him back.

 

“No.” She struggled to sit up. “Malfoy ... here.”

 

“You’ve been dreaming. Go back to sleep. You’re safe here.” He brushed a few strands of hair away from her face and pressed his hand against her forehead. She didn’t seem to be feverish, but he couldn’t tell for sure.

 

She wouldn’t look straight at him. She was gazing across the room, her face furrowed in concentration. “Not Lucius,” she said at last. “Another Malfoy.” Apparently satisfied with this conclusion, she sank back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

 

Slowly, he turned his head. She was right. There was another Malfoy staring at him through cold grey eyes, wearing Lucius’ selfsame sneer.

 

Remus felt slightly dizzy, until he took in the fact that the aristocratic wizard was merely oil and canvas, confined to the portrait frame on the opposite wall. His blond hair was curled and tied back with a velvet ribbon, in the style of some forgotten generation, and his pointed face was similar – though not identical – to young Draco’s.

 

The plaque at the bottom of the frame read: APOLLODORUS MALFOY (1690-1832). PHILANTHROPIST, HUMANITARIAN.

 

The first thing that popped into Remus’ exhausted mind was a joke that James Potter used to tell about twice a day, until Sirius had threatened to convert him into venison steaks if he didn’t stop: “If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat?”

 

Old Apollodorus definitely looked like he was that sort of humanitarian. Probably liked people just fine if they were well roasted and served with the right vintage from his cellars. He stood in front of the portrait, giggling weakly.

 

And then, as if from beyond the veil, he heard Sirius’ voice. It all seems to come back to St. Mungo’s, doesn’t it ... The Longbottoms were on the same ward as Broderick Bode, weren’t they? D’you reckon there might be some connection?

 

But they’d never been on this ward, had they? Unless there were more portraits of Malfoys lurking around...

 

More portraits...

 

The image of Urquhart Rackharrow, inventor of the Entrail-Expelling Curse, floated into his mind. Not a Malfoy by name. But he had a Malfoyish sort of face: silvery hair, pointed brow, forbidding expression.

 

Lord Voldemort had known about Linus Berowne’s injury. He’d known exactly where Linus lived, too, and hadn’t Linus given Remus his address on the day they met?

 

He tried to silence the pounding in his head. Between exhaustion and the approaching full moon, he wasn’t entirely sure he was thinking straight – but if he was right, it was urgent – He went out in the corridor and flagged down a passing mediwitch.

 

“Madam,” he said urgently. “Do you know where the portrait on that ward came from?”

 

The mediwitch looked blank. “I don’t remember when it came, but it’s probably from one of the donors. Hideous frame, isn’t it? People are always giving us family heirlooms they don’t want, and then putting on airs about their generosity.”

 

“People like the Malfoys?”

 

“Those were the ones. How could I have forgotten? They’re always sending us old family portraits, and being ever so particular about where we hang them, talking all sorts of rot about how this one can only go on a third floor room on the south side, because the light is meant to hit it at a certain angle on winter afternoons. Why they can’t just keep them in their own home if they’re going to fuss so much, I don’t know.”

 

Remus only half heard her. His mind was racing. It was past dawn now, and he thought he might be able to get in touch with Kingsley before he left for work. “Have you got a Calling Card I could borrow?” he asked at last. “I need to get in touch with a friend. Right now.”

 

                                                            *          *          *

 

“My half-blood niece?” said Narcissa Malfoy. “Are you positive? ... Will she live or die? ... Has anybody been to see her? ... Describe him for me ... Are they lovers, do you think, or just friends?” (Apollodorus’ answer to this last question was decidedly noncommittal, and Narcissa made a mental note to make further inquiries.) “Thank you, Apollodorus. That will be all. You may return to the hospital, if you would be so kind.”

 

Apollodorus bowed low and stepped out of the portrait frame.

 

Narcissa stood in the shaft of sunlight that filtered down from the skylight in the portrait gallery, contemplating the news he had brought. Although the June morning was chilly, she wore a low-cut gown in the shade of rose that showed off her creamy shoulders to their best advantage. She would need every advantage today. She hoped the Ministry officials who came to question her about her husband’s activities would be male. Men were easy to manage.

 

When they came, she widened her eyes and assumed a distraught expression. “I had no idea ... He didn’t tell me where he was going ... he goes away in the evenings sometimes and doesn’t come back until morning ... I thought he had a mistress, but this is even worse, isn’t it?”

 

Without committing herself to too many specifics, she contrived to give the impression that their marriage had been in difficulties that were mainly Lucius’ fault, that she was patient, long-suffering, and slightly stupid, and that her husband was not in the habit of confiding in her.

 

She thought it was working. Williamson, the young Auror who asked most of the questions, seemed to be looking at her breasts rather than her eyes, which was always a good sign. She intensified the bosom-heaving a bit.

 

“Calling Auror Williamson. Auror Williamson.” The deep, slow voice seemed to come from the Auror’s back pocket.

 

“Just a moment, please.” Williamson took a business card out of his wallet and carried on a hasty, whispered conversation with it. When he looked up, his expression was grim and his manner considerably less courteous.

 

“There’s just one other thing, Madam Malfoy. I apologize for the inconvenience, so we’ll have to seal off your portrait gallery.”

 

“Seal it off?” Narcissa looked up at him with widened eyes and fluttering lashes. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

 

“With a magical barrier, so that nobody can access it. Unless you prefer for us to confiscate the portraits.” Before she could decide which of these alternatives would be less disastrous, he added, “You see, we have reason to think your husband has been using them to communicate with his cohorts. Of course – ” she thought she caught a faint smirk on Williamson’s face – “we don’t suspect you of being involved in anything of the sort, so I’m certain you’ll have no objection.”

 

Outmaneuvered, she thought, and mentally resorted to language that was most unbecoming to a lady, though highly characteristic of a Black. Aloud she said, “Yes, of course. Whatever you think best.”

 

After Williamson and his companion left, she paced the ground floor of the house, trying to ease her anxious mind. She was already longing for her husband or, at least, a faithful friend. She thought of Bella first; but her sister would not understand her fears for her son. Should she send for Severus?

 

No, she decided, not yet. The Dark Lord was bound to have worse in store for their family than the Ministry had. She would wait, she thought, until she needed his help; and he would give it to her. Oh, he’d play hard to get; he would enjoy being the one in control of the situation; he would probably make her beg, just as he had begged her, once upon a time, not to marry Lucius. And she would play along and give him a taste of power, but she’d keep the greater part of it in her own hands.

 

Men were easy.