Playing Botticelli

Chapter Two - The Return of Judith to Bethulia

In short, I don't feel there is a need for boastfulness. It is vulgar, as brute force is vulgar, and ultimately unnecessary when one is actually worthy of the term. People who strut about and call attention to themselves and throw fists or curses when they are refused the recognition they feel they deserve are, to my mind, the lowliest of creatures.

And so when I say that I am the best authority on potions-better even than that imbecile Arsenius Jigger (and doesn't the name state it all?)-I say it only because I know it to be true.

However.

I don't feel the need to prove it to anyone. And this is because it is true.

Most people are confused by this reasoning because, in their presence, I will vocalise nearly every poor opinion I have on anything of any consequence. This is for my own benefit. It amuses me. I say things, not because I mean them, but because I mean for them to have an effect.

And here is the best part: I know precisely what to say to cause that effect.

It is a skill.

And it is part of the game.

I sit under my tree and it is four years since Potter has left Hogwarts. The world still stings from that final year, the year that Everything Was Revealed. The ripples still carry to the ends of other places, still smack against the sides of hope, which is forever moored in a dingy harbour.

No one is where they thought they would be.

Not even I, because I am still here at Hogwarts. At the last outpost.

I look up again through the branches of my tree and beyond. The sky is red.

I curse when I see the name. I had forgotten . . . I thought I had. It is written on an envelope I hold in my left hand. In my other I hold a snifter. The sound of toad song rings through the room, familiar and natural. The candle flame turns the parchment gold as I hold it there, reading that name.

Hermione Granger

11 Bloomfield Road

Surbiton

KT1 5PL

She ended up in Surrey of all places. Pity.

I pull the letter out dispassionately and read it. It smells of lavender.

Dear Sir,

I hope this letter finds you well. I know that it has been some time since I left Hogwarts, and perhaps you don't even remember me. I flatter myself to think you do. You were there once, when I needed help, on the bridge at Hogwarts. You witnessed me use a hex (I am ashamed to admit such a thing now) on Draco Malfoy and his friends. I wonder if you remember that incident? I only ask because something has happened that I believe is linked to that incident. As you were the only one there to witness what occurred, I had hoped that you could answer some of my questions. If this letter finds you, and if you are so inclined, please respond.

I eagerly await your reply.

Kind Regards,

Hermione Granger

Well.

I want to crush the thing in my hands, to burn it on the pinpoint of the candle flame. Instead I lean back and let it fall to the floor. I step on it irreverently with the heel of my shoe.

I sip brandy; I let memories crowd my head. And then I reach for my quill and dip it in black ink and scribble a reply on a small piece of parchment:

Miss Granger,

Of course I remember you. You are Harry Potter's friend. Or at least you were. Please be advised that I am a busy man and can't be bothered with trivialities. And you apparently know the state of things as they are. If you want answers to your questions then I suggest you utilise--

My hand pauses and I stop for a moment and I think. I think of things that happened yesterday and last year and I think of things yet to come, and I calculate my position. I am always calculating my position. It is, after all, how I have survived up to this point. I am a calculating man. But I am willing to take a gamble on occasion.

I now cross out the last sentence and write:

If you want answers to your questions then I can attempt to provide these, though I can't promise you satisfaction. I will be in the Leaky Cauldron on business on the 12^th of November. If you wish to meet with me then you will need to find out the number of my room and come there after nine o'clock. You and I both know it would be unwise to be seen together in public.

Regards,

S. Snape

I am pleased. In fact, now that I think on it, I am well smug. I see the benefit in this meeting with Hermione Granger, after all. I sit back once again and lift the snifter to my lips.

Yes, I definitely see the benefit.

London is ever repulsive. What beauty there is lies behind the scenes; it can't compete against spray paint and mid-century crassness. It hides away and awaits gentler hands. I know this and yet I prefer to walk to the Leaky Caldron. Across the street, a girl beats another with a crutch while yet another pulls her hair and several people look on excitedly, whimpering for blood, until the muggle police are spotted and they all disperse like a shot in a henhouse. Paper adverts litter the streets and cover the phone booths. A man spits in the gutter. Tourists float in clots and stare confusedly at their maps and look for street signs where there are none. A woman is crying on a doorstep and another comforts her, her long pink fingernails tapping a rhythm of sympathy on her friend's back. A bus exhales a puff of smoke into the atmosphere and on its flank it exclaims that there is more to see! at Leeds Castle. And I absorb it all, take it in like a breath and lock it away like a secret. London's impurity gives me a sense of security. Not because I associate with it but because I know that I will never be a part of it. Ever.

When I arrive at my room at the Leaky Cauldron I lie on the bed and look at the underside of the wooden-framed canopy above me. I count the folds in the fabric and decide that I will go into Diagon Alley tomorrow as it's late and I have my meeting downstairs in just under an hour. I count the folds again because I am bored and then I think on Hermione Granger.

I know what Harry Potter is up to, of course. And his Weasley friend has something to do with the Ministry-trying to recapture its long lost importance, doubtless. But Granger . . . I had not heard news of her these four years. I hadn't looked for news.

But I am looking for news now.

When the time comes I pull my robes about me and descend into the lower cavity of the inn.

The Leaky Cauldron vibrates with a grimy sense of benevolence and the lower rooms fill with lamplight and spirits and the sound of raspy voices and loud, raucous voices and high, piercing voices. Most times. Once in a while it sits and only hums lowly to itself. Tonight it is somewhere between both and I am glad for it; I don't want to be noticed and I don't want to be overwhelmed. Deadalus Diggle is in a corner and his purple robes shine off his face as he pokes a companion playfully in the side. Empty pint glasses cover the table like a breakout. He is talking about the infallibility of justice when all planets at last will align and won't things be set to right then? His companion has a round face with fleshy lips and billiard-ball eyes and he rubs his ear out of habit which makes it bright red. He says that the human spirit is the brightest star in the universe, that all else is fragments and half-truths. There is no day, he says, that will come. It has come and gone. This causes Deadalus to lower his head in mournful agreement and they both stare silently into their stout like men who know that only when they are drinking do they know the full truth of the world. When they are sober they tend to fool themselves.

The man I am to meet is waiting for me in a booth graffitied with hundreds of years of drunken knife carvings. He has a glass of firewhisky in his meaty fist and when he sees me he sticks his other fist out so that I can shake it. "Good to see you again, Professor," he says. "And you," I reply lowly. I take a seat opposite him.

"Drink?" he asks. His front two teeth stick from his upper gum like tombstones.

"Firewhisky," I say. I say this because I know it is what he wants me to say. I know that it will signal to him that I am a trustworthy sort-or at least his sort--and this is what I want him to think. I loathe firewhisky.

"Ah, good choice, that," he nods in approval. "I always say that if you haven't had Ogden's Old Firewhisky then you haven't sprayed yourself in the face with Slug and Jigger's Leech Repellent." He chuckles and I smile thinly and a glass of firewhisky has appeared and I let my fingers wrap around it.

"You in London long?"

"No," I answer. "Only tonight. There are supplies I need to acquire at the apothecary."

"How are things coming along? Up there?" He points to the ceiling but I know he means elsewhere.

"As well as can be expected. It has been . . . quiet."

"Don't suppose you heard about Theodore Nott, then?"

I try not to show surprise. Nott had been in Slytherin some years ago. His father had disappeared last year but I knew where he was kept hidden. Theodore had faded into obscurity. On purpose. "No, I haven't," I reply.

"Found dead. Couple months ago."

He wants me to prod him for details, to show that I am both impressed and embarrassed that he knows something I don't. And so on this occasion I oblige.

"They found him at his place," he says in conspiratorial tones, "looked like a bloody mummy, he did. Just . . .like a husk of skin and bone." He swallows his whiskey back and looks at me, awaiting my response to this tidbit.

"Indeed?" I say finally. "How peculiar. And the cause?"

"Well see, that's just it. No one knows. Weren't no curse or nothing like that. Strangest thing. There's an investigation of course, and the Ministry are trying to get their hands on it but you know that's proving difficult for 'em. They say it was the Resistance, and I say they aren't too far off."

"Why? Do you know something about it?"

"Nah." He shakes his head and I know he is not lying to me. "At the end of the day it's just the only thing what makes any sense."

"And why is that?"

"Well, because everyone knows old Nott Senior is still about and not really dead. I think they did it to lure him outta his hole, know what I mean?"

"Did it work?"

"Not that I heard. Still missin'. I'm surprised, Professor, that they didn't ask you to have a look. Weren't no curse what did that to him, like I said. Most likely a potion."

"And what is the state of the investigation at the moment?"

"Dunno. Last I heard the Ministry were fightin' to get their hands on the body, to see if they could figure out what happened. I don't know where the body is now, though. Don't know who has it."

Things of this nature generally don't interest me, and the death of Theodore Nott doesn't interest me, and its effect on the state of things doesn't interest me. I ask these tedious questions because I must play this game in this way to get what I want and because he wants me to ask them. I grind my teeth softly and wait patiently. I am thinking that it may be wise to meet with Hermione Granger in one of the private parlours here in the Inn rather than in my room above. I am, in fact, beginning to think that I will cancel the meeting with her, will, perhaps, simply leave as soon as I am finished in this booth and go back into London for the night. These thoughts are tumbling like leaves in my mind when at last the man with the tombstone teeth throws a satchel upon the table's wooden surface.

"Suppose you've been waiting for this, then." He sounds disappointed by my lack of interest with his tale of mummies and curses, and now that he has produced the satchel I don't care what he thinks. I take the silk-stringed bag in my hand and weigh it in my palm. "Oh it's all there all right. You don't need to worry 'bout that," he says. He tells the truth.

I produce a small pouch myself and place it on the table. It rings with the sound of tiny bells. This sound pleases the man across from me and he snatches the pouch up in his large grip and smiles broadly at me.

"Well it's been lovely to help you out again, Professor," he winks knowingly. This gesture maddens me. The lewdness of it! I wince in distaste and leave the booth, leave the man, leave the firewhisky untouched.

I climb the stairs back to my room and place the silken bag on the fireplace mantle. I remove a leather-bound book from my discarded robes and leaf through it absentmindedly. I rub my thumb and forefinger together and stare out of the dirtied window, out on to Charring Cross. I glance at the time piece next to the bed and see that it is 9:48 and this causes me to pace in uncertainty before the fireplace. I am calculating my position.

And then at 10:02 there is a knock.