The Ashes and the Flame

The Ashes and the Flame

Part III. Icarus Soaring

The Homunculus Transfiguration proves to be quite a project. With startling rapidity it takes over my life. It consumes my thoughts and waking hours; Professor Snape or I now go to Falconsrest nearly every day, where we make use of the Notts' extraordinary library and experimental potions lab. We only return to Angelina's home to sleep. I think he would've liked to avoid staying at Angelina's altogether, but I insist that we check in with one another every evening. One of the protections on Falconsrest is that it's not on the Floo Network, and since owls can be coerced or forged, Apparating back is the only option.

"You don't trust Slytherins, Miss Granger?" he asks sardonically, acting quite put out that I don't want him to remain at Theo's overnight.

"No," I retort. "I don't trust anyone, Professor Snape."

Though he doesn't deign to reply, I can tell he (grudgingly) approves. So we remain cautious, never working at Falconsrest together, rarely using magic, and always traveling under the Disillusionment spell. We even put Angelina's house under the Fidelius Charm, with Neville as the Secret-Keeper. He's immensely proud of our trust, but practically speaking, I think both Professor Snape and I would've been too obvious.

We decide the logical course of action is to recreate the original homunculus before we try to adapt the spell. To my disappointment, however, we don't immediately succeed. The recipe in the parchments doesn't work, so with the help of some old journals and grimoires, we invent several modifications of the basic transformation. Sometimes Professor Snape uses spring water in the brewing; sometimes he uses distilled. Sometimes I inscribe runes on the creature's forehead before casting the spell; sometimes I don't. Sometimes I walk clockwise around the mud-figure; sometimes counter-clockwise; sometimes I don't walk at all.

The combinations are carefully noted in our journal, Professor Snape's spiky, angry words alternating with my own, loopier writing. Naturally, he insists on brewing the potions, but he always leaves them for me to test and transfigure.

"After all," he sneers, "you have a superior affinity for foolish wand-waving."

I take it as a compliment.

But nothing works. I begin to wonder if Paracelsus fabricated the whole story; we certainly can't seem to duplicate his experiments. Theo's as frustrated as we are. He starts bringing us additional reading from the Department of Mysteries for inspiration, and often asks us to stay late to discuss our progress over dinner.

Though I don't enjoy dwelling on our failures, I find that I do look forward to spending evenings with Theo. The meal is always excellent, and he's pleasant company: smart, witty, and thoughtful. While there are often lulls in the conversation, it never seems awkward. We sit in the comfortable silence, reading and listening to the wind whistling through the cliffs outside.

One evening, he tosses down the paper he's reading and sighs, "Isn't there anyone else we can consult about this?"

For some reason, the question bothers me. I snap, "Theo, if Britain's only Potions Master can't solve this mystery, no one else will be able to either. Do you really want Neville Longbottom working on a potion in your house?"

He doesn't ask again.

A couple of months later, I comment into the emptiness, "It's so quiet here."

"Yes," he says peacefully. He's twirling the stem of a wineglass in his fingers, seemingly mesmerized by how the firelight plays in the claret depths. "I have a townhouse in London, too, but I prefer to come here. No one visits me at Falconsrest, and I like being alone."

"Oh," I say, suddenly realizing that I've been trespassing on his privacy. "I didn't think - I'm sorry - I'll go now."

He looks up, startled. "No, no, please sit back down. That was a thoughtless thing for me to say. I certainly didn't mean you. I like having you around. I mean, you're no bother at all. I mean, you'll always be welcome here."

He flushes. There's another pause, an uncomfortable one this time, and I grasp for something to break the silence. "Oh. Er, thanks. Um, did you know that medieval Muggles believed a Mandrake plant would sprout wherever a violent death occurred?" I stammer. "I wonder -"

I'm saved from further embarrassing myself. At that moment, we hear a violent pop, and a house-elf materializes in front of the fireplace, wringing his hands.

"Master Nott, sir, Master Malfoy is being here to see you," he squeaks. "He is coming through the gates right now."

"Damn." Theo stands abruptly. He vanishes the remnants of our meal, grabs my arm, and stuffs me in a wardrobe containing some old blankets and writing supplies. The house-elf flies in after me. "Sparky, make sure Hermione is not noticed."

"Yes sir," he peeps as the darkness closes on us. I hear the lock turn.

After I settle myself, I discover I can see out through the seam between the doors. I watch Theo smoothing his robes and surveying the room for evidence of company before sliding into his armchair with his wineglass. He picks up an abandoned book and looks absorbed. A few minutes later, Draco flings open the heavy oak door.

"Nott!" he says expansively. The man who walks in is a complete stranger to me. The years have treated him well. He's no longer the skinny, pointy-faced boy I remember from school; he's filled out, and looks entirely too much like his father for my tastes. "It's been a while, my friend."

"Draco," Theo says, rising and setting aside his reading. He motions at the wine. "How lovely to see you again. I've just opened this bottle of Bordeaux. Join me for a glass? It's not a first growth, I'm afraid, but I did think it would be just me. It usually is, after all."

He steers Draco to the sofa, away from the chair that I'd been using (and which must still be warm from my body heat), and makes a great production of pouring him a glass while refilling his own. The blond man accepts it and brings it to his nose.

Sniffing appreciatively, Draco says, "You've a fine cellar, Theo."

"My father was a great collector."

They exchange pleasantries for a little while, but soon Draco leans forward. "Look, Theo, I know how you hate to be disturbed at home, but I needed to talk to you away from your office. I need your help with something."

Theo merely raises an eyebrow and takes another sip of his wine.

"You know my father was murdered a few months ago," he continues. His voice is surprisingly bitter. Who would've thought the cold little ferret capable of love? "Everyone knows that traitor Snape and the uppity Mudblood Granger did it. But they've never been caught."

Theo says reflectively, "I wouldn't have expected it of Snape, really. Maybe Granger was behind it all, and took him as a hostage afterward."

"How could she have done anything? She didn't have a wand! I just wish I knew why he did it." He looks thoughtful for a minute, and a vicious smirk appears on his face. "I wonder if they were sleeping together. Maybe she had him wound around her little finger by the end."

Theo looks appalled. Draco laughs. "I know. It hardly bears thinking about, doesn't it? What proper pureblood would stoop that low, even if he were a greasy git?"

My own temper is boiling up, and I'm tempted to burst out the wardrobe and show Malfoy just what a Mudblood is capable of. But something keeps me from moving, from even making a sound. The house-elf's magic! I suppose I should be grateful that Sparky's preventing me from behaving foolishly, but instead I'm annoyed.

Theo's face has gone blank again, but his voice is amused. "You've always had a one-track mind, Malfoy. Just because Pansy leads you around by your -"

"Not at all! I just let her think she does." Draco becomes serious again. "In any case, the incompetents at the Magical Law Enforcement Squad haven't been able to track them down, so I think it's time to take matters into my own hands. Do you know of any new finding spells the Department of Mysteries is developing?"

Theo taps the rim of his glass thoughtfully. Bell-like rings echo in the silent room. At last, he shakes his head. "No. It's not really my line of work, mind you. But if I hear of anything I'll be sure to let you know. It'll be top secret and all that, but I'm sure we can make an exception for the Dark Lord's right hand man."

Draco ignores the flattery. "What about tracing wand residue?"

Theo sighs. "How does that help? Places like Hogwarts and the Ministry have wards that warn of the use of hostile magic nearby, but otherwise the residue dissipates almost immediately after a spell's cast. Besides, if they were at all clever, they'd have gotten new wands already. Actually, if they were at all clever, they'd be living in the Muggle world, or outside the country by now."

"That's it! They must be hiding in Muggle London somewhere. No one's looked there yet." His face lighting up, Draco snaps his fingers. Then his mood darkens. He adds venomously, "And when I find them, I'll make what we did to the Lovegoods look like child's play."

Theo watches him warily. Even from my vantage point I can see Draco's knuckles whiten around the stem of the wineglass. A log in the fireplace crackles loudly. Then he seems to remember where he is, and forces himself to relax. "But how do I go about looking for Muggles?"

Theo's eyebrow quirks. He asks scornfully, "How would I know anything about the Muggle world?"

"True enough. I meant no insult, you know." Draco finishes off his wine and gets to his feet. "Thank you, Theo. You've been really helpful. But I should get going, or Pansy's going to suspect me of conducting a sordid affair under her nose."

Theo's mouth twitches. "Which you've never done, of course."

"Of course not," Draco says, grinning. "And if I did, I'd hardly be that obvious, would I?"

"Unthinkable," Theo says. "Here, let me walk you to the gate, and we can finish our conversation on the way down."

The grounds at Falconsrest are vast, so it's a while before he returns to let me out. During that time, my agitation only grows. By the time I tumble from the wardrobe, my voice sounds more like Sparky's than my own. I blurt out, "Please tell me you weren't involved in Luna's murder, Theo."

His face is closed. Nervously, I realize he must be furious about something. He says flatly, "I've never claimed to be a saint, Hermione."

As far as I'm concerned, this is as good as an admission of guilt. Though my wand is in my pocket, I fly at him with my bare hands. I suppose it's one foolish Muggle-bred instinct I'll never get rid of. I shout, "You monster! I can't believe that I trusted you! That I liked you!"

Sparky squeals in alarm, but Theo easily captures my wrists and slams me against the wardrobe. He hisses in my ear, "And you were Snape's mistress?"

"How can you even think that?" I snarl back, struggling against his grip. Unfortunately, Nott is stronger than he looks. "Of him, or of me?"

"It wouldn't be the first time," he says viciously, shaking me a little. "It must've been lonely down in the dungeons, and if there's one thing Snape knows to do well, it's to use his position of power to his advantage."

"Not Professor Snape! He, at least, has integrity!" I fume, lashing out with my legs. We both fall in a tangle of limbs and knees and elbows. My head hits the wardrobe again. Somehow Theo manages to land on top of me, still holding my wrists. Feeling a little dizzy, I look up into his eyes. Inanely, I observe that they're very dark.

"I've never claimed to be a saint," he repeats silkily. His words send shivers down my spine. "And Merlin knows, neither is he."

Then, to my surprise, his head comes down to mine and he kisses me.

His warm mouth tastes vaguely of roast beef and wine; his hands loosen from my wrists and move to cradle my face. To my horror, my body responds. Yesterday, I think vaguely, I would've been pleased to discover Theo finds me attractive, but now I'm appalled that Luna's tormentor is mauling me in his study. I press my palms to his chest, pushing him away, and scramble to my feet.

"How could you torture the Lovegoods like that?" My voice quivers indignantly. "A simple Avada Kedavra wasn't enough?"

Theo's dark eyes fixate on mine. "I never said I was there."

A rush of relief floods me, but then my eyes narrow. "That's as crooked an answer as the first, Theo."

He sighs and stands up. "All right. No more games. You tell me first, have you ever slept with Snape? Yes or no?"

"No," I say firmly, angry enough to be blunt. Suddenly I remember the Forbidden Forest, and the reassuring presence of Professor Snape's bony arms around my shoulders. That's different! I push such disturbing thoughts out of my head. "And you? Were you involved in the Lovegood... incident?"

He looks at me for a long moment, as if weighing just how much to confess. At last he says heavily, "I wasn't there. They know I have no interest in such games. But I was aware of Malfoy's plans."

My mind whirls; I need to sit down. I move past him, toward the couch that Draco so recently occupied, but he catches me in his arms. Though I stand stiffly, I don't resist. I'm still not sure what to think, but I desperately want to believe him.

"I'm sorry," he says, his chin resting on the top of my head. "I'm sorry about your friend. But I won't let it happen to you."

It's not that at all, I want to tell him. Instead, I say, "I don't understand, Theo. How can you be friends with people like that, and still want to help us?"

He sighs, a deep rumbling in his chest. "Do you think I enjoy socializing with them? There's a reason I come here to be alone. But it would be odd for me to avoid their acquaintance altogether, when we were friendly back in school, and our fathers..."

When he trails off, I say, "I know your father was a Death Eater. I Stupefied him at the Department of Mysteries during fifth year."

His arms tighten. He whispers, "My father died during the war. Draco doesn't know I know this, but Lucius Malfoy killed him because he wouldn't attack Hogwarts while I was there. I can't tell you how pleased I was to hear you'd gotten him."

I got Lucius Malfoy, I remember blearily. As if such a euphemism changes what I've done. He was at my mercy. I could've Stunned him, I could've Obliviated him, but instead I murdered him. How can I judge Theo when I feel no remorse?

"I suppose I'm no saint, either," I murmur finally, sagging into him and letting my arms drift around his waist.

There's a discreet pop as Sparky makes himself scarce. Then Theo's hands are moving and his mouth is moving and our legs and hands are tangling and the sofa is soft beneath me and my mouth is searching and I can taste claret and salt and leather and heat and his face is flushed and suddenly it's warm it's too warm for the fire and my jumper and his hands are so warm and his skin is burning and I can scarcely tell where I end and he begins and oh oh oh oh oh...