15. 'Sv Lvr frm M McF'

15. 'Sv Lvr frm M McF'

Hermione was dreaming; she knew she was dreaming because she had been sitting in her back yard, reading a book on Greek mythology, and now she found herself walking up a steep hill, in no time or country she could remember. The grass was impossibly green and lush, with not a hint of yellow in it. The sun—hotter than England's hottest sun—beat down on her back. She looked up, nevertheless, to squint at the hill's top, although she could not remember why she had to reach it. But then, had she ever needed any more reason to reach a goal than the mere fact that it was there?

She saw three creatures near the top, resting. One was a panther-like creature with fur so black, she took it at first for a deep shadow in the hillside, until it moved, and its extra-long, sinuous tail looped and swayed over its back like a snake poised to strike. It had to be a Nundu. In front of it paced a Sphinx of flowing mane and huge, soft padded feet, hiding, she was sure, fearsome claws. Behind them both lurked a werewolf, its skin, raw red from the recent Change, showing through tangled clumps of gray hair, its fangs too large for its all-too-human mouth. But this was wrong. It was the middle of the day, and they were nowhere near Egypt, or Africa. Where am I—really?

The creatures approached her almost languidly, even the wolf, though the slaver of its jaws spoke of the instinct to rend flesh and lap blood. She was mesmerized by the eyes of the Nundu, who was so close now she could reach out a hand and touch its muzzle if she were foolish enough to try. Its translucent, golden eyes were dreamy and unfocused. She stood paralyzed with fear as it drew in her scent and blew it back at her. Its breath was not at all noxious, but smelled of heather and aloes. She reached out to it through her own fug of fear. At her touch, its dark coat turned tawny, its eyes darkened and became pupil-less, its neck stretched and its muzzle lengthened, showing a tense, defined musculature, its soft paws hardened into hooves, and, at the last, it sprouted antlers. Behind it the Sphinx was shedding its mane in great clumps, supplanted by outgrowing feathers of the brightest red, wings at its shoulders, its muzzle sharpening into a beak. Its front paws thinned into bird-feet, scaly, taloned. The Lycan's transformation was most miraculous. At first she thought she saw Remus Lupin in its sharp, agonized face, but then its hair thickened, curled, and spread to hide muzzle, haunches and sparsely thatched groin and chest with black fur, until finally a great dog stood before her.

"Padfoot," she cried in delight, "And Prongs! And... and, who are you? Not Buckbeak... your color..."

The hippogriff-form dissolved, and there stood a woman clad in white, her auburn hair falling about her bare arms, her eyes flashing like emeralds. Harry's mother. Hermione trembled. James had been guilty of faults similar to Hermione's, intellectual vanity and self-righteous myopia. And Sirius had his own sins to atone for. But Lily was not like that. With patience and love, she had helped James to find inside his arrogant young self, a mature, responsible wizard and family man, and she would likely have been working to turn Sirius around before she died.

The dog and the hart pricked up their ears, responding to some sound only they could hear. They bounded off down the hill, nipping and nudging each other with rough affection. Lily Evans Potter smiled after them. "They'll always be boys," she murmured. She turned to Hermione. "I know about your task, and you know about ours."

Hermione nodded, not trusting herself to speak, fearful that a sob of guilt or a whiney 'it's not fair' would escape her. She didn't want to mar the moment by showing weakness. She had never met Harry's mother but admired her for her courage and subsuming love.

"We want you to succeed, Hermione, and you are such a hard worker, I'm sure you shall."

"I'll try," Hermione allowed herself to say.

"Let me take you to your new home." She changed back into a hippogriff and beckoned Hermione to climb on her back. It was one of the braver things Hermione had done up to this point in her life. Heights, especially fast-moving ones, brought her to a state of near-catatonia. The hippogriff seemed to realize this, for she rose most slowly with long, graceful strokes of her sun-burnished wings.

They paused in their flight at the crest of the hill, hovering only a few yards above it, then took off in a gentle glide parallel to the more gradual windward slope. Hermione almost enjoyed the ride, distracted by the play of light on the creature's feathers, its shadow beneath them changing shape over the hill's waving grasses and the rough undulations of the moor beyond.

Approaching a wood, they rose swiftly to skim the tallest trees, and Hermione felt a downdraft of the sunny air slide past her, as if the shade beneath the billowing canopy was enticing everything hot and tired and dry to seek refuge beneath it. She made out paths below her, winding about a wide clearing. There was a building at its center, gleaming in the sun, ringed by an orderly crowd of dark cypress trees. The hippogriff and her passenger, much heartened, circled the clearing once and landed near the building. It was small and round and made of marble, with slender columns supporting its dome-shaped roof, perfectly symmetrical, like miniature version of the Pantheon of Rome or a shrine to Pallas Athene flown in from a rocky mountainside in Thessaly.

Lily reappeared, dressed now in jade hunting costume, the long-sleeved tunic just covering her torso, her legs thrust into thigh-high boots of pliable, pebbly snake skin. She had a well-used longbow in her hand, much scuffed at its center, and a quiver of arrows slung at her side. She lifted a horn to her lips and blew a long note. Barking noises and scrabbling in the undergrowth answered her call. The big black dog and the hart reappeared in a cloud of dust and bounded towards them. They changed into their human forms, looking not at all ghostly—in fact, if it were possible, more solid than the trees around them.

There's your gaol, Hermione," said Sirius. "What do you think?"

"It's—beautiful."

They walked inside. There was no real door; fully half of the building was open to the air except for the columns, though there were curtains of rosy gauze hanging between them from the arches they supported. There was a couch in the center, also of marble, but with a generous-sized down comforter spilling over it made of squares of dark red velvet and gold satin, and a pile of pillows. For some reason it reminded Hermione of a chess board. There was also a chair, a commode, a screen with a bathtub behind it, and a table with a basin and a flagon.

"The flagon holds water," said Lily. "It will never run dry. The tub will fill and empty at your thought. Food will appear on the table at mealtimes."

"Just like at Hogwarts?"

"Sort of," said Lily. "Though I hope you'll find it a tad more healthful than their heavy fare. You have only to think of the clothing you need, and it will appear. And now, we'll leave you."

"Wait. Can I have some books—-to pass the time?"

Lily pursed her lips. "Your stay here would be better spent in meditation, don't you think?"

"Oh, right."

"Do you want me to stay?" asked Sirius.

"No, I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Here's your Bag of Holding," said James. "I hope to have some answers for you about your next task soon."

~*~

"Whin-hinny-hoo-hra-snort-brrrag-hah!"

"Is that you, Sirius?" Hermione peered into the eyes of the chestnut-brown horse who had ambled into the clearing.

The horse nodded its head.

"Wait a sec." She took the vial of Veterinariserum from the satchel and had a sip. While she waited for it to take effect, she thought of yesterday's adventure. Whatever had happened to her, whether a dream or no, she really was in this place and to stay. She had walked its well-trod ways: under graceful sweeping willows by a pleasant stream, past wide-branching oaks and maples, through forests of stately pines, like sentinels strong and unyielding, but she could find no way out of the wood. Every path, even those she made herself, through patches of heather and laurel, of gorse and broom, curved back ultimately to the clearing and her tiny temple. She had soon given up and taken her dinner, a nice loaf of pumpernickel bread with a wedge of Stilton, sweet raw snap beans and cucumbers with a raspberry vinaigrette and sliced strawberries, bananas, and kiwis for dessert, washing it down with a draught of water, naturally heady and sweet. She had slept on the couch too and found it quite comfortable, enveloping herself completely in the comforter.

"Okay. What did you say?" she asked the horse.

"Like it?" Sirius turned about, showing himself off. "Death found this fine specimen for me at the knacker's. Pretty good shape, isn't he?"

"Erm—yes. His teeth could use a good cleaning, but he's definitely more you than Piddles was."

"Thanks. I feel positively studly." He trotted off and pranced about in the grass. He ended by rearing into the air. The effect was spoiled as he staggered sideways and thunked down into the soft turf.

"Oops—forgot. The poor fellow had a fracture in some bone or other. That's why he had to be put down. I'll have to watch myself."

"Well, at least you're in no pain."

"Yeah, but I've got to make this last a while. Who knows when I'll get a powerful body like this to walk around in again?"

"All right. Did James find out what the task is about?"

"Yes. Fortunately the first part is not too far away. Let me take you there. Hop on."

Hermione was taken aback at his statement, but he assured her that he was perfectly serviceable. She had taken riding lessons but had never ridden bareback. As they trotted down a zigzag path, she had to squeeze hard against his flanks to keep from being thrown. When they left the wood and were out on a straightaway, he let all the stops out and started galloping. The trip was a long one, and it tested Hermione's leg muscles sorely.

Finally to her relief, he slowed down and turned off into another wooded area, down a wide, well-trodden path. "It's not far now, broo—ha," he snorted. "If you'll get down, I'll tell you about the task as we walk. James was able to figure out the name, and he got us some background."

Hermione slid painfully off his broad back. Bareback was definitely not for her. Her thighs were aching and her back was tightening up. As if he understood her plight, Sirius nuzzled her with his nose for a bit. It felt good, especially with his hot, horsey breath warming her neck muscles.

"Thanks, Sirius. We can go on now."

As they walked, he explained. "At the center of the wood is a clearing with a cottage and a cherry grove. It belongs to one Mandrake McFustian."

"Would that be the 'M McF' on the list?"

"The very same. Don't know why I didn't think of him myself. 'Old Fuss' was in our year at Hogwarts. He was never very good with a wand—except for the simplest of charms—but he was a better potions-maker even than old Snivellus."

"So what's the bad news?"

"He's a Death Eater, Hermione, but the Order has never been able to get anything on him. James says they suspect he forced two girls from his year to do his dirty work: poisonings, arson, you name it. They were both caught and convicted and rotted away in Azkaban while he got off, scot-free."

"I thought you said he was no good with a wand. Imperius requires quite a hefty magical skill set. You have to have incredible concentration, not to mention steady hands—"

"He didn't use an Imperius on them. The word is he used a very powerful, long-lasting love potion. I do remember that at Hogwarts, he spent a lot of time researching love philtres. And he bragged to me once that he was close to rediscovering the recipe for something called Der Liebestod."

Hermione recognized the name. "The Love-Death Elixir. But it's not real is it? I mean it's just a legend."

"No, it's definitely for real. Lily confirmed that. And she said McFustian did find the recipe. She overheard him telling Snape and Slughorn about it one day after Advanced Potions. Of course Snivvy wasn't in the least interested."

"Yes, but how do you know that for sure? I mean he might have just been brown-nosing."

"Because…broo-ha…in seventh year…whin-hinny… he used it… snorg… to steal my girlfriend."

One of the many, she thought. "What was her name?"

"Well… um… Gwendolyn Jones. I really liked her. And believe me, by himself, Fuss could never have done it. He was such an insufferable git. He had to have had help."

"And you're thinking that's what he used."

"Well, the circumstances were pretty suspicious. I mean, one day he started sitting across from her at lunch, and, at the end of the week, she broke up with me. I figure he must've slipped some of the potion into her drink or something. That's the way Der Liebestod works, right? The first person you see after you take it is the person you fall for. He made sure of that. Sat right across from her. And it lasts for-blinking-ever."

"There's no antidote?"

"Oh, there is, but I never knew about it back then. Believe me, I wanted her back. She was something special. If I had known—"

"It makes sense. I mean, the legend goes that Der Liebestod was first concocted for King Mark of Cornwall and his promised bride, the Irish princess Iseult. But it was drunk unknowingly by her and her escort, the knight Tristan. And they fell for each other."

"Hrum-snork—What a story. Muggles love it, I bet."

"Yes, it forms the plot of a lot of books and poems and plays and operas. Gilbert and Sullivan even wrote an operetta based on the idea of a love potion being drunk by the wrong people."

"Who are they?"

"Some Muggle—erm—celebrities. They were quite popular around the turn of the century."

"Uh-huh. Lily and James are certain that the Liebestod is how Fuss got those poor girls to do what he wanted. Lacking the natural charm of a real man—"

"You mean, like yourself."

"Well, yeah—although, when I think of it, I wouldn't have minded having a little of it myself. It would have made things a bit easier."

"I'm sure."

"But, of course, I would never have used it for anything really awful—like asking a girl to kill for me or anything. I mean I had enough problems of that kind without having to give a girl love potion. There was that one time that the whole fifth-year Gryffindor dorm were fighting over who would take me to the Yule Ball—some of those witches might have resorted to mayhem—"

"Right. Now let's get down to business. Just what is our goal here?"

"James thinks McFustian has some poor witch still in thrall to him, and he's kept her at his cottage all these years. He was probably just waiting for Voldemort to reappear before turning her to his dirty work. Though I suppose that if he's still got some of the elixir around, he might be tempted to increase his harem. Hroom—hoo—hee—ha!"

"What's the matter?"

"Just laughing at my own joke. The thought of that hairy little nit making it with a horde of beautiful women—well—any woman at all—well, it just defies belief—"

They came to the eaves of a clearing. Standing behind some bramble bushes, they could discern a mossy cottage with a neatly tended herb garden at its side and some outbuildings behind, a storage shed among them. A chubby man with frizzy hair and beard was walking about, Accio-ing cherries off a tree into a pail.

At that moment, a woman came out of the house. She was tall and stately with long dark hair. The bushes behind them rustled, and out came—could it be?—a mountain troll!

Hermione stared, at once fascinated and repelled. Surely the creature was sneaking up to bash their brains in with that cudgel he was carrying—as one had tried to do to her in her first year at Hogwarts. "Oh no, Sirius, look!"

Sirius shook his mane. "Whoo—ha—omigosh."

"We've got to warn her—them—look—that monster—"

"Oh, don't worry about him. That's another of Mandrake's talents: taming beasts of various levels of depravity. Like I said, he was pretty awful at wandwork, but he aced Potions and Care of Magical Creatures. It's nice to have a hulking great monster like that around to do your chores, eh? But he can't use 'em for assassinations. That takes smarts and cunning—which no charm ever invented could give that fellow."

Hermione saw now that what she had taken for weapons were merely a bucket and a stepstool dangling like toys from the creature's huge, knobby hand. She fought down nausea as its odor wafted towards them. "S-so what's the task? Rescue the wife?"

"She'd never come with us. No, James says if you can just get some evidence of McFustian's depravity, proof that he's a Death Eater or something equally incriminating, I can put it someplace where the Aurors will find it and leave the Ministry to do the rest."

Hermione thought: just myself, no wand and no deceptions. And only a troll in my way—and who knows what other monsters McFustian may have hanging around. Oh well, best plunge in, like Ron and Harry would before I get so scared I can't move. Aloud she said. "Sirius, do you think you can create a distraction while I go around to the front of the house?"

"You going it alone again?"

"What choice do we have?"

"Remember, the Dead think you're too bossy."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I hardly think McFustian would let me bring a full-grown stallion into his house." She looked him up and down. "Let me do this. Please, Sirius?"

"Hrumm-all right. One distraction coming up." He charged through the brush and ambled up to the orchard. Once there, he smacked his ample lips and started nibbling at the cherries. McFustian and his wife ran up to him, waving their arms and shouting. Hermione didn't wait to see what happened to him. She was off down a side path and around to the front door with the sounds of angry imprecations and happy whinnying ringing in her ears. She turned in time to see Sirius galloping off into the woods with a hail of Blasters bouncing off the trees. If McFustian couldn't do a decent charm, his wife more than made up for it, but Sirius somehow managed to outrun her magic.

Satisfied that her partner was safe, she knocked at the door. Another woman opened it, a servant from her clothing and manner. Was this woman the love-slave Sirius mentioned? Her face evinced no dark hunger, her figure no wasting desire. Wouldn't the potion have taken a dreadful toll in—what was it—fifteen or twenty years? But this woman looked placid and well-fed.

"What do you want?" she murmured.

"Please let me in. I need to speak with your master. It's urgent."

"He's out in the garden with the Missus." She gestured to her right. Hermione was disappointed. She'd hoped to be invited inside for however short a time to get the lay of the land while the servant went to get McFustian. But she walked out to the garden, trying to calm her throbbing heart.

"Excuse me, Magus McFustian...."

"Who are you? How did you get here?" The chubby man was breathing heavily from chasing Sirius about. His wife accioed a handkerchief for him to wipe his brow with.

"Erm... I'm Hermione Granger. I'm a student at Hogwarts." "Tell the truth," Death had said. Well it won't hurt, at least this once.

"Ah, my dear alma mater. But what do you want with me?"

"I'm interested in potion-making, and a friend of mine told me about your accomplishments, and well—I was in the neighborhood—"

"That wasn't your horse in my garden, was it?"

"Horse? I don’t own a horse."

"Never mind. You were saying you'd heard about my reputation as a Potioneer."

"Yes, I have made some pretty difficult ones myself—like the Polyjuice Potion and—"

"Polyjuice. That's a favorite of mine, though quite elementary, of course. I suppose you wanted to ask me about my work."

"Well... yes... if you don't mind. One so wants to improve, you know, and you have quite a reputation in the field—"

His face relaxed out of its frown of suspicion, and his voice became almost genial. "You must have been talking to old Sluggie—er—Professor Slughorn. I seem to have been a favorite of his."

"Erm... well... he didn't go into details... but I had heard of you...from other sources... and naturally...being an admirer of the brewster's art...I was curious...."

"That's good, excellent, in fact. My talents are still recognized, you say?"

Hermione nodded.

"Why don't we go inside, and I'll show you some of my concoctions."

"That would be nice."

He licked his lips and wiped his mouth with the hankie. "Yes, I'm always happy to help out a hard-working young witch, even if she is Muggle-born. Are you not, my dear?"

Hermione stared at him, wondering if this would disqualify her for admittance into his sanctum sanctorum.

"Oh, don't worry. It doesn't show—except to an expert. Excuse me a moment, won't you. My wife here is waiting to start the chores." He pulled his wife aside. Hermione heard him whisper, but she couldn't catch a word.

The wife glanced past Hermione. "Come, Icky," she muttered. And she led the troll around the back of the house. Probably going to milk the family cow—if he doesn't eat it first, Hermione thought grimly as Mandrake McFustian led her inside. They went up a winding staircase to a small office cluttered with scrolls, books, and bottles. He closed the door behind them and rested his pail on the desk.

"Won't you have something to drink—Miss Granger, is it?"

"I don't know—"

"Well, if you've come directly from school, you need a tonic—all those end-of-year exams can be so taxing. Here, have a bit of my famous cherry cordial. It's from last year's batch. Gwynelda makes it every harvest, and I swear it's her best ever." He poured a dram of a reddish liquid into each of two shot glasses. "A toast, Miss Granger—a happy outcome to all those bothersome NEWTS!"

Hermione could certainly drink to that. Cherry was one of her favorite flavors, and she was a bit thirsty. She downed it in one and looked out a small window. There was the troll, far below, washing windows. She turned back to her host. He hadn't touched his own glass. There was an odd look on his face—reckless and triumphant, the way Draco Malfoy looked whenever Professor Snape laid into Harry. Oh no, he couldn't—he hadn't—and there she was, looking him full in the face.... Her head began to spin.

"Miss Granger, are you all right?"

"I... I don't know..."

"Come over here. I want to show you something."

She edged towards him, at first unwillingly. All the while she felt the heat rising in her body and with it a marvelous glow. And she saw a vision.

Herself in fluttery blue robes running over the fields of Hogwarts, more alive than she had ever been, every cell in her body tingling with love for the figure striding towards her. She could see his delightful face smiling at her. Oh, how sexy he looked. She wanted to kiss every scab on his crusty neck, every wart on his bulbous nose. She wanted to run her fingers through the half dozen or so strands of hair sticking up from his wrinkled forehead.

"Icky, my love," she exulted, "take me, crush me in your great, hairy arms."

She shook her head. Omigosh, I'm in love with a troll.

But it feels luscious, whispered another voice.

She recognized her libido, freed entirely from its restraints by the Love-Death Elixir.

The voice of Reason countered: Must keep focus. Must remember the Task. Must remember... whats-his-name... Ron....

Who cares about him? You love Icky.

Yes, said her rational self, and I must save him from his horrible owner.

Oh, yes, yes, let us save our dear love, the troll of our dreams, from the nasty Mandrake McFustian.

Thus was she was able to turn her eyes to the pale, hairy wizard, and her dreamy, adoring look was easily mistaken for love of him.

"My dear, I'd like you to do something for me," said McFustian.

"Of course. Anything, my Lord." Anything to free my beloved Icky from your wicked clutches.

"I have a job for someone who cares as much as I do about Wizard-Kind."

"I care deeply about all of the Magicosm." Especially my troll.

He took her hand and caressed it. Hermione shuddered—she could not help herself—but he apparently took it for suppressed desire.

"I have here a list of persons who are trying to harm me and my family. I need for you find one name which you recognize and eliminate him or her. See here." He giggled. "My Master has even written down the most appropriate method of punishment for each of them." The list was actually part of a letter. It had a family crest at the top, and was addressed to McFustian. And was signed with the Dark Mark! She glanced down it. Several names were crossed out, Sirius Black's and Dumbledore's among them. Tonks, all the Weasleys, and a number of other Aurors were on it as well. Her rational mind forced herself to find Ron's name. Most appropriate punishment: cutting off fingers joint by joint, and making him eat them, then lashing him down and covering him in poisonous spiders. She wanted to feel sorry for her boyfriend, but all she could see was Icky the Troll....

"I have access to most of these people," she said, "I could probably take out quite a few of them at one fell swoop... if my lord wishes it."

"You can? Oh excellent, excellent!"

"I shall go at once. They are even now congregating at the Weasleys' house for an engagement party."

McFustian was so ecstatic that he didn't notice Hermione slipping the letter into the pocket of her robes. She was out the door and deep in the woods in short order.

"Well done, Hermione," said Sirius as they galloped away. "This will make the Ministry move on Old Fuss. And they'll be able to rescue Gwennie."

"Gwennie?"

"I didn't tell you, did I? I recognized the woman with the troll. It was my old girlfriend, Gwendolyn."

"She's his wife now, Sirius."

He sighed—a deep horsey sigh. "Yeah. Well—I'll neutralize the effects of that Liebestod on you with a simple Troll-Hate hex until we can get you some of that antidote."

"Oh, must you?" cried Hermione.