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The Man Who Sold the World by Meggory [Reviews - 41]

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fourteen



The Man Who Sold the World
By Meggory

Bright white light beat against Hermione’s face, illuminating the thread-fine webs of capillaries of her eyelids. Slowly, reluctantly, she stirred, burrowing her head into her soft white pillow. Finally she rolled from her stomach to her back, spitting out a mass of cotton pillowcase from her mouth and blinking sleepily. Through her fuzzy eyes, she could see nothing but a sea of white. White ceiling, white walls, white bedspread, white pillows, white curtains. And yet--there was a warmth in it that she did not expect, not at all like the sterility of a hospital room.

Where the hell am I?

The last memory she could dredge up was the unnerving feeling of being taken unawares by a Portkey. But to where? She sat up suddenly, clutching the feather bedspread so tightly her knuckles matched the decor. Had Percy betrayed her? Was she in London? Or had she finally arrived at Gregorovich’s hideout?

“Miss?” a small voice said from next to the bed. Startled, Hermione stifled a scream and jumped nearly a foot away from the edge of the bed. “Miss? Please to look here?”

Slowly, Hermione crawled towards the voice and peered off the bed. A small, wizened house-elf stood patiently, smoothing its crisp green toga fashioned from a pillow case. “Pazhaluysta, Miss, my name is Vovo.” The little elf spoke slowly with a heavy Russian accent. “Miss is hungry?”

“Er, Vovo, where am I?” she asked.

The little creature smiled slightly. “Master’s house,” he replied. She thought it was male.

Her stomach flipped as she managed to say, “And who is your master?”

“Vovo serves Vasiliy Gregorovich, Miss.” Vovo moved away from the bed and began rummaging in a white wardrobe. With a snap of his fingers, a fluffy white terry cloth dressing gown flew from the innards of the wardrobe and landed on the bed. “Vovo will bring Miss breakfast?”

“Is Severus Snape here, Vovo?” she inquired as she slipped out from under the coverlet and pulled on the robe. As she tied the belt, she suddenly realised she was wearing light blue silk pyjamas. “Er, Vovo, has Mr. Gregorovich been up to see me?”

“Oh, nyet, nyet, Miss. Vovo does all work himself. Master knows Miss is here. Master Snape is downstairs with Master Vasiliy.” He turned his large green eyes to her. “Pazhaluysta, Miss, would you be liking breakfast in bed?”

A sudden feeling of rage was simmering inside her. “No, Vovo,” she said, trying not to sound unkind. “I will be joining the Masters Snape and Gregorovich. Now.”

Ignoring the little elf’s protests, Hermione wrenched the door open and stormed out. The hall opened out into the open space of twenty-foot ceilings. She brushed her hand against the sturdy wooden railing lining one side of the corridor as she made her way towards the stairs. She did not try to muffle the angry stomps that echoed through the house as she descended the carpeted staircase. Through her own angry, heavy breathing, she could hear two men’s voices conversing nearby; prowling like a lioness, she stalked her way towards them. A room opened up abruptly and she found herself staring in fury at Severus Snape and a man she assumed was Vasiliy Gregorovich sitting at the kitchen table sipping tea.

Both men looked up at her sudden appearance. Gregorovich looked blandly amused, and Severus wore a smirk for a split second. Then his expression wiped clean and became furrowed with concern. “Merlin, Hermione, what happened to you?” he asked as he set down his tea cup and started towards her.

He barely walked three paces before she met him in the middle of the kitchen with a full armed slap. The sound of flesh hitting flesh was loud in her ears, and Severus’ head snapped to the side with shocking speed. “You fucking asshole,” she seethed. “You abandoned me. You left me at that checkpoint to be picked up by Lucius Malfoy.”

His hand jerked towards his face, as if wanting to soothe the red hand print rising on his face, but it remained next to his side. “I did not abandon you. If it were not for me, you would not be here. I made that Portkey for you,” he replied calmly.

“No, if it were up to you, I’d be awaiting execution in London. You know who saved me, Severus? Percy Weasley. That’s right, that bootlicking blood traitor. He smuggled me out and let me go, and gave me the map. I wouldn’t even have the map if it weren’t for him, so you can go to hell!” The volume and shrillness of her voice rose with every word. “I thought we were in this together!”

“You said you didn’t want me to rescue you, remember?” he shouted in return. “Miss High and Mighty, you flat-out told me not to come to your rescue because you could take care of yourself. Or did you think I was just appeasing you when I agreed? Did you think I was a pushover, some dupe at your beck and call whenever you decided you couldn’t handle things? Well, fuck you, Hermione. I did what you asked me to do. More.”

“Well, fuck you too, Severus! You want to know what happened to me? Blackfriar had me tortured for information,” she screamed.

A calm, relatively quiet voice cut through their arguing with the kind of authority any Headmaster of Hogwarts would envy. “Severus, you have not introduced me to your charming lady friend.” Both turned to find Gregorovich watching them with great amusement in his dark brown eyes. “Please, sit down, and we will all have breakfast together this fine morning. I do not often have guests.”

With a final glare for Severus, Hermione took the proffered chair. The small, balding man extended his hand. “I am Vasiliy Gregorovich.” His voice was surprisingly deep for such a slight man, and tinged far less with Russian inflections than his house-elf's.

Hermione’s hand clasped his. “Hermione--” she glanced at Severus, who nodded slightly despite a heated anger smoldering in his eyes, “Granger.”

Ochen priyatno,” he said quietly. “Pleased to meet you.” Gesturing to the neat pile of evenly coloured toast on a china platter, Gregorovich passed a delicate porcelain container of marmalade to Hermione. “Please, eat something. You have been asleep for a long time.”

As she plucked a triangular wedge of toast from the tower and began spreading very yellow butter on one side, she raised an eyebrow questioningly. “And how long would that be, Mr. Gregorovich?”

The Russian wand-maker waved his hand. “Please, call me Vasiliy. Perhaps just under a day. An unfortunate effect of the wards surrounding my home. Well, unfortunate for you. Very useful for me, of course. Severus, have some of this bacon. You look as if you have not eaten in a century.”

Severus shot the man a glare but took the plate of crisped meat and scraped some onto his plate. His whole body radiated rage; his hands shook as he speared an unlucky piece of bacon on the tines of his fork. Gregorovich nodded slightly in approval before returning his attention to Hermione. “So, Miss Granger--Hermione, if I may?” At her quick smile, he continued, “Hermione, Severus tells me you are in need of my services.”

She nodded vigorously as she spread marmalade on a corner of her toast. “I require a wand. A real one, with a magical core able to do more than just Alohomora. Something that can cast Unforgivables,” she said starkly.

A flat glance was her reply for several moments. “May I ask what a pleasant young lady like yourself would be doing with a wand for Dark magic?” he asked quietly. Too quietly. Severus was staring at her furtively over his hard-boiled egg.

“I do not want a wand for Dark magic,” she replied calmly. “I simply need a wand that is capable of something as powerful as, say, the Killing Curse. These are dangerous times, Vasiliy, and I need to be able to protect myself. As our recent escapade has proven,” she added in a mutter.

But the wand-maker’s stare was still uncomfortably flat. “I do not approve of Dark magic,” he stated.

Severus finally spoke up, and harshly. “Oh, come off it, Vasya,” he snapped. He sounded offended.

Gregorovich bit something off in Russian at Severus that sounded especially cutting before returning his attention to Hermione. He ignored the scraping of the chair legs on the hardwood floor as Severus rose and swept out of the room in what could only be described as a huff. “I am not in league with Dark wizardry, despite what my lineage may suggest. Dark magic could not save my grandfather; Grindelwald threw him to the German dogs in 1944 because my grandfather refused to sacrifice his youngest child for his master. So the Gregorovich family left Salzburg and returned to our ancestral home in Tsaritsyn. You would know it better as Stalingrad, or Volgograd, I would think. It was easier to live under the Communist Ruling Council of Wizards than the sheltering hand of the Dark wizards. I do not make wands for Dark wizardry.”

“You made Karkaroff’s wand,” retorted Hermione. Gregorovich opened his mouth to protest, but she trudged along. “But that is beside the point. I simply need a powerful wand, Vasiliy. That is all I am asking for. Perhaps I went about it the wrong way. I meant no offense.”

After a long sip of strong tea, Gregorovich nodded. “Forgive me. I am--often overly concerned with such matters. But, may I ask what happened to your wand that you now need another?”

Her face darkened at the memory. “All entrants into the ghettos of London are required to turn over their true wands for disposal and are given interim replacements. For our own protection from the wards covering the city, or so the Death Eaters told us. I’m certain they snapped it, or possibly burned it.”

Shaking his head, Gregorovich sighed. “Ah, such waste of fine work. Ollivander is a cowardly fool, but I am a big enough man to admit he is somewhat of a craftsman. What wand did you have, my dear? Severus tells me you are a very talented witch. Something with dragon heartstring, perhaps?”

With a fond smile for her lost wand, Hermione nodded. “Vine wood with a dragon heartstring. It was particularly good for charms.”

“Hmm.” Gregorovich did not say anything further as he polished off the rest of his toast and washed it down with the remains of his tea. Hermione took that as her cue to continue eating her own breakfast; the marmalade was particularly good. She had a sneaking suspicion that Vovo had a hand in it. As if reading her mind, the Russian man offered her a smile. “Vovo is quite good in the kitchen. He is my only companion here; if it were not for you and Severus, he would be dining with me. He is quite shy of strangers.” He noticed her eyes widen in surprise and explained nonchalantly, “Not all old Wizarding families treat their elves poorly. Although, I have noticed that British families generally treat their house-elves with disdain. No doubt why they left for the continent so quickly.”

“That, and Malfoy executed his former house-elf as a spectacle in the ghetto,” she said faintly.

“Disgusting,” Gregorovich spat. “Well, as to business. I can make you a wand, Hermione. All that Ollivander nonsense about the wand choosing the wizard does not apply to a custom wand. He merely made so many as to supply the children going to Hogwarts without having to spend all his time crafting each wand for each child. How many wands did you test before you arrived at your vine wood and dragon heartstring?”

“I can’t remember exactly. Maybe eight?”

“Ollivander makes wands like Muggles make pants. He simply makes many in different styles and sizes and hopes that something in the mix fits, or fits close enough for practical purposes. I shall make you a wand that will be tailored to you exactly. It will only be limited by your own strength and will.”

An eager gleam had appeared in Hermione’s dark eyes. “That sounds wonderful.”

“Yes.” A hesitation entered the man’s deep voice. “But there is one obstacle we must overcome. I have the wood to make the wand, but no core elements. Wand cores were rare enough before the war; it is now essentially impossible to obtain a unicorn hair or a phoenix feather or even a hippogriff crest feather. The dragons have been rounded up and shipped to Romania. The phoenixes are highly intelligent creatures; they’ve effectively disappeared. It is possible there are unicorns left in the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts, but I cannot be certain. They are probably in hiding as well. If you want a wand, Hermione, you will have to obtain a core element yourself.”

She nearly choked on the crust of her toast. “You expect me to catch a unicorn?”

He chuckled, as if the idea were absurd. “Of course not. Just lure him or her to you and ask for a tail hair. If you explain the situation, I’m certain the creature will comply. They are intelligent beings, you know, comparable to humans. Then just come back here, and you’ll have a real wand in less than a day.” With his breakfast finished, he pushed away from the table and pulled an apologetic face. “Well, if you will excuse me, I will go and begin work on the wood for your new wand.”

Brushing crumbs from her fingertips, Hermione took his proffered hand and shook it firmly. “Thank you, Vasiliy.”

He winked at her. “Perhaps you should go speak with Severus. I’m certain he’s holed himself up in the library. The room is that way,” he said, pointing out the open kitchen doorway and down a corridor she had not seen on her way downstairs from her room. “Third door on the right.”

Hermione sighed at his retreating back and turned to the breakfast dishes. Surely she could help little Vovo with the washing up? But the house-elf was already there, snapping his fingers to make the dishes disappear and to conjure a fresh blue tablecloth. He looked ready to shoo her out of the kitchen, so she ducked out towards the library.

The thick white carpet was warm and plush under her bare feet as she padded towards the door Gregorovich had pointed out. Her hand reached out and pushed the door open, and she found herself standing in an enormous room decorated entirely with wall-to-wall bookshelves, all full to bursting. A large stone fireplace holding a small fire took up some space, but held more books on the mantle. Hermione moved into the room, relishing in the smell of leather and old paper glue so deeply that she did not notice Severus turn his head towards her. He sat on a brown leather love seat, and a long finger marked his page in a small closed tome. The burning anger in his eyes had not diminished despite the time he had had to calm down.

Her defiant stare met his as his voice caught her attention. “What do you want?” he snapped.

“I want to talk about what happened at the checkpoint,” she replied, trying to keep the heat out of her voice but failing miserably. This man, this aggravating man, kept her hackles up. He demanded that she fight him, and she would rise to the challenge. “I realise I told you I didn’t need rescuing, but--”

“But what, Hermione? Am I supposed to read between the spaces of every word that comes out of your mouth? You told me to let you take care of yourself and I did. I helped you as much as I could without tipping off Blackfriar. Do you think I could have done anything if they had taken me into custody as well? Lucius Malfoy would have come for us then, certainly, and we would both be dead or under the Imperius. I gave you what you needed to help yourself. I gave you a Portkey to this place, to safety, and I told you about the Veritaserum.” For all the rage she could see within him, his voice was stunningly cool and collected. Perhaps he was trying the logical argument with her, but she was too angry to let him lead her into a civilized conversation.

“And what about that? How did you know they would give me botched Veritaserum? They could have poisoned me, brewing that wrong. Knowing they had brewed it wrong did not help me know if I was going to die because of it!” As the words tumbled from her lips, she realised this argument was simply being generated now. She could not remember being afraid of poisoning during her time at the checkpoint. “And it certainly was cryptic! I thought you were being ironic.”

His smile did not quite reach his lips. “But you understood. Do you not remember the difficulties of brewing Veritaserum? How could Death Eaters lacking the finesse for Potions we do possibly brew it correctly? I know you do not want to find yourself at fault here, Hermione, but you will lose this argument.”

“You had the wand, Severus. You had the ability to save me, and I had to rely on reducing Percy Weasley to tears to escape.” With that, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the library, reluctantly leaving the enticing smell of books.





*



Hermione spent the rest of the day in her room, repeating to herself that she was not sulking, nor being petulant. Vovo, for all Gregorovich talked about his shyness with strangers, kept her company for most of it. The little wrinkled house-elf brought her two meals, assuring her that she was not required to descend to the dining room or the kitchen if she did not want to, and even brought her a few slim volumes from the library for her perusal. Also, Vovo showed her the small bathroom attached to her white room and where her personal effects from the blue car had been placed in the wardrobe, all the while describing fondly the garden of the Gregorovich manor in Stalingrad.

Vovo pulled out the satchel from the white wardrobe and handed it to her. “I eliminated the food, Miss. It was beginning to turn,” he told her with a quick wrinkle of his nose. “If you wish to read in greenhouse, you may. It is very warm there. Not as warm as old house,” he said with a sad, resigned sigh. “You need to bring lamp. It is dark now.”

It was dark, Hermione realised, as she peered out the large window. The rugged landscape painted during the day was now utterly dark. No fluorescent orange glow of a city marred the horizon, and no moonlight cast twisted shadows of trees and rocks. She had wasted the day lounging about, and yet she was tired. She had not slept properly in what seemed like years. Maybe it really was years. She turned her head from the window and smiled brightly at the house-elf. “Spasiba,” she said awkwardly, hoping her poor attempt at Russian thanks was not met with scorn.

On the contrary, the little elf beamed at her. “Pazhalsta,” he replied politely. “I teach you well, Miss Hermione.”

“Indeed you do, Vovo. I think I will go to bed now.” The elf nodded and disappeared with a crack. Setting the satchel down on the bed, Hermione stripped off her dressing gown and pyjamas and folded them neatly on the top of the wardrobe. She locked herself in the bathroom and ran herself a very hot, very deep bath in the claw-footed tub that took up most of the space in the green-tiled room. As she sank into the water, complete with vanilla bubbles, she let out a sigh of relief. This was the first real bath she had had in over a year. She thought she might feel like a Buddhist achieving nirvana.

The water started to cool off after an hour of delightful soaking, so Hermione scrubbed her hair clean with wrinkled fingers and rinsed it under the shower head as the bath water drained around her feet. Grabbing a towel from the nearby shelf, she wrapped the long swath of terry cloth around her. Another towel went directly around her head to keep her hair in check--until she remembered that she did not have to worry about her bushy mane anymore. Feeling stupid, she removed the hair towel and hung it on the rack. All the necessities she had not brought with her were laid out thoughtfully on the marble counter, and surprisingly, some were Muggle. She brushed her teeth with a plain blue toothbrush, savouring the taste of mint and thinking fondly and sadly of her parents.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Hermione dried herself off and found another pair of pyjamas lying on the comforter. She slipped on the loose silk chemise and her own set of panties, but left the silk bottoms. The bath had left her over warm. She turned off the light and flicked on the reading lamp next to the bed. A moment passed as she mulled over the random thoughts flitting through her mind. Who the hell is Severus Snape?

Even as she asked this all-encompassing question, her hands were carefully extracting his copy of Moste Potente Potions, still wrapped in her Spaceship Learn-venture shirt, from the satchel. She dropped the satchel absently. Engrossed with the volume in her palms, she slid under the covers and settled against the mountain of pillows fluffed against the head board. The book propped up nicely against her bent knees, and she carefully flipped open the cover. This copy was in such better condition than the one she had used that she was surprised to find Severus’ distinctive, angular writing in the margins of more than one brewing directive. Some were disparaging--Graycobb’s instructions more expedient, and Dry weights incorrect--and some were incomprehensible--See A.A. x.v.iii. for comp., and Unnec. wid.--but as she ran her fingers over the quill marks, she found herself wondering.

She was going to have to ask what had happened to Severus in the time between the Battle of Diagon Alley and the present; what had transpired between him and the URF that had made Hannah Abbot warn her about it? Something inside her told her that she needed to know, not only for future reference but to understand Severus Snape. If she could help him, she would, despite her still-smoldering anger towards him. He was perhaps the only friend she had.

Merlin, was Severus Snape her friend? Harry and Ron would have a conniption.

Perhaps she would apologize tomorrow morning. If he did first.

Stifling a yawn, Hermione carefully closed the book on her lap and placed it safely on the bedside table. She turned off the lamp, settled down into the warm bed, and closed her eyes.

What seemed like only seconds later, a footstep nearby pulled her out of her blissful state of altered consciousness. She dragged her head out of the mass of pillows and turned groggily on her elbow to glance around the room. Shadows filled every nook, and she was ready to go back to sleep when the shadow standing in the door suddenly moved. Hermione sat up, stock straight, with her heart beating faster than an Olympic runner’s. A gasp caught in her throat, making a strangling sound, and the shadow drew nearer.

Before she could turn on the light, a pale light bathed the room from the end of a wand. Hermione found herself looking into the eyes of Severus Snape, who was kneeling at the side of the bed. “Merlin, Severus, you scared me. You shouldn’t sneak up on people in the dark,” she chided.

She did not think that she had spoken harshly, but his gaze fell to the floor as his face crumpled. “I am sorry, Hermione,” he whispered. His voice had returned to the hoarseness of his time as an independent Wraith. “So sorry.”

The shock of this scene coupled with a deep concern for his mental well-being urged Hermione to do something, to say something. “For what, Severus?” she asked gently.

His breath hitched before he spoke. “I left you. I left you behind. It’s unforgivable. I can’t ever make it up.” The words came rapidly and quietly, tortured like a mantra of a suffering soul. “I thought you were dead, once. I killed you, once. I nearly did it again.”

Unbidden, her hand stretched out and touched his cheek. He glanced up to stare at her, and she found his eyes red-rimmed. “You did not kill me, Severus. I’m fine. We’re both just fine. I’m sorry I accused you of leaving me.”

Before she could withdraw her hand, his fingers came up and grasped her tattooed forearm. He narrowed his eyes, squinting, and brought the wand-light closer to the flesh of her inner arm. “What is this?” he asked in that same rough voice. “Is that my name?”

She could not extricate her arm without upsetting him. “Yes, Severus, it is.”

Questioning, unbelieving eyes met hers. “Why?” A simple word demanding a complicated answer. It almost sounded as if he did not expect her to answer, but she did.

“Because I thought you were dead. I didn’t want you to die. So I made you immortal.”

He withdrew his hand from her arm slowly, as if the shock were washing over him like a tide. “We will speak tomorrow, I should think,” he said quietly as he rose and made his way to the door. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Tomorrow.” He swept into the hall, closing the door behind him, and Hermione let out a breath she did not know she was holding.



---------------------------------------------
Author’s Notes:
1) Thank you to my wonderful and observant reviewers!
2) Apologies for the lateness of this update. What with thunderstorms and power outages and camping and HBP, I’ve barely had time to sleep, much less write. Hopefully the length of the chapter makes up for it, as well as the lack of insane cliffhanger.
3) On the subject of HBP, I just want everyone to know that I’m not going to stop writing due to new developments. However, I will not be using new canon information because it did not exist when I began writing. It’s really unfair; using new canon half way through a work is like changing the rules during a Jell-O wrestling match. First you have to wear a bathing suit, then you have to go naked. I hope everyone understands my inappropriate analogy.
4) Forgive the Russian phonetic words if they are poorly done. Vasiliy is pronounced vah-SEE-lee, not VAH-see-lee. Vasya (VAH-zya) is a nickname form of Vasiliy--Snape, then, knows Gregorovich well enough to call him by a diminutive. Vovo is an altered diminutive of Vladimir.
5) Anyone want to guess what’s going to happen next?







The Man Who Sold the World by Meggory [Reviews - 41]

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