"What did you do?" she asked quickly but Mr Weasley wouldn't be rushed. He leant back in his chair and laced his fingers together of his growing belly.

"I invited a few people whom I know have suffered from the use of Veritaserum. Those brought others they knew about who had been dosed with it. Quite a few, actually. People in high positions at the Ministry these days are only hired if they submit to questioning under that devil's draught and promotions are only to be had if you agree as well. It's disgraceful. They act as if that potion alone could tell them everything about a person. Anyway... It snowballed from there. More people came and in the end, it was decided to put a petition before the Wizengamot. Not even the Minister can overrule that and since quite a few members of that honoured body have been humiliated while being drugged, it was absolutely no trouble," he smirked. "Use of Veritaserum is now illegal and manufacturing of it is severely punished."

"But...there was absolutely nothing in the Prophet," she stuttered.

"Of course not. And it was rather brilliant of you to blackmail the Minister with spilling the beans to the press when you did, since it was just after the verdict of the Wizengamot. If you had gone through with it — since you wanted to protect your friend, right? — it wouldn't have only become common knowledge that Veritaserum is used to question suspects, but I'm sure someone would have dug deeper and would have revealed the entire story. And it can't be good for the Minister. He'd be out of office before he could say office," he chuckled.

Hermione just stared at him. It all made sense. Well, almost all made sense. "Do you want him to continue being Minister?"

Mr Weasley shrugged. "We'll see about that. I don't think I have the kind of power t make sure he doesn't stay in office and I cannot guarantee a better person for it. And if he can do without Veritaserum, he might not be too bad. We'll have to give it a bit of time but we'll keep an eye on him."

She could only shake her head. This wasn't quite what she had expected from the kind man. This was almost revolutionary.

55. This Is Not A Pipe

If you still read the theoretical parts and if you do not know Magritte's painting of the pipe, please look at this first:

http: / en. wikipedia. org/ wiki/ File: MagrittePipe. jpg (without the blank spaces, naturally).

Magritte's drawing is as simple as a page borrowed from a botanical manual: a figure and the text that names it. Nothing is easier to recognize than a pipe, drawn thus; nothing is easier to say — our language knows it well in our place — than the 'name of a pipe.' Now, what lends to the figure its strangeness is not the 'contradiction' between the image and the text. For a good reason: Contradiction could exist only between two statements, or within one and the same statement. Here there is clearly but one, and it cannot be contradictory because the subject of the proposition is a simple demonstrative. False then, because its 'referent' — obviously a pipe — does not verify it? But who would seriously contend tht the collection of intersecting lines above the text is a pipe? Must we say: My God, how simpleminded! The statement is perfectly true since it is quite apparent that the drawing representing the pipe is not the pipe itself. And yet there is a convention of language: What is this drawing? Why, it is a calf, a square, a flower. An old custom not without basis, because the entire function of so scholarly, so academic a drawing is to elicit recognition, to allow the object it represents to appear without hesitation or equivocation. No matter that it is the material deposit, on a sheet of paper of a blackboard, of a little graphite or a thin dust of chalk. It does not 'aim' like an arrow or a pointer towards a particular pipe in the distance of elsewhere. It is a pipe.

(Foucault, 1983)

Annie did, naturally, ask questions — but Severus was unable, unwilling to answer her. He had told her an outline of his life. Had taught, had left the position because he wanted a change and had then ended in his old hometown again, going back to University. She had, that night, asked about the scars on his back and especially the one on his neck and what was he supposed to say? That they were a blend of his father's belt, Wizard's wands and a poisonous, enormous, magical snake? But instead of lying, or making up a story, he turned on his back and looked into her eyes as she loomed over him, her hands on his chest and said. "I don't want to talk about that." Miraculously, she had made a kind of emphatic face, had kissed him chastely on the cheek and had said, "Alright."

Annie Deveney was more that he had thought she would be, he thought as he lay there with her half on him. She excepted when he said that he did not want to talk and she didn't ask question after question after that. She just accepted his decision, probably hoping that one day, he would tell her.

And maybe, he thought, he would, one day. And while he was unable to love, maybe he would grow to like her more and feel some sort of affection. Love grew out of the strangest places, the strangest couples; he had seen it often enough in the Wizarding World that those arranged marriages which everyone condemned to fail, were those that seemed to be the most loving, most affectionate. He slowly stroked Annie's arm and she smiled up at him. He could possibly grow to like her more, to feel affection for her — and if he'd be any another man, he could possibly begin to love her. Such as it was — love was something he neither wanted nor could ever feel again, he was certain of that. At least not towards a woman, even if she was as like Annie.

He slowly took her hand from his chest, then rolled over and stood up from her bed.

"You're leaving?" asked his former professor, stretching languidly.

"Yes," he replied immediately. He would most definitely not sleep in her bed. Not with her by his side. Who knew if he was plagued by a nightmare — of heaven forbid, if he spoke in his sleep. Would be hard to explain, that. No, he had a wonderful bed at home which he could use all on his own, in which he didn't have to pay attention to what he did while he slept. Her expression was — disappointed — and so he bent down, knowing he would have to do something, and kissed her as softly as he could. She smiled, her eyes closed.

"Do I see you tomorrow?"

"We'll see," he said simply and went to get dressed.

"Hermione!" Charlie cried as she was about to apparate back home from the Burrow.

"Yes?" she turned around and wanted to apparate as quickly as possibly. Molly was not the subtlest of persons. She had turned on the matchmaking-force full blast and Charlie obviously seemed to respond. Not her. Charlie was...what was the word...too metro-sex for her. Too David Beckham and not enough Sean Connery. Too Brad Pitt and not enough George Clooney. Besides...

"Would you go to dinner with me?" he asked and she sighed and frowned at the same time. She couldn't tell him that she disliked his looks and that she couldn't handle being with someone, or even doing out with someone who always either smelled faintly like dragons or some uber-masculine perfume. And since he had begun to use Muggle hairproducts (or so it looked like)...no. But that was what the besides was for anyway.

"Charlie, no. It would be weird. I went out with Ron, and even if it was briefly, we went out and we were a couple and it would be just strange to go out with you," she grimaced. "Sorry."

Too Gilderoy and not enough Snape. He could work with dragons all he wanted, he was a pretty boy and he knew it. And pretty boys...no.

"Ah well, was worth a shot," he smiled, nodded and with a quick good-bye, turned towards the Burrow again and walked away. Hermione on the other hand stood rooted on the spot for a while before composing herself enough to apparate. Charlie was a good bloke, if one liked that sort of thing. The dangerous handler of beasts with the perfect long hair. No, not her type at all. The image of Snape popped up briefly in her head but she tried her best to push it away. Fantasising about him wouldn't help at all anymore. She had gone over it in her head and he hadn't wanted to touch her. He just had, it was like running into someone. It was nobody's fault but her misjudge apparition's. She wouldn't think about it any more. It had just happened, she had been embarrassed and that was the end of it.

And she certainly wasn't desperate enough to go out with Charlie Weasley, the pseudo-dangerous type who seemed to use conditioner for his hair and who seemed to only get dirty because some women liked that sort of thing. Oh well, maybe she was seeing this wrong. Maybe he wasn't like that at all — but no, she didn't want to find out either.

I've gone back home.

Draco slowly tied his note to the owl's foot. His godfather would have just to accept that his godson was a wizard and used wizard means of communication. Not that he could use a computer there. Not that he had one. Not that he knew how to get stamps in the next village and Merlin only knew how long the Royal Mail would take to get the letter there. And it was rather important after all. He couldn't let them think he had been kidnapped as well. No, he had just gone where he belonged. There was no reason to worry.

"Master Draco, Master Draco, Master Lucius says dinner is served," the elf knocked carefully on his door which he had closed immediately upon arrival. He had changed, he had sat down at his desk and he had tried to push the pain in his chest away.

He got up heavily, his legs feeling like clay and his head and stomach hurting when he thought about what an elf might have cooked and that Eleanor had wanted to make cottage pie for them that evening before he determinedly pushed all the thoughts of Eleanor and his godfather and that girl out of his head and followed the tiny elf down the stairs.

The table was set as it had ever been, the only exception being that there were now only two places set and not three as it had been custom, and normal, with his mother there. But she was gone as well, Merlin knew where exactly.

"Draco," his father said coldly and he could see him sitting stiffly and very pompously at the head of the table. And what a huge table it was. Nobody would ever bump elbows with anyone else at that table.

"Father," he replied and sat down as well, the seat he had occupied ever since he could remember. He didn't know what else to say to that man sitting there, the man he called father. He had no clue whether his father had expected him, or wanted him there. And his father, sitting there and staring at his plate, obviously needed a moment to think about what he wanted to tell him as well.

The silence lasted all through the first and the fish course and only when there was roast on the table, his father looked up at him and as he put his knife and fork away, he seemed to want to open his mouth to speak but Draco decided that he might as well just beat him to it.

"I explained her what I am and you were right," said he, tiredly and stared at his potatoes. A mundane meal, really.

His father, oddly enough, didn't say a word, he just resumed eating, not looking at him, focusing in his food and Draco was rather confused. This was not like his father at all.

Eleanor took a deep breath before she knocked on Severus's door. She had seen him come in and it wasn't as late as it had been the night before. It was still midnight though and once more, she hadn't been able to sleep. Yes, she was too nosey but the moment he had seemed to want to open up and tell her more earlier, Aideen had stumbled in. That girl was in bed now, sleeping, dosed with a bit too much brandy maybe. And Draco was still gone. Why did people forget that she was easily worried? Especially after events like that? With Aideen and her arm in a cast and still shivering from time to time and needing a nightlight again, even though she had refused to use it from age three.

He opened the door only a moment later and was confused. "Is there something wrong?" he asked, ushering her in.

"Is Draco with you?"

He took a deep, quite audible breath and waved his hand towards the kitchen.

"Severus?" she asked again.

"He's gone back to his father."

"His father?" Eleanor asked, shocked.

"Yes, and his father..." he shook his head. "The letter is on the table."

"What letter?" asked she, sitting down on one of his chairs, waiting for him to explain.

"This one," he said slowly and she took it between her fingers, feeling the parchment. Parchment.

Severus,

my son has returned home and all I know is that he has told that girlfriend of his that he is a Wizard and she obviously hasn't taken this well. I do not know whether you have talked to him before, or if she truly does not accept what he is but I would like to know what is exactly going on. My son was happy with that girl, was he not? Why does he give it up? Did he take what I said too seriously?

Of course I do want him to marry someone who knows our traditions, our customs but do not think (and I know you will) that I made him tell her, or tried to persuade him to come back here. I do want him back here since the house was empty with him and Narcissa gone but he is merely sulking in his room and did not eat.

You are one of my oldest friends, Severus, and I would ask you to come and talk to him.

Best wishes,

Lucius

Eleanor frowned. "Does he mean that?"

Severus did something she had never seen him do before. Not even as a child and certainly not as an adult. He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, Eleanor. It is late and I am tired and I do not know whether this is another one of his Slytherin-plots. Whether he truly only wants Draco to be happy or if there is a bigger picture. Lucius was always scheming but I cannot honestly see what he could possibly want."

"And that means?"

"It means that I will go and find out," said he quietly.

"No," she shook her head. "What if this is a trap? What if he only wants to lure you there and just wants to finish what his sister-in-law didn't manage?"

"Then I will be prepared."

"I'm going with you," she said stubbornly.

"You most certainly won't."

"I will. I will not let you run into danger like that."

"Have you forgot what he did to you? I haven't," he growled.

"No, of course I haven't forgot but have you? You don't have magic anymore, Severus and if he wants to hurt you, he will."