Hexing the Tide

Hexing the Tide

Chapter One

^"I am forgotten as a dead man out of mind: I am like a broken vessel"

Psalm 31

My daughter-in-law likes to say there is a reason so many soothsayers were put to the torch. She does love her single-sickle axioms a bit too much, but on this I am inclined to agree with her.

Our own family has been marked by grief from one prophecy in particular. For seven generations the heir of the household has fought a vain battle against destiny. But as such things are written, so must they pass. I know that now. Had I known that early in my life, perhaps I might have been salvageable.

However, I did not. And of this you must already be aware. That is why I pen my memoirs here, as a ward against any possible martyrdom. Those closest to me fear such events, but I find the very idea ludicrous. Their cause is lost, and those who still hold by the old garde do themselves more harm than they do others. They have more hope of hexing the tide. I do not hope to sway public opinion, except by such that I can remove myself entirely from it and thereby pass on to those around me decency which I shall never possess. Please allow me this small self-indulgence while I recount my part in the events as they happened and perhaps you might understand a bit of my position in them.

I could bore you with much detail of the most base and dramatic kind to lure you into these passages, but such ploys are tiresome. As I don't wish to be redeemed, there seems little point to personal explanation or exposition. You are all quite aware of the participants by now. So instead, I will begin during a discussion I had with my son not long after his graduation from fifth year. At the time I was indisposed due to entanglements with the Ministry so he came to visit me in my chamber. We sat silently for quite some time before I took pity on him and bade him disclose his thoughts.

"Mother has sent me for your key. She believes you still possess it."

I laughed. She was correct of course. For all their faults, the Blacks were never known to be idiots. But they were arrogant, and proof lay in the very idea of her sending our son on such an errand. "Your mother has a key to her own family's vault. She has no business with mine."

He reproached me with a look that could have been mine at his age. "She says it is for me."

"And you will receive my key when I am dead, not before. But I grow tired easily in these surroundings, Draco. Was there another reason you have gifted me with your presence?"

His eyes, my own eyes reflected, swept over me. I glanced down, noting the lost musculature, the ragged prison regimentals and the rough hewn cane the Ministry had provided once it became clear that Azkaban had turned an accessory into a necessity. Returning to him, I watched him swallow slightly and wondered what it was he so wished to say. His eyes returned to mine. "No, I don't suppose there is, Father."

Perhaps it was the sheer desolation of my incarceration that got the better of me, for in that moment I grasped his hand. This would never have happened in polite society, but in such surroundings I felt it did not matter. "Draco..."

He barely flinched as he pulled his hand away. It was to be expected, and I was a bit proud of his strength. I would have been prouder still if he hadn't shown a slight tremor as he raised his chin. But after all he was yet a few days shy of sixteen, only a child. So I shut my mind of it, considering instead this curious visit and his impending birthday. Within those few silent moments, my thoughts cooled and reason returned. In that instant, I knew.

I knew her plans.

"Draco. Do not return to the House."

"What!" His face had traded all of the confused emotions for a single spark of incredulity.

"I implore you. Do not go back there. Think. You are a Malfoy. That is what we do best."

"I... You-! Father, this place has addled your mind. I must leave now." He stammered despite his best intentions. Despite my best intentions, for I had done my best with such a sensitive child. I clasped him again, but with less kindness. Pulling him close, I tried to force logic upon him.

"No, Draco. Let me tell you what has affected my mind. And do not respond to such things for even in my tiny tomb I am not always alone. Your mother" I spat the word, for the realization that had hit me was harsh "has had her family over whilst I have been away. And, more so, she has brought in a friend of that family. That is why you are here today. And when you return bearing the key, or in this case not, your value to your mother will cease. Do you understand me? DO NOT GO BACK TO THE MANOR!" I was shouting at this point, devoid of all control. I was speaking almost as if I was under Imperius, and my son bore the brunt of the onslaught.

He wrenched his arm from me, leaping backward. As I stepped forward he sped to the door and pounded against it with his fists. The guards, who had stationed themselves near my cell during our visit, threw open the door. Draco turned to me panting, wide-eyed and yet triumphant.

"You're wrong, Father. I will be quite safe." He discreetly touched his left forearm. "And safer still come Lammas. Perhaps I shall visit again after. We can discuss unfinished business then."

The door closed, leaving me alone in the cold.

I paced for several hours after that, not an easy thing for someone in my physical condition, but my son's parting words of Lammas agitated me beyond any rest. This could not have happened had I sent him to Durmstrang. He would have been exposed to such things. Even with his pitiful education, he should have known there could be no initiations. Lammas was the Sabbat of harvest and consecration. I finally threw myself on my bench when I could no longer lean upon the cane. The family line would end here, regardless of conflicting prophecy. They would come for me. They would sacrifice my son. Then they would celebrate the season and my own wife would rut with that abomination. I speculated idly if she had not already taken that liberty while I was free, knowing me too blinded by doctrine to notice the viper at my very breast. Perhaps it was not her avarice that drove her to send Draco to me now, but her spite. She would let me know exactly her plans even as I was powerless to prevent them. The arrogance of that bloodline made me burn with fury- the first warmth I'd felt since my arrival in this place.

Still, whatever her reasoning, she had overplayed her hand. Lammas was six weeks yet, if I had kept my sense of time correctly. And if she was indeed determined to enact Lammas rites then I had been wrong earlier, my son's usefulness to her had not yet ended. If he was wise enough not to mention our conversation, we would both most likely remain alive until then.

I sank into my clothes trying to gather myself against the onslaught of the night's chill. Draco had never been able to keep his mouth shut.

By my own time three days had passed before the visit. The message had cost me dearly to send, both in spirit and in the physical expenses of bribery. But, nevertheless, Arthur Weasley perched on a spindle-wood chair brought in for his benefit. He sat before me in such discomfort that I nearly enjoyed the interview despite its desperate circumstances. His face had gone white, making the hair on his head more garish in contrast, and he pressed his thumb across his left index finger with such vigor I wondered it didn't bleed. Still, I was the supplicant, and it wouldn't do to forget my place. I waited patiently. We discussed the terms in discreet language despite the barrage of wards and, to his credit, he seemed willing to cooperate. I had no pretensions that I was a grand foe to be challenged or an adversary to beat. I was nothing more than a father, pleading for the life of his child. And that, in the end, was why he listened.

I whored my pride and my dignity to him.

I would do it a thousand times over if I thought it might protect my son.

But once was enough for Weasley, who indicated with a furtive gesture that my offer would be taken to the Order. When he spoke it was loud and officious. He explained that the Ministry would need to consider their next actions in my case, given new information that had been discovered. He turned and left with a flourish for any secret eyes, no doubt headed for the office to create those new discoveries. I had never placed much faith in the man, but watching him communicate on two levels impressed me greatly. He would have made quite a capable Death-Eater had his priorities not been so badly twisted. Perhaps there was hope with his group after all.

The response was not what I expected. A fortnight after my meeting with Weasley, a Ministry owl found its way to my cell. It seemed the Aurors wished to call me in for questioning. They had new information about a Dark magic item that had been given to a child under false auspices four years prior. I quailed, knowing this could only be Riddle's diary and that it would destroy any chance I had with the Order. Weasley would never help me once it was proven I had a hand in the terrible injuries of his daughter. It seemed I had actually doomed my son years ago. Yet, as I let the paper drop, I noticed a slight etching across it, invisible until I had quit the missive. I quickly retrieved the slip of parchment and traced a tiny glowing Phoenix in the weave. When it faded, I folded the parchment carefully and tucked it into my shirt as if it was precious. For the first time in weeks, I held hope that my son might survive the summer.

Night was already falling when the Aurors came for me. Despite myself, I secretly hoped this might lead to a night of incarceration at the Ministry building before my return. I had grown to covet creature comforts, with warmth above all else. A night in one of the warm cells at the Ministry would be worth any of the less savory aspects of the interrogation. That it would be unsavory was emphasized when Moody himself came through the door with two young insignificants, a man and a woman, in tow.

"Enjoying the facilities, Yer Lordship?" he sneered, that eye of his inspecting my cell several times in its gyration.

"It is as to be expected from a system such as ours, I'm afraid." I might discredit myself for Weasley, but not for such a vulgar party. "It seems to be in such a sad state of affairs that they would even recall an old, spent wizard from his retirement."

He merely grunted, motioned for the two youngsters to take their positions and cuffed me tightly. As if I might attempt to overpower them during our travel.

I quirked an eyebrow at him. "How exactly shall I use my cane like this?"

The sneer returned. "You'll manage, I'm sure. You always do." A jerk of his head and I was shoved toward the door. The cane clattered to the floor and I after it. But as I overbalanced, the young woman at my side caught me and kept me upright. She smiled gently before her façade slammed down. Moody glared at her. "Jones! Mind your footing. He's slippery..."

"Yes, Sir," she gasped. We headed for the courtyard. Here the Ministry kept a secure Floo to the mainland, which could only be operated from the other side. I knew the mechanism for it, I must confess, as it had been used for the liberation of some of the Dark Lord's own party when the Dementors first abandoned the island. Moody stoked the fire while I calculated what chance I would have against three of them once we stepped out of the control Floo. I had little possibility of escape, as much from my own debilitation as from their bindings, but I still made note that the young male Auror held his wand much too casually for one in direct contact with a criminal. The naiveté of youth, I supposed. We stepped into the flames.

The opposing gate was a large smelting chimney. I doubted they even bothered to mask it from the very few Muggles who might wander past. There was little else in the clearing and about a hundred paces off the forest started. Moody turned to douse the fire.

"Strange. Where's Kingsley gone off to-"

Just then black robes distinguished themselves from the tree-line. As they surrounded us I counted well over a dozen, all to attack the four of us. Perhaps I should have felt honored. Moody and the young female Auror immediately stepped in front of me and aimed wands. But the boy stepped away, raising his hands.

"Don't kill me! I'm one of you."

Moody glowered at him as if this was any time for indignation. The young man returned the look and exposed his arm, displaying the mark.

A Death Eater laughed. One can never be quite positive with the masks, but I would have placed a hundred Galleons that it was Snape. It certainly made sense, as it would have been quite the pleasure for him to be in my hunting party.

"A pity, then, I'm sure." The glow from his wand was red, so the young man wasn't killed. At least not immediately. Stunners tend only to delay the inevitable when one is dealing with Death Eaters. The young woman set her chin, reminding me somewhat of the last encounter with my son. She was waving her wand but I became so entranced by the tears spilling down her cheeks I did not even notice if she managed to get her spell off before she crumpled into a pile at my feet.

Moody lowered his wand. "Aw, now, that wasn't kind. She'll have the night-starts for months after that." My mind quickly reeled through possible implications. Of all wizards, Moody would never co-operate with Death Eaters. I decided upon Polyjuice with the disconnected air of the condemned. It didn't really matter how they had infiltrated. The results would be identical.

The Death Eater stalked over to him. "It was necessary, since somebody felt the need to put a traitor in your midst."

Moody shrugged. "No better way to try than by fire, I always say." He stepped across to examine the body.

Other Death Eaters approached. "Really, Moody. This is not the time for your antics." The first voice must not have been Snape, for the second was undoubtedly the even chords of Weasley. Relief must have overwhelmed me, for the entire incident started to become confused. I can only remember now bits of the conversation.

Moody shrugged again. "Can't be helped now. Although I'll have my work cut out when he wakes up. Best get on with it then..." He kicked the boy, glaring at the sea of black. "Well?"

The second Death Eater shot a Stunner and Moody dropped. Another gently unlocked my bindings and placed something in my hand- a shoehorn, I believe. The familiar pull caught me and we were away.

The Portkey transported us into the kitchen of the Black ancestral home. This was no surprise, as I had suspected the Order held the place since Yule. A few months ago, my wife had even questioned the Ministry as to why it wasn't in her possession. Their reply had been terse, reminding her that both Sirius Black and her sister Bellatrix stood to inherit before her. Until such time as the Ministry interred both bodies, the note read, she was ineligible to hold the property. Narcissa had stormed the house for weeks in her dark fury over the matter. It amused me slightly that I was now ensconced in the house of Black while my wife was entrenched in my own. Wizarding divorces are never clean, which is probably why there are fewer than a half dozen a century. This one was aspiring to be the bloodiest in history.

But I still had to earn my refuge, and this would come from the old fool smiling at me from his place by the table. Seconds later the rest of the Order filed in to join him. I quietly slid a chair from the table and sank into it, hoping my weakness might not be quite so obvious to the others. This would not be easy.

Weasley threw off his robes first. "Detestable."

He sighed. Behind him, others were divesting themselves.

Dumbledore diverted his serene glance to Weasley. "But necessary. The Ministry will be after the Death Eaters and they, in turn, will hopefully be after their rogue faction."

Weasley sighed. "Meanwhile, Moody will have his hands full with scouring his own department." He clucked his tongue absent-mindedly at Dumbledore. "Always that man has to combine agendas. Did you know?"

But I lost interest in the petty conversation. My ears had not deluded me after all, for Snape himself had appeared among the group. I tensed, remembering countless times I had reassured the Dark Lord Snape wasn't bold enough to be disloyal. He turned his dark eyes to mine, daring confrontation. Instead I turned away from him, for a spy was beneath notice. If I might earn Judecca for my betrayal, at least I had the dignity to do so without deceit.

Dumbledore took this opportunity to address me. His voice became colder, as ever it did when we conversed. "Welcome home, Malfoy. I trust you won't be foolish enough to try leaving since this may well be the last safe place for you in wizarding world now you have chosen to betray your master."

"I have no master!" I retorted indignantly.

Emmeline Vance stepped from the circle. No wonder they were able to throw about unauthorized Portkeys; they had the Minister of Transportation behind them. Her cold eyes held me as she placed her wand upon my left sleeve. "Aparecium."

I refused to acknowledge her action. There was no point. It was simple truth. The mark stung slightly from its forced delineation.

"Where is my son, Dumbledore?"

Arthur sat heavily in the chair across from me, slicing the tension. I could read his face, but still I waited for him to speak. "I'm sorry." And I really did believe he was. Not that it mattered. "We have seen no sign of your son since you contacted us, and we started surveillance immediately. If what you have told me is true, your wife must have taken some action before we were notified. You were right about the others, though."

Of course I was right. I was always right about such things. That was precisely why I was valuable. I studied the table while I considered my position. I was secure, at least for the moment. I was certainly safer than in Azkaban, not to mention a good deal more comfortable. The Order knew the location of most of the Dark Lord's highest circle, although they could not retrieve them since the mansion was Unplottable and probably under Fidelius by now. And since I was alive and now missing, if my son was alive, perhaps they would use him to draw me out. The room was silent as they watched my reaction to this state of events.

"This is ridiculous. He's here regardless. We've held up our bargain. Besides, they'll flaunt his son soon just to see if they can't lure him into the open."

I faced the girl who was so clearly reading my thoughts. I was quite familiar with her through my son, who's near constant reports on her vices I had been enduring for years. Granger the Muggle-born, most intelligent and headstrong- making her a dangerous combination. At only my son's age, she was yet a full participant in this farce. I realized then with a start that it was she who had shared the Portkey. I spoke, simply to cover my surprise.

"If he's alive, girl."

"Oh, he's alive." Her voice carried with it a blank certainty that affronted me. Had I not been kept so aware of her every activity since Draco's second year, I might have even suspected her of complicity. But there was no way this girl would hold with the Dark Lord. Despite her strong-will and power, she would remain steadfastly with the Order to the end. If the Dark Lord was destroyed, she would be an integral part of it.

Then, well... Then she would go on to destroy my line.

This was fact more than two centuries prophesied. I had suspected her from the first. But in that moment it was terribly real and coppery in my mouth. Here was the Muggle blood that would destroy mine. All of my efforts here would only buy my son some time.

And, with any luck, take Narcissa down with me. There had to be some benefit to this, after all.

I had expected them to shoo the children from the room before beginning their interrogations. Instead, they were allowed to remain while I gave what information I could about the Dark Lord's forces in general. I divulged almost everything I knew of Death Eater history that evening. Every member, every plot, every internal dispute of which I was aware. I could not tell what might be of service to them and what information they already possessed, so I simply offered much en masse and let them sift through for their own weaponry. While Snape might have given them impressive information on the current dealings, he couldn't know the inner workings as well as me. I then told them how I deciphered the assemblage of my wife's friends and the details of what I expected on Lammas, speaking in generalizations and euphemisms in light of the children's presence. Before the end of the interview, the Mark began its slow burn and I even told them that as well, so the Order might know he had called his chosen. Word must have already reached Him of my disappearance.

Snape stood. With a final glare of defiance to me, he swept from the room.

Dumbledore turned his icy eyes to mine. "Now. Perhaps you might clear up a long-standing mystery for those of us in the Order. How much does our dear professor divulge to your lord?"

Their inquisition went on for quite some time. Indeed, it might have gone on through all hours, but my journey, coupled with the strain of my situation, began to take its toll. I felt myself nodding before Dumbledore called a halt to the proceedings. Weasley's wife bade me follow her, and I swore silently as I saw the steep staircase that would ensue.

"Perhaps he should stay in the sitting room." It was the damnable Muggle-born girl again, pointing to a small corridor off the kitchen. Service quarters, no doubt.

"Yeah. We can watch him easier in there."

This from the Dark Lord's greatest foe, the Potter boy. I had wondered what his reaction would be since he first sat at the table. I had expected some sort of attack from him, but this, his first and only comment, seemed to be simply an observation of logistics. He seemed detached, remaining silent during my entire interview and keeping a quiet rein on Weasley's youngest son as well. Gone was the brazen child who stole my house-elf. I'm not sure I understood what had taken its place, but I was weary and didn't dwell on it.

"Indeed, Miss Granger, a fine idea. It is quite generous of you to sacrifice your little study space." Dumbledore winked at her, and this seemed to settle the matter.

One quick glance at him and Mrs. Weasley amended her route. I was led down a thankfully flat hallway into a small basement sitting room.

"There's only the chair or the settee," she said quietly. I am pretty sure she was trying to decide if she should apologize or consider it more than was warranted. As she furrowed her brow, I wondered if I should inform her that I was not involved in her brothers' untimely demise. I demurred however. When one's hands are soaked with blood it matters little whose blood it is. But for chance, I had no hand in their deaths. I was guilty just the same.

She finally sighed, flicking her wand to produce a rather overstuffed double bed from the couch. After my weeks of incarceration, it was the most wonderful thing I could imagine. She turned and fled the room as if she'd produced a nundu, but I was too fatigued to care. I fell across the mattress.

I awoke with a start from some movement in the darkness of the room. It was my murderess, the Muggle-born girl. She was sitting by the hearth cradling a Kneazle. I deliberated asking if it was her turn to guard me when I noticed the bedclothes had been pulled across me. As my mind began to contemplate this I realized there must also have been a cleansing charm and a transfiguration of my clothes. I gasped at the impropriety.

She faced me, silhouetting the fire against one cheek. "I'm sorry. But I can't use a Silencing Charm and I needed to stoke the fire. The cold..." She started to wave the Kneazle-less arm about the room, then suddenly shook her mane in frustration and went back to watching the flames. "You're not even there, are you?"

"Thank you."

Her eyes were glowing like the fire as she stared at me. I could see even in the firelight that her cheeks were flushed. Furious with my mere presence or my reaction to her kindness, I don't know. "You owe me nothing."

"The fire was undoubtedly your doing. As most likely were the blankets. And the rest. I thank you for your consideration since you believe I don't deserve it."

She flinched. "Do you?"

"Does anybody deserve what they are given?" Our discussion faded as I considered the point. It was salient, after all. Through everything, I had acted to protect my son. Did he deserve it? Perhaps not. But he certainly didn't deserve his mother's actions either. What was deserved had no relation to what was fated. Unpleasant thoughts of fate resonated in my dreams as I slept once again.