Hexing the Tide

Chapter Two

"For the zeal of thine house hath consumed me;

And the reproaches of them that reproached thee are fallen upon me."

Psalm 69

There was a window high in the wall of the little sitting room, and golden light suffused it when I woke for the second time. After the grey of Azkaban fortress, it was more beautiful than any of the masterpieces in my mansion. I lay on the impossibly soft bed and simply admired the way the light bent around the window jamb. It took quite some time before I recognized it for what it was, true white magic. After so many years in exile I had forgotten the radiant power of it. Now, more in need of healing than ever in my life, I basked in its aura wondering how many of the denizens of this household enjoyed the benefits without even realizing it. Moreover, I wondered who was secretly dabbling in the ancient arts.

"Oh! You're awake." The young red-headed girl stepped into the room with a tray. An entirely different proof of light magic vanquishing dark, I mused, as she stopped a pace from the bed.

I quickly stood. It wouldn't do to remain in repose amidst such company.

"Surely you don't provide bedside service?" I wheezed, for my quick action had taken more than I had expected.

She laughed. It was high and pure, making me cease a quick search for signs of Riddle.

"No. But it's getting on in the day and I thought, maybe tea? Hermione said you were so exhausted..." She set the tray down and smiled sheepishly, reminding me she was as Prewett as she was Weasley.

I liked this girl, despite her faults. Despite our history, which didn't seem to faze her. But once a parent, always a parent I suppose, which led to a need to protect the child. Ironic that I felt such, since it was protection from me.

"Are your parents aware you've come in here? With me..." I demanded, in my most disapproving tones. Or started to, for I trailed off at the last.

She was stunned for a minute. Then her eyes danced.

"Yeah. But they already checked all the books in this room."

I was dumbfounded. Too chagrined for words. She had not only survived her ordeal, she had the sheer temerity to make jokes about it. I must have stared too long for her comfort, for she poured a cup and handed it to me.

"It's really as simple as this: I could laugh about it, or I could cry. Laughing is much more fun. Milk? I'm afraid I must insist on the sugar."

I shook my head slightly and gingerly took the cup, too lost in thought to answer her question. "You are quite an amazing witch."

Again the smile.

"Yeah. I'm this bad now. Imagine when I come of age..." She winked and transfigured a second cup from the tea cozy. Pouring only halfway, she poured in enough sugar and milk to fill it. "Cheers."

"Your wand!"

She drained the cup and returned it to a now stained cozy. "Nah. Fred's wand. He's of age. It's amazing what you can get away with if you just think around the Ministry rather than through it. Now drink your tea, Healer's orders."

She left the room, leaving me lost in the swirling leaves of my tea and the eddies of her personality.

I didn't venture out of my little lair until the shadows had fallen over the window. I avoided food these days and even though the fire had gone out at some point, the room was much warmer than what I had known. I considered remaining in the room until I was bidden to leave it. But hiding would do me little good, so after deciding my garments would indeed be suitable outside a bedchamber I forced myself to face the household.

The hallway seemed much shorter than I recalled from the night before, and I only needed to press a hand against the wall to traverse it. Perhaps the window had done my body good as well as my mind. Optimistically, I even considered the stairway, and I tried to recall what I could of the layout of the house. Most of it eluded me, however, as I'd only visited a few times and those many years ago, before Draco's birth. So I found myself returning to the kitchen by default.

Mrs. Weasley was intently monitoring a large cauldron on the side of the fire. I was intrigued, I suppose since it was so rare for me to see someone cook. She would stir the concoction in the pot while absently waving her wand toward foodstuffs on the table. It reminded me a bit of potion brewing. The smell was quite amazing, reminding me once again that I had not fared well in Azkaban.

On the far counter, Hermione and the young Weasley girl were chopping vegetables. I noticed that under the eye of her mother, the girl was doing her work manually. She began singing something off-key which made Hermione drop her knife, laughing. That's when they noticed me, and suddenly the bustle of the kitchen quieted to only the simmering of the cauldron.

"Is there somewhere else I am expected to be?"

The Weasley girl's eyes flew from her mother to her friend. I realized how calculating that movement was when the smile again fell across her face: "No. This is good. Look, Mum, someone else to help chop the vegetables."

I could see the furrow once again forming across her mother's face. It was fairly amusing to consider her attempting to impose manual labor upon me, but she did not seem to see the humor. So I decided that I might diffuse the situation.

"My dear girl," I said as silkily as I could, "I just don't think your mother wishes me around the knives."

I had hoped it might make her laugh, but she merely bit her bottom lip. I must have hit too close to the mark. I thought the hiss from the fire might again take precedence, but just then there was a tremendous chime of the kitchen clock. Movement caught my attention and I realized it did not measure time, but people. The hand designated Arthur swept across the face from work to home.

"Oh. Thank God." This from Mrs. Weasley. It could have been from any of us.

The flames went green and Mrs. Weasley hastily slid the cauldron out from the fire just as Weasley stepped from the fireplace. He brushed himself quickly then swept across to his daughter.

"How's my Gin-girl? Have you behaved yourself today?"

She squealed as he hugged her, then she danced backward twirling.

"No. I've been horrid. Just like Fred and George taught me!"

Weasley laughed, and then his face took on that patient smile that I was beginning to consider hexed in place. He greeted Hermione, and to my surprise gave a somewhat friendly nod in my direction. But his attention was elsewhere. "Hello, Molly."

She returned the smile- the first I had ever seen from her but quickly dropped it. "Arthur..." He followed her eyes back to me.

"Oh, right. Of course." He cleared his throat. "Good evening, Malfoy. We should probably discuss our next actions somewhere else, so the girls can finish their cooking in peace?"

"By all means, Weasley. Perhaps the sitting room?" I swept my hand back toward the hall. I was just as much a prisoner here as Azkaban, but at least the cell was comfortable.

To my surprise he demurred, stepping onto the first step of the staircase.

"Let's go upstairs with the others. I think we might as well just leave that as your chamber, unless you feel strongly against it."

As if I was a guest and not a criminal. I followed his lead up the stairs.

"The room is quite acceptable, Weasley. Do you really think I would balk at such a thing when I am impressing upon you by my very presence?"

"One never knows." There was reproach in his voice, and no doubt in his expression. But I had little time to study it while we were climbing. The banister was not as solid as it might have been and I divided my efforts between leaning against it and trying not to let it creak under my weight. Absurd as it was, I needed the pride of self-reliance since I had no other. I wished secretly even for the nasty stick I had in Azkaban, but I could never request such a thing. I was determined to ask for nothing from these people beyond the original terms of our agreement. Instead, I set my jaw and simply counted impacts upon my right leg.

Thus I was unaware of her ragged portrait until we were upon it.

As I said, it had been years since I had ventured into the Black house. Prior to the Order's usurp of the building, I believe it sat vacant for the decade since Ophiuchus Black's death. As we came to the first landing, Weasley made a motion for me to be silent. Then I saw a long set of crimson curtains, serving as yet another reminder of Black arrogance. Pride goeth before the fall. I smirked, considering how this vision of graciousness must be taking to the Order in her own household. Mrs. Black was probably handling her guests with her usual aplomb.

"I take it she's as bitter a crone as ever," I said loudly.

With that the curtains tore themselves apart to reveal a portrait seemingly rendered in the style of those awful German artists. Incarceration had been as unkind to her as to her niece Bellatrix, the difference being Ophi's was self-imposed.

"YOU! YOU OF ALL OF THEM, YOU DARE BETRAY YOUR BLOOD! YOU'LL DIE A THOUSAND DARK DEATHS, TRAITOR!"

I must say that most of her screeches were quite unintelligible and I only remember a few of them. She did bluster for quite some time. Weasley blenched a bit, but I smirked and leaned against the far wall to better view the performance. When she would quiet, it required only a word or two to rally her. Morbidly, I wanted to see just how long the old hag could scream.

"Does it bother you?" I asked conversationally a few minutes into her performance. "Because actually, I'm rather enjoying the show. I'm certain it's the most rational she's been in two decades."

By this point Weasley had regained his composure, and took his place next to me. "I've never actually looked at it that way. We've been handling her with kid gloves since we arrived."

"That's to be expected. Everyone has always handled the indomitable Mrs. Black in such fashion."

Her tantrum was actually rather disappointing. It lasted only perhaps a quarter hour, although I recall the ringing in my right ear lingered several hours after. Early on Potter and his sidekick peeked from a doorway, but quickly pulled their heads back once they assessed the situation. It didn't make a difference, I'm sure, for the walls shook with her epithets.

She finally composed herself enough to scream in proper English.

"What have you to say for yourself, Lucius?"

"Little beyond the fact that your invectives are most unimaginative, Ophi. I really expected more of you."

She screeched a bit, but then folded her arms like a child. "You do not exist."

I'm sure she would have blasted me from her proud tapestry, could she have left her frame. If it still hung on the wall, I intended to have the honors done for her.

"I do exist. And I am here. As are the rest of this Order. And here they will remain until the Dark Lord is removed from power. Really, my dear Aunt, if you knew the things your nieces were doing in the name of Purity you would hang your head in shame. Pity the last of the Blacks have sullied the blood. They were once such an esteemed family."

She threw taloned hands toward me, trying to tear at the canvas from the inside. "LIAR! TRAITOR! YOU SLANDER OUR NAME!"

"There's really no need for me to ruin it, now is there? Your relatives have already done as much."

She began to screech again, although she really had not the strength for it.

Weasley, who had been silent for this, whispered, "You really ought not to bait her."

"If you insist." I stepped forward to throw her curtains shut, for she was by now far too weak to fight it. But Weasley raised a hand.

"Oh, no. Not really. Truthfully, after the grief she's put my wife through, I'm rather content to see her on the receiving end of things."

I shut the curtains anyway.

"I do believe I've underestimated your darker nature, Weasley."

'I imagine that you've underestimated much more than that. But let's go sit; I've had a rather long day at the Ministry."

Our destination was the very room from which the boys had appeared. The two were still present, actively attempting to look engrossed in a game of wizard's chess. They were sprawled across a floor ringed with taken pieces in various stages of distress. White would take the game in eight moves unless there was a misplay. Weasley motioned me to a chair as he took a closer look at the board. He rubbed his index finger a few times before roughing his son's hair, taking the chair opposite mine as we watched the play.

"Your son is playing White or Dark?"

Weasley smiled, still surveying the board. "White. Of course."

I nodded, impressed. In a low tone I murmured, "Eight moves."

Weasley met my eye. "Six, Malfoy." he countered in a volume that quite matched mine and then flashed a slightly aggressive smile. "He's MY son after all."

Perhaps Potter heard us, for he tipped his king two moves later rather than letting the game play out. "You have me, Ron."

The black queen railed against the humiliation, and Potter quickly removed his hand from the vicinity as she swung her sword. The other boy simply acknowledged the obvious.

"Another go, then?" He began resetting the board as if the question had been rhetorical, but did not swing the board.

"Why did you not switch colors?" The words slipped before I remembered this was not a social occasion.

The boy just shrugged. "I always play white because Harry likes playing black."

My eyes shot to Potter, who never even looked up from his pieces.

"Don't read anything into it. I just play black because Ron always wins. I figure if I have to lose I should at least get to see the dark side fall."

I laughed, although I knew it was highly inappropriate. My mind was immediately taken back to the half-prophecy that had caused my arrest. Perhaps Potter's mysterious power was nothing more than pragmatism.

Distantly, I heard a chime.

"Doorbell," Weasley offered, as if I might not know what it was.

I suppose not everyone can arrive by illicit Portkey.

There would undoubtedly be more questioning for me this evening. The members had time in which to verify and sift the information I had given last night and they would have more directed questions for me this time. I was quite ready to assist, though. When betraying a powerful dark wizard, it's only safest to make that betrayal as absolute and complete as possible. My great uncle had learned that at the hands of Grindelwald.

Unfortunately, a few minutes later Moody's face appeared. At his shoulder was a woman of the most gaudy hair and eye color imaginable. It took me almost a moment to realize this must be the spawn of my wife's sister. She captivated my attention, for I had never actually set eyes upon her before and Metamorphmagi were quite rare.

Both boys ran to hug her, shouting, "Tonks!"

"Hey, boys! Why don't we all go see what we can do about getting supper on the table?" she responded perkily.

"You mean, why don't we all go AWAY so they can have a discussion about stuff you don't think we should hear."

"Well, yeah. That and I'm right hungry, Ron." She grabbed them each into a playful headlock and pretended to drag them from the room. There voices joined others in the hall before receding down the stairs.

Moody stood before us. Weasley stood up to shake his hand, but I remained seated. I saw no reason to exert myself so for the bastard who lost me my cane. He nodded in my direction. "Malfoy."

"Moody."

"You might be glad to know that the little Death Eater we brought in might have something about your son."

I tensed, trying to keep my composure.

"Indeed? Then I thank you for doing your duty so adequately."

He clenched his jaw. Then he leaned close to me, interrogating me with his blue eye.

"Would you know anything about a secret room in your house? Off the parlor, maybe?"

I willed myself not to react in front of this man. But my body betrayed me and I felt myself flinch. I did indeed know the room he described. It was primarily a storage room for such items I found a little too esoteric to keep on public display. It was too small for much else, having been created originally as the family dungeon. Malfoys had never been passionate about keeping prisoners. Not that we didn't take them. The room had most often served as an abattoir. While it was only logical that my son would be housed there, I had not wished to hear confirmation of it.

"Yes. I know of the room. Let's call it a catacomb."

Moody huffed. Some charitable part of me considered that perhaps it wasn't what he'd wished to hear either.

"It was a bit suspicious then that Draco Malfoy was seen in Diagon Alley at almost the same time I was getting this information out of my Auror." His scowl deepened. "Not that I didn't expect a trick. I was just hoping it might be easy for once."

"Diagon Alley?" I almost stood, but was afraid to lose what little bearing I had left. Instead, I simply gripped the arm of the chair to ground myself against the rising hope that I had simply made a terrible error.

"Yep. Browsed about, dropped some Galleons for lunch and made a big scene in the Quiddich shop. Wanted to buy the new broom but needed to ask his mother, you see, so he would definitely be back tomorrow."

I could feel my shoulders sag. "Polyjuice."

Moody wilted in turn, and it was only here that I remembered how he had suffered at the hands of Crouch.

"My apologies. I meant that someone was impersonating my son. Draco would never for a moment think he needed to ask for anything. Demand, perhaps. But never ask. If he's being held in our little room, so to speak, it wouldn't be hard to get whatever they wished from him to make the potion."

He swiveled his eye to me again and nodded curtly. His true eye, though, was softer than I had thought possible as it gazed past me at the wall.

"We thought that as well. Figured it was a trick and decided to set up an observation tomorrow to see who does show."

I filed this information even as I tried to distract myself from a mental catalogue of instruments that would be at their disposal. Not an easy task since I had taken such pride in my collection and knew every item. I had even used a few of them in my more enthusiastic moments. Now they were being employed against me in the most twisted and despicable manner.

Mrs. Weasley appeared in the doorway, her hands twisted in a tea towel.

"Arthur. Moody." She winced. "Mr. Malfoy. Are you ready to join us? I figured it might be better if I came to get you myself."

"Do you have anything more for us, Moody?"

"Nothing that we didn't already have from other sources. A few more names, is all. I think following up with Diagon Alley tomorrow is only going to get us a couple more low-level operatives, which we won't even be able to bring in without drawing attention. We need to just keep moving forward on Lammas."

"Lammas! Isn't that a bit late!" I was spurred out of my disturbing reverie.

"Well, Malfoy. If you've got an idea on the best way for us to storm your estate, take down You-Know-Who and all of his operatives, not to mention rescue your son, I'm listening. But right now that's our best plan. Thanks to you, we have a known rite, a known location and even a remote chance they're not expecting us. So, that's it then. Let's eat."

He was right, of course. But that meant I would sit comfortably in this household for weeks knowing my son was imprisoned and probably injured. I sat back down. Weasley glanced at me and waved the other two off.

"I can understand if you're uncomfortable eating with us. I'll have someone bring up a tray."

"That won't be necessary. I am not uncomfortable eating with you, Weasley. I am uncomfortable eating at all."

"Still I must insist..."

"And if it was your son? Or your daughter?"

He suddenly grabbed the front of my robes, bending down very close to my face and narrowing his eyes. I shied backward from his sudden onslaught.

"Never, EVER forget, Malfoy. It was my daughter," he hissed in such a nasty tone I could feel myself begin to quake. I gripped the arms of the chair in my desperation to remain still.

But his composure returned even as he released me and took on his normal passive façade when he paused by the door. Knowing for the first time what lay behind it, I remained where I was sitting, afraid to move.

"So I'll have a tray sent up. And you will eat." With that, he left me alone.

With my self-pity temporarily crushed by the insight into Weasley, I turned my mind to what could be exploited for our advantage. I was almost entirely sure Draco was still alive, but I didn't know if the knowledge was any comfort. How long had they been abusing him? My son wasn't strong enough to withstand it for long. Most likely, I reassured myself, they were just holding him there for Lammas. Also, Bellatrix enjoyed using her wand too much to rely on many devices. She had scolded me often simply for possessing them. Still, this was little comfort, knowing what Bellatrix's handiwork could do. Despite my best efforts to be productive, I spiraled into worry and doubt. It was entirely unlike me and I wondered if I really had been addled by Azkaban.

Fortunately, the scent of meat dragged me from such ideas.

She brought the tray. My Muggle-born assassin. Hermione, I amended and then questioned why. The meal consisted of some sort of mahogany stew with a large chunk of bread and some red wine. Not fare I would choose but certainly much more impressive than anything that had randomly appeared in my cell. It smelled quite satisfactory and I was quite famished. But I was not foolish enough to believe I could actually eat anything. The only sustenance I had been given in the past several days had been the highly-sugared tea of Ginevra Weasley. Even this common food would be much too rich for me. How ironic that such torture came in the guise of hospitality. I sniffed the wine tentatively, desperately wishing to taste it.

"There's no Veritaserum." She rolled her eyes and threw open her hands. It really was every bit as exasperating as Draco always described.

"Indeed. The thought hadn't yet occurred to me."

"Right."

I decided that perhaps the best way to undermine her righteousness was to be entirely too forthcoming.

"I was actually considering that I have not eaten in quite some time. This wine in particular is most tempting, as I have had none since my arrest. However, I have had almost no food as well. The wine therefore will most likely incite my defensive magic to take most unpleasant action." I tipped the goblet gently at her in mock salute. "You have set before me an exquisite glass of poison and bade me drink."

The effect was all I had hoped. Her eyes lost their annoyed cast as they widened. It was fascinating to watch the calculations cross her face, and I quite forgot the initial point of the exchange while in my study until her features came to rest in a rather incredulous expression.

"They haven't fed you since May?"

"Prisoners are fed sporadically. Their comfort is not high on the list of Ministry concerns."

"That's inhumane," she spat at me as if it had been my decision.

"Nonsense. I am, after all, a convicted criminal. Surely, you're aware it's not possible to starve a wizard to death."

She nodded silently. Then she fled the room.

I thought that was the end of the discussion, so I pulled the tray to me and picked hesitantly at the stew deciding if I should risk it. Just a few moments later, however, she had returned with a glass of water and a bottle.

"Here. A digestive potion and water to drink with the meal. Or to dilute the wine so you can drink it without so much trouble."

Indeed. The girl had parried my foyne. From the look on her face, she knew it. Nonetheless, by losing the round I had gained a glass of wine, a perfectly acceptable gambit. Perhaps there was something to Potter's philosophy.

There was little else I could do, so I drank the potion and turned my attention back to the tray of food. In a few minutes I could smell the stew less acutely and knew that my body would accept it. I forced myself to eat at a maddeningly slow pace so as not to seem desperate in her presence.

Instead of retreating a second time, she picked up a rather weighty book and flipped to where a piece of yellow ribbon draped from the spine. She absently sat down in the chair opposite mine, already submersed in her reading. I finished the meal quickly, despite my best attempts at decorum, and weakened the wine.

Perhaps it was the soporific effect of the food, but I must admit that I found her company pleasant. I was not alone, but also under no scrutiny or obligation while she was so engrossed. It was comfortable to simply watch the fire and sip slightly from my goblet. We passed time in this manner until footsteps outside alerted us to departures from the house. She looked over her tome at me.

"Of course I never said anything about Veritaserum in the water..."

Surely they would just hand me the flask and insist I drink it honestly. I quickly checked my body for signs but the alcohol masked everything, leaving me ever so slightly off-balance. I didn't think they would be quite so underhanded, but one could never be quite sure with Moody.

"There wasn't any. But I thought you deserved it for the crack about the knives." She smiled, reminding me once again that I was in a house full of children.

There were so many of them in this house. It might have been the wine but the fact of them turned me maudlin. So young, and already fighting the battles of their parents. One didn't need to be an adult to die in times such as these. It occurred to me how proud I had been of the pure-bred children who pledged themselves to our cause and how fervently I had hoped my own would do the same. Given that, I couldn't fault the parents for their sacrifice and I was certainly too far ruined to weep for the children.

I felt that perhaps it was time for me to retire and I said as much.

She nodded, already back to her reading. Her distracted dismissal seemed almost familial and entranced by this I miscalculated. I cavalierly picked up the tray to return it to the kitchen, given the obvious lack of house-elves. But the tray was awkward and I wasn't strong. I knew I was foolish the second I had it in my hands, but my pride would not allow me to correct myself.

Hermione caught me in my folly. Her eyes widened again, a sign I was beginning to recognize as calculation, then she stepped into my path as if it had been her intent all along.

"I wanted to know if you knew any way to get around that stupid sticking charm of Mrs. Black's," she asked conversationally as she took the tray and moved into the hall ahead of me.

This discreetly left me free to negotiate my way. "The way I have always dealt with anything concerning Mrs. Black has been simple avoidance."

"That's not what Mr. Weasley said. And we could hear her screaming in the kitchen."

"Ah. That. That was simply my way of pronouncing to her that her behavior will not affect my own. Intimidation generally works both ways."

"Well, I wish someone had done it sooner. She's been quiet all night. I'm hoping she's hoarse."

"I'd rather expected you or one of your friends to stand up to her already. I don't see why she should be any different from the rest of us."

Hermione shot a look over her shoulder at me. Then she sighed.

"I wouldn't even know where to begin with her. Every single spell has bounced off that stupid painting."

I stumbled less than gracefully on the last stair, which was unfortunate given that many of the Order seemed still gathered at the table. They merely pretended not to notice.

Hermione slid the tray on the counter and turned. "Well?"

Put on the spot I considered quickly. "You are Muggle-born."

The room went silent and I felt the weight of it upon me. This was not the best place in the conversation to gain an audience.

"Surely there must be some Muggle means of dealing with an inappropriate painting. That would be her worst fear."

She started to bounce. "Oh! Like turpentine!"

"Or that graffiti-removal spray stuff," Potter shrugged. "We got a bit of that in Little Whinging. Mostly from my cousin."

This led into a fast and somewhat loud conversation between them about Muggle art, but I couldn't follow it. Since I was no longer being scrutinized for stating the obvious fact of Hermione's lineage, I figured this might be a good time to slip quietly to my room. I was still exhausted.

Once removed from the kitchen, I let myself lean heavily on the wall as I shambled down the hall. The door to the little sitting room was open and I noticed the bed had been made. As I stepped into the room I saw a short stack of folded clothes on top of the blankets. I crossed to them and almost began undressing but decided to withhold that pleasure until the following day when perhaps I might be able to indulge in ablutions beyond a Scourgify. In honesty, I also had no idea what to do with the soiled clothes since I had never had to deal with such things before. I turned to place the stack of clothes on the chair.

Leaning against its seat was a beautiful silver-handled cane with a small red whipping where it joined the shaft. I ran my hand across the sleek finish to admire the generosity of my benefactor. That's when I realized the shaft was rowan.

My eyes instantly went to the window, for I had forgotten entirely why I had spent most of the day in bed. Was it possible there was also some sort of secrecy spell at work? I deemed that unlikely if I was allowed to openly trundle about with a rowan branch. Yet, how many wizards would even be aware of such arcane information? Few in these modern ages. Ollivander, of course. Dumbledore, perhaps. If it hadn't been for the obvious emanation of white energy this afternoon, I doubt even I would have realized the significance. But taken together, it was obvious someone in the household was well-versed in Earthlore.

Still, a cane was a cane, and I needed one desperately. If it also happened to have protections from dark control then so much the better. I'd spent enough of my life controlled by darkness.

Not directly controlled, you understand. That had only happened once. When I went before the Wizengamot the first time I had been able to manipulate a defense of Imperius because I was able to truthfully recount the incident. Bellatrix had placed it upon me once, thinking there was but one way to get me over the reluctance to get my hands bloody. Instead, she had forever cemented in my brain the link between such acts and the complete unpleasantness of being captivated by Imperius. Even here in my little haven the anger of that violation rose up within me. The Dark Lord was not unintelligent. He played me to my strengths even as he played Bella to hers, and I was rarely asked to sully my own hands. Instead, I found ways for others to sully theirs. I had been not been forced upon the path I followed, but simply led there while presuming to walk with a friend.

I considered along this line of reasoning for some time, analyzing the four decades that were my conscious life. Even after such reflection, there was little I could do but admit I would have become much the same person with or without His interference. It was exactly who my father had been, and who I was raised to be. It was who I had been raising my son to become.

Draco. I have to admit that I could never quite escape thoughts of him during my time with the Order. I had always known he was my Achilles' heel. Had I been a stronger man, I would have driven him from me years ago that I need not bear such an obvious vulnerability. But I did not. In my arrogance, I assumed that I was powerful enough to shield him so I indulged Draco, doing as little as possible that might harden him. Thereby, his innocence was my lapse and his suffering my guilt. This plagued me constantly, that I could withstand far more than he and yet here I sat while he was dealing with experiences best left unimagined. Lammas could not come soon enough.