Slytherin's Warning

11 - Matters of Family

Carol
(To be sung to the tune of Pat-a-pan)

Mother take your child now
Kiss upon his sickly brow
When the beast rises tonight
Yil re il re il
Nan a nan a no
When the beast rises tonight
How can you still love him?

When your blood deserted you
Mother only you were true
Have you any family left?
Yil re il re il
Nan a nan a no
Have you any family left
to aid you on bloody morn?

Child kiss your mother's cheek
Know that she is far from weak
Know what she gave up for you
Yil re il re il
Nan a nan a no
Know what she gave up for you
silver moon so long ago.

-page 17, Full Moon: An Anthology of Werewolf Literature

Draco shivered at the memory. He remembered clearly how awed he felt to witness the impossible--the Killing Curse being blocked. He remembered how honoured he felt to be in the presence of the Dark Lord. But he didn't feel so honoured anymore. Now, when he thought about the Dark Lord, he was afraid for himself, or sickened by the description of yet another arcane, brutal ritual. His plan called for studying and practicing the Dark Arts, but really he'd rather locate some books on healing and start studying the Wolfsbane Potion. For the first time, Draco questioned whether he truly did want to rejoin the Death Eaters. But what other palatable option was there?

A soft chime from the monitoring spell informed him that Lupin was awake. Sure enough, when he reached the bedroom door Lupin was sitting up against the pillows and carefully sipping a bowl of bland soup. He gave Draco a tired smile. "Good morning, Draco."

"Good afternoon," Draco retorted. Lupin looked a little nonplussed. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than I look, I'm sure. Thank you, by the way." He nodded to the bandages.

"I didn't do much," Draco admitted. "I just got you upstairs. Your girlfriend came and did the most." He was a bit amused to see Lupin flush at the word "girlfriend."

"I see your Glamour held up against her. I'll need a day or so before I can replace the one for the scar, if that's all right."

"It doesn't matter; it's not like the scar is real anyway. I think she's still suspicious of me though."

Lupin nodded. "Well, she thinks I'm too trusting."

"She's right." There was a small, awkward silence and Draco wondered if he'd been telling Lupin, "Don't trust me."

Looking thoughtful, Lupin said, "We may have a problem if she tries to look up something about you at work. Jacob Elliott never existed, after all, and Aurors don't like mysteries."

"What can we do? Can you persuade her to drop the subject?"

"Perhaps, but it's unlikely. It may be better to simply tell her the truth."

"That I'm Draco Malfoy? You must be joking!"

"You shall have to reclaim your true identity at some point, Draco. You will not be able to stay Jacob Elliott forever, and you know it." Lupin's expression was not unkind. "Think about it, at least. I will not tell her without your permission."

Draco nodded, still unconvinced. He was unwilling to give up the security of Jacob Elliott, even though it cost him his good looks. He knew he'd maintain the disguise for as long as he possibly could.

Lupin's expression turned playful. "You may not have known this, but you and Dora are cousins."

"What?"

"It's true. Her mother Andromeda is one of the Blacks, Narcissa's sister in fact."

"I always knew a second sibling was removed from the tapestry," Draco admitted. "But Mother never spoke about her family. She considers herself completely Malfoy. I always wondered, though. Andromeda, you said?"

"She married a Muggleborn instead of the pureblood her family betrothed her to. After they eloped she was disinherited."

"Dora is a half-blood?" Draco exclaimed. "Ugh, I wish I hadn't asked. I'm related to a half-blood? Merlin."

Lupin had clearly been enjoying Draco's surprise, but at those last words he turned serious. "Draco, I have some idea of the way you were brought up to think about half-bloods and Muggleborns. But I also have come to know you as an intelligent, logical young man. Isn't it time you stopped regurgitating the attitudes and prejudices of your father, and started thinking for yourself?"

"I do think for myself," Draco argued, stung. "It's a proven fact that intermarrying with muggles dilutes the power and magic in our blood. I've read studies."

"I'm sure you have," Lupin said. "I've read some of those studies myself. They pick and choose information that supports their arguments, and conveniently leave out any evidence that contradicts them. A better text would be Murdock's Power Level Analysis. It's rather dated, as he died in 1904, but he examined the power level results for thirty years of Hogwarts graduates, and recorded the eventual careers of as many as possible."

"The spell to gauge overall magical power was flawed. That's why Hogwarts stopped giving it."

"Actually, it was discontinued because the Purebloods on the Wizengamot were displeased with Murdock's findings. They also gathered up all the copies of his book they could find and burned them, forbidding any reprintings. Murdock emigrated, and his later books were banned in Britain."

"Yet you happen to have a copy?" Draco said doubtfully.

"In my office, yes. I acquired it almost by accident; sheer luck really. Anyway, Murdock found that if anything, Pureblood children were slightly more inclined to have low power levels, due to the same small number of families intermarrying again and again."

"He thought Purebloods were inbreeding?"

"You are a very strong wizard, Draco. Can you say the same for all your housemates?"

Draco thought of Crabbe, and Goyle, and that lump Bulstrode. He thought of Pansy's mania, barely kept hidden from the general student population, and Nott's weak chin and general sickliness. Hardly the pinnacle of Wizardkind.

Lupin went on relentlessly, "You can see the same trend outside your house. Was Pureblood Ron Weasley, may he rest in peace, more powerful than his friends? Can you deny Hermione Granger's intelligence and aptitude for learning magic?"

"Just because she was a teacher's pet doesn't make her powerful," Draco scoffed.

"Be honest, Draco," Lupin chided. Changing tactics, he said, "Albus was a pureblood, true, but his wife was a lovely Muggle woman, a musician, and his son showed an extraordinary skill at magic even as a toddler."

"I didn't know Dumbledore had a family." Impossible to imagine the Headmas--the former Headmaster as a father.

Lupin was very serious now. "Grindelwald killed them both. He rarely spoke of them, but he told me about them after Voldemort fell. I think he wanted to show me that it was possible to go on, even when crushed by grief. We traded stories about our dead families for several hours, until I felt as though I too had known Noelle and Vanderbilt."

Draco didn't know what to say to that, so he stayed silent. "Harry Potter is a half-blood, as you know, but perhaps you didn't know that your Dark Lord Voldemort is one as well."

"You're lying!" Draco accused.

"Not at all. I'll try to bring you the family tree the Order deciphered for Voldemort." Draco stood and started to stalk out of the room, but Lupin's quiet voice stopped him. "I'm not finished. Severus is a half-blood, and so am I."

Draco stood frozen for an eternal moment, the names echoing over and over again in his mind's eye. "You're a filthy liar!" he shouted, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. He paced back and forth across the big room, unable to contain his agitation. It couldn't be true--it just couldn't! He'd studied paper after paper, been grilled on them by his childhood tutors. Muggle blood made wizards lesser, weaker.

Potter he knew about. Alright, the prat had a fair amount of raw magical power, maybe from the Potter blood. Even though the Potters were blood traitors, they were an ancient House. And Potter was only an average student anyway. His father's blood couldn't completely save him from the taint carried by his mudblood mother's. Lily, his mind supplied suddenly. The charms expert who gave her life to save her son. Draco pushed the confusing thought away.

Lupin, that was a trickier matter. He'd slowly grown to accept that the werewolf was clever and a fair hand at magic. Why had Lupin not admitted to his half-blood status before? Draco felt not a little betrayed. Granger, well, being able to regurgitate facts from a book didn't make her inherently any more powerful. Actually, it made her a bit of a freak.

Lupin was lying about the Dark Lord and Master Snape. He had to be. It was impossible. The entire philosophy of the Death Eaters was based on blood supremacy. If the Dark Lord was a half-blood, then the entire movement was founded on a lie, and Draco couldn't accept that.

This had to be Lupin's aim; he had wondered why Lupin had not tried before to sway Draco to the side of Light, and his words today were surely his attempt! He'd lulled Draco into a false sense of security by not bringing up their irreconcilable views, and then ambushed Draco with his agenda right as Draco was starting to question his faith in the Dark Lord. The nerve of Lupin, to do this right after Draco helped save his life--it was infuriating!

Still, that night as Draco deliberately slowed his breathing and eased into sleep, he couldn't escape the recurring thought that sent a shiver of horror up his spine: what if Lupin was telling the truth? What then?

Lupin still made no effort to get up the next day, and Draco marched into his room at noon with a lunch tray and questions. "Why didn't you tell me before that you're a half-blood?"

Lupin looked startled. "I suppose I don't think about it very much. The prejudices I may face as a half-blood pale in comparison to those I face as a werewolf, and generally, the small number of people who can look past my lycanthropy have no problems with my blood status."

"Oh," Draco deflated. "I guess that makes sense."

"As for the others, I had always intended to wait to speak with you about them until you came to me with questions. I was sure you would eventually, but when you reacted to learning about Dora I could not wait any longer."

"I don't know what to think. I know you are honest, but I know the--the things you said can't possibly be true. They go against everything I've ever learned."

"The philosopher Thoreau once said, "It is only when we forget all our learning that we begin to know.""

Draco made a face. "That makes no sense."

"In a way, I suppose not," Lupin admitted. "Think of it like this. Think of all the things you learned about werewolves in your life, from family and friends and books and teachers." He waited a beat. "Now think of what you really knew about werewolves before you came to live here." Another beat. "Think of the difference between the two. Think of what you know about werewolves now, things that no book could tell you."

Draco shook his head. He wasn't sure what he'd expected--to easily catch Lupin out in a lie, perhaps?

"Leave aside your assumptions and what you have been told to think," Lupin said. "Trust in your own logical skills, and your answers may yet surprise you."

"I doubt that very much," said Draco. "You may be forgetting that I'm not a Light Wizard."

Lupin made no answer, but his tired eyes gleamed in a very knowing way, and Draco sensed that he'd lost the argument.

Lupin left his sickbed before he looked remotely close to well, and presumably resumed his work for the Order. Certainly he resumed disappearing at all hours of the day. Mrs. Longbottom owled the ingredients for Wolfsbane to Lupin's cottage, as well as crystal and gold cauldrons and an ivory mortar and pestle, all of which were required. Draco, who had reclaimed the bedroom once Lupin was on his feet, studied the directions and began brewing the potion there. And for the briefest of times as October died, the attacks stopped.

No one relaxed or celebrated victory; there was an air of terrified anticipation overlaying everything. "It will happen on Halloween," Draco guessed. "Whatever they are planning."

"Dia de le Muertos," Lupin agreed. Day of the Dead.

And sure enough, the Prophet on the first of November carried news of multiple attacks--massacres really. After leaving off for a few weeks, the Death Eaters were thirstier for blood than ever. On November fourth, when the headline was a butchered village of muggles in Wales, Hermione Granger's name joined the lists of the dead.

Draco examined the list printed each day, but it still took him a moment to process the innocuous words. There was a tangle of emotions inside him and his chest felt tight. The Golden Gryffindor trio was all ashes now; only Potter was left. When Lupin Apparated home Draco said without preamble, "How did Granger die?"

"Draco...."

Draco didn't think he'd ever seen Lupin at a loss for words before. "What?"

"Sit down." Lupin sat on the sofa and Draco slowly followed, sitting on the armchair facing him.

"What's going on?"

"Draco, there was another Auror sweep of Malfoy Manor, based on a tip that Bellatrix Lestrange was hiding there. They found some--some things, enough to order your mother in for questioning."

"Mother's in jail?" Painful to think of his elegant mother in a jail cell.

Lupin closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the compassion in them was terrible. "No. She crushed her crystal locket in her hand. It was full of a fast-acting poison."

Draco couldn't think, couldn't breath. He couldn't even cry, as he'd completely frozen inside. All he could think was no no no no no no no. A gentle pressure; he looked down and saw Lupin's pale hand gently gripping his own disguised one. "No," he said, his voice feeling rusty and not his own. "You're lying."

"I never lie to you, Draco."

"That's--to do that is common. My mother wouldn't. She's a lady. She wouldn't--she didn't!"

"I'm sorry, Draco."

Draco roughly pulled his hand out of Lupin's. "You're not! Don't pretend you cared about her!"

"I didn't know her or particularly care for her as a person," Lupin admitted. "But I care about you. I truly am sorry."

Draco was silent. Dazed, he waited for Lupin to tell him that it was all a cruel joke--no, Lupin wasn't cruel--to say something, but Lupin was quiet. Lightly, tentatively, Lupin rested a hand on Draco's shoulder, and Draco almost leaned towards the other man until he came back to himself. He sprang to his feet and ran to his room. Throwing himself on the bed, he stared up at the ceiling. His eyes were dry.

Mother was dead but she couldn't be dead oh Merlin, Mother was dead. How could she do this, leave this life without knowing where her only son was? He still needed her! He needed to know that her measured steps still paced the balcony, that her robes still glided across the marble floors. She needed to be there for when Draco made it home!

He remembered when he was given his mission by the Dark Lord, how Greyback had sidled up next to him, breath rancid as he bent to whisper in Draco's ear. "I'm hoping you fail. I'd just love to--meet--your pretty mother." When Draco moved away, Greyback followed, laughing a rusting, creaky laugh. "Is her skin as soft as it looks?" The very idea of a werewolf touching his mother--the very thought had made him sick. Every missive from home last year was a reassurance, each failed attempt at his mission the cause of nightmares.

And now the bottom had fallen out of the world because Mother was dead, and Malfoys didn't let emotions show but Draco was drowning in them, gasping for air. Then Lupin was there, conjuring a paper bag for Draco to breathe into, rubbing Draco's back. A part of Draco's mind thought that now would be a good time to cry, but he squashed the thought. No. Malfoys didn't cry.

When he could breathe normally again he said, "I'm fine."

Lupin shook his head. "You don't need to lie. What can I do, Draco?"

"You can bring her back," Draco said, knowing he was being stupid as he said it. Lupin said nothing, and Draco sighed, "I know. No one can."

"Tell me something about her. A good memory."

Draco threw him a look that said quite clearly, "Are you mad?"

"Trust me."

"She--she would slip me light-hearted fiction books at Christmas. My father didn't approve of them."

"My parents always gave me fiction," Lupin said fondly. "They were afraid I was too serious. I gave them away to kids at school." Draco looked at him and Lupin said in a low voice, "Another."

"There was one pastry, one glazed in chocolate, which she didn't let the house elves make. She said only women in the Black family could make it properly."

"Whereas my mum was hopeless at cooking. We always teased her...." Lupin sent Draco and expectant look.

Draco bit his lip and said, "When I was ready for bed, I went to Mother and she kissed my forehead and cheek. Father thought it was silly but she insisted."

"On full moon nights my mum always had to be dragged away from the door of the shed, no matter how much time had gone by. She hated how little she could do to help me."

"She called me her delight, her Dragon." And Lupin responded with something else. It could have felt like a competition but it didn't, just a gentle back and forth of good memories. The horror of what had happened--the image of his mother crumpled on the floor--did not, could not, diminish for long, but the image of his mother's soft, proud smile when he did his first accidental magic joined the awful one.

He supposed he should release Lupin to go be with Potter; he had not wholly forgotten Granger's name among the dead. But Potter surely had a whole army of comforters, and Draco sensed Lupin would stay here until Draco sent him away, and maybe even then if he thought he was still needed. So he said nothing. Lupin, for his part, looked at the sealed jars of ingredients in the corner and the quietly bubbling silver cauldron, but did not ask about them.

"You are not the first to lose a parent," Lupin said softly at one point. It could have been scolding, but it seemed more to remind Draco that he was not alone in his grief. Somehow, he knew not how, he eventually slept.

Note: I'd be lying if I said I was completely happy with this chapter. I'm incredibly fortunate in that both my parents are happy and healthy (and readers of this story, actually). It's difficult to express such a grief in words, I think, and yet in fiction, all we have are words, and the empty places between them. If you've lost a member of your immediate family, my heart goes out to you.