Slytherin's Warning

You have to want it. You have to love it. Ah, the screams must sing in your veins. Feel the slick, heady rush of deep power sending its tendrils into your soul. Reach for the darkness, and cry out in the pleasure of it.

Essay: Inside the Three (widely attributed to Grindelwald)

When the howls stopped, at first Draco thought it was all over--that Lupin was dead. Then he registered the pale pink light creeping in the windows, and rushed to the trapdoor. He wasn't surprised to find Lupin unconscious, but he did note the relatively small number of injuries. "Of course," he realized. "The wolf was in too much agony to do much." He recalled the sound of the werewolf whimpering in pain, the sound not unlike that of an injured dog.

Draco swiftly wrapped a light robe around Lupin's motionless form, concerned by the cold, clammy feel of the other man's skin. He waited only to get Lupin into the bed before casting a few warming charms and conjuring an additional blanket. Only then did he sit back and shake his head in amazement; he'd been sure the other man wouldn't last the night.

Healers could magic food and healing potions directly into an unconscious patient, but Draco didn't know how to do so. Any further treatment would need to wait until Lupin awoke. Draco cast the monitoring charm he'd once seen Dora place on Lupin and went to fix himself something to eat. Suddenly he felt famished. He remembered how he'd fretted over his plan to get the Death Eaters into Hogwarts and the rush of relief he'd felt when the last bits of his plan fell into place, when the Dark Mark was finally cast. That didn't even come close to the relief he now felt. Probably because Lupin would keep Dora from killing him, he reasoned.

He was surprised to see a small screech owl outside the window twenty minutes later; the only owl to use the front window was the one to deliver the Daily Prophet. All of Lupin's personal correspondence was delivered to the window of his office, so Draco never saw the comings and goings of other owls. The owl hooted impatiently, and Draco opened the window with some trepidation, hoping the note wasn't addressed to Draco Malfoy.

He needn't have worried. The note was addressed to Lupin Cottage. He broke open the seal as the owl settled on the windowsill. The note read: Jacob- How is he? Tonks.

The name confused him until he remembered her comment that "only Lupin" was allowed to call her by her first name. Draco hunted around for a scrap of parchment. Not finding one, he wrote his overly optimistic (though he hoped to Merlin Dora never discovered that) response directly under her signature: Sleeping. A moment later the owl was on its way. He watched it fly out of sight.

For the first time Draco could remember in recent months, the headline the day after the full moon was not about an attack. Harry Potter had been spotted slinking through Knockturn Alley. Draco wondered what the Boy-Who-Lived was doing there. He was briefly amused at the reporter's wording; "You can only imagine my shock, Dear Reader, at seeing the Chosen One leaving a shop known to sell Dark Artifacts!" It was almost as outraged as something Rita Skeeter would have come up with. Skeeter, of course, had vanished months ago. Draco snorted whenever another writer worried about her in print, for he had no doubt he was safely holed up somewhere in her Animagus form.

The reporter had evidently hurled question after question at Potter, who responded with a curt, "No comment," every time save one. When the reporter questioned why Potter had not avenged his friends, Potter had whirled and pointed his wand at her throat, hissing, "They did not die in vain." A moment later, wrote the reporter, he Apparated away, even though (according to the Records Department at the Ministry) he did not have a license.

The one answer Potter gave was enough to break the Prophet's wall of silence about his friends. The deaths of his girlfriend, Weasley and Granger were dragged up again. "The Order will be furious," Draco thought ironically. The journalists clearly relished writing about Ginny's "tragic fate." They also said Potter had broken up with her in a "noble but ultimately futile" effort to save her. Draco absently wondered if that was true. It sounded like something the Prophet would make up, but it did also sound like something Potter would do. The idiot. She would always have been a target, whether she broke up with Potter or not.

The reporters loved Ron Weasley even more, if such a thing was possible. The whole second page was covered in tributes to the red-haired wizard. "No greater love has a man than to lay down his life for his friends," quoted one tearful witch. Draco rolled his eyes at that, but he was arrested by one of the pictures on the page, one of Potter and Weasley and Granger. It must have been taken during or shortly after First Year.

Draco remembered Potter's defiant, wild expression as he faced off against Professor Umbridge. He recalled the raw power and fury in Potter's green eyes when he sent a brutal slashing curse at Draco the previous year. Surely Potter had never been so small? Picture-Potter turned to whisper something in Granger's ear; she let out a silent shriek of laughter and playfully shoved him away.

It was clear the reporters didn't know the exact circumstances of Granger's death. There was quite a lot of frenzied speculation about how it could have happened. Of course, there was also a lot of speculation about the exact nature of her relationship with the two boys. Then, lacking any other information about her, they rehashed the gossip about her and Potter and Krum from Fourth Year, including a picture from the Yule Ball.

They'd clipped Krum from the picture, and Granger must not have noticed it being taken, because she never looked in the camera's direction. Instead, she gazed around the room with shining eyes and turned to say something to someone off-camera (presumably Krum). Draco scowled at the picture. Someone as annoying as mudblood Granger didn't have the right to look pretty.

He hadn't forgotten about Granger's death, but learning about his mother's had pushed it to the back of his mind. He had to admit, he was curious about how it had happened. She'd undoubtedly been doing something stupidly Gryffindor, likely protecting Potter from the consequences of one of his reckless actions. Lupin knew, he was sure. Lupin probably knew what Potter was doing on Knockturn Alley, as well.

The list of the dead was pushed back to page four by all the Potter mania. The only new name Draco recognized was Anthony Goldstein. Goldstein was a Ravenclaw in Draco's year. Though how a Ravenclaw was foolish enough to attempt fleeing the country at this point was beyond Draco.

It was late afternoon when the monitoring charm sounded. Draco knocked once and didn't wait for a response before easing the door open. Lupin was sitting up and eating the soup the magic in the room provided. He still looked extremely ill, but the very fact that he was conscious and eating did a lot for Draco's peace of mind. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"I've been better," said Lupin dryly. "And how are you?"

"Me?" said Draco in surprise. "I'm fine, of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You look like you're about to fall down. When's the last time you slept?"

Draco shrugged, honestly not sure. He sat down on the chair beside the bed. "I want to try again, after I figure out where I went wrong this time."

"I'll need to think about it," Lupin said, and Draco nodded. They both knew there were a million and one ways Wolfsbane could go wrong, almost all of them deadly. It was sheer luck that Draco's mistake hadn't cost Lupin his life. Lupin fiddled with the edge of his blanket. "Has Dora been here?"

"She sent an owl this morning. I may have implied that everything went well.... I told her you were sleeping. That's the last I heard of her."

"Oh, I see." Lupin looked a little disappointed. Draco wondered if he missed the atrocious blankets she conjured.

"Would you like me to bring you the Prophet?" But Lupin was already rubbing his eyes, and it was all Draco could do to get a potion into Lupin before he fell asleep again. The Wolfsbane may have nearly killed Lupin, but the small number of injuries was definitely making the aftermath of the full moon easier. With everything taken care of for the moment at least, Draco conjured a blanket for himself and curled up on the sofa for some much-needed rest.

Lupin was still abed the next day, but the day after he came to the kitchen table for meals and insisted on spending some time in his office. Draco didn't allow him to stay out of bed for any longer than two hours at a time, however. The day after that, Dora came for a visit. She took Lupin for a walk outside and they were gone for a long time. This irritated Draco, who thought it irresponsible of her. It wasn't an exceptionally cold winter, but it was chilly and damp; hardly the best conditions for someone convalescing.

On the 19^th of November Lupin said after breakfast, "It's time for me to return to work."

Draco eyed him critically. He did look better, although not well enough, in Draco's estimation. Still, his opinion hadn't been asked. "If I make Wolfsbane again, will you take it?" he asked.

Lupin considered this, although the question was hardly a surprise. "If you feel confident enough to give it to me, then yes. But perhaps this time we should watch the side effects more closely."

"Agreed." And then Lupin was gone. Draco sighed and opened his potions text to examine Wolfsbane yet again. He didn't want to start the next batch until he figured out what he had done to the first one. He was certain he hadn't added the wrong amount of any of the ingredients, but he might have let it boil at one stage a few minutes too long, or stirred the lotus petals counterclockwise one too many times. It bothered him when he couldn't figure out exactly where the problem occurred, but he resolved to take even more care this time, and again used the Prophet's owl to send for more ingredients from Mrs. Longbottom. His note suggested that everything had gone smoothly at November's moon, and Draco felt no guilt over the small lie. After all, in the end Lupin was fine, and he would be careful to not make any mistakes this time.

The last Tuesday of the month, Draco had just finished adding the beetle eyes (it was particularly rare variety of beetle, the moondrop beetle. Little was known about them, as they were found only in remote, marshy areas on the night of the full moon and one night after). The tiny insect eyes floated for a few minutes before dissolving into a pearly streak across the surface of the potion. Now Draco had to wait for the eyes to be totally absorbed and no longer visible. It would take five hours minimum, so he stretched and fetched in the Prophet.

Splashed across the top was the headline DEATH EATER BELLATRIX LESTRANGE FOUND DEAD!!! Smaller letters beneath it read, "Azkaban escapee killed by Avada Kedavra, sources say." Draco stared at the picture of his aunt. It was one taken at her trial, years ago. Her face had been younger then, of course, less lined, and her body healthier. But the madness was already present in her heavy-lidded eyes. Her mania was enhanced by Azkaban, not caused by it.

Draco's mother had rarely talked about her sister, and after she broke out Draco got the distinct sense that his father didn't care for her either. Draco could understand why. He'd spent a fair bit of time with her the previous summer, when she was teaching him Occlumency. She really was quite terrifying. At the heart of it was how unpredictable he could sense she was. Sometimes she'd abruptly start laughing for no reason, start casting Crucio at the walls and tables. Sometimes one of them nearly hit Draco and he had to dive out of its way.

Her body had been found in an abandoned house outside Manchester, amid evidence of a fight. The Prophet's attitude could be essentially summed up as, "It's about time." They spoke of Bellatrix rather like she had been a rabid animal someone had finally gotten close enough to put down. Draco supposed he should feel angry or upset, but he did not care overly much. He had already wished more than once that it had been Bellatrix to die and not his mother. Bellatrix relished the tortures and killings; Draco would not grieve for her.

He did wonder who had killed her, though. Of course it was possible she had failed or displeased the Dark Lord--in fact, that was the most likely scenario. Despite her insanity, she was fanatically loyal to the Dark Lord's cause, and if he condemned her she probably had accepted the punishment as her due. The Prophet suggested a monetary reward and possibly even an Order of Merlin (Third Class) for her killer. No one paid much attention to the earnest young Ministry worker who urged the killer to come forward. "If it was in self-defense as we think it must have been, there will be no punishment," the man said, and Draco marveled at the Ministry's incompetence. Maybe the killer had been fighting for his life, but the Killing Curse could not be cast in self-defense. The Unforgivables didn't work that way.

Draco briefly wondered if Longbottom had anything to do with it, but quickly dismissed the idea. Longbottom was not a strong enough wizard to take on Bellatrix, even if he had improved a bit in the last year. And in any case, Longbottom was safely ensconced at Hogwarts. No, it was likely a fellow Death Eater who cast the curse, whether by the Dark Lord's command or because of some internal power struggle.

Lupin came home that night, ostensibly because he needed a book from his office. But Draco knew it was also to check on him. "I'm sorry about your aunt," he said politely, and though he sounded sincere enough, Draco knew otherwise.

"Don't be," Draco said in answer. Lupin gave him a sharp look at that, but Draco felt no need to explain himself. He did ask, "Do you know anything about it?" though. When Lupin hesitated, Draco exclaimed, "You do know something! What?"

A considering look, then Lupin said quietly, "It was Harry."

"Potter? You're kidding. The Boy-Who-Lived cast the Darkest curse in existence?"

Lupin shrugged. "Harry feels things very strongly, be they love or sorrow or hate. I won't pretend I'm not concerned about it, but the only power I have over his choices is what he chooses to grant me. And as far as he's concerned, I can help him on his mission, or I can leave."

"I've never managed to cast one of the Unforgivables against a person."

"It's not an ability to be envious about. The Unforgivable Curses damage the soul." Draco didn't bother responding. How much easier his life would have been these past months if he'd been able to.... "What have you cast them on?"

"Excuse me?"

"You said you've never successfully cast them against a person. What manner of animal did you use?"

Draco shivered. "Rabbits. I used rabbits to practice."

Lupin studied him. "Do you need to talk about this?"

"No. It's stupid. It was only rabbits."

Lupin conjured them some tea. "I imagine you did the Imperius first." His tone was mild.

"Yeah, that one was easy."

"What did you force the rabbits to do?"

"The same kinds of things Moody did in class. You know, backflips, skipping around, rolling over."

"You didn't force the rabbit to claw its eyes out, jump onto a stove, attack the other rabbits?"

"No!" Draco cried, shocked.

"Really. Who trained you?"

"No one. I was given a room to practice in."

"Interesting." Lupin sipped his tea. "Do go on."

"The Cruciatus was next. That one was the hardest."

"But you did manage it, I assume."

"I had to put up silencing charms because the rabbits screamed. It was awful." Occasionally the dreams of those days still haunted Draco.

"Who did you focus on in order to cast it?"

Draco nearly spit out his tea in surprise. "Potter, of course." Lupin was silent, watching him. "I hate Potter. I pictured his smug, laughing face and said the word."

"And you kept this image at the front of your mind the entire time you cast the curse?"

"Yes...."

Lupin put down his tea cup and steepled his fingers. "But you do know, of course, that if you ever did cast Cruciatus on Harry, he would fall to the ground and convulse just as the rabbit did."

"I know that." And he did, but he hadn't ever really thought about it.

"And the Killing Curse?"

Draco was relieved to leave the Cruciatus behind. He shrugged. "It was hard to cast, but it didn't bother me. It was quick and it was only a rabbit after all."

Lupin sighed. "Have you ever seen a person--what am I talking about, of course you did. You saw Severus cast it upon the Headmaster." The look on Master Snape's face; the Headmaster slowly falling backwards--

"Yes. And I saw it again the night I came here, right before I activated the Portkey. There was a mudblood."

"Please do not use that offensive term in front of me."

"Fine, a muggle then. Or a muggleborn, I'm not sure."

"And did you find that different from the killing of the rabbit?" Draco turned his teacup around in his hands. "Draco?"

"Yeah, I guess. When the rabbit was dead it was just a pile of fur, but after the mud--after the muggle died I felt like she was staring at me, accusing me." His tea was cold. "I was supposed to cast the curse at her, but I couldn't do it." Lupin looked startled at that, but before he could say anything, Draco continued, "How could Potter cast it, when I've failed twice now? I bet he hasn't had to practice either."

"Perhaps you don't hate as much as you thought you did. You have dislike for many people, I'm sure; disdain, disgust, even. But you are not inclined towards blind hatred, which I happen to find a very encouraging thought. Certainly this lack is not something to mourn."

"But it shows a lack of power," whispered Draco, a bit shocked that he was confessing his fear. "If my magic was stronger, I could cast it."

"Your level of magic has nothing to do with it," Lupin said firmly.

"You can't know that."

"Actually, I can. James Potter had an amazing natural aptitude for magic. Casting spells took extraordinarily little effort for him. He never successfully cast Avada Kedavra. And believe me, he tried. We'd found a warehouse full of Muggle children who Death Eaters had tortured and killed. But the Killing Curse requires hate, not outrage or thirst for justice.

"Wormtail, on the other hand, struggled in school. He often left classes exhausted from the sheer amount of energy he had to give to power each spell. These days, I'm given to understand that he casts the Killing Curse more frequently than any other spell, with no pause at all."

Draco thought about that. "Have you ever cast it?"

Lupin shook his head. "I've never even attempted it, though once I did come very close. That's not to say I've never killed. I have, more times than I care to think about. But not that curse."

"Is Potter going to try to use it on the Dark Lord?"

"That's what Death Eaters call him. Why don't you try calling him Voldemort sometime?"

"Why don't you answer my question?"

Lupin spread his hands in surrender. "I don't know. I hope he won't have to."

"He can't."

"Perhaps."

"No," Draco said, frustrated. "I mean, no one can cast it on the Dark Lord. He can block it, somehow."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, I saw it with my own eyes. It was right after we were warned against betraying him."

Lupin vanished his teacup and stood. "Thank you for telling me that. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go look something up." He escaped to his office, leaving Draco with a cup of cold tea and churning, confused thoughts.