Slytherin's Warning

"How did you meet the defendant, Professor? What's the backstory?"

"The backstory? Three freckles, I believe, and a mole. I regret to say there is also a small tattoo of a Phoenix, a remnant of my misspent youth, though it's really quite a long story--"

"....Uh.... uh.... Sir, I mean, ah, some background information? About how you met the defendant?"

"Ah, I see. My apologies, young man. Yes, I will tell you what I can. Perhaps when you sift through the already established facts, you will find the answers you've been looking for."

~Wizengamot hearing, 1964 corruption case. Speakers: Acting Prosecutor Jeremy Bimble and Albus W.P. Dumbledore, Hogwarts professor.

NOTE: THIS TRANSCRIPT HAS BEEN ORDERED SEALED BY THE COMMAND OF CORNELIUS FUDGE, B.S.C.

The 26^th of November, Daphne Greengrass's body was found in a dumpster in muggle London. She had possibly been killed by exposure to the Cruciatus over a long period of time. Some of her bones were dislocated and she'd bitten clean through her tongue. But the Prophet gave the story scant coverage. There was nothing unusual about the occurrence, after all. And Daphne bore the Dark Mark on her arm.

Draco was surprised, though. Daphne was deliberately neutral at Hogwarts. She'd been one of the others at the meeting with the Dark Lord, but Draco had sensed more fear than awe from her. He supposed she'd been pressured into joining the ranks of the Death Eaters but simply didn't have the skill to be one of them. "You didn't have the skill, either," Draco reminded himself.

Still, he wouldn't have expected Daphne to give in to a little pressure, after her care not to embroil herself in school politics. Perhaps she'd been threatened, and gave in order to save her life--for all the good it did her in the end. As he read a piece by a shop owner (no own dared to go outside; the Wizarding economy teetered on the brink of collapse) he couldn't help but feel unsettled. He'd read an awful lot of obituaries for classmates recently. No matter which way the war ended, Britain's Wizarding population would be devastated.

Lupin came home once every three or four days. He was perpetually distracted and had circles under his eyes. Now he was pushing his blood-equality agenda in earnest.

"You've seen me bleed; you've washed the blood from my body. Does it look dirty? Does it look any different from yours?"

"Three children died today because Voldemort considers their parents "blood traitors." Do you honestly believe those children deserved to die?"

"Did you ever wonder if the Muggeborn at that meeting had children? Can you justify making them motherless?"

All in all Draco was feeling quite rattled and had taken to hiding in his room when Lupin was home. Fortunately, he had an excuse; Lupin brought the Gaunt Family Grimoire. It was a huge, weathered book, the notes in the front pages impossible to read. Not because of the ink, which was still vivid--in fact, the quality of the ink went down in later pages. But the book was so old, the writing wasn't even recognizable as English to Draco's eyes.

A shiver of awe went through Draco at the name in emerald green, slightly bigger than the names around it. Salazar. What would his fellow Slytherins do for a treasure such as this? Why didn't the Dark Lord possess it? There was Slytherin's marriage to Merga Cicurina, their three sons.

Draco remained enthralled for several generations before his excitement began to dim just a little. Family trees, important though they were, did not make for the most entertaining of reads. He started to skim the pages, acutely conscious of how many remained before him.

The name changed twice, when the Heir only sired girls (at least, the Heir's only children to produce children of their own). First the name changed to Dignemaje and then a few centuries later to Gaunt. Draco was stunned to see several intermarriages between Malfoys and Dignemajes as late as the sixteenth century. He also saw many places where the paper was charred black. The burnt areas seemed too neat to be from chance or accident. Draco suspected these were former family members, removed from the fold.

He managed to read a note confirming this dating to the twelfth century, by which time he was able to read most of the notes, albeit with some difficulty. The man wrote of his shame at "syx out maine nin tchilds Blode Trayters, n awght but ein son left me." The tree showed only three children for that man, only one of them a boy. Around the three names were clustered little burn marks.

Draco also noticed as he carefully turned the pages the abnormally short lifespans of Slytherin's descendents. One of Salazar's sons was killed by muggles, two of his grandsons by Slytherin's own hand--if only Draco could read the notes accompanying the earliest entries.

The line of Slytherin intermarried often, and seemed prone to feuding. The result was that the group carrying the blood of the serpent never grew very large. Draco also guessed that the removed "blode trayters" were executed by the family. The power of Slytherin's blood could not be allowed to mingle with filth. Draco made a face when he saw that two pairs of cousins had married, each couple bearing one child; and then those two children married, having two children of their own; and then the son married the daughter. Slytherin was a blood purist, yes, but Draco doubted he would have wanted this.

He flipped to the last pages, saw the line of the greatest historical wizard--barring Merlin, perhaps--reduced to two names: Morfin and Merope Gaunt. No more was written in the book, but there was an unsealed envelope tucked between the last page and the back cover. Draco opened it and shook out the contents.

The first was a clipping from the Prophet. Morfin died in Azakaban with no heirs, having killed a family of muggles from the village his home was near. The next item wasn't proper parchment, but a very thin, flimsy sheet. Block letters at the top--some kind of stamp, Draco guessed--proclaimed it to be an "Official Copy." It looked like some sort of certificate of birth, though quite different from Draco's own. It was for a person named Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The slot for "Mother" was filled in as "Merope Gaunt," the father filled in as "Tom Riddle." Frowning, Draco looked at the Prophet clipping again. Yes, the muggles Morfin Gaunt killed were named Riddle. Draco presumed the muggle Tom Riddle had raped Merope, and Morfin took revenge. Rather odd she'd named the child after him, though.

If the book was genuine, then it appeared that this half-blood Riddle was the most recent Slytherin heir. How painful for the family, who had given so much to stay pure through the ages! Surprising they hadn't aborted the child or killed it at birth. Merlin knew the family had surely killed for far less.

Draco was no longer surprised that the name "Gaunt" was unfamiliar to him. For the more--vertical--the Gaunt tree became, the less likely the Malfoys would associate with the family. No small number of wizarding families had died out through the centuries through their inbreeding. Thank Merlin Draco's ancestors were smart enough to marry foreigners from time to time, bringing fresh--though still unquestionably pure--blood into the family. Thus far only European purebloods had been deemed worthy, though Draco had once overheard his parents talking, saying if an American with the suitable attitudes and pedigree could be located, she might be acceptable.

But what made Lupin and the Order of the Phoenix so sure that Tom Riddle was the Dark Lord? Perhaps someone blasted from the family tree had survived the family and procreated. There were so many missing names from the book that it would be unusual for none of them to have escaped. Granted, so much time later it was unlikely that any other branches would be completely pure, either--if they were Draco would know who they were....

But before he could pursue that thought any further, Draco saw a final scrap of parchment, almost hidden by the Prophet clipping. When Draco read it his stomach turned to ice. It was very simple; only seven words were on the parchment. The top line read, "Tom Marvolo Riddle," and the other read, "I am Lord Voldemort." There were little animated lines showing where a letter from the top line moved to in the bottom line.

Suddenly agitated, Draco started pacing. Was it genuine? The book itself, the papers in the envelope? He could not verify it, although the magic of the grimoire certainly felt true enough. Briefly, wildly, he thought of destroying the evidence, burning the book now. The Dark Lord's dread secret would be safe. He actually took a few steps towards the book before stopping and laughing a little hysterically. Each book in this house was well protected, and a book to last so long surely had any number of ancient protections of its own.

And then another thought: He'd been ready to follow a half-blood, to kill at his command. He'd knelt on a stone floor and kissed said half-blood's robes. He'd been used and cheated by the very one he'd been brought up to venerate. Furious tears slid down Draco's cheeks. The Dark Lord was making a mockery of Pureblood beliefs. He didn't really care about blood--how could he? If half-bloods were weak, then that made the Dark Lord weak as well. He was not purifying Wizarding society so much as he was wiping it out to create another more to his liking, populated by his own followers.

And Draco's family, his father, had fallen for it. Draco could not pretend that his crafty family was using the Dark Lord right back, not after the way his father poured their fortune into the cause and went to Azkaban without complaint. Not after seeing his insane aunt whispering endearments into the Dark Lord's ear, draping herself around his throne like a particularly vicious cat, languid in her movements. Not after Draco's mother killed herself rather than give up any of the Dark Lord's secrets.

His mother, his beautiful pure mother, had died for a half-blood. Draco's head jerked up when Lupin Apparated into the room, and he demanded, "Obliviate me!"

"What?" But then Lupin looked around and Draco knew the moment Lupin spotted the open grimoire, the envelope with its contents spilled across the table.

"I believe you," Draco said wretchedly. "Fine, you were right. I can't bear it--that Mother died for a half-blood. Please, take the knowledge away."

"Even if such a thing could be done safely, you know I wouldn't." Draco just shook his head. "Draco, Voldemort is a half-blood, and will remain so whether you keep this knowledge or not. Would you rather know the truth now, for all the pain it gives you, or would you prefer giving your loyalty to a man with a muggle father?"

"Everything was easy before I came here," Draco finally complained.

"Would you go back to your blissful ignorance if you could?" Lupin sounded genuinely curious.

Not having an answer, Draco shot him a look. "Are you sure you weren't a Ravenclaw?"

"I like to think I'd have noticed," Lupin said with exaggerated patience. He nodded to the book. "Do you still want to look at that or should I take it back to Headquarters?"

Draco shrugged. "Go ahead. The relevant parts are all imprinted on my brain anyway." It came out sounding a bit sulkier than he would have liked.

Draco supposed if he accepted the Dark--if he accepted Slytherin's heir was a half-blood--then there was something else he had to accept. At dinner that night, he asked quietly, "Is it true Master Snape is a half-blood?"

Lupin paused. "Yes."

Draco pushed his plate away. He wasn't feeling very hungry. "But why would he become a Death Eater if one of his relatives was a mudblood?"

"I thought I'd made my opinion of that word clear."

"Oh, fine. Muggle, then. Why would he?"

Lupin cocked his head to one side, thinking. "I never knew Severus well, of course. But I did hear rumours even then that he wasn't particularly fond of his father. I do know that his Hogwarts years were not especially happy ones for him. In the Death Eater ranks he found acceptance, even appreciation for his skills."

"You never did tell me what he was like as a student."

"What would you like to know?"

"I don't know. I just can't picture it." That was true enough. Every time Draco tried he just imagined a shorter version of his professor.

"Severus was thin, a little gangly. It took him several years to grow into his arms and legs, so to speak, which left him a bit clumsy and certainly insecure. The oils of Potions-making which still affect his hair also caused quite bad acne, and his robes were rather shoddy, hand-me-downs." Lupin gave Draco a knowing look. "Most of his dorm-mates were well-aware of his half-blood status. You could probably tell me how such a student would fair in Slytherin House."

After the first sentence Draco knew he was gaping. Fortunately, he didn't have to answer, because Lupin went on, "He was able to purchase some favours from his housemates by making potions for them. But he got more real respect, I think, for his knowledge of the Dark Arts. The older Slytherin students quickly saw the advantage of having him on their side and made a place for him among Slytherin's elite."

Impossible to imagine Master Snape owing anyone anything. "I thought you said you didn't know him well," Draco said.

"I didn't. Some of those are educated guesses. But my group--James, Sirius, Peter and myself--had a relationship with Severus not unlike yours with Harry."

Draco wrinkled his nose. "You hated each other?"

"Immensely. James and Sirius in particular hated everything Severus stood for and held dear. They also were both popular, charming athletes who were all too aware of how good-looking they were. They were wonderful people and the best friends a boy could have, but they also were bullies when they were young and could be very cruel."

"And you said they were pranksters like the Weasley twins."

"I don't believe Fred or George ever managed to match James and Sirius's' number of detentions. It was probably also galling to Severus that Lily constantly bested him in potions, a bit like I imagine you felt when Hermione did better than you in class. And in Defense Against the Dark Arts, at which he was particularly good, he never was the head of the class, sometimes even fourth or fifth."

"Who was first in Defense?" Draco asked, sensing it might be important. Correctly interpreting Lupin's expression, he gasped, "You were!" Lupin nodded.

"Yes. I doubt he had ever hated me as much as James and Sirius except by association until he discovered my secret Sixth Year. If he was not already lost to the Light at that point, he certainly was when Albus did not expel Sirus and forbade Severus from telling anyone about my Lycanthropy."

Draco picked up his fork and poked at his potatoes, trying to reconcile the image Lupin's words conjured up with how he had always viewed Master Snape. He could see how such a boy would turn to the Dark Lord, despite being a half-blood. He just couldn't conceive of Master Snape being that boy.

"If he had such an awful time at Hogwarts, why would he come back to teach?"

"I have no idea," Lupin said. "I imagine Voldemort or Albus wanted him there, maybe even both. He certainly never showed any inclination towards teaching when we were in school. Why, I remember when he was assigned to tutor a girl in Potions. She fled the Potions lab in tears in under fifteen minutes."

"Do you have any pictures of him?"

Lupin gave Draco a strange look. "I don't think so. If I do it's showing the results of a prank on him." Draco nodded in resigned acceptance. What was one more bitter truth he had to swallow?

December began clear and cold, and in the quiet of the early morning, the Aurors patrolling Hogwarts found Lisa Turpin's body. The story was splashed across the front page of the Prophet--somehow everyone understood she'd been recruited by the Dark Lord and refused. How had the cautious Ravenclaw been tricked into the Forbidden Forest? How had she not been missed? Draco stared a long time at the picture, of Aurors with stretched, grim faces and the shape of the blanket covering the body.

He'd sat across from Turpin in Runes, but they'd never spoken. He remembered her neat blond-brown ponytail. He remembered her complaining to her friend Brocklehurst--was Brocklehurst still alive? Draco didn't know--about the stray wisps of hair that always escaped. But when the Slytherins arrived the Ravenclaws always quieted, exchanging looks that were full of meaning.

Draco spread the newspaper on the floor so it would not be stained by any stray drops of the potions he was mixing. He obsessively studied and restudied Wolfsbane and remembered the entire process without glancing at the recipe. Each ingredient, each amount, each temperature, each timing. At night he dreamed about his mother and he dreamed about threatening shapes in dark robes, wielding wands and knives. And he dreamed about Wolfsbane, too, spent hours in his sleep shredding Essence of Lianda and counting out the four point two minute interval required between adding each dandelion petal.

The same day, Lupin gave Draco a new book, about a muggle convict. There was a forgiving priest who reminded Draco of Dumbledore somehow. Lupin seemed very interested in Draco's reaction to it--he said it was about redemption.

"Still trying to reform me, then?" Draco sneered, but he took the offered book. He'd long since finished the Wizarding fiction.

Lupin predictably replied, "Only you can do that." He paused. "I sometimes wonder if you realize just how far you've come." He Disapparated soon after.

So three days later found Draco sitting curled up in one of the chairs by the bookshelves with the book. He supposed he was supposed to find the hero's situation analogous to his own, but he didn't. The convict had it easy compared to Draco! First, all he had to redeem himself over was the theft of some bread--stolen for a starving family, no less. And what threat was hanging over his head if the Auror--or whatever muggles called them--caught him; life in prison? Draco faced prolonged torture and death. Stupid muggles. What did they know of fear?

Just then, there was a sound like a rushing wave, and a sudden warming of the air, and a small silver unicorn materialized before Draco. It looked a bit like a Patronus, yet even as Draco's book tumbled off his lap, he heard Lupin's voice in his head, speaking urgently, "Get out of the house right away, Draco. Aurors are coming to search it. Do not go into the cellar. I'll be back when I can."

For a moment, Draco was frozen with shock. Then he moved. He put the book on the coffee table; he banished his teacup and teapot to the sink. Then, for the first time, he went to the door and opened it. Gentle hills met his gaze. No tree cover. No cover at all, really. Where could he go? The Longbottoms' was still insecure. Draco turned and studied the house. He could feel an idea pushing to get into his conscious mind. Another minute, and he'd have it....

When the teams of Aurors arrived fours minutes later, they wasted no time breaking into the silent cottage. If any of them had closely examined the roof, perhaps they would have seen the slight distortion of air that accompanied a Disillusioned person. But why would they have? They all knew the werewolf who lived here was at the Ministry for a routine interview, and that it lived alone.

Draco shivered and clung to the roof. Clearly he'd spent far too much time among Gryffindors--how else to account for the recklessness of his plan? To add to his misery, it began to drizzle and then rain in earnest, and he hadn't had the foresight to grab a cloak. What was taking them so long? It wasn't like the house was all that big, after all.

But eventually the Aurors came out again and walked around the house with suspicion written on their faces--although Draco didn't know what evidence of wrongdoing they expected to find in the remnants of the summer's vegetable garden. Finally they Apparated away. Draco waited for almost ten minutes before moving, just to be safe. His limbs were icy and difficult to move.

But all thoughts of fresh tea and hot water packs vanished when he entered the house. Amazingly, the nearly-finished Wolfsbane didn't look disturbed, but that wasn't what had caught Draco's attention. He had some idea what took the Aurors so long. The rug hiding the entrance to the cellar was shoved to one side, and the door to Lupin's office was hanging open.