Slytherin's Warning

Lightning flashes, sparks shower; in one blink of your eyes you have missed seeing.

~ Stargate SG-1 (Episode 320: Maternal Instinct)

They were sitting around the kitchen table, eating a soup dish one of Regina's friends had clipped from a magazine. "Daniel?" Regina asked tentatively (she'd asked him days ago if she could call him that and he'd shrugged). "Why are you doing this?"

Draco's spoon paused midway to his mouth. Before he could speak, Gareth leaned forward. "I think you owe us an explanation."

"I don't owe you anything," Draco retorted, but there was little heat behind the words. What did it matter if he told them a little? He'd already irrevocably broken the Statute of Secrecy. "I'm in hiding."

"From whom?" Gareth questioned. "Why?" His eyes asked, "What did you do?" Regina looked nervously between Draco and her husband.

"Gar--"

He ignored her. "Well? 'Daniel?'"

Draco said, "You couldn't possibly understand."

"Try me."

For several long minutes, the only sound in the room was the ticking clock. Draco stared into his soup; Gareth glared at Draco; Regina hid her shaking hands under the table and looked from one man to the other.

At last, Draco said, "I was given a task. To kill someone."

Regina gasped, and Gareth leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "Your mother?"

"Of course not!" Draco snapped. Regina must have told her husband about Draco's throwaway comment--that his mother was dead. But what a conclusion to draw! Were such things common in the muggle world...? With effort, he gathered his thoughts. "I didn't kill Du--I didn't kill the person. The people who did--they want to punish me for failing."

Regina's eyes softened. "I'm sure the police would protect you, if you gave information on the killers--"

Draco shook his head, and rose from the table. "Your 'pleese' cannot help me." He stalked into the sitting room and turned on the telly. It was rather embarrassing how quickly he'd grown--fond--of the contraption. But it wasn't as though the Wizarding World would ever know.

He heard footsteps and knew one of the muggles had followed. He didn't turn around, just waited, and soon enough Gareth said, "Do you intend to stay here indefinitely?" Draco snorted at the very idea, and at the poorly-concealed eagerness in the muggle man's voice. But when Draco made no further answer, Gareth walked around chair, blocking Draco's view of the telly, and asked plainly, "When are you leaving?"

Some of the same words, and yet Lupin had said them so differently. But then, Lupin had understood the position Draco was in. Draco didn't want to think about Lupin. Or Dumbledore, or Master Snape, or Potter, or the Dark Lord. He didn't want to know which of his classmates had been killed in the last several days, and he wanted to believe that he could go home again. It wasn't that he wanted to stay in the muggle world, because he certainly didn't. He just wanted the nightmare gripping the Wizarding World to be over.

He was broken out of his thoughts when Gareth repeated, "When?"

Draco shrugged, every bit the aristocrat. "When I choose to do so."

Regina had joined them. "It's just--well, our daughter Hailey and her husband always come for the holidays, and we don't know how we can hide you from them, in the house." She twisted her hands.

The holidays. Merlin's beard. How could he have forgotten? Well--he hadn't been outside in ages, and the house wasn't decorated for the Yule. "What--what day is it?"

"The 17^th. So you see it's coming right up, in fact, they're driving up from London Tuesday night, so--"

But Draco had stopped listening. December 17^th! That meant--he had missed Sunday's full moon. What if Dora thought he'd be there to help Lupin and didn't come herself? Lupin might have--but he didn't care about Lup--about the werewolf. Did he? Abruptly, Draco rose, starling the muggles, and stalked past them into "his" room.

He flung himself on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. He knew he couldn't go on living in limbo like this. And did staying away from the fight him make him cunning, as he'd always thought, or simply a coward? "It's not as thought the moon is the only danger, anyway," Draco thought darkly. "He could just as easily have been killed another way, randomly or not. And if they'd come for him, I couldn't--wouldn't--have helped him anyway." Couldn't or wouldn't--that was the question.

He had to know, one way or the other. He concentrated, and the sound of his Disapparation was quiet enough that the muggles didn't hear a thing. And so Draco found himself standing in front of Lupin's cottage. It looked quiet as always. A fresh snowfall had covered the tracks made by the Aurors when they searched the house.

No smoke came from the chimney, so Lupin probably wasn't home. Draco wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed by that. He had no idea what to say to the man--the werewolf. But if no one was home, Draco would be no closer to answering his question; if Lupin was still alive.

The door was not locked, but that was not much of a surprise. Most Wizards preferred to rely on their wards for information about visitors. And apparently, Lupin's wards still accepted Draco. An oversight?

It was dark inside the house, and even after Draco lit the lamps, there were more shadows than he remembered. The door to Lupin's office was closed, but the others were open, and there was no sign of Wolfsbane on the floor (the cauldrons and other Potions supplies were stacked to one side in the bedroom). Certainly there was no Lupin, crumbled against the wall where Draco had left him. Not that Draco had expected that, of course.

The only signs of habitation were the rolled-up copies of the Prophet on the table in the dining area. Lupin didn't have a paid subscription, so if no one was home to pay the delivery owl, it just flew away. Draco glanced at the date on the nearest paper, seeing it was for 16 December. Two days after the full moon, so someone had been here to take the paper. And they wouldn't have if Lupin was dead, Draco thought.

Now that he was back, Draco couldn't imagine returning to the muggle house. They would figure out he was gone soon enough. He started some tea and, with some reluctance, poked through the newspapers, looking for the oldest. But he stopped short when he saw the headline for 15 December:

YOU-KNOW-WHO TAKES AZKABAN

The subheading was: 40 MLEs Reported Killed.

There was a photo of Azakaban Island, all grey and black stone, the picture's only movement the dull, churning sea. Draco bit his lip and read the article. One guard had been portkeyed alive to the Ministry, his stomach slashed open. His name was Maxwell Jordan, and he was a lower-ranking guard.

"We felt a shudder an' then the alarm went off. The Cap'in said it wasn't a drill an'--an' set orders to kill all the high security prisoners. An' we did, well they did an' I stood by the door, an' then He came, an' he was so... he killt all the others, so fast, an' hit me, an' told me to tell the Minister.... Britain will be his by year's end."

The article said that Jordan was expected to live and in a Ministry safe house. And then there was quite a lot of frenzied speculation about whether the Captain of the Guard really had illegally ordered the execution of imprisoned Death Eaters before they could be released, and whether that was a good thing or a bad one.

If any Death Eaters had been killed, Lucius Malfoy was surely among them. Draco was almost certainly an orphan now. Such an ugly word, orphan. Draco remembered laughing, sneering at Potter, "Haven't got any parents, have you?" and now, sitting in this too-quiet room with dry eyes, eight days before Christmas, Draco finally felt the smallest bit of sympathy for Potter. Potter still was a total berk, though. It was something of a solace to be able to hold onto to at least one of his pre-Lupin convictions.

Draco doubted his mother would have blasted him off the family tapestry without his father's urging, and even if she had, he was still the last of the Malfoys. He was the family Head; in theory, he now had both the power and the money to do as he wished. If he could just get in and out of Gringotts safely, the goblins didn't ask questions. If he could just get into the Manor, there were any number of emergency Portkeys to locations around the world, and Draco was certain they would take him through the Portkey barriers layered over Britain. Father taught that a Malfoy always left himself a way out. So many "ifs!"

Was his father free on Azkaban now, again at his Master's side? Was he renouncing Draco, as Master Snape said he would? Was he dead in his cell, an idea inconceivable to Draco, or had someone put him into the sea? There was an old rumor they got rid of bodies that way, ones that no one would claim. And Draco was hardly queuing up to sign on the dotted line.

Was he upset about Lucius? Draco didn't know. He did--respect--his father. Care for him. He'd always obeyed his father, for to do otherwise would bring shame upon the Malfoy line, and that was unacceptable. But love was Mother's domain. Draco knew he wasn't his father, now. He couldn't follow in his father's footsteps. But whether he could make the Malfoy legacy his own--select and discard traditions as it suited him--was another matter. Although he did not cry, Draco's mind turned over the same thoughts again and again. He fell asleep just as natural light was beginning to creep in through the windows.

The post owl woke him, and he found a few knuts on the coffee table to pay the bird. As always, there were more names. The only one Draco knew was Susan Bones. She was murdered inside Hogwarts, by another Hufflepuff in their year, Wayne Hopkins. Draco doubted he'd be able to pick Hopkins out in a crowd, and he didn't have the Mark. Although Draco hadn't either... investigators had initially thought it a lover's quarrel. At least until, when questioned, Hopkins sputtered with outrage at the thought of touching a half-blood abomination.

IS HOGWARTS SAFE? asked the editorial pages. A bit late to be asking that question, Draco thought. He spent the afternoon paging through a few of Lupin's books on healing, and practiced making a few of the most useful potions. First, he'd needed to properly clean the Potions supplies, which Lupin must have simply Scourgified a few times before putting aside. The easiest potion to test was the Blood Replenishing Potion (no substitute for a true transfusion, but sufficient for St. Mungo's Fast-Response team to get their charges to the hospital alive). All Draco had to do was give himself a small cut, and drink the potion down.

Lupin did not return that day. That night, Draco dreamed of his father. Lucius stood in his best dress robes, not a hair out of place, and breathed, horrified, "Draco.... What have you done?" Then Draco's line of vision grew and twisted, and he saw that his father's hands were covered with blood. Draco jolted awake, and it was several minutes before his heart slowed and quieted.

On 19 December, the Prophet reported the discovery of the body of "a known werewolf." Did that mean Greyback? Or Lupin? Or someone else? Agitated, Draco skimmed the contents of the bookshelves again, hoping to find something to distract himself with. It was a book on the highest shelf that caught his eye, sandwiched between two copies of Howarts, a History. It was Magik of Blood and Soul, by Frederick Phelps. Slowly and with great deliberation, Draco took the book down.

Scrying spells and potions were chapter three. Naturally, Draco was most interested in the potions. Most required some hair or some blood of the person sought. All required the blood of the potionmaker. Draco decided to use a potion called "Looking Glass." It was not the easiest of the potions, nor the fastest to give results, but he already had the necessary ingredients. And it showed the object of the potion clearly, with the surrounding area's details clear enough for an apparition jump.

When each bit was ready, from the splinters of oak to hair pulled of a brush in the toilet to the small vial of Draco's blood, he carefully began the potion. As he completed the final steps, he intoned,

When this berry, crushed, does bleed
Magic gathers in the sea

When I add this strand of hair
The magic crackles in the air

When this petal feeds a flame
I chant this chant, I speak your name

When blood flows into cauldron black
Then I am ready to attack

When this potion waxes blue
Grip your dagger, I've found you

As the magic sprang to life, Draco felt icy fingers scrape down his spine. His vision felt distorted, and everything had a red hue, while there was a whistling in his ears that sounded frighteningly like screaming--though animal or human, he couldn't tell. Draco's power, which usually felt light yet vast, pooled in his palms, now felt saturated with something sticky. And stretched out, as the magic of the spell tugged at it. He might have fallen over, spent, but for a sudden rush of Dark energy. Draco laughed, a harsh sound that resonated bizarrely in his own ears, and in the absence of anyone else to harm, traced a long, jagged cut in his own arm.

The resulting pain brought him back to himself, and he felt fortunate to have the Blood Replenisher at hand. A picture formed in the flat surface of the potion, and Draco leaned forward to see it closely. At first he thought there was a mistake, because he saw not Lupin, but The-Boy-Who-Lived, ascending a rough stone staircase, his wandtip lit. Then Draco saw a taller shape beside Potter, his wand at ready. Lupin. But why was it so dark? Without pausing to consider the best option, Draco noted as many details of the room as he could, caught up his cloak, and Apparated.

He landed in a heap at the base of what was presumably the staircase he'd seen Lupin on. With no idea where he was, he decided not to chance lighting his wand, and so began to feel his way up the stairs. The Dark Magic he had worked still coursed through his veins, but the cold, wet stone helped to ground him.

The staircase was winding its way up, that much was obvious. The steps got narrower as Draco went, and he placed his feet with care. There was no sound from the path ahead. Draco nearly stumbled when the path stopped going up. He felt around carefully and even lit his wand long enough to be sure there was only one possible path. That being the case, Draco started forward, silencing his footsteps because they seemed far louder than normal.

The passageway opened into a large room, with only one other exit, this one into another room, and then another beyond that. At the seventh room, Draco stepped forward only to be bounced back--some kind of magical barrier. He cast Lumos and saw in the room ahead seven stone daises, each with an identical golden cup upon it. Potter stood before one, and Lupin before another. Potter turned and said something, so perhaps there was a silencing charm on the room. Did the charm go both ways?

"Lupin!" Draco called, but neither the werewolf nor Potter turned around. They also did not appear to notice the weak light given off by Draco's wand. Lupin shook his head and cast a spell, the cup before him melting into a small golden puddle, then moved to the next dais.

Lupin was alive, if pale and haggard. His face had the pinched look of someone with a constant headache, and the knees of his trousers were covered in mud (Potter's were too, Draco noted). Although Draco had no idea what they were doing, they seemed so very intent on destroying the golden cups that Draco couldn't help but watch.

An orange spell shot out of Potter's cup, but he quickly twisted out of the way, and set it melting with a little flourish. Physically, Potter looked nearly the same as Draco remembered, though thinner (the lost weight gave him a skeletal appearance); but he had the eyes of an old man.

Just as Draco's interest was starting to lag, Lupin stiffened before a cup (his third). He called to Potter, never taking his eyes off the cup, and Potter came to his side, casting a few spells as well. They held a brief conversation, and Draco guessed that they disagreed about something. Lupin was hard to read, but Draco recognized the angry set of Potter's mouth. He knew the exact moment that Potter relented, as the other boy looked like he'd eaten something sour. Potter stood with his wand at ready, and Lupin took a deep breath, and started casting spells at the cup.

And more spells, and more spells. As Potter and Draco stood watching like statues, Lupin was the only one of the three to move at all, and that wasn't saying much--his wand movements were tight and controlled, his lips barely parting to speak words Draco couldn't hear. The cup started to gleam with a blood-red sheen.

Then Potter gave a choked cry--Draco couldn't hear it but he could see it--clutching his forehead and first falling to his knees, then dropping his wand, then writhing on the floor. Draco could see blood between his fingers. Lupin said something but didn't turn from the cup--and then light exploded out of it, sending out a ring of sick-looking light out in a circle around waist height. The light passed harmlessly over Potter, but threw Lupin to the floor and crashed into the room's magical barrier.

Although the spell was contained, the barrier fell, so Draco heard Potter scream, "Moony!" and push off the pain he was evidently experiencing to go to the werewolf's side. Draco hurried forward as well, as Potter called to Lupin again, this time softer, but again got no response. His eyes widened at the sight of Draco. "Malfoy! What are you doing here?"

"Is he alive?"

Potter sighed, and smoothened a few strands of hair back from Lupin's face. "Only just, and I don't know for how long." His gaze turned distant. "I told him I should be the one to do it...."

Draco knelt down at Lupin's other side, and took one of the werewolf's hands. It was cold. "What did the cup do?" he breathed, more to himself than anything else, but at his words Potter got up, and cast a few spells at the cup. Draco didn't recognize them, but they seemed diagnostic in nature.

Potter sighed in relief. "He's destroyed it. Thank Merlin." He scooped up the cup, shrank it, and tucked it into his robes.

"What was it?" Draco asked, not getting up.

Potter thought for a moment. "It was something of Voldemort's. Oh, come on, even you can't say his name?--He protected it, but not well enough." A grim smile that didn't reach his eyes flickered over Potter's face and was gone. Casting his gaze over Lupin's prone form, Potter said, "Since you're here, will you look after him? Help him, if you can? I have to go."

"What?" Draco exclaimed. "Where? Why?"

"Hogwarts. I had a vision. Voldemort is there right now." The attack on Hogwarts! Draco had always known it was coming, but now? Truly? He forced himself to listen, as Potter was still talking. "Don't take him to St. Mungo's, Voldemort has spies there who will kill any Order member on sight." He paused, then said, "If you care at all which way this war ends, come to Hogwarts when you can. We'll need every person we can get."

"What makes you think I'll fight with you?" Draco asked. Potter looked pointedly at where Lupin's limp hand rested within Draco's own, then Disapparated.

Lupin's breathing was growing shallower. Though he knew he could not expect a response, Draco whispered, "I don't know what to do." He couldn't take Lupin, clammy and losing body heat fast, back to the cottage. His medical skills were far too meager, and he had no supplies to speak of. Potter was correct--St. Mungo's was out of the question. And Draco could only imagine the reactions if he brought Lupin to the muggle house. In fact, there was only one real possibility. Draco wrapped his arms around Lupin, feeling terribly self-conscious; he was not an especially tactile person. But for Side-Along Apparition, there was no other option. A tug from behind his navel, and the room was once again empty, the remaining gold cups glowing faintly in the darkness.