Slytherin's Warning

The Names
By Billy Collins

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name --
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.

Potter's hair was plastered to his head. His face was very white, startling against the sky and the gravestones. "It's all over, then," he rasped. He coughed wetly, and looking closer, Draco could see a stain growing on the front of his robes.

"What happened?"

"Over...."

Draco looked in the same direction as Potter, and saw another huddled shape on the ground. He stepped forward quickly for a better view, then recoiled. It was the Dark Lord. Half his chest was torn away, but his face was still recognizable, the red eyes open and empty. Another cough brought his attention back to Potter, and Draco turned away from his old master.

Muttering a quick, "Lumos," Draco gaped at the devastating wounds on the other's body. His stomach was a bloody mess, his left foot appeared to be--gone--and a series of wicked-looking cutting hexes slashed from his right collarbone to where the injuries in his stomach began. Transferring the light to his free hand, Draco cast Propinquus vulnus once, then again with more will behind it. Close the wounds. "Merlin, Potter, what happened?"

Potter blinked and said slowly, "Malfoy?" Then he seemed to process Draco's question and said, "I killed him. Like I was supposed too. But it didn't happen like I thought."

"Blowing his chest apart wasn't the plan?" Draco said wryly, casting another clotting spell and an endurance charm. Did he have any Blood-Replenishing potion on him?

Potter snorted. "That slowed him down for, ah, a few seconds. No. It was Avada Kedavra. At the end. Thought I'd die too." He coughed again, and Draco considered uneasily that there could be a punctured lung. A flick of his wand immobilized Potter from the neck down.

"You can't cast the Killing Curse at the Dark Lord," Draco argued, hyper-aware of the body behind him. "Your wand would explode. And he can block it." Had the body just moved a little? Draco could still remember the demonstration, the ringing voice of Slytherin warning them all against betrayal, the green light stopping a centimeter before Voldemort's wand.

"Didn't cast it. I can stop it... too. Didn't, 'cause...."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Because what?" He held his still-glowing fingertips to his vials of potions. He did have some Blood-Replenisher, thank Merlin. He promptly dumped it into Potter's mouth and the other sputtered, but most of it went down.

Potter closed his eyes for a moment, grimacing at the taste, but when he spoke again his voice was stronger. "I had a choice. I could stop it but I didn't. I thought it would take us both. Because he didn't know--he didn't understand the choice. The love. Understand?" Draco had no idea what Potter was talking about, but a response didn't appear to be required, because Potter went on, "I was supposed to die." He sounded plaintive. His breathing was growing erratic.

So Saint Potter wanted to die, did he? Draco suddenly saw red. He exploded, "You bloody coward! You had bloody better not die! I refuse to compete for Lupin's affection against a dead, martyred, bloody Boy-Who-Died!"

He paused for air and saw Potter staring up at him in surprise. "I've never heard you swear that much before." He tilted his head. "You don't understand love either, do you? You don't--"

Draco cut him off. "Where's your foot?" Potter looked blank. "Your left foot?" Sighing at Potter's complete lack of comprehension, he conjured some bandages and spelled them onto Potter's stump.

Potter was looking at him with something like pity in his eyes, and Draco could tell he was about to start talking about love again, so he was almost relieved at the distinctive sharp crack of Apparition. He swung around, expecting to block a Death Eater's attack on Potter. Someone shouted, "Stupefy!" and Draco had a split-second to realize he'd assumed wrong before the darkness overtook him.

When he woke he was in a cell, on a thin, pale blue cot. A man he didn't recognize wearing Auror's robes leaned against the doorway, watching him. Draco thought back-Lupin... Hogwarts... the graveyard in Little Hangleton.... When he spoke, his voice felt rusty. "Potter?"

The Auror straightened. "At St. Mungo's. Want to tell me what happened? Or where you've been the last seven months?"

Draco cleared his throat. "Am I--what am I charged with?"

"What makes you think you're charged with anything?"

Draco raised his eyebrows and made a show of examining the tiny room, his meaning clear. He felt alarmingly weak though, so he didn't attempt sitting up.

The Auror conjured a chair and sat down. "Things have been rather chaotic," he admitted. "There is still an active warrant out for your arrest, I think, on charges of being a Death Eater, and an accomplice to the murder of Albus Dumbledore."

He hadn't thought of Dumbledore in a long time. "Seven months?" he managed.

"Six and a half. But there are reports of you fighting against Death Eaters at the battle of Hogwarts. And... Harry Potter was quite insistent." Seeing Draco's brows knit together, the Auror elaborated, "That you'd saved his life."

Potter's blood slick on his fingers. Swearing, screaming at him. Jumbled thoughts--Don't you dare die, don't you fucking dare die. A dark shape crumbled behind him... "Is he dead?"

"Harry Potter?"

"No! The Dark Lord."

"He... seems to be. My understanding is that there will be more tests done on the body. To be certain."

The Dark Lord. Dead. Really dead. It hardly seemed real. And another thought: "Hogwarts. Did it-"

"Fall? No. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named must have been aiding his armies somehow. They fell into disarray at the moment of his death."

Draco sighed and closed his eyes. "Now what?"

"Now I ask my questions again. What happened? Where have you been the last seven months... Draco Malfoy?"

"Call me Draco."

"You no longer consider yourself a Malfoy?"

"I don't know who I am anymore," Draco admitted. He opened his eyes but didn't look at the other man. There was a stain in the ceiling exactly overhead, maybe a shade left. "I've been living with Remus Lupin." He could hardly hurt Lupin now.

"Remus Lupin... the werewolf?"

"Remus Lupin, member of the Order of the Phoenix," Draco corrected. "Remus Lupin, who gave his life to aid Potter's quest."

"He's dead?"

"As good as," Draco said, feeling bitter. "I left him at the Longbottom mansion. I don't know where he is now. Could--could you find out for me?" He thought he'd kept any emotion out of his voice, but at the Auror's silence he looked up, and the other man's eyes were full of pity.

"I'll go ask." The Auror stood and banished the chair.

"Wait. Auror...."

"Blancraft."

"Auror Blancraft, may I have some water?" The Auror wordlessly conjured a full pitcher and a drinking glass, both plastic, and knocked on the door to be let out. And Draco was alone.

He was alone for a long time.

He sat on the blue cot, thoughts churning. Was it really over? Could it be? Had Mrs. Longbottom saved Lupin? What was left of Hogwarts? Eventually, it was his need to use the toilet that brought him to his feet. He pounded on the door. "Hey! ...anyone?"

He was about to pound the door again when he heard footsteps, and a minute later the door to his cell as opened by a heavyset witch. Her smooth, doughy face radiated surprise. "I didn't know anyone was here!"

"I need to go to the toilet," Draco told her, and she escorted him, wand aimed at his head the whole while. When he was done, she took him back to his cell and went off to find some answers.

An hour or so later she was back, saying, "Mr. Malfoy, you're being moved to another room, if you'll just come this way please." They walked down the corridor and went up a few flights of stairs, her wand pointed somewhere between Draco and the floor, and ended up in a small but perfectly serviceable apartment. "If you need anything, just press this button."

Draco sat on the bed to test its firmness and frowned. "Am I a prisoner?"

The witch shifted uncomfortably. "For the time being, you're a guest of the Ministry."

"A guest. So I can leave if I wish?"

"Er--"

Draco had expected as much. "I have a message for Potter."

Her eyes widened. "The Killer of Voldemort? Oh, he's very busy right now. I could send a message maybe, don't know when he'd get it...."

"No, I want to deliver it to him personally. It's important." It had to be, right? He injected his voice with cool, pureblood confidence, and she automatically nodded in acceptance.

Another hour of waiting, and an unsmiling guard took Draco to a small office tucked away behind the Misuse of Magical Artifacts office. Potter was inside, wearing shoddy, too-big grey robes. Draco could see the beginning of the wound at Potter's collarbone. It would undoubtedly scar.

Potter was looking through a large stack of parchments, occasionally jotting notes. He didn't look up when Draco entered, just said, "You have a message?"

"I saw Master Snape at the battle. He wanted you to know that the snake was dead."

Potter's quill paused, then he resumed writing. "Yes, I know."

"Oh." Maybe it hadn't been that important after all. "Someone else told you."

"No. If the snake wasn't dead, Voldemort wouldn't be either. Maybe temporarily defeated again."

Draco briefly imagined the Dark Lord gone for another ten years, only to rise again. "And you don't think you should have waited to make sure it was dead before killing--him?"

Potter put his quill down and looked at Draco, a cynicism in his expression that seemed new. "I suppose I could have nicely asked Voldemort to wait a few more minutes." He rolled his eyes when Draco flinched just a little at the name, and said, "Get used to hearing it. I insisted that if they had to give me another ridiculous title, it had to include "Voldemort." Can you imagine people going around saying, "The-Man-Who-Killed-He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" Honestly." He started to pick up a paper again, but when Draco didn't move he said, "Yes? Something else?"

"Have you heard anything about Lupin?"

A pained expression crossed Potter's face. "I'm apparently the acting Minister for Magic, but--yes. It doesn't look good. The Hor--the device, well, it wasn't something designed to only injure. An almost identical spell was what killed Hermione."

"So he'll die."

"Maybe. He's in a coma now, stable I think, but...." Potter shrugged. "If I thought there was no hope I think I'd leave the Wizarding World altogether. But the Healers seem very excited by the whole thing, and I can't leave him alone."

"He wouldn't be alone," Draco muttered. If Draco wasn't sent to Azkaban, anyway.

"Maybe not. But if I am not the only one of his friends, left, well, he is one of the only ones of mine."

Draco rolled his eyes at that. Potter had the whole Wizarding world to moon after him--why did he need Lupin too?

Potter apparently sensed Draco's thoughts. "Malfoy... Draco... That's the thing about love, what Voldemort couldn't understand either. People don't have a set amount of love to give out. There's always more." A hint of a smile. "And if it were a competition, I suspect we'd both lose out to Neville. He's with Moony now."

For months, Lupin had been the only person for Draco to interact with--as himself, anyway. He was only now realizing that Lupin hadn't experienced the same isolation. He'd been with the Order of the Phoenix, and Potter, and who knew who else, just as much as he'd seen Draco. It was an uncomfortable thought.

Potter dismissed him, saying he'd look into Draco's case, though Draco hadn't asked him to, and Draco was taken back to his rooms. He'd actually had a civil conversation with Potter. Somehow, with everything that had happened, going out of his way to antagonize the other didn't seem worth it. What would be the point?

Two days later, on the fields of Hogwarts, the Dark Lord's body was publicly burnt. Draco, still waiting for news about what would happen to him, did not attend. His days had been quiet--he received the Prophet, skimming past its self-congratulations (not so many businesses had functioned throughout the war). Lupin was not mentioned, one way or the other.

Tracey Davis lived. Filius Flitwick did not. Severus Snape, Master of Potions, had vanished. His body was not found at Hogwarts, and the Aurors still hunted him. Draco had confidence that they'd never find him, though.

He was not the only one to disappear. Over fifty witches and wizards were officially declared missing. Perhaps, in the next few months, they'd find Seamus Finnegan in a dungeon under a manor house, chained to a wall, on the edge of mania but alive. It was not impossible that Justin Finch-Fletchley had retreated into the muggle world he had come from, locking his wand in a drawer and never opening it again. Maybe someday, Aurors would identify the bodies of the Bulstrodes. But it was just as likely all their fates would remain shrouded in mystery. Who could say?

The chief disagreement between the Prophet's editors now seemed to be what the memorial for the fallen would look like. Some favoured something understated, with clean flowing lines--perhaps simple names chiseled onto stone. That appealed to Draco's sensibilities. Others, though, wanted some grand monument, sculptures and enchanted marble.

The day before Christmas, Potter came to Draco's rooms. Without preamble, he said, "You set off every one of the Ministry's Dark Detectors when you arrived, and your wand shows the Imperius Curse. That alone gives me the power to send you to Azkaban for life."

"You have that power anyway," Draco retorted. "No one will say no to the great Harry Potter."

"Tonks tells me you can brew Wolfsbane." Draco's brow wrinkled in confusion; what did that have to do with anything? Potter continued, "Do you know how many people can claim that? Perhaps four percent of the population."

"You want me to make Wolfsbane for werewolves?"

"And to research something to help Moony. The healers think potions may provide the best chance for a full recovery, but they say an entirely new one will need to be developed."

"And you trust me to do this?" Draco asked doubtfully.

"I believe you have a vested interest in success. They don't." Draco blinked--that sounded positively Slytherin. Cold and logical, and so unlike the fiery Gryffindor of their school days, Potter said, "I can get you an Exemption 4. All the Light's spies are getting them. Full clemency. I can get you into any Mastery program in the world. In return I want you to work for the benefit of all werewolves, but especially Remus Lupin. By the end of your Mastery I expect significant progress on both fronts."

Draco couldn't help a bitter laugh. "Sure," he said sarcastically. "While I'm at it, I'll just go rediscover Victus Incendia-Aurum in the next two years."

Potter gave him a perfectly blank look and Draco groaned in frustration. How could some as powerful as Potter, who defeated the--who'd defeated Voldemort for Merlin's sake, still know so little?

In the end, there was little to do but accept Potter's proposal. He did not see Potter again, though it seemed the other wizard would fill the front page of the Prophet every day for some time to come.

"Thinking hard?"

Draco jumped; he hadn't heard the door open, and his Auror guards usually knocked. The young witch before him seemed slightly familiar, but he couldn't place her. Then again, the disfiguring scar across her face--not unlike the false one of "Jacob Elliott"--was rather distracting. Averting his eyes, Draco answered, "Thinking about which school to go to for my Mastery, actually. The Potions Institute in America is well respected, but more focused on 'technological' advancement than on Wizarding Health. Poland has Uczelnia od Napoje, of course, but rumour is they've been falling in quality the past few years." According to Master Snape, anyway, Draco added mentally. Snape was a Napoje graduate, and his rants about the Academy many and varied. "Of course, there's Simoyao Xuexiao in Western China, but China?" Draco wrinkled his nose at the thought.

"What's wrong with China?" asked the witch lightly, and it was then that Draco noticed her Asiatic features and light brown skin.

"Ah, no offense meant, Miss."

She laughed. "You have no idea who I am, do you, Malfoy? Su Li, Ravenclaw. I sat behind you in Astromy for six years." Draco's face reddened, but he had no chance to speak, for she went on, "I'm here to take you to Malfoy Manor for your personal effects, and also to St. Mungo's if you wish."

Draco had requested a visit home, but didn't realize it would be so soon. "No word yet on when the Ministry will release it back to me, I suppose?"

Li shook her head. "Not anytime soon. But you'll be away at school anyway, won't you? America or Poland, or even, dare I suggest--China?"

They went to the Manor first. Draco got a tight feeling in his chest when he saw it. He half-expected to see his mother inside, overseeing last-minute adjustments to the holiday decorations before the dinner guests started arriving. But the entrance hall was dark and quiet. A few elves came up, but Draco did not need them. He selected some clothes, a few Potions books and other odds and ends. He didn't go near his father's study, or the dungeon's, or the hidden cache of jewels. Li was quiet, her eyes watchful.

Then they went to Diagon Alley for a few more purchases. It was Christmas Day, and shattered families were pulling together. The Christmas decorations were overly bright in some places, as people foraged into the future, and nonexistent in others. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was bright and crowded, but Draco did not glimpse any red heads inside as they went by. He did see Pansy, stepping over a pile of half-melted slush on the road. Draco studied her for a moment; she looked barely put-together and almost desperate. Then she saw him; an ugly frown appeared on her blunt features, and she deliberately crossed to the other side of the street.

If she thought the snub would hurt Draco, she was sadly mistaken. He never would have married her.

He bought little at the Alley. No owl--who would he send it to? Only a few potions supplies, as it was better to wait until he got a supply list from his chosen school. His one extravagance was a small pensieve. A bit silly to buy one for the purpose of viewing one memory, but at the Manor he'd remembered--the memories of his mother's memorial. Undoubtedly the small vial was still at Lupin's.

Then they went to the hospital. It was crowded. Some of the lines of people were boisterous and laughing, pulling sparkling, singing balloons along. Other sat on the hard plastic chairs with their heads in their hands, caught in a waking nightmare of one sort or another.

Dora was at the room when Draco and Li arrived. She nodded to Li and gave Draco a hard look. Draco ignored her and pulled back the curtain hiding the bed.

Lupin slept. His face was fuller than Draco remembered--the nutritional potions and lack of strain were, in a perverse way, making him healthier than he'd been in a long time. He didn't look like he was in any pain, at least.

Draco hesitantly reached out and touched a shoulder--then shook it a bit. Of course, there was no reaction. Draco opened his mouth, but paused; why bother? It wasn't as though Lupin could hear him, anyway. But Dora and Li were listening, so... "I'm still angry, you know. I'm thinking about forgiving you, but if you don't wake up I definitely won't. So you have to, you see." He turned to Li. "I'm ready to go."

"That's it?" said Dora. "Harry says you care about him, love him even, but I don't see it." Her voice was accusing; her hair was dark, sparkly blue today.

Draco frowned at the word 'love.' He was a Malfoy. He didn't love anyone, not completely. Just Mother. He said only, "I'm more use to him in a Potions lab than sitting at his side sniffling or whispering endearments."

She flushed, looking angry, and Li cut in, "We can go, then. Mr. Malfoy? This way."

He had an allowance from the Ministry, but he was still officially its "guest" until he went off to school. He'd stay in England through the January full moon (for observation purposes only, he told himself). Then he was off to Poland, or America, or China.

Vincent Crabbe was scheduled to receive the Dementor's Kiss on January 3^rd, the day before Draco was due to receive a commendation, one being given to everyone who'd fought at Hogwarts.

What a strange world--Potter alive, and his mother dead. Avada Kedavra the weapon used to stop an evil, and Draco being honoured as a Light Wizard. Draco didn't know if Wizarding Britain would ever recover--or if the Malfoy name would. He was not, as a rule, optimistic about the future. And yet... he was alive. Lupin was not totally lost either. Was Draco a traitor to Slytherin for the part he'd played? He didn't know. But he'd made his choice, and whether it was the right one or not, it was done.

The only way to go was forward.

Finite