Old Moon Fades

Old Moon Fades

Chapter Thirteen: The Letter

The crisp white envelope stared up at him silently daring him to open it. He didn't want to. Draco hated to admit it, even to himself, but he was afraid. Afraid of the contents of a simple, stupid, bloody envelope, he cursed himself silently. Within the envelope sitting ominously on his desk were the secrets of his past, the truth that he desperately didn't want to face. Coward.

"Open the bloody thing!" He repeated it over and over in his mind like a mantra, letting the words sink. They didn't. It was like oil and water, it just wasn't mixing. He couldn't open it yet. It was all just too much, the never-ending anxiety, the trepidation.

Finally Draco could take it no longer. Slowly, carefully, he reached out for it. His hand was shaking. He watched, as if detached from his body, as his hand slid across the polished surface of his desk and took hold of a corner of the envelope. He pulled it closer. The handwriting on the front was sweeping and elegant. In silken lines it addressed him: Draco Malfoy. His mother really did have quite lovely handwriting. Cautiously he flipped it over. The Malfoy crest was embedded in wax on the back. He dropped it back down onto the desk as if burned.

Wanting to delay the inevitable moment for as long as possible, Draco pulled open the top desk drawer and removed the plain wooden box from its depths. It was a rather nondescript box that kept Draco's most horrid reminders of that summer hidden. He'd tried to forget, to burn it all from his mind, to keep the truth tucked away where it couldn't hurt him. He'd tried for months to pretend that everything was normal and that the revelations of his final encounter with his father simply had been a nightmare. He'd tried but failed utterly.

Slowly he lifted the box from the table. He didn't open it. He hadn't opened it since he'd first shoved everything into it and then out of sight his very first night back at Hogwarts after the incident. But now was the time. He felt for one moment that he was ready to face all his demons at once and just to get the damn thing over with. Maybe then the nightmares would stop.

Maybe.

The worst thing about his nightmares was that they were real. Not one single part was dreamed up or fantasized. It made it all the more horrible to bear. The horrors of that fateful summer morning now hounded him like the dogs of war. He was tired of running from the dark corners lurking in his heart, tired of fleeing from the death of his father. It bothered him that Lucius had such a hold on him still. After all this time, after all the months of loneliness and pain, Lucius still scared him. And he was dead. In death maybe Draco feared him more.

He'd wondered once, in a moment of abject solitude, how his life would be different if he hadn't chosen to fight his father, if he'd simply acquiesced. But as soon as the thought had entered his mind he pushed it away again. It was better this way, he had to admit. For all the ways it was worse, it was still better. Even now he could barely look himself in the mirror, he dreaded the thought of hating himself more had he gone through with his fathers demands to kill Granger; he wasn't used to the thought of hating himself more.

He was psyching himself up, running over every detail of that summer in his mind, reliving it. Some kind of confidence boost. No, he'd been a coward long enough, he was through with that. He was ready for the truth. The first step was to open the box and deal with what was inside. Quickly, to end the discomfort, he thrust the lid of the wooden box open and removed the velvet pouch from inside. Its contents weighed heavy in his hands and even heavier on his heart. Tugging the string loose he pulled the bag open so that its contents spilled forth.

The ring and the dagger were like shackles in his hands. He studied them still afraid. The emerald encrusted dagger was still shiny, still sharp. Carefully he ran a finger along the length of the blade, not hard enough to cut his skin. He stopped short at the sight of dried blood on its edge. Granger's blood. Dirty blood like his own. If Narcissa really was his mother, if she had given him life and if Lucius wasn't his father, then who was?

Lucius. He'd hated and feared and admired and worshipped him all his life. He was scared of him, had horrible memories of his father, but... he had wanted to follow in his footsteps. His father's ring, Lucius' ring, stared up at him. He slid the ring onto his finger as he'd seen his father do countless times during his childhood. From its place on his finger, the ring watched him expectantly. It knew. The ring knew that he wasn't really a Malfoy, he could feel it. Draco wasn't sure how, but was certain that it knew the truth. But, as with most jewelry, the ring was indifferent. It didn't care who wore it as long as they were the Malfoy heir. At least he had that. The ring recognized his true blood but it didn't matter. Finally something that didn't care one way or the other about who he really was. Draco, not really a Malfoy, but not anything else either. Something else. He welcomed the indifference, embraced it.

The ring was still too large for his fingers but Draco knew that one day it would fit him. Either he would grow into it, or it would grow to fit him. He wasn't sure. Soon. For all practical purposes it was already his ring. He was Malfoy. His confidence bolstered, he turned his attention again toward the envelope.

He'd written his mother after the start of term. In that letter he'd put voice to all the questions that had been plaguing his mind these last few months. And now she'd written him back. In all truth he'd received the letter several days ago, but he'd been too afraid of the truth to actually open it. The truth was final, too final. All this time he'd had the freedom to pretend that none of it had happened, that the sins of the summer simply didn't exist. It was easy being at school away from home. Or it would have been easy if his Slytherin house-mates had been on speaking terms with him.

He'd put it off long enough. It was time to learn the truth. He opened the envelope without hesitation. His eyes quickly scanned its contents and his heart fell to his knees in shock.

This was not good news.

This was much worse than he'd anticipated.

He had to warn Granger.

He prayed it wasn't too late.

* * *

Hermione had finally settled into a routine that she liked quite nicely. Though her classes were decidedly more difficult and she had to study more often, she found that it was easier this term. Partially this was due to the fact that she no longer had to coach the other students along during classes anymore. She still read over Harry and Ron's assignments from time to time, but lately they hadn't bothered asking her. It seemed that because of that one small fact that her load had lightened significantly.

But as she sat down to her own homework she was rather regretful about the lack of anyone needing to be tutored. As annoying as it could be at times, someone asking for her help was flattering in a way. The truth was now that Harry and Ron were in different classes she felt oddly detached from them somehow, almost left out. But they both wanted to be Aurors and had somehow managed to obtain the requisite number of O.W.L.'s. She liked to think that maybe she'd had something to do with their achievements. Not that she'd ever tell them that. Now that she and Ron were no longer on speaking terms while she and Harry barely were, she felt again as she had as a first-year: lonesome.

That's why, when Malfoy strode into the library and immediately locked eyes with her and started in her direction, she felt relieved and almost happy to see him. Almost. The look on his face was enough to eradicate any and all feelings of happiness.

His strides were long and heavy, deliberate even. His eyes became narrow and piercing. Malfoy's entire face seemed filled with emotion, anger, fear. She thought they'd been getting along sort of lately. Then she noticed a parchment clenched tightly in his fist. In seconds he was standing before her dragging her by the elbow out of her chair. She struggled to quickly grab her books together and pulled out of his grasp.

"What is all this about, Malfoy?!" Her voice was tinged in confusion and anger.

He looked down at her almost wildly before scanning the library quickly. "Not here, there are too many people around." He started to grab her books from her. "Come on. We have to hurry."

He turned on his heel and started out of the library carrying her books the entire way. She reluctantly followed.

In the hallway where it was alright to talk she turned to him and demanded, "Just where is it that we're going?"

"My room."

"Your room? Whatever for?" She was shocked and her voice betrayed it.

He stopped walking and turned around. As if speaking to a child he arrogantly announced, "It just so happens to be the only place in this entire bloody school where it's safe for me to tell you what is that I have to tell you." His patience was wearing thin, that much was obvious. "Are you just going to stand there all day or are you coming with me?"

He waited for her response expectantly.

"Oh, alright. If you insist."

They started moving again. Faster this time. With the pace he was setting she was sure they had to be breaking some sort of school record. After a minute of the brisk pace her shins began to ache. After several more minutes they threatened to revolt. She grabbed onto the back of Malfoy's robe and stopped him in the center of the abandoned corridor.

"We have got to slow down. My legs are killing me."

He rolled his eyes and sighed audibly running a nervous hand through his hair. He said harshly, "Well Granger, its your life. Not mine."

That got her moving again. The two of them walked from the fourth floor down to the first, above the Great Hall. They passed the D.A.D.A. classroom and the Hospital Wing into a rarely used corridor of the school. Hermione had never been this far down that particular corridor and was surprised at all the empty rooms and chambers located in it.

"You aren't in the Slytherin dormitories anymore?" She asked before she realized how personal that question was.

He looked down on her cautiously before answering. "No. I have my own room now."

He left the real reasons for the change hanging in the air. She didn't know whether the Slytherins just didn't want him around of if maybe there was another reason. Malfoy stopped before a plain brown door at the end of the corridor. He looked at her for one brief moment as if deciding whether this was a good idea or not. He sighed and spoke the password to a small pastoral scene in a simple frame, "Ab imo pectore." He glanced at her to gauge her reaction. "'From here on.' Dumbledore's idea. He set the room up for me."

"Oh," she said quietly. It felt so odd to be standing outside his room during the middle of the day. She was at a loss for words. "It seems appropriate."

The door swung open and he stepped aside to let her enter first. Never in her wildest imaginings would she ever have expected Malfoy to suddenly be gallant. He seemed to be filled with surprises lately. As he shut the door behind them, Hermione felt anxious and nervous standing in the center of his room. It wasn't how she had pictured it. Instead of being dark and damp it was surprisingly bright and warm. His bed stood imposingly on the opposite wall, by a row of windows overlooking the Forbidden Forest and Hagrid's Hut. She pointedly ignored the bed and turned her attention to the other furniture in the room. A wardrobe was placed against one wall and there was a small fireplace on the other side of the room by his writing desk. But it was his bookcase that garnered her attention. She made a beeline for it and quickly scanned the rows of rare books. She looked back up to him in awe and asked, "You really have a copy of Auriferae artis? And 'The Ripley Scroll?' Malfoy, there are only twenty-one of these in existence! How did you manage to get one?"

He smiled hollowly and answered, "It's a hobby of mine."

"Alchemy? A hobby? May I?" She looked up at him pleadingly. Never in her life had she wanted to read a book more than she did right now.

He nodded his head and sat down at his desk, watching. She flipped the pages carefully so as not to damage them. The books were written by well known alchemists around the sixteenth century. Occasionally she glanced back at Malfoy to ensure that it was alright that she looked at them. They were priceless.

Finally at one point he leaned over and said quietly, "I've got some of Paracelsus' journals. If you ever wanted to look at those."

She nearly dropped the books she was holding. "Paracelsus. You have some of his journals? How in the world did you manage that? What I am saying? I would love to see them! Do you have them here?"

"No. But I could owl Mother and have her send them. It would be no trouble. Really."

"Oh, yes please! That would mean so much!" She had never been happier in her life. She smiled genuinely up at him. But he was watching her so intently, so seriously that she slowly put the books away and said, "You had something you wanted to show me?"

"Here. Just read it." He held out the letter.

She opened it slowly, unsure of what it was. As she read the first few lines she looked back up at him questioningly. "Are you sure you want me to read this. It's quite personal."

"It concerns you as well." He stood up and made his way to the window. He looked out at the forest beyond leaving her in relative privacy to read the letter. She read it once, then again to clarify. This was a bad letter. A very bad letter indeed.

My Dearest Draco,

I know that you must have many questions and I will do my best to answer them. Your first must be why did we keep your heritage a secret for so many years? You must know, my son, that it was never my intention to keep the secret for as long as we did. That was your father's suggestion. He never wanted you to know. It is regrettable the way in which you discovered the truth. I hope you forgive me for that. I feel partially responsible for the death of your father. And please don't hold your father's actions against him. He was truly a good man and I have always loved him. I feared him, yes, but I loved him too.

The answer to your second question is "no." Lucius was not your real father. In all other senses of the word he was. But biologically he was not. The incidence of your birth was entirely of his own creation. I would never come up with a scheme as farfetched and improbable as he did. You see, we had tried several times, unsuccessfully, to conceive an heir but each time we were met with disappointment. I'd suggested going to a wizard specialist but Lucius quickly negated that idea. He feared the publicity. I desperately wanted a child and your father needed an heir. We didn't know what to do. So Lucius took it upon himself to find one by any means necessary.

One afternoon he brought home a Muggle man that he'd placed under the Imperius curse. Your father was that man. He looked remarkably similar to Lucius and as you know our entire family shares our fair haired looks. Your real father was the man Lucius brought home. I didn't at first agree to the idea and Lucius kept the man at the Manor for several days waiting for me to acquiesce to his demands. I agreed on one condition, that you would always be treated as one of the family. You would be my son and Lucius' as well. He agreed. And you were never poorly treated while you lived here. Lucius accepted you and raised you as any father would. He was content that you would one day replace him as head of our family. He wanted nothing more than for you to follow him in every aspect of his life. So, Draco, don't be disheartened to hear the circumstances of your birth. We both did what we thought was necessary for the family. You were so important that we felt it was our duty to our name to carry it on.

Never forget, you were born for a purpose: to uphold the Malfoy name.

Love always,

Your Mother

P.S. It is rather inconsequential I believe, but you may wish to know, Lucius did away with all evidence regarding your birth and that includes your Muggle father. No one needs to know this sordid history of your birth, so I recommend discretion. Oh, and darling, no need to worry about that Granger girl who was witness to your father's confession. She's being taken care of. Have a nice term. I love you.