Chapter 11
Deductions and Revelations
"As scarce as truth is, the supply is always in excess of the demand."
(Josh Billings)
She stared at me for a full minute, and in that minute she gave herself away. But fear was replaced by indignation, and she blustered, 'I don't know what you mean. Don't you think I would have said something by now if he wasn't? Would I really let Ron have him if he wasn't his? Do you really think I'm that much of a fool?'
I fixed her with a steely stare. 'Do you really think I'm a fool?' I asked, wearily. 'I know, I tell you – I know. I know the truth, so I know that you are lying.' She looked uncertain. Did she believe me? It didn't matter. I knew that I was right. My proof lay in her change in expression as I had asked my question. 'And I imagine – though I'm not sure – that you didn't say anything at the time because you didn't want to dishonour the dead.'
She started and then stared at me, perplexed. 'I don't see how you can know,' she breathed. 'No one else has ever guessed. No one else has ever even suspected. Not even Molly Weasley. Why you? Why you? And why now?'
'Everyone looks at other people,' I said, quietly. 'I actually see them. He looks very much like his father – oh, not in his face, not where anyone might notice it – but in some ways he is his father.' I looked straight into her eyes. 'He looks like Andrew, you know. That's the first thing I realised. He looks like Andrew. But I was stupid. I thought that since they're related that was alright. I thought they must both resemble some Weasley great-uncle or something. But there was a much more obvious solution there, staring me in the face, and I didn't see it until later.'
She snorted. 'That's all? Why shouldn't he look like Andrew? After all, they're cousins.'
I shook my head, and her composure fractured again. 'No,' I said. 'Not cousins.' She stared, imploringly, willing me not to say the words. I said them. 'Half-brothers.'
She cried then. Really cried. I didn't think it was because I'd found her out. They were tears of sorrow, or maybe remorse. Did she regret it? I wondered. She choked out, 'How did you work that out? You said yourself that he might look like Andrew for any reason, given how closely related they are – supposed to be.'
I shrugged. 'In the light of the television, he looked just like Harry in the glow of a luminescent potion,' I said. 'And there are other reasons. Charity has her father's fire, and Hector reminded me of her. There's something of Harry in him, if you look closely enough. And I did look.' She sighed through the tears. 'I'm surprised Draco didn't notice, really,' I added, reflectively. 'He always spent more time staring at Harry than I did. But I suppose that he didn't look at Hector at all. You have to look to see.'
She gave a brittle laugh. 'True enough,' she replied. 'But why… what was Draco's relationship to Harry, then?'
I guessed that she had always wanted to know this. There'd been speculation among the members of the Order, but no one had ever known for sure. Not even me. 'I don't know,' I said, honestly. 'He never said anything about it. He told me what he and Harry used to say to one another, but never what they used to do to one another.' Hermione gave a tight smile at my choice of words. 'But I imagine he married a green-eyed woman for a reason.' I took a breath. 'But that's nothing to do with this. Let's start again. I know that Hector is Harry Potter's son. What I don't know is when and why. And how could either of you do that to Ginny? She was supposed to be your friend!'
Hermione stared. 'Are you her knight-gallant?' she asked, shakily. 'It's a shame she doesn't appreciate you more. But the truth is that she wouldn't deserve you. She doesn't deserve you and she didn't deserve Harry.' She paused to allow her sudden anger to subside. 'She did in the beginning. I was happy for them. They were perfect for one another. You knew that. But something changed. I don't know what, or why, but something changed. If she'd been the same Ginny I'd always known, I would never have done it. That I swear.'
I nodded, wonderingly. She was different now, certainly, but I'd blamed that on Macmillan. Had I been too harsh? Since Harry had died, I hadn't seen much of Ginny, and during his terminal illness I had probably explained away any differences in her behaviour as being due to the stress and pain. Had she stopped being the girl I loved before Harry had died? And if so, why? I sensed that this was not a question that Hermione could help me answer. Maybe it was a question that I would never be able to answer.
'Your excuses aren't important,' I said now, a little harshly. 'I suppose you wouldn't have done it if you'd been completely happy with Ron, either. I don't suppose – I don't really blame you. But he's dead, and nothing I say can touch him.' I smiled. 'He was very good at loyalty to a cause, and loyalty to his friends,' I added. 'But never very good at faithfulness. That's why I wasn't that surprised when I realised. I was more surprised that you'd done it than that he had. I would never have thought that of you.'
She shrugged. 'No one would,' she said, sadly. 'That's why I've been safe. Surprising enough that one man wanted to sleep with the bushy-haired know-it-all Mudblood, let alone two.' There was viciousness in her voice. And she'd said that word – Mudblood – a word that I seldom heard even Draco say any more. Had she been bullied by people less restrained than my Malfoy friend? Was that why she'd left our world? She went on, 'And you shouldn't judge Harry. He was completely starved of affection for ten years. Was it any wonder that he should find one person's love not enough?'
I thought of myself. Who had ever loved me? What sort of excuse was that? My family didn't love me, so I have to sleep with anyone who's willing. I didn't say anything out loud – it might have been seen as wanting sympathy. 'Maybe I shouldn't judge him,' I conceded. 'But I want to know how you managed it. Ten years ago, Harry was dying. He had two nurses watching him most nights. I don't believe Ginny ever left his side for more than a few minutes.'
'You give her too much credit,' Hermione laughed. 'You always have. She's human, you know. She had two children – one of them a baby – to look after, so she couldn't have been always by Harry's bedside.' She became more sober and said, 'He was dying. I went to see him and he looked awful. My friend. My oldest friend. He was wasting away. I've always loved him, although never in that way, never in the way I loved Ron. But for a while, for that half-hour, I did. It made him happy. It was all I could have done. He was my friend, and I could never have denied him, not when I could see that within six months he'd be dead.'
I couldn't find it in my heart to condemn her. 'And he was dead within six months?' I asked.
She snorted. 'Of course he wasn't,' she said. 'Since when did Harry ever die when he was expected to? Hector was nearly three months old when his father died. I always wondered if he knew. He probably did. No one ever gave him any sort of credit for his intelligence. It was always – oh, Harry's so brave, so strong, so powerful. But he was clever, too. And good at seeing things that no one else knew were there.' She gave a deep, deep sigh. 'I suppose if I'd been in love with him, that might have excused me. But then, love can't excuse everything.' Then she looked at me, worriedly. 'Are you going to tell anyone?'
'No,' I said. I wouldn't, either. I didn't want to be the bearer of bad news, just in case someone decided to curse the messenger. 'But you should. It'd be better for you, surely; you could get Hector back. For good. Ron's not his father – his father's dead – so there's no one else in the world with more claim than you. And I hate to think of Ginny not knowing this. I won't be able to face her, knowing that she's ignorant of it.'
'What good would it do?' Hermione asked, desperately. 'To tell anyone – everyone – now. Why should I do that? No one will ever speak to me again. And no wizard council would let a magical child be cared for by a woman who works in insurance. Don't say I could come back. Could I, really, after all this time?' She frowned at me. 'Will you want something for keeping silent, then?'
I was offended. 'I'm no blackmailer,' I said, sharply. 'I wouldn't dream of it. I ask only for information.' I turned and threw the door open, calling over my shoulder as I left, 'And I really think you should tell them.' I heard a muffled sob behind me, and I wondered how she had lived with this terrible secret for so long without breaking down. I didn't know whether I would've managed it, and I had more experience than most of living a lie.
As soon as I got back to the castle, I made my way into Draco's dungeons. I found my friend seated at the desk in his office, bent over a large number of rolls of parchment, a half-glass of brandy sitting nearby. He looked up as I knocked on the open door. His eyes narrowed. 'So what was all of that about?' he asked, bluntly and suspiciously. 'Or do I not want to know?' He had a gift for making people uncomfortable, and even I, who knew his tricks well, fidgeted slightly under that stony grey gaze.
'Nothing like that,' I said, briskly, in an attempt to put him off the trail. This was not my secret – it wouldn't hurt me if it came out – but I didn't want to be the one responsible for it becoming public. I might be a Slytherin, but I was only underhanded when it came to dealing with enemies. I never played my friends false, and I had assured Hermione that I wouldn't tell. Nothing Draco would do to me would make me break that. 'It's not something I want to talk to you about. If you were more observant, maybe you'd have worked it out for yourself.'
It would have been undignified for Draco to have persisted in his questioning in the face of a flat denial, so he did not. 'Suit yourself,' he said, half-smiling ironically. Reaching out and dipping his quill into red ink, he added, 'Macmillan was here barely five minutes ago. Actually, he was here when I got back. Not in this room – I keep it locked – but waiting outside. I think he was waiting for you.' I wondered why. Had Ernie been Charity's father, I would have known instantly, but as it was I could see no reason why he should be outraged at my conduct. Draco smirked. 'Apparently something happened last night?'
I glared at him half-heartedly. 'Something might have happened last night,' I said, frostily. 'But why would it be any of your business? I don't really see why it's any of Macmillan's business. He's not Charity's father. It's got nothing to do with him.' No sooner had I finished speaking than I realised that I'd made a mistake. I'd given myself away. Draco looked surprised for a moment, before shock was superseded by a triumphant, knowing smirk. He hadn't known, I realised. He hadn't known about Charity until I'd told him.
'Aha!' he crowed. 'Charity now, is it? And here was I thinking that you'd finally got up the courage to seduce Ginny behind his back!' He paused for a moment and frowned, evidently beginning to realise how strange it was that Ernie had been attempting to defend Charity's honour. 'But you're right. Why should he care? What did he want to see you for?' Then the smirk crept back. 'That's not important. But you, Theodore – I never would've thought the day would come when I'd see you making a move on a younger woman. You're a lucky sod, I suppose you know that. You deserve a bit of luck, though, after all you've been through.'
I snorted. 'You make my past sound so much worse than it actually was,' I objected. 'And I didn't make a move on Charity, as you so gracefully put it. She instigated it.' He looked doubtful. I sighed. 'Come on, Draco, do you honestly believe that I'd attempt to seduce a nineteen-year-old girl? And she's not a substitute for Ginny,' I added, wondering if this was true or if I was just saying it in an attempt to convince myself. 'I've given up on her. Truth be told, I gave up on her when she married Macmillan. Nothing else she could've done would have told me more convincingly that she wanted nothing to do with me.'
Draco shook his head and rolled his eyes. 'Nothing else could've told me more convincingly that she needed her head checked,' he said, smirking. 'But I don't want to talk about her. That'll only make you depressed again.' He looked at me and I felt suddenly uncomfortable. He had a way of making me feel as if he really saw me, as if he could see my soul. He was one of the only Legilimens left in England, but I didn't think he was reading my mind. He wouldn't do that to me, and besides, Legilimency was not half so disturbing.
'Depressed? I'm not depressed,' I protested. I hadn't been, not this week, anyway. I'd been too absorbed in my twin mysteries. I didn't say that to Draco; Hermione's secret was not mine to tell. I'd promised her I wouldn't, and Slytherin or not, I kept my promises. 'I don't get depressed.' Draco snorted at this, but I ignored him. 'I think I'll go back to my office,' I said, after a minute. 'Macmillan might come back, and, besides, you look busy. And I can't keep drinking your alcohol all the time.'
He smirked. 'Okay,' he said. 'I'll let you get back to Charity. She's more interesting than I am, I'm sure.'
'Draco!' I snapped, but he just grinned. I wondered if he was so very far wrong. If I was honest with myself, I would have to admit that I had been hoping that the young redhead might make an appearance tonight. It wasn't as if I'd hurry back if I had something better to be doing, but since Draco was busy, what else did I have to look forward to? I analysed my previous thoughts and snorted in spite of myself. I'm not in denial, I thought, weakly.
My friend simply laughed. 'Go on with you,' he said, lightly. 'I wouldn't stand between you and a little bit of happiness, Theo. Heaven knows, you need some.' He took a sip of brandy. 'For that matter I could do with some, but I don't see any pretty young girls throwing themselves at me, more's the pity.' He looked wistful, but I couldn't tell if he was being serious. The mystery of Draco's sexuality had never been completely resolved, even for me. It didn't bother me particularly – we spoke about those things that were important to us. If Draco didn't tell me about his love life, then it simply wasn't important. But that wouldn't, I knew, stop him from teasing me about mine.
I refused to acknowledge any truth that might have been in his words. I didn't have to. As always, he knew me as well if not better than I did myself. I left the office with him shaking his head behind me, and made my way through the school to my own rooms. When I got there, I found that a young woman was indeed waiting there for me. Unfortunately, it was not the one I had been expecting – or maybe hoping – to find. Standing outside my door with an anguished expression and her fair hair disordered was Flora Dagworth.
I stared. 'Flora?' I said, disbelievingly. She lifted her eyes to mine, and I gasped. There was such raw despair there that I took a step back to put distance between me and that intensity. 'What's happened to you?'
Her voice was tight with misery and suppressed anger. 'Nothing's happened to me,' she said. 'It's my brother. Theodore, it's awful.' Her shoulders shook as if she would cry. 'I don't know what to do. I thought that, since you're the Defence teacher, you could help me. I didn't know where else to go!'
I had a fair bit of experience of dealing with semi-hysterical women. I unlocked the door to my office and held it open for her, waving her inside and directing her to the softest chair I could find. Then I sat down facing her and said, willing compassion into my voice, 'It's alright. I'll help you. If you just tell me what the problem is, then I'll help you with it, I promise.' It was a sincere enough promise, but my mind was racing along other lines as I said it. Like since when did Flora Dagworth have a brother?
She stared at me for a moment, as if, now she was here, she was doubting the wisdom of letting someone else in on her secret. Eventually, however, her fear won out, and she said, 'It's terrible, Theodore. My brother – he's young, foolish and pure-blooded. He was – oh, I hate to admit it – but he was one of Viper's men.' I sucked in my breath sharply. Did this explain the unusual state of tension she'd been in recently? Another, more unpleasant thought hit me. Had she been telling her brother anything? Was she, possibly, the spy?
Filing away my suspicions carefully in the back of my mind, I said, shrewdly, 'You say he was?'
Flora looked frightened, as if she'd only just realised the implications of her admission herself. 'Yes,' she said. 'He was. But he said he had to escape. He had to run away. He came to see me because he didn't know what else to do! He's got no one else. I – he hid in a cave, outside Hogsmeade. No one goes out there. I thought he'd be safe!' Her eyes were wide with something that was not quite horror and yet stronger than mere disbelief. 'I thought I was protecting him from people who wanted to hurt him. I didn't imagine that I'd have to protect other people from him! He never told me, I swear he never told me!'
Apprehension seized me. What could she be talking about? What had she done? Harboured a dangerous criminal, a dark wizard, without alerting the proper authorities. And what had he done, this mysterious brother? 'Flora,' I said, softly. 'You have to tell me what this is about. What do you mean? What did he never tell you?'
Her voice shook, but she got the words out well enough. 'It's – I didn't want to take him in, Theodore, believe me! I didn't want to help him. But he's my brother! The bonds of blood…' She tailed off at this point and averted her eyes from me. Maybe she had only just remembered that, although purebloods valued family above all else, I had once had a reward price placed on my head by my own father. I was hardly the person most likely to understand the bonds of blood. She swallowed, and then pressed on, 'Theo, he ran away from them. And they made him a werewolf.'
'What?' Whatever I'd been expecting, it hadn't been this. Viper could bestow lycanthropy at will? But no – that was too complicated. 'You mean that they've got a werewolf on their side?' I asked, knowing that that must be the answer. I remembered Fenrir, my father's associate, from the Second War – I wasn't likely to forget him in a hurry. Maybe all Dark Lords followed the same paths and took the same precautions. 'Did he try to run on a full moon night?' I thought out loud as Flora trembled with suppressed emotion. 'Or did they somehow catch him afterwards and infect him?'
Flora let out a sob. 'I don't know!' she cried. 'All I know is that – he's a werewolf. There wasn't any trouble on the last moon. There won't be any trouble tonight. He's not stupid – he's made sure he can't get to anyone. But he didn't warn me, and I went down to see him tonight.' She shivered. 'I came face to face with a werewolf, Theodore. He was behind bars, but I still saw him – my brother – mad. I want to find who did this to him. I want to find that person very badly indeed.' Her urgency was almost frightening. 'How they did it is the least of my concerns. I only care that they did.' She sounded vicious.
I was not, as a rule, a particularly emotional person, but at this moment a horrible thought dawned in my mind. 'It will be your concern,' I growled. 'If this means what I think it means, it's everyone's concern. When did your brother first come to see you?'
She looked at me, as if she didn't understand why I was interested. 'About a month and a half ago,' she replied, eventually.
'Not a full moon,' I muttered, darkly. 'This means – oh, don't you know what this means?' I asked, suddenly angry at her stupidity, her ignorance, her foolish emotional outbursts. I was on edge, fear eating through my veins, and all she could do was cry. She shook her head, stunned. 'I don't think they have a werewolf on their side,' I said, slowly. She frowned at me. I carried on, ignoring her perplexity. 'No, nothing as simple or as predictable as a werewolf.' My mind was running back through all of the texts on lycanthropy that I'd ever read – one in particular. 'What they've got – or what I fear they might have – is a worg.'
