Chapter 13: Sins of the Mother

-On the bright side, I suppose that means they're even because I highly doubt she knows his name.

-Your drawings are beautiful and I think you should show them to people. On purpose I mean, not when I look over your shoulder when you're not looking.

-Um. Isn't it though?

-Actually I think they die if they eat too much lettuce. We've got to be nearly there, haven't we?

-I'm offended you think I pay attention to anything Ernie Macmillan does.

-I don't fancy her either. I don't fancy her either. I don't fancy her either.

-Yuck. You ask Hermione, and let me know her exact words when she tells you how far you can fuck off.

-I mean, for fuck's sake, you might've TOLD me. I'm actually very upset with you.

Draco laid aside his quill and spared a glance at the front of the classroom. Term had started up again last week, and although they were already being set a frankly offensive amount of homework, Draco thought it had been the nicest week he'd spent at Hogwarts. He didn't mind homework nearly as much, after all, when he could sit with Hermione while they did it.

He'd been a bit worried that, when term started and the castle filled again with eyes and ears and footsteps, she'd decide once more that she couldn't stand the thought of...whatever it was they were doing. However, she seemed as relieved and happy as he felt that they could talk to one another again. She wouldn't kiss him or hold his hand in front of others, and, not wanting to upset their equilibrium again so soon after it had been restored, he followed her lead. Besides, the feeling that flooded him when they exchanged secret glances across a corridor or a classroom was thrilling beyond anything he'd experienced before. He craved it indescribably, almost as much as her touch. Yesterday in their Potions lesson she'd brushed his hand with hers under the table, so quick and feather-light that any observer would've deemed it an accident; only Draco saw the split-second glimmer in her eye. He'd been in such a good mood for the rest of the day that he'd entertained Blaise's elaborate theory about a horde of extremely dexterous ferrets that traveled through the castle using a system of tunnels in the walls and explained why they never saw their common rooms or dormitories being cleaned. It was a mark of how happy the girls were that Draco and Theo were speaking again that they waited nearly five minutes before voicing their loud and somewhat profane objections.

Today, they were turning tortises into teapots in Transfiguration, which Draco found difficult because he spent the first ten minutes of the lesson stroking his tortise's shell and admiring the way its eyes drooped sleepily at his touch. Catching the smug smile on Daphne's face, however, he'd picked up his wand at once and set about turning it into a teapot, and had been fending off an unpleasant squirming guilt in his stomach ever since. Now, with a brief glance around the room, he picked up his quill again and flipped to a new page in Theo's notebook.

Blaise's teapot looks like Professor Binns.

Without looking up he gently slid the notebook to his left. Evidently Theo's snort attracted Blaise's attention, for a few moments later the book re-appeared in front of him.

So does your mum after I'm finished with her.

Draco looked up, suppressing a gag, to find Daphne reading over his shoulder. With a smirk, she snatched the notebook.

I don't think that's quite the endorsement of your skills you think it is.

"Is there something amusing, Mr. Malfoy?" Draco jumped.

"No, Professor," he said at once, and felt Theo lightly slip the notebook out of his hand under the table, though neither looked down.

"In that case, kindly assist Mr. Zabini in correcting what he has done wrong."

By the time the bell rang, Blaise's teapot no longer had a face, a whole page of the notebook had been filled, and, for the first time in Draco's living memory, he was excited by the prospect of a History of Magic lesson.

"Draco, you won't mind nipping the Snitch back into the crate before you go, yeah?"

"Not again, Marcus, it's the third time this week-"

"And I am forever indebted to you in a way I can never adequately repay," said Flint smoothly, and swept from the pitch after the rest of the team. The moment Flint was gone, Draco released his grip on his sleeve and the Snitch fluttered out. He caught it at once, not wanting to really lose it against the darkening sky, and locked it firmly in the ball crate. He mounted his broom once again and took off. The air was frigid, but he scarcely minded it cutting through his hair and threatening to pierce his skin. If anything it made everything seem a bit sharper; the evening's first stars glowed brighter in winter, and the snow sparking atop the distant trees of the Forbidden Forest cut a stark line against the steadily deepening indigo of the sky. He'd done a few laps around the pitch and was practicing his dives when the Quaffle smacked him square in the side of the head. He turned sharply, furious, and swooped down to catch the large red ball as it fell.

"That's a foul," he snapped. "You owe me a penalty shot." Ginny laughed.

"Aren't all your shots penalty shots?" she said lightly. "As there aren't any other players to stop you." In response, Draco lobbed the Quaffle back at her and grinned as it struck her left shoulder. She shrieked and pretended to dive off in the opposite direction, only to come racing back and hurl the Quaffle at the back of his head, nearly knocking him off his broom.

They played ruthlessly that evening. By the time they returned to the earth, both were bruised and exhausted but glowing with the invincible sort of exhilaration unique to very hard physical work. Draco locked the Quaffle in the crate with the rest of the balls, and they made their way into the locker room. Upon opening the door, however, Ginny stopped so abruptly that Draco ran smack into her and dropped the crate with a deafening crash.

"For fuck's sake!" he snapped.

"Shh!" Ginny replied at once.

"Bit late for that," said another voice, and Draco froze. Marcus Flint was still in the locker room, but he wasn't alone. Draco glanced to the right and locked eyes with Oliver Wood. Then, in a single moment that felt as if it spanned the entirety of recorded human history, his eyes flitted over the disheveled state of their robes, the discarded Gryffindor tie lying on the bench, Wood's half-opened shirt buttons, Flint's flushed, tense face...he wanted, with everything in him, to look away, but his heartbeat was pounding, his breath was shallow and useless, his hands trembled uncontrollably, and he felt as if he were being pulled irresistibly forward and slightly down by an invisible but inexorable force.

"You're meant to be gone," Flint told him, and though the words sounded as if they were coming from underwater, they struck him like a slap.

"Look who's talking," he heard Ginny say, and though he was grateful to her for speaking-he wasn't sure he'd ever be capable again-the mirth in her voice ground his nerves down to their ends.

"Go," said Wood shortly. "We'll put away-" he broke off and gestured, somewhat lamely, toward the brooms and the ball crate. "Just go." Flint's eyes met Draco's.

"Your silence," he hissed, "buys mine."

It wasn't until they reached the castle and said a stiff and awkward goodnight in the Entrance Hall that Draco remembered Ginny wasn't supposed to be in the Quidditch locker room.

When she told Professor McGonagall her suspicions about the Firebolt, Hermione fully expected Harry and Ron to be angry with her. She bore Harry's sullen silences and Ron's derisive scoffs in her direction without complaint for the remainder of the Christmas holidays. Actions had consequences, after all, even if they were the right thing to do. However, as the holidays ended and the first week of term passed with no change in their behavior, she had to admit that it was beginning to wear on her. As Gryffindor Tower filled up again, word of the Firebolt inevitably spread like a virus. Upon learning that it had been confiscated, most people seemed scandalized beyond what felt remotely appropriate. In fact, Hermione began to be disturbed by how blithely her Housemates placed greater value on a broomstick than on the threat to Harry's life. Only Ginny stood by her, and although she found frequent occasion to express her disapproval of Harry and Ron's priorities, they appeared unaffected. In fact, Ginny's attempts to tell them off only seemed to increase their commitment to the grudge. In the end, Hermione asked her to stop.

On the morning of the second Wednesday of the new term, Hermione went down to breakfast so early that the only other people in the Great Hall was a small cluster of Ravenclaw seventh years. She had tried to finish her ridiculous Divination homework last night, but Ginny had sprinted into the library, panting and red in the face, to tell her breathlessly about something or other she'd seen on the Quidditch pitch-Hermione hadn't really been listening, and then an irate Madam Pince had stormed over to banish them, leaving her essay unfinished. She'd scarcely been at it ten minutes, however, when Draco slipped into the seat beside her. He looked pale and slightly wan, as if he'd slept poorly the night before. Nevertheless, her breath caught in her chest as it always did when he sat so close to her. His hair was mussed and his tie was improperly tied and slightly askew in a way that might have looked accidental to anyone who hadn't known him long enough to know he knew perfectly well how to fix his hair and tie neatly. He smelled like crisp winter air, as if he'd been outside already.

"Morning," she said softly.

"Morning." He grinned, and kissed her in a way that both thrilled her and made her feel excruciatingly exposed.

"Draco," she hissed, pulling her face away. "We're in the Great Hall." He glanced around.

"There's absolutely no one here, unless you can see a load of invisible people I can't."

"They're here," Hermione pointed out, gesturing to the Ravenclaws. Not one of them had so much as glanced up, but that felt entirely beside the point. Draco frowned slightly, then turned to the Ravenclaws.

"Oy," he called. "Do any of you lot know either of our names?" Only two of them looked up. One shook her head derisively and returned to their conversation. Draco turned back to Hermione, and she found a grin forcing its way onto her face as a warm, electric thrill shot through her.

"All right, then," she murmured, and closed her Divination book. Her essay, it seemed, would have to wait for lunch.

Draco retreated to the Slytherin table as the Hall filled for breakfast, and though his absence made her cold, he caught her eye when no one was looking and winked, making her feel as if she'd been released from the confines of gravity. She went slightly early to their first lesson-Potions-and made a point to stand slightly apart from the rest of the class as they filed into a line outside Snape's dungeon. As usual, Slytherin filtered in first, and, as usual, ignored her passively. Gryffindor followed, and ignored her actively. Until recently, Hermione wouldn't have said there was a difference.

She didn't hear him approach, only felt his warmth behind her and the feather-light kiss he placed on her cheek. She shivered.

"Someone will see," she hissed.

"You're right," breathed Draco. "Would it help if I said something rude? About how you're not beautiful?"

"Would you shut up?" She wanted him to do no such thing, and to her delight, he didn't.

"Good thinking, you should probably be rude first." She bit her lip in an effort to contain a smile.

"I'm serious." Draco drew away slightly and nodded, a thoughtful grin lighting his face.

"All right. Diffindo."

Ron's bag split neatly at the seam, and his books fell to the floor with a thud. To Hermione's shock, so did several joke-shop fireworks, which promptly exploded and filled the dungeon corridor with lime-green stars and purple sparks. Ron swore loudly, and a cacophony of startled yelps broke out around them.

"Draco!" snapped Hermione, torn between disapproval and a sort of vindictive delight that felt most unlike her.

"Well, if anyone was looking before, they certainly aren't now." His kiss was light and very quick, but it was exhilarating beyond her wildest imagination.

"How did you know he had fireworks, though?" she asked, as Snape swooped down upon them, ignoring the fireworks, and wordlessly held open the classroom door with an expression that wished them all a slow and painful death.

"I didn't," Draco told her.

"Ten points from Gryffindor, Weasley," said Snape lazily, watching as Ron scrambled to pick up his books. "Potter, stay and help him clear up this mess."

"You're unbelievable," she whispered, squeezing Draco's hand behind his back and giving him a quick grin as she crossed the dungeon to take her usual seat beside Neville.

"Was it you?" Draco asked. "Did you send Harry Potter a Firebolt?" It was Friday afternoon. He wasn't supposed to be in Hogsmeade. Sirius studied him for a moment, then nodded. Excitement shone through his dark eyes, though he looked as half-dead as ever. It was a very bizarre combination.

"Was he pleased?" he asked eagerly. For some reason, this question filled Draco simultaneously with raw melancholy and bitter resentment.

"I don't know," he said flatly. And then, after a pause. "He sort of...hates me, actually." He dug the toe of his boot into the snow, regretting asking the question in the first place. For some reason, Sirius chuckled softly.

"Does he, now?" Draco snorted.

"Glad you're amused."

"What about you, then? You don't share his sentiments?" A twig had broken free from the bushes and caught itself on Draco's scarf when he entered the clearing. Now, he removed it and concentrated very hard on breaking it into smaller and smaller pieces. First in half, then quarters.

"I…" eighths were difficult. He must be precise and gentle. "No." The shock of saying this aloud made him break the last fourth of the twig unevenly and he discarded the pieces at once, unable to stand the sight of them. "Maybe a bit at first." Bloody hell, why was he still talking? There was something about Sirius that took away his ability to stop talking. "Now...I don't know."

"Why did you hate him, at first?" Draco sighed, discarding the stick in its entirety.

"None of your business." He heard the sullen, childish tone of his voice and hated it with everything in him. Sirius studied him intently.

"You must have questions," he said, after a moment. Draco looked up.

"What?" Sirius raised an eyebrow.

"Has your mother got any siblings?" he asked. Draco frowned, perplexed.

"Yes, one," he said shortly. Sirius snorted.

"What?" asked Draco. And then, after another moment, "What?" Sirius shrugged.

"I'll make you a deal," he said lightly. "I'll answer one of your questions for every question you answer of mine." Draco searched his face for signs of trickery, but found none.

"What if I don't know the answers to your questions?" he asked. Sirius shrugged.

"All good games carry risk," he said smoothly. "A skilled Seeker such as yourself should know that."

"A skilled Seeker knows how to manage risk and weigh it against reward before making their move," Draco retorted.

"And a really skilled Seeker does that within seconds," said Sirius at once.

"All right, then," Draco agreed. "Why did my aunt Bellatrix go to Azkaban?" A shadow crossed Sirius's face at once, but he also looked slightly surprised.

"You don't know?"

"I didn't say that." His heart was pounding loudly in his ears, and it took everything in him to keep his expression cool and neutral. Sirius gave him a shrewd half-smile.

"You're good," he said lightly. "Perhaps, when you're my age, you'll be able to bluff me." He paused. "I won't lie to you, Draco. My word's all I've got in the world, I can't afford to tarnish it." Something about this last sentence sent a shiver down Draco's spine.

"Answer the question, then." Sirius nodded.

"You're familiar with the Cruciatus Curse, I suppose?" Draco shuddered.

"Not firsthand."

"I should bloody well hope not," said Sirius darkly. "After Voldemort lost his power, your dear aunt Bellatrix was a bit put out," he went on. Draco flinched involuntarily at the name, and Sirius gave him a patronizing look but didn't comment. "So she and a few of her...associates...tracked down his two biggest challengers-apart from the Potters, that is-and used it on them until they lost their minds. I'm told the others tried to deny it, but she never did. Proudly declared what she'd done in front of the Wizengamot and went straight to Azkaban." Draco learned, in that moment, that some things are so profoundly awful as to reduce anyone, no matter how old and tough, to a trembling six-year-old. If he'd had the foggiest idea of the answer to this question, he certainly wouldn't have asked it first.

"Where are they now?" he breathed, scarcely able to speak. Sirius shrugged, but it wasn't an indifferent shrug. It was heavy, full of unspeakable burden.

"Probably still in St. Mungo's," he said quietly. "I bet you won't mind answering a question about Harry now, eh?" Draco jumped. He'd forgotten they were playing a game.

"Right."

"What's he like?" That glimmer of excitement was back in Sirius's eyes, along with something Draco could only describe as a desperate sort of ache in his voice. He frowned slightly.

"I'm not sure I'm the right person to ask," he muttered.

"You'll have to be, won't you?" Sirius retorted. "As I haven't exactly got Hogwarts students lining up for their chance to speak to me." Draco stared down at the ground for a moment, thinking. What was Potter like? He supposed he'd never thought much about it, let alone tried to put it into words.

"It's interesting," he said slowly, after a moment. "Because on the surface, he's quite stubborn and set in his beliefs. But actually...he sort of just believes the first person to ever tell him their opinion on something." He cast about for something to do with his hands, and settled for braiding the strings at the end of his scarf. "I think it's because he'd much rather be doing something than thinking about it. So, if he doesn't have to think about what's right and wrong, or the fact that what's right and wrong is often complicated, he's free to spend more time doing things." He looked up. Sirius was watching him in a calculating sort of way he didn't care for at all.

"I wouldn't have expected that description from anyone your age," he said flatly. "Particularly not. Well, you." Draco frowned.

"What the hell does that mean?" Sirius shrugged.

"That it was a lovely answer. Thank you." Draco took a moment to collect his thoughts.

"Does my mother have other siblings?" he asked. Sirius gave a slow, careful nod.

"Her sister Andromeda ran away a few years before I did," he said gruffly. "Married a Muggle-born and settled down in the country. Of course, the family had nothing to do with her after that. I'm not surprised you've never heard of her." Draco suddenly felt quite dizzy. He must have asked his mother dozens of times about her family when he was young, and Sirius Black had given him more information in the last ten minutes than he'd managed to glean from thirteen years at home.

"Andromeda was always my favorite cousin," Sirius went on, a faraway look in his eyes. "I used to visit her twice a week before…" he trailed off. "When her daughter was small I'd take her into Muggle London for ice cream." He laughed, a dark, melancholy sort of laugh. "She probably wouldn't remember that now. She was scarcely eight when I went to Azkaban." All at once, the amount of air in the clearing seemed to reduce by around half.

"I-I've...got a cousin?" Draco had longed, his whole life, for a brother or sister or someone to play with. He was seized by a deep, visceral anger with his mother for depriving him of this.

"You wouldn't have known her," said Sirius quietly, seeming to sense his thoughts. "It wasn't all your mother's choice." Draco shook his head slightly, which did nothing to clear it.

"What's your next question?" he asked, rather more sharply than he'd intended. Sirius thought for a moment.

"His aunt and uncle," he said finally. "Are they good to him?" There it was again, that feeling of profound melancholy. He swatted it away irritably, but it flooded him again within seconds.

"No," he nearly whispered. "I don't think they are." It occurred to him only after he'd spoken to wonder how Sirius knew that Harry Potter lived with his aunt and uncle. Sirius was quiet for a long time.

"What is it your mum and dad were up to?" he hissed, and Draco could tell this was his final question. "What were they doing around the time I was put into Azkaban?" Draco's breath stopped in his throat.

"I know who they worked for," he choked. He fought bitterly against tears, which he was becoming very tired of doing lately. Sirius nodded.

"That's your turn, then." A million questions about his family flitted through Draco's mind, but he couldn't bring himself to ask any of them. If he heard another heart-wrenching thing today, he'd die.

"Why are you so interested in Harry Potter?" he asked instead. Sirius's eyes bored holes into his for what felt like a year before he answered the question.

"Because I'm his godfather."