Chapter 30: Subtlety
Disclaimer: I apologise for not making my usual witty disclaimer, but as some of you may already be aware, the Sims 2 (sequel to the best-selling PC game of all time!) has just come out, and I'm currently completely lost in Sim-land. You're lucky I could drag myself away from the game for long enough to update! So I'll just say I don't own Harry Potter et al and get on with the update, shall I?
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A/N: The biggest bit of gossip this week isn't about me at all; it's about Lou, my primary beta and the only person other than me who knows the plot of this fic. You probably remember her from… pretty much every other AN I've ever written; she crops up a lot. And we've been celebrating lately, because my little Loulou has just got a boyfriend. Congratulations, Lou!
The Fallen/Macbeth schedule is, yes, very hectic. But thankfully it's working ok so far; no major difficulties getting it all done on time. I'm going to be using my new copy of the Sims 2 as the metaphorical carrot before the donkey – Write two pages, and then you can play for an hour. It should provide some good motivation to get it all done, as long as I can stick to the hour limit I set myself!
And that's pretty much everything I have to say. Onto the chapter: enjoy!
Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field…
Genesis 3:1
Hermione slept later than she usually did; a consequence of staying up too late the night before. Eventually, she awoke to an early-morning rainstorm battering at the windows of Gryffindor tower and the unpleasant prospect of a Double Potions lesson with Snape looming over her. A perfectly ordinary Tuesday morning, especially for mid-October, but she still felt distinctly gloomy as she brushed her teeth and pulled on her robes.
She headed for the common room thinking over the day ahead – double Potions, Arithmancy, Herbology, eat dinner with the Gryffindors, DA meeting at seven, and Draco in the library at eight-thirty. Homework she could do with Draco, possibly, or after their meeting if there was something he wanted to talk about. There was always lunchtime, of course, if Ron and Harry didn't want to do anything…
The common room was nearly empty, which wasn't surprising as breakfast had been underway for about half-an-hour. Hermione passed through without looking around much, after checking Ron and Harry weren't there, though she did notice that it was quieter than usual. She climbed through the portrait-hole and automatically set off for the Great Hall, allowing her feet to walk the corridors without much guidance from her brain, while she considered homework and Draco and the DA and how she was going to cope with all of their demands.
She was so preoccupied that, upon entering the Great Hall, it took her a few moments to notice something was wrong. She faltered in her step on the way to the Gryffindor table. There was none of the usual boisterous chatter, or laughter, or people moaning about teachers; no one was giggling, no one was screaming, no one was shouting. There were whispers, as though they were in a library or at a funeral, and the slight rustling of parchment. It was like the morning before exams, and looking around, people looked just as nervous, just as afraid, as they had before their tests.
There weren't any tests today; that meant something else was wrong, something big. Hermione's heart lurched – Narcissa's letter had said it, your father is at a Death Eater meeting, something like that…
She had to force herself to walk to the Gryffindor table, because at that moment all she really wanted was to turn around and flee back upstairs under her blankets where it was warm and safe, or escape to yesterday, when nothing bad had happened and everything was schoolwork and friendships.
Harry and Ron looked up as she shakily approached; one look at their faces confirmed what she already knew. She took a seat, carefully saved for her on Harry's right, took a deep breath, and asked, 'What happened?'
Wordlessly, Ron handed her the newspaper.
Last night the Welsh town of Aberddewin suffered the latest in a series of Death Eater attacks; a massacre on a scale unseen since the days of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's first rise to power.
Victims of the attack included Pureblood Paul Edwards, noted for his Arithmantic breakthroughs, who is currently in St. Mungo's in a critical condition; his wife and two children were found dead in the ruins of their home this morning. The current death toll stands at twenty-seven wizards and over sixty Muggles.
The Ministry, in a public statement early this morning, said, 'The tragedy of Aberddewin, in which many of our most valued wizards lost their lives, was a lamentable disaster. The Death Eaters cut off Floo access to the town and erected an Apparition barrier before the attack began, so the inhabitants of Aberddewin were unable to alert the outside world, and thus the Aurors only received news of the attack when a desperate owl arrived, written by a resident of the town in what were probably her final moments. Obviously, we will be looking into new and better ways to alert the Aurors immediately and effectively upon a large-scale attack of this nature.'
One of the Aurors, in a private interview with the Daily Prophet, gave his opinion as to why Aberddewin was chosen as the target. 'It's regarded as a town of blood-traitors,' he explained, 'Muggle-lovers and half-bloods. It does have a large population of Muggleborns, which would make it attractive to a Death Eater attack. I'd say that Muggleborns, and to an extent half-bloods, are in more danger even then Muggles from these attacks: You-Know-Who's aims are specifically 'to wipe out the Mudbloods' – not the Muggles. It's the contamination of the wizarding race with which he is concerned.'
The tragic story of Aberddewin – targeted for the bloodlines of its population – must serve as an example to us all of what must be avoided. The grim and terrifying pictures of the ruined houses and charred corpses in the once beautiful town square are a reminder of to what lengths He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will go to in his attempts to cleanse the wizarding race.
Pictures of the ruined town, an interview with a survivor of the attack and advice from the Ministry can be found on pages 4, 5 and 6.
Hermione stared at the end of the page for a few moments, disbelieving what she had just read; then slowly raised her eyes to meet Ron's across the table.
Harry tentatively put a hand on her arm, trying to offer comfort. 'Are you okay?' he asked.
'Twenty-seven wizards, sixty Muggles…' Hermione repeated in what was almost a whisper, barely more than a breath. 'That's almost ninety people. All at once.'
'Don't cry,' Ron was quick to plead, reaching out to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. 'It's… it'll be okay…'
'It isn't okay,' Hermione said softly, but she wasn't about to cry. Her hand lingered over the newspaper for a minute, wondering whether she should read the information inside, look at what would undoubtedly be moving pictures of the destruction and the injured and the dead. She didn't.
Even that first article felt like too much, with the accompanying picture of the mocking Mark floating in the night sky. People had died. Only ninety; it wasn't anything like the numbers who had died in history in wars or attacks or ethnic cleansing, but it was the first time Hermione had ever felt a part of it. The major massacres had been far, far away and long, long ago when she'd learnt about them from books or history lessons at her Muggle primary school, like something out of a storybook. This was now, this was last night, these were people like herself - wizards and witches and wipe out the Muggleborns.
'Hermione,' Harry was saying, biting his lip, but at that moment the whispers in the Hall came to a sudden halt as Dumbledore stood up, dressed entirely in black today, his face solemn and traces of true grief in his eyes.
'I imagine you have all read, by now,' he began, straight to the point, 'of the attack on Aberddewin last night.' There was a small rustle of assent among the students. 'Aberddewin was a beautiful and peaceful town; I am sure some of you will have heard of it, even spent time there. It was idyllic: clean air, a beautiful river, merry children, playgrounds, libraries, and so many homes. Wizard lived side-by-side with Muggle, all backgrounds and all bloodlines in unity and harmony.
'Voldemort-' there were strangled gasps at the name, '- destroyed all this, not because it was dangerous, not because there was evil there, but because there were people living there whose bloodlines he disapproved of. Ordinary people, human beings, people who lived and breathed and laughed, who cried and played and rejoiced, people who died at his hand that night for a senseless cause.
'We must not allow ourselves to be afraid; to allow ourselves to be controlled and bullied by fear of what may happen. Now, more so than ever, is a time to stand strong together in unity, a time to show Voldemort that he can not divide us by terror and set one group against the other, for if we are divided we can never hope to defeat him. Only in unity will we succeed.'
After half a second's pause, he sat down again; whispers broke out almost immediately. Ron and Harry shared a glance.
'He'll never get the Slytherins to be friends with Muggleborns,' Ron said despondently, and Hermione wildly considered telling them that she and Draco were quite good friends, actually, or would be once Draco figured out what friendship was. She stopped herself; it would be stupid to tell them. It was just the fear. Terror did that; made people edgy and prone to saying things they wouldn't normally blurt out.
She glanced up at Dumbledore, who was engaged in what appeared to be quite a serious conversation with McGonagall. There had been something slightly odd about his speech. It was as much in the things he avoided saying as in the things he did say. He had danced around, for instance, the fact that the victims were Muggleborns and half-bloods, which the newspaper had stressed clearly, and he'd spent an odd amount of his time stressing unity. Why?
A sudden horrible thought struck her, and she grabbed up the newspaper again, skimming the article once more.
'I don't believe it,' she said flatly, surprising Harry and Ron who were sitting in glum silence.
'What? What is it?' Harry asked. 'The attack…?'
She waved a hand, biting her lip. 'The article. Not the attack, but…' She shook her head. 'It's so subtle, I didn't even see it…'
'Subtle? What is?' Ron demanded, puzzled. 'The attack wasn't…'
Hermione didn't wait for him to finish, picking up the paper and rapidly reading off choice quotes.
'A town of blood-traitors, Muggle-lovers and half-bloods, Muggleborns are in more danger even then Muggles from these attacks, You-Know-Who's aims are specifically 'to wipe out the Mudbloods' the contamination of the wizarding race, targeted for the bloodlines of its population…'
Harry was frowning. 'You mean…?'
'They're implying that anyone who's even friends with a Muggleborn's in danger,' Hermione clarified, than gave a little shaky laugh. So people start to avoid them – us – and they're afraid to be around us in case they're branded Muggle-lovers and targeted because of it, and then we become outcasts. And then it's only a very short step from being ostracised to being hated…'
Blaise was watching him.
It was lunchtime, and an unusually large number of Slytherins had gathered in the common room after eating. Draco was among them, mainly because of a kind of I-want-to-know impulse that he thought was interest or curiosity. Aberddewin would change a lot of things, and the way people reacted to it could mean a lot of subtle place-shifting on the social hierarchy.
A lot of it was in subtle signs or signals. As an example: the neutral group were dressed all in black, the traditional sign of respect. The very highest Purebloods, many of whom were quite openly aligned with Voldemort, were all wearing something colourful. Pansy had a bright pink slide in her hair, for example, while Crabbe and Goyle had charmed the cuffs of their sleeves to a Slytherin green. Blaise was wearing a chunky gold bracelet, inset with emeralds, which she kept toying with as she watched him.
She was doing it surreptitiously, from the corner of her eye, and if he hadn't been paying attention to the room he wouldn't have spotted it. Now he knew, and the knowledge was like a fly that wouldn't go away, or a stone in his shoe. Annoying; that was a simple one to name.
He forced himself to focus on the rest of the Slytherins. The middle groups seemed very divided; some were wearing full black, some had colourful additions. There seemed to be a third group of indecisive people, who weren't wearing full black but hadn't added colour, either. Most of them had a white addition, or a shade of grey.
Of course, none of this colour-coding was a system that had ever existed before, or had ever been written down in any kind of rulebook. It had evolved silently and without discussion that day, and anyone practiced at the nuances of Slytherin politics could pick up on it and work the rules out for themselves.
Draco had deliberated over what to wear. He did not want to wear something colourful; logic pointed out that it would serve no useful purpose, as the other Slytherins would never take him back and that would be the only reason to wear it. It would also send the message that he was anti-Muggleborn, and he felt that would be a betrayal of Hermione. But that wasn't logic, it was emotion. Betrayal was nothing but a tool to a Fallen.
Which had left either plain black or some kind of grey or white. And what good would grey or white do, besides give people the impression that he wished to start moving up the chain again? And he didn't want that: the chain meant lying and twisting yourself and forcing yourself to be what the others wanted you to be, playing the game and using people, and what good would it do him in the end? The Slytherins were in sufficient awe of his Dark abilities to leave him alone, which suited him perfectly.
So he'd gone for pure black, in the end, and Blaise kept glancing at his clothing.
He ignored it, tried to focus for an instant on a particularly interesting division of loyalties within one middle-group – a pair of best friends; one wearing colour, the other black, and both were sitting in a kind of fitful, edgy silence – and found he couldn't focus on it.
Besides, this wasn't what you were supposed to do when something like this happened, was it? You were meant to be… well, you were meant to feel something about it. Compassion, shock, fear. Compassion for the victims, shock that something like this had happened, fear that it would happen again.
His father had been one of the attackers. Lucius had probably killed quite a few of that total ninety. Shouldn't Draco feel something about that?
Any feelings he had came in occasional flashes, too quick for him to pin them down and identify like a collection of dead butterflies. Maybe he'd caught a flash of fear, once when he'd read about how they'd burned the corpses in the town square. Anything else he'd felt were just vague and unsettling wisps of emotion.
You were meant to feel things about an event like this. You were meant to feel miserable, shocked. If you supported Voldemort, you were meant to feel pleased. You weren't meant to feel nothing. The idea had an element of fear about it, a certain feeling that was almost like losing control. It was the sense that he might be in some way defective, that he might be lacking some intrinsic ability to care. He hadn't chosen to become human, but now that he was the thought of being somehow lacking made him afraid.
He didn't know why he was afraid, and it didn't seem logical to be afraid, especially since he could fake all the trappings of misery and sympathy perfectly. But he was used to the fact that emotions had no logic by now; they simply were. He felt something like fear, and that was that. If he couldn't work out why, he would ask Hermione.
Hermione. She'd been upset this morning; Potter and Weasley too. He'd been watching them across the tables in much the same way that Blaise was now watching him. Surreptitiously, cautiously. He didn't think they'd noticed him, but he'd seen the shock and horror and misery plainly on their faces. He was meant to have felt that too, and he hadn't, and it was troubling him.
He would ask Hermione; they were supposed to be meeting that night. Hopefully she'd have some explanation. Or maybe it had something to do with being so new to emotions. What was it now? Three months?
He needed to reply to his mother. Especially after Aberddewin. She'd be alone in the Manor with house elves, letters, books and an emotionless mass-murderer; Draco suspected she needed as much contact with others as possible…
Blaise had abandoned subtlety and gone for outright staring now, and it really was very difficult to ignore. Draco looked away nonchalantly while he considered what to do; he could continue paying her no attention or he could respond. Meeting her gaze was probably best, with a long, sharp glare, until she looked away in embarrassment.
Deciding this, he turned his head back towards her, assumed a cold and arrogant expression and glared back. She met his gaze for a minute, then slowly and deliberately glanced upwards, looked away and scratched her nose.
Draco felt what was most definitely surprise, a slow kind that spread from the bellybutton. Blaise had been a friend once, or at least someone with whom he'd gone through all the acts of friendship. Blaise had trusted him with secrets and important information, and from this he assumed the friendship was genuine on her part. The signal she'd just given had been one they'd used since they were five; I want to talk to you. Leave the room, wait outside and I'll come to you in a minute.
There had been no mistaking it; her actions had been deliberate and careful. But she hadn't talked to him since the train journey to Hogwarts. Admittedly, she had tried to get him to rejoin her side, and she'd sounded genuinely upset about his defection, and she'd been staring at him a lot since then, but…
Should he talk to her or not?
There was no reason not to, if he didn't say anything important. And if he did speak to her, he could learn something. At the very least he could glean some insight into her motives and what she wanted of him and that was always useful information.
Emotionally, he was just curious.
He got to his feet, causally, not looking at Blaise, and strolled through the common room to the exit. Once outside, he leant against the wall of the corridor and waited. She wouldn't be long.
Two minutes later, the door of the common room slid open and Blaise stepped out.
'Draco,' she said, giving him a slight nod. He returned it.
'Blaise.'
'I wanted to ask…' she began, before frowning. 'Perhaps we should get out of the corridor? It's not exactly conducive to private conversation, is it?'
'Not really,' Draco said noncommittally. 'A classroom?'
Blaise nodded, and led the way to the nearest empty one. It must have been used for Potions lessons in the past: there was still a faint smell in the air of fire, spilt potion and plant sap.
'Go on, than,' Draco said, giving her a nod, 'talk.'
She folded her arms, giving him an irritated glare. 'Stop the cold bastard act, Draco, it doesn't suit you,' she snapped. 'Not anymore.'
'Anymore?' Draco asked.
'You've… changed,' she said, and Draco had to bite back a cutting remark. 'And I don't know why, and I think I'm entitled to know.'
He was about to give her a withering glare, but when he looked up to meet her eyes he saw that she was actually genuinely upset, and he couldn't bringing himself to do it. 'Blaise,' he began with a sigh, 'I can't tell you that. And don't give me that look, because honestly, I can't.'
'Try.' It was snapped, an order. He could read Blaise like a book after years of knowing her, and he knew she was getting angry.
'I mean it, Blaise, I can't tell you. It's…' he sighed, and told part of the truth, 'related to an old family secret, one which goes back more years than I care to recall. Traditionally we only tell our spouses, or other people in exceptional circumstances.'
'And I suppose these aren't exceptional circumstances?' Blaise asked, looking grin and dark in the dim light.
'They aren't,' he agreed. 'I won't tell you.'
She stood silent for a minute, biting her lip, her breath turning to wreaths of white mist in the unheated classroom.
Finally she spoke. 'I can't think of anything which would force you to change, not this much. Which means you chose it.' she looked up at him, fixing him with a hard glare. 'Maybe you can't make it back to the top of the chain, but you can make it back somewhere…'
'What if I don't want to?' he asked. 'What if I don't care for Slytherin politics or serving Voldemort or wearing a ridiculous bracelet to mock the deaths of people who hadn't done any harm?'
'Mudbloods.' Blaise said firmly. 'Mudbloods and Muggles, they aren't people, Draco, they're…'
'People.' Draco said firmly, fighting a shudder as Hermione came to mind and he realised, in an abstract way, that Blaise was saying that Hermione was worthless. 'Human beings, just like you or me. They bleed the same colour blood as you or I do…'
'But it's not the same blood,' Blaise said dispassionately. 'We have centuries of breeding, centuries of power behind ours, while theirs is weak and poor…'
His temper flared, something oddly hot and colourful in the cold greyness of the classroom. 'Would you also support killing all the people who don't have a family history of intelligence, Blaise?' he asked sharply. 'I imagine you'd be the first to go.'
'Draco!' she said, grabbing him by the wrist – he had turned half away towards the door. 'You have no idea what you're talking about, Mudbloods aren't worth…'
He shook her off and slammed the door behind him as he left.
A/N: And that, for this week, is that. Don't forget Macbeth on Monday!
Now, review, because otherwise I run the risk of getting so caught up in the Sims-2-world that I don't pay any attention whatsoever to the real world and utterly forget to write anything. And that would be bad, no?
So what are you waiting for, review!