The Moon is a Harsh Mistress
by The Unoriginal
Acknowledgements: to my thorough and dedicated beta, Epoch Everlasting. Any errors still left are my fault and not hers.
Chapter two -
Family Planning
'Deny, you're such a liar
You won't know the truth if it bit you in the street
Deny, you're such a liar
You're selling you no-no all the time'
THE CLASH, Deny
It could have been much worse, Draco thought, returning to his room; it could have been a disaster... but against his own darkest predictions he had made it. He had managed to behave around Father and Mother as if nothing wrong had happened, despite the pain and the fear and the lack of sleep.
But the price on his nerves had been heavy and a small muscle was trembling uncontrollably under his eye as he quietly shut the door behind his back.
A daring raid to the master bedroom had provided a jar of painkilling paste, and his arm went pleasantly warm and numb under a thick layer of the stuff. The heavy herbal smell also made him dozy, so he lay across the bed and dared to shut his eyes, only for a moment...
He sank into unconsciousness almost immediately. The grisly illustrations crept into his dreams and mutated his own memories into a horrid, hallucinated hodgepodge of facts and fears.
He was sitting in class at Hogwarts, listening that dolt Lockhart prattling on while a cage covered by a thick dark cloth rattled ominously on the desk... and Draco knew perfectly what lay in that cage, but his body refused to move and he could only sit frozen in his desk as the pompous idiot whipped off the cover, revealing a whirl of silver fur and yellow fangs... the wolf jumped onto his desktop and came muzzle to face with him, growling, thick cordons of diseased spit dribbling from his withdrawn lips onto the parchment rolls...
"Yeh always wait fer the werewolf ter make the firs' move. It's polite, see?" the oaf Hagrid said, and now they weren't in the castle anymore, but in the Forbidden Forest. The peacock aviary stood in the middle of a clearing, and inside it a mangy werewolf paced on the sawdust.
The tattered remnants of a Hogwarts robe dangled from the werewolf's neck and back, and its light brown fur was flecked with grey. Potter had just walked the werewolf and they were all expected to do the same, so Draco bent forward, pushed an arm through the iron wrought cage and patted his muzzle.
"I bet you're not dangerous at all, are you?" he said. "Are you, you great ugly brute?"
There was a flash of fangs and pain, and Hagrid was now rushing him to the castle. Everything was dark and cold. He could smell horse shit and wood smoke and stale sweat on the half-breed's beard and coat, and feel the blood trickling down his arm and hand, draining him of strength and life...
"I'm dying," he cried. "It's killed me..."
"Yer not dyin'," Hagrid's voice, right into his left ear. "Yer goin' ter be fine, yer goin' ter live in the Forest with the rest of yer breed... ah ah ahAHAHAHAHAH!"
Draco awakened with a jolt and fell back onto the bed, listening to the pounding of his heart. He was so disoriented, at first he thought he was still in the Infirmary Wing, with an arm slashed open by a mad Hippogriff, delirious from the blood loss and the Sanguiferous Solution vapours.
He stood up and went to the window, trying to sort himself out. His brain kicked in and volunteered details about the the two years in between, and about the previous night: the latter ones had taken a flavour of unreality. The attack had happened in a sort of disconnected fast-forward and it was hard to look from above at the garden wilting away under an implacable sunlight, and think of it as something that had actually taken place. The details, brisk in the morning, were now hazy like the hills rising away in the distance.
Struck by a sudden inspiration, he pointed the wand at his black lacquered trunk keeping his school supplies and Accioed out the old copy of Gilderoy Lockhart's Wandering with Werewolves, perusing it with an eagerness he had never before felt for a textbook. Two minutes into it was enough to gather he was not going to find any help there:
"The werewolves surrounding me with their teeth bared suddenly retreated with their tails between their legs as the alpha, a huge grey beast measuring ten feet from head to tail, with his snout covered in purple scars, motioned in for the kill. Clearly, having witnessed me slaughter half of his pack with a single spell, he saw me as such a danger to their ilk that not even turning me into one of their own would soothe his thirst for revenge.
Cornered, but not defeated, I held a firm grip on my wand and proudly kept eye contact as the monster slowly crawled towards my shelter. I could smell his rasping breath from fifty paces; it smelled of fresh human blood.
- Attack me at your own peril! - I shouted…"
"Fuck it," Draco hissed, and delved again into the trunk.
His third-year Dark Arts book was outdated and even less useful, having been obviously written for the benefit of wizards and not that of Dark creatures. He ignored the "safest, fool-proof" way suggested by one Rudolphe Grigou for hunting werewolves (which involved "a young Squib, a sea-silk net and a silver dagger") and searched for a description of the symptoms.
There they were, squeezed in the tiniest script at the bottom of the page as an author's note that seemed to have been copied word-by-word from Salazar's textbook, after all why would wizards need to bother? The only cure was not getting bitten in the first place.
"The Victim is wont to feel, first a paſsing Tiredneſs; and a desire for Isolation. Over the course of the following days, such Conditions are to be observed as indicative of a Contagion: bouts of Melancholy followed by great Exhuberance; Disgust for one's food, or conversely unusual Cravings; an exceſs of Sweat, or a mild Feaver; alterations in the Vision, and Hearing; feeling restive and wary of Strangers; experienceing obseſsive Thoughts, and a general Depreſsion of the Spirit."
"No, really?" Draco let out. What a load of bull: weren't you entitled to "experience obsessive thoughts", with a great dirty hangman of a Healer hovering over you, checking you hourly for whiskers?
The book joined Wandering with Werewolves with a rustle and a thud.
Draco sighed and absently rubbed his arm, which was throbbing dully from under the bandages. This was not much worse than the slash from that stupid Hippogriff, which admittedly had been barely a scratch, whereas cursed wounds were supposed to hurt a lot. Chances were it was just a common wolf, escaped from those monstrous Muggle menageries...
Perhaps it was not even a wolf. Just a huge stray, crazed by the heat and the thirst and the loneliness, and magnified in his memory by the darkness and the shock of its sudden appearance...
Struck by a sudden epiphany, Draco let out a hissing curse. Couldn't it have been that vicious Sirius Black, had not Father told them all to watch out for a large dog?
And he had always despised his family. Attacking a next of kin, taking advantage of his Animagus form against someone smaller and unexperienced would be just like him. And fooling Draco into thinking that he would be cursed forever, perhaps driving him to do something rash and extreme...
A combination of self-pity and outrage enveloped him and he paced the room, huffing, until his arm started to ache again and he had to sit down.
Despite what the book said, it didn't necessarily have to be a werewolf and whatever it carried didn't necessarily have to be catching. Two books out of the three he had consulted were a pile of dragon dung. What would be the odds the first one was any different? Pretty slim.
He was fretting over nothing, he decided. Nevertheless, it would not hurt to be away from the Manor for some time, in a month's time – just in case.
Not that anything was going to happen.
But the wait would be stressful and he was better somewhere quiet, somewhere he could be away from family – away from everyone else, actually – and unrestrained...
He wasn't going to tie himself to anything, that was for sure. Huh-huh. The picture of that poor bastard with the straps cutting into his wrists was all the warning he needed. Perhaps if he could just brew himself some calming draughts, that would help him with… his nerves.
Further upset with the anticipation of the upcoming ordeal, Draco wiped the sweat away from his face. He felt hot and freezing at the same time, like he was running a mild fever, but he blamed it on the weather and the morbid readings.
Then the lunch bell tolled and shook him out of his reverie.
It will pass. I'll be alright.
He changed, checked that the bandages were not showing from under the sleeve, and went downstairs.
Lunch was refreshing. Vichyssoise and salad, delicious as always, and the food took his mind further away from his affliction. By the time he excused himself and left, he had drafted a plan of action.
He reached the fireplace in the foyer, sprinkled some Floo onto the embers and called "Gregory Goyle". At once the sooty stone disappeared, revealing the salon of Goyle House.
The hall was as vast as the Manor's, but darker and less ornate. Mrs Goyle was standing with her back to the fireplace, grabbing the backrest of a well-worn armchair for support and yelling at the old house-elf, Skivvy, showing no sign of having noticed that her Floo had just erupted in green roaring flames.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Goyle."
The yelling continued. Draco's head was level with the house-elf's now and she looked pitiful, torn between properly announcing the Floo call and rudely interrupting her mistress, or listening properly to her reprimand and rudely making a guest witness to an unbecoming scene.
It was fun to watch, but getting old by the minute. Draco cleared his throat. "A-hem."
Still nothing, and he was running out of patience and Floo.
"Mrs. Goyle!" he bellowed, making her jump a good foot in the air and shoot sparks from her wand. She finally realised she had a guest and approached the fireplace, while the house-elf, her conflict having resolved itself, vanished beyond a set of curtains.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Goyle," Draco greeted affectedly. "Can Ispeak to Gregory, if that's not too much of an inconvenience?"
The old witch, now rather wide-eyed and upset, nodded frantically and left without a word. The room fell into silence. There was a dim, rhytmical sound coming from the depths of the house: probably Skivvy, hammering her fingernails. She was keeping a good tempo for such a decrepit thing. Alone, with nothing to do, Draco studied the salon.
Clearly it was the best-kept room in the house, what with the Floo and visitors, but it radiated a forlorn appearance, of something past its prime. There were dust bunnies around the fringes of the heavy velvet curtains and the rather forbidding portrait of Gregory's grandfather, Bruce, had dust on its carved frame, something Draco did not remember from his last visit and probably the cause of Mrs. Goyle's vocal outburst. There were also darker halos on the furniture, as if objects that had been in that place for centuries had been taken away.
Finally, Gregory arrived, hunched, sullen and swaying from side to side like he had learned to walk on a boat. He looked sleepy and cross, as if he had just been awakened, and acknowledged Draco's presence with a curt nod.
"Huh, Draco."
"Hi, Greg. How are things?"
"Rotten."
"Uh-huh. Listen, I've got an idea. What do you think about going camping for a week?"
"Well, I dunno..." Gregory muttered, then fell silent again, relying as usual on others to do the thinking for him.
"Well I think it's a nice idea." Draco gritted his teeth. "Do you still have that tent?"
"That what?"
"The camping tent, Greg! Didn't you say you went camping with your cousin last summer?"
At the time, Draco had sneered upon the prospect of sleeping under a canvas and listening to two teenagers snoring or worse, and had declined the invitation. But now, it was just what he needed.
Meanwhile, the concept had boarded Gregory's train of thoughts and comprehension dawned on his large face: "Uh, yeah. Dunno, I'll ask the old hag, she's the one who puts away stuff." Then after a pause: "If she hasn't sold it yet."
"Thanks, Greg," Draco said, feeling somewhat sad for him. His friend had told him in great secrecy that his mother had taken to drinking lately. Apparently some people just weren't made of good enough stuff, and it was common knowledge that Goyle senior had found it hard to find a witch, marrying late and below his blood, but if the rumour found its way to Hogwarts that would destroy Gregory's reputation, and Draco could not afford that.
The rest of the firecall, when Greg returned with his findings, was plain and just as one would expect from a conversation with him: yes, the tent was still in the old carriage stable; sure, camping sounded fun; early August was fine; and Vincent would surely agree, he had Flooed over just the previous day, bored out of his skull. Draco greeted his friend one last time, then withdrew from the Goyles' fireplace in a whirlwind of ashes.
Narcissa was cutting roses for the Chinese vase in the hallway. Taking care of the flowers had always been her favourite pastime at the Manor, something she had brought as a dowry from her childhood. Now Lucius had his albino fowl; hers were the Maiden's Blush trellises and the lily pond with its bordering of callae.
But the garden wasn't giving her much joy these days. Lucius was always away these days, claiming old favours and making new debts and trying to hide from her the obvious fact that the Dark Lord was displeased with the Malfoys.
It was happening again, just like the first time - in which they had laboured hard and craftily, only to see their dreams and ambitions crumble in the space of an evening; and then had come the inquiry, the searches, and the questioning.
"Rescindo. Rescindo."
Magical dew glistened in the sunshine as the spells clipped the thorns neatly from the stems. One last Severing Charm and the rose joined its companions in the bunch she was holding. She needed a dozen and was counting under her breath - "nine for regret, ten for a dance, eleven for a threat, twelve for a chance" - when she heard steps on the gravel path and her son's voice, tainted with insecurity.
"Mother…?"
For an instant, apprehension had the better of her and she turned, wand pointed and ready to cast an Unforgivable, picturing intruders, assailants, hitwizards... Then it all vanished as Draco went on in a single breath:
"...Vincent has invited me over to his house for a week."
Reassured, but still a little shaken, Narcissa turned slightly away so Draco wouldn't have to see how her wand hand was trembling. She blamed it on her own dark thoughts; it served her right for dwelling on the worst days from a distant past when all that mattered was here and now.
"So... can I go, Mother?" Draco pressed on.
"You and Vincent alone?"
"No, Greg is coming too."
She pondered that occurrence, glad to have a distraction from the course her train of thoughts was taking, but frowning slightly nonetheless.
She didn't like it when Draco was away.
She didn't like it even when he was at Hogwarts, even with Snape keeping watch, let alone with his witless friends, in that labyrinthine abode that was home to the Goyles – they said old Bruce still kept all the old hardware in the dungeons and sharpened the blades weekly.
In the end, she chose to procrastinate.
"We'll see what your father thinks. In the meanwhile, would you give me a hand with the garden?"
Draco had to keep his face in check to be sure there wasn't a wide grin forming on it. He had always been able to talk Father into getting what he wanted, but Mother was a Griffin of a different colour, and he couldn't believe his luck at seeing the biggest obstacle on his path yielding like that.
Not only, but it turned out that the "hand" she needed was a batch of poisoned bait to get rid of some gnomes that had been ruining her Undulating Irises patch, which meant Draco would get a chance to prepare some potions.
A feeling of longing took hold of him as they descended into the cellar. It was refreshingly cool, with a smell like his dormitory at Hogwarts, and immediately filled him with fond memories of the school.
Some summer this had turned to be.
In the wake of the Dark Lord's return, he had hoped that he would join Father as a Death Eater and finally see some action, but all he had been told was that "the time wasn't ripe yet" and that he ought to behave as if nothing had happened: and the days had dragged by ever since, as slow as flowing tar.
Though ecstatic at the opportunity provided, nonetheless Draco had to voice his disapproval at being required to do menial work.
"Why do I have to?" he whined, out of habit more than else, lest Mother realized how much he liked brewing and asked him to prepare every single concoction in use at the Manor.
"Because you're a better potioneer than I, and your father is too busy these days."
"Well then, I'll need a hand with the preparation," he drawled. "Snape always puts two of us at a cauldron. I'm not used to brewing alone."
He was pushing his luck with this one, but to his relief Mother set herself on a side bench and started hashing ingredients, which was good – Draco didn't dare to exercise his arm too much.
The brewing went on in a silence broken only by short, functional exchanges, and only when Narcissa started to peel a stinking birthwort root, Draco voiced his discontent again.
"An house-elf should do that."
"We don't have a house-elf anymore, and you know whom you should thank for this," she replied, chopping the root so harshly that the top flew across the cellar.
"Perhaps I'll do it once the term starts. I bet Potter's not feeling so cocky these days."
Draco grinned through the vapours, glad for the opportunity to take another jab at Potter, but Mother seemed lost in deep thought. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, but the beautiful face was inscrutable.
And then he was brought back to the harsh reality that he wouldn't be feeling so cocky himself in September... provided he could carry it off so far...
Watch the brew, he told himself, and checked the potion just in time. A certain resistance in the movement of the ladle told him that the bottom was beginning to stick. He fanned the cauldron and gritted his teeth as a burning sensation started to spread to his forearm again: the effect of the painkiller was waning. He sighed and consoled himself with the notion that they would be finished soon. The concoction had now the consistency of honey and stuck to the cauldron, a sign that it was nearly ready.
Now came the hard part. The actual poison had been finished, but it needed to be made palatable. In went an ounce of ground meat, stewed mushrooms and horned snails, a spoonful of pickles and steamed rice. All this added to the concoction's thickness and the book said "mix thoroughly". By the time the bait had been stirred, made into small meatballs and laid out on the marble bench to cool, Draco was bathed in sweat and gritting his teeth.
"It's done, Mother," he announced wearily.
"Good job, Draco. Just one more thing now, get Kratos inside the cage. You wouldn't want him to get sick on one of these. I'll tell you when it's safe to let him out again."
Kratos was spending the hot afternoon in the shadiest cavity of a mulberry tree, but came at once when Draco whistled, flying onto his shoulder and hooting softly. Obedient as always, he entered the cage himself and didn't object to being locked in.
"There's a good owl," Draco praised him, and filled the trough with treats before hanging the cage to a ceiling beam.
All that activity had taken its toll; pain came in waves and Draco felt an urge to get sick, but soldiered on as they spread the bait under the irises, many of which hung limply as if their tubers had been severed or chewed. Gnomes disliked the heat as much as wizards and in this season they usually carried their food underground to eat, conveniently sparing them the sight of dead vermin lying around the garden.
He excused himself as soon as they were finished, then rushed to the bathroom upstairs. He was no sooner into the bathroom that he was already out of his robes, the bandage half undone. He applied another heavy dose of paste on the scabs and lay on the floor, half naked, the tiles pleasantly cool against his sweaty skin.
The gnomes ate the bait and croaked, the irises recovered nicely within a few days and obtaining the permission became a pure formality.
"On one condition, though," Father said, wearing his best no-nonsense face. "For absolutely no reason you are to go into the dungeons. It's full of dangerous artifacts. House-elves have died down there and you know how hard it is to kill those."
In another occasion, that might just have been the incentive for Draco and his friends to go explore the place, but right now he couldn't have cared less.
"We won't be entering the mansion. Greg came up with this idea – we'll be camping on the grounds in his tent, it'll be fun."
"Camping?" The look on Father's face was half amused, half disgusted. "Well – personally, I can't see why one would voluntarily go back to living like it was the Founders' times, even just for a week, but it's your vacation and you've earned it, so I was told. Just be sure not to bring home any nasty parasites."
The look that came from under the furrowed eyebrows ought to have worried Draco, but he was too relieved to even notice it.
Father Apparated them and their luggage, one at a time, in the part of the grounds farthest from the Goyle mansion; Draco was last. By the time he appeared in the clearing at Father's arm, Vince and Greg were already mock-fighting.
Compared to the Malfoy estate, the trees were small, gnarled and disorderly, the ground uneven and covered with criss-crossing roots, dead stumps and thorny shrubs. Father cast a scathing look around the place.
"I'll ask it once more, Draco," he drawled. "Are you sure this is your idea of a vacation?"
No, more like my idea of quarantine. A steel hand seemed to come out of nowhere and choke Draco's reply. Unable to find his voice, he just nodded. That seemed enough, however.
"You may have fooled your mother, but you won't fool me, Draco."
The words were accompanied by a strong hand grabbing his arm: Draco froze and looked up: all his blood seemed to have curdled into his veins.
"All these subterfuges, this camping trip... do you think I'm a fool, son?" There was real disappointment in that flat voice, in those narrowed eyes.
Exposed, shamed, cornered, Draco would have uttered a full confession there and then, if only his throat had not shrunk to such a point that a greased needle wouldn't have gone through. But Father did not wait for a reply.
No, there was not a problem with uploading – that's really my way of ending chapters. Gotta love those cliffhangers.
