The Moon is a Harsh Mistress
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended.
Acknowledgements: To my betas Gina Hildebrand and Hyseion, for trying to make this better.
Chapter three -
The Boys of Summer
'We'll sit and watch the clouds roll by
And the tall grass wave in the wind
You can lay your head back on the ground
And let your hair fall all around me
Offer up your best defense
But this is the end
This is the end of innocence'
DON HENLEY, The End of Innocence
"Did you think your own father wouldn't figure what you're up to? Did it occur to you that I have been fifteen myself? It wasn't so long ago that I have forgotten it completely."
Those words had Draco completely befuddled: what did age have to do with all this? He swallowed tentatively and managed to croak a "Wh... what?" before his throat failed him again and his voice broke to a wheeze.
"Oh, quit stammering like a house-elf!" Father cried. "You might have deceived your mother, she'd never expect such a thing from you, but I'm not that easy to fool. I thought I had taught you better than this: obviously I was wrong." He sighed and looked Draco straight in the eyes. "Is she at least a witch?"
It took a few moments for Draco to figure out what the question meant and what it implied; moments in which he just stood there with his mouth open, absolutely stunned. Then it all clicked: warmth returned to his body and his knees actually bent a little.
Father misinterpreted his relief for guilt and beckoned for the two of them to sit on a felled trunk, while Crabbe and Goyle kept wrestling each other to the ground.
"Don't worry, Draco, no harm has been done yet... I presume," he began, in the smooth tone which accompanied his reprimands. "At your age a wizard has certain... urges, I understand that. But, I am very worried that you might do anything you'd regret later."
At this point, Draco could have exploded. There were waves of heat and shivers running along his back. He did not know what was worse – that Father had assumed he would go sleeping around like some Muggle-laying manwhore, or that he was indeed hiding something from his parents – and badly at that.
Again, his father took his silence as damning evidence.
"I hope it's not the Parkinson girl."
"No! She's not!" Still trying to figure how to get out of the blind alley in which he had landed, Draco shook his head frantically.
For the time being there was nothing to do but play into the assumption: Father had noticed his odd behaviour and odder request, but he had chalked them up to teenage foolishness, and did not seem particularly mad... better to admit guilt rather than deny all accusations and make him all the more suspicious.
"Good," Father commented. "Whether she's the one with whom you want to spend the rest of your life or isn't, you're not doing yourself a favour, son."
Draco fidgeted with his hands, wondering how to proceed. Suddenly, as if some barrier inside his mind had ripped and was no longer opposing resistance, the idea of endorsing Father's mistaken assumption did not seem as outlandish as before, and it was only a matter of finding the most suitable words to support the fabrication, instead of whether to say them at all.
"It is nothing serious. I was just...." He shrugged. "I just wanted to have some fun while I still could." Indeed.
Father relaxed visibly at those words. "Now I'm starting to hear some sense," he said. "It is normal to be curious about these things – eager, even... but you must always keep in mind who you are. How's that phrase? Ah, yes: noblesse oblige. The others look up to us, Draco. We're expected to lead by example."
"I did not mean any harm, Father. I hadn't thought about it, but now... no good can come out of this. I can see it clearly."
Those words elicited a thought in Draco's mind, a mental image of himself buried to the hilt in a Mudblood, a sickening sight. A particularly perverse portion of his brain had given the slut a head full of frizzy hair streaming in all directions on the pillow, and he nearly threw up in his mouth.
Father planted a hand firmly on his shoulder, and nodded.
"I knew you would. That is why I allowed you to pursue this... nonsense: because I knew you'd need to go this far to recognise what you were heading into. Now I know I raised my son just right. Many families have been brought down by smart whores ensnaring their bachelors, and by your wealth and birth you are a very desirable match."
He closed in and went on in an insinuating tone: "Not to mention the possible consequences for your heritage."
Draco had not even considered the subject yet, but the mere mention of it made his hair stand up in spite of the heat. It was the stuff of nightmares, the subject of the most morbid interest among his classmates: how lying with a Muggle would result in the deprivation of one's magical reserves, right through their manhood; the perpetrators would pay dearly for their reckless lust by being punished with a progeny of Squibs, while on the other side a cuckolded Muggle would unknowingly sire Mudbloods. Even though some of the seniors, like Montague, were adamant that it was just an old hags' tale, Draco had no intention of testing the theory.
"Then you have no further business in this place," Father said, casting a final glance at the dismal clearing. "Let's go home."
Draco felt as if his broom had bucked him from fifty feet. He had just recovered from the shock of Father's accusation and his guard had slid down as the third-degree muted into a father-to-son chat about the facts of life. Now, just when he thought he had regained a tad of control on the situation, he was cornered.
"D-do I - do I have to?" he stammered. "Crabbe and Goyle, what would they think about it?"
Father looked surprised, and not pleasantly. He raised his head to look at the two boys. They were exhausted now and lying on the grass: Crabbe had picked up a long twig and was surreptitiously trying to stick it up Goyle's nose.
"You let those two in on the matter?"
Draco nodded again. "The strict necessary. But if I just go home now, they'll think I'm chickening out. Father, I am not going to do anything, I swear... please, allow me..."
He reached and held his father's wrist, but to his surprise the man did not reciprocate, allowing the ritual to be completed.
"Never pledge, son," he said icily. "Vows are much too easy to pronounce in a moment of enthusiasm, and will bind you for the rest of your life, no matter how your obligation becomes twisted beyond its original meaning. Show yourself reliable through your actions, not your words, and you shall never be required to swear an oath."
There was an awkward silence after that. Draco stood there, waiting on his tip-toes: Father remained sitting, apparently staring at nothing. Then he resumed: "I guess virtue has to be put to the test in order to be demonstrated. I will trust you not to do anything that will bring shame to the family. On that matter, remember that the Underage Clause is still in force. Remember what happened to Potter?"
Draco nodded. As if he could forget what had happened to Potter!
It had been a ray of sunshine casting light over a dreary fortnight. The hacks of the Daily Prophet had had a ball with that - and Draco too, at reading how Harry Potter, 15, of Little Whinging, had been charged of improper use of magic and first-degree breaching of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy and was expecting possible expulsion from Hogwarts. Pansy had Flooed over and they had spent the afternoon taking turns at reading the juiciest parts, enacting possible versions of the events each funnier than the previous one, and generally having the best time since the Potter Stinks Society (Pansy's rendition of a buck-toothed, wild-haired Granger especially had had him in tears).
The amusement vanished quickly as Draco remembered where he was, and why. Father was staring at him with a strange expression that mixed fondness and worry. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but jolted instead. The way his entire body had unconsciously arched to the left, as if to shield the tender flesh on the forearm, left no doubts as to the reason: his Mark was burning.
"I'm... summoned," he explained labouredly. "Must leave..."
"Go, then," Draco said. "Don't worry about me."
Father stood up swiftly and gave Draco one last silent, indecipherable look. Then, with a muffled whomp, he was gone.
The noise gave Goyle a start and put an end to Crabbe's ambushing attempts. As the two resumed fighting on the withered grass, Draco wondered whether he was presently the loneliest person on Earth.
However, that feeling dissipated quickly. There were so many things to keep three young wizards busy, that Draco simply did not have the time to ponder how Father's misapprehension had altered the relationship between the two of them.
First of all, there was the tent. Draco had never seen one from within, and actually the size difference between the inside and the outside made him feel dizzy when Crabbe first went in, growing smaller with every step until he reached the far end and made himself comfortable on a settee which Draco could have held in one hand.
Then it was his turn to enter and make acquaintance with the place. There was a faint smell, the tapestry on the walls was threadbare, opaque and out of fashion, but the furniture had the subtle sheen of broken-in wood, and the armchair he sat in settled nicely against his back. He patted the armrests and declared the place as adequate.
"Yeah, innit?" Crabbe said. "It was Greg's great Grandpa's. He went hunting in this."
Hunting was a concept quite remote from the Malfoy mentality, so Draco fumbled for a comment that would not expose him as an utter novice. "Really. What did he hunt?"
"Muggles," came Greg's voice from the kitchen, muffled by a mouthful of food, but otherwise so deadpan and matter-of-factly that Draco didn't doubt it for a second. Then Vince started guffawing and Greg came over and laughed, too, with crumbs of cake coming out of his nose, and he realised he'd just been had. With a snort, he remembered why he had declined the invitation the year before – it was not only the discomfort of camping, but the prospect of putting himself in a situation where he would have to depend on his underlings.
Goyle was by far the most experienced of the three, as well as eager to show off his skills. What with the hot weather and the stove inside the tent, they had no real need for a fire, but he was adamant that they should get one going. Following his advice, they scattered around, gathering dead wood which he placed according to size on a bed of earth and round stones.
The Trace prevented them from using their wands, but they had brought so many charmed devices it was hard to notice any difference. The coolest, trickiest part was the fire. Greg produced some sticks that lit up when struck against the side of their box: they stank like a dog's fart, but provided a nice tongue of flames after the tenth attempt.
"Cool, huh?" he asked, as the fire quickly devoured the tinder and started to attack the larger branches. He added, in a stage-whisper, "They're Muggle matches."
His pride at the successful ignition couldn't have been more evident, and Draco felt like smiling in spite of his funk.
"Now this is fire," Vince commented, mesmerised by the flames, which were orange, tall, voracious. "Not that lame magical stove stuff that dies out on its own. This is the real deal."
"Keep an eye on him or he'll set the place on fire," Greg warned. "I'm getting dinner ready."
Mrs. Goyle must have gauged their appetite on her son's, because the pantry doors could barely close for the amount of food stocked. The combination of hot weather and nerves, however, made Draco fastidious to the point Crabbe insinuated he was missing his Mum's kitchen.
After dinner, it was time for recreation. Greg pulled out a booklet titled 1001 Crop Circle Patterns, which sounded promising. The coolest one had a motif of chainmail getting smaller and smaller towards the circle centre, with snakes sneaking in and out of the rings, and they contemplated the possibility for a while, but on the page it said, 'For Experts'.
"...You know what would be cool?" Vince was rambling on. "We could draw the Dark Mark on a field – so it'd last instead of going away in half an hour like at the Quidditch Cup. Muggles would shit their pants," he concluded in a dreamy voice, a smile spreading on his broad face. "We could set fire to the wheat so it stays down..."
"Tch," Draco commented, before his friend could go off on a tangent. "This is Wiltshire, Vince, also known as a lot of fucking fields. Muggles can't see the Dark Mark, and even if they did, what d'you think it would mean to them? It's been fourteen years. But if you want to attract the Aurors' attention by writing the Death Eaters sign right at Gregory's doorstep, be my guest."
At dusk, they took out their broomsticks. They had settled on a spinner design with a three-armed spiral running clockwise, surrounded by a six-armed spiral running counter-clockwise, surrounded by a double ring, which according to the book was "recommended for a team of three". It came out nice, although a bit slanted, because they had forgotten to compensate for rotation after the first hour.
Crabbe and Goyle fell asleep as soon as they hit their beds, whereas Draco spent a lot of time sitting beside the dying fire and watching the moon. It was nearly full now, just a bit flat on the western quart, and it was still high, floating white and bloated in the sky like the face of a drowned corpse, when he finally went to sleep.
He woke up stiff and sore. The bunk was much smaller than the posted beds he was accustomed to, and the mattress did not have the right constitution. He was ravenous and dying for a cup of Assam, but the burner with its diabolical assortment of brazen handles and knobs seemed to dare him to try. Not wanting to risk an explosion, he went out for a walk, waiting for someone else to wake up and set for breakfast.
He took a look at his wristwatch: the moonrise would be at 19:58, and not a minute too soon. He was eager to be done with this wait and moving on... one way or the other.
When he returned to the tent, the sun was high in the sky and the temperature was rising rapidly: Crabbe and Goyle had just woken up and were as sluggish as a pair of Flobberworms. After much prodding on Draco's part, brunch was ready in the form of a fry-up, porridge and tea.
The day went on rather boringly. Draco had found some large brambles during his morning walk and they gathered a bucketful of blackberries. The air rapidly grew too hot for any comfortable physical activity, so they returned to the shade of the tent for games of Exploding Snap and rounds of Butterbeer. By the time the sun's arc started to descend, a sense of warm, alcoholic camaraderie had established.
That was still not enough for Draco's purposes. "I have something special for tonight, boys," he announced, and took out of his trunk a bottle of Firewhiskey, still sealed. Crabbe wolf-whistled at the sight.
"Ogden's Gold Seal! Mythical! Where'd you get it?"
Draco shrugged. He had snatched it from Father's cabinet, obviously – it wasn't like a fifteen-year-old could Apparate to Diagon Alley, walk into the Cup-Bearer and bang a couple Sickles onto the counter.
They drank in turns, right from the neck, Knockturn Alley-style. The bottle never rested for long in their hands, and soon it was empty. Crabbe and Goyle became at first loud and incoherent, then apathetic, whereas Draco, who had barely sipped the stuff through clenched teeth, merely felt thirsty.
But, he felt fine otherwise. Where was that nervousness he was supposed to experience? That sharpening of the senses, a desire to stretch, to run, to do violent and extreme things… that was perfectly normal. He had been getting worked up about this for a month and needed to let out the steam somehow. He took one last look at his watch: one hour till moonrise. Time to go.
"I need to clear my head, boys. I'll take a ride."
"'M comin' witcha," Crabbe slurred. Goyle, sprawled on the floor, snored loudly.
"No. You're staying with Greg. I'm fine." Draco took his Nimbus Two Thousand and One and tossed a set of robes in a bag.
"Nossiree, no way. You my bessh friend, Drakey, you more'n a brutha t' me. Don' wan' anythin' happen t'you. And Lucius said he'd turn me n'to a toad, Drakey!"
The last part was downright hysterical – not to mention Vince was clutching him by the collar at this point – and Draco wondered whether the Firewhiskey had been a mistake.
"Vince, my father never said anything like that. Get a grip, by the thunder!"
"Don' wan' be a toad, Drakey! He'p me!" The boy fell on his knees, buried his face within his hands, and started sobbing. Talk about a sad drunk.
Draco sighed. "All right, you can come. Go get your broom, but hurry – if you're not here in five minutes, I'm leaving without you."
Crabbe sped off stumbling. He was moving with remarkable ease for someone experiencing the first drinking binge of his life and had the brooms not been rolled into the kitchen curtains and tied well out of sight, he might have even made it within the conceded five minutes, but Draco wasn't going to take chances. He didn't wait the vowed five minutes or even one, but jumped on his broom and kicked off.
He did not have to worry about Snitches or damn goggle-eyed scarred midgets chasing him, so he just flew low and straight over the fields that covered the hills as far as the eye could see. Even at this speed, the air was hot and dry like a Desiccating Charm had been cast over the plain, and provided no relief. He flew over sparse thickets and pastures, scaring the cattle; encountered a river and after a brief debate, decided to fly across it.
When he judged he had put a good deal of miles between himself and the boys, he landed in a thicket, hid the Nimbus and the bag among the branches of a tree, and descended. His heart was thumping by now and he just wished the moon would come up and end this uncertainty once and for all. He watched the sun go down majestically behind a line of hills, and when the last speck of the fiery sphere disappeared, he lay on the grass with his head turned towards the darkest part of the sky, waiting for an answer to his questions.
There, like a crystal goblet against an indigo backdrop. He watched it rise, and laughed. There was the dreaded full moon, and there he was, fully human, fully in control, fully healthy…
An instant later, the transformation began.
It was pain, pain as he never had imagined possible, pain beyond what words could convey.
It began with his limbs, like a giant hand had squeezed his wrists in its crushing grip; like his boots had shrunk three sizes in the space of a heartbeat.
He froze and arched, his hands gnarled by the spasms, curled his lips back to reveal teeth creaking in the vice of an unrelenting lockjaw. Invisible hands pressed and pulled and squeezed his bones like clay, until his legs could no longer support him and he fell; his muscles were all pulling in a different direction, snapping joints, pulling sinews; liquid fire ran beneath his skin and consumed him in its blaze.
He wanted to scream, but the need for air was stronger. Fighting the vice-like grip that had seized his chest, he filled his lungs, gagging. It wasn't enough, and yet it was too much. Every fiber in his body burned like torchwood with the consuming fever of transformation.
He begged for this to end; he begged for an escape; he begged for the embrace of unconsciousness, and in a way his prayers were answered.
One split second before his heart gave way under the strain, it all waned, and the creature lying on the warm earth was devoid of any remnant of Draco Malfoy, or of any other human being.
He shook his head, stood up, shook his entire body and sniffed the air cautiously; everything felt awkward, unusual and hostile. His rear limbs were entangled, and he took out his fear on whatever it was that constrained him, tearing it apart with his teeth. He was alone, no friendly scent was in the air: the only companions were dizziness, pain and a hunger that had nothing to do with an empty belly, a craving which he did not know how to satisfy, yet.
He lowered his head and pressed his nose to the ground. The forest earth was soft and scented, with its bittersweet note of rot and mushrooms. Thousands of critters had wandered to and fro about their animal businesses, leaving the odorous trace of their passage between the twigs and the fallen leaves. He picked up, strongest, newest, the trail of a rabbit, smell of fur and musk and muddy roots, and the thought of prey made his mouth water. He followed it, with his nose pressed to the ground, only to trip on his own feet after a mere yard. He pulled himself up again, moved a few tentative steps and those were alright, but as soon as he tried an unsteady trot he stumbled and collapsed. He lay there, a low growl rumbling from within his chest: this wouldn't do. He turned and sniffed his hind feet. They felt good, they smelled good, they weren't tied or aching, and yet, and yet...
Frustration got the better of him, and he bit those treacherous paws, which wouldn't let him run, which needed to be put in place, drawing blood even as he yelped. He knew, with no knowledge of moon charts or watches, that the time available would be short. Awkwardly, frustrated by his own slow progress, he stood up again and descended, one step at a time, along the rabbit track, down the hillside and towards the river.
The more he walked the better he walked, and the exercise squeezed the last pangs of the change out of his bones and joints, but the moon had risen a considerable amount before he finally reached the water side.
The stream was surrounded on either side by a zone of grass and bushes and a faint breeze was blowing, unlike in the woods. Scents he did not have a name for, of cattle dung, smoke, fabric and sweat, reached his sensitive snout and a powerful rush of adrenaline rattled his body. This was better than rabbit, better than deer: this was the right scent, the right prey, the one that would above all satisfy his unnamed hunger.
He reached the water, and planted his fore legs solidly into it. It was almost warm, but the current was strong. He moved a few more steps and the water lapped his underbelly; trustingly, he moved forward.
That nearly undid him. He slipped on the unsteady stones of the riverbed, and the stream swept him sidelong: his head sank, and he breathed water. A blue icy stab of pain hit him at the back of the head: he panicked. Splashing around, he turned tail and paddled desperately until his paws met solid gravel. He pulled himself out of the stream, retched water, then shook himself and retraced his steps.
The river scared him, but the instinct was stronger. He trotted first in one direction, then in another, whimpering, testing the river for a slower current or a shallower bank, but to no avail. Out of desperation he even ran up and jumped straight in, but was caught in a vortex and trapped at the bottom for interminable moments.
It was a night of frustration and fear, spent longing and whimpering at the water's edge like a turned-down lover. Finally, the pull of the setting moon waned and tiredness settled upon him like a burden. He tried to resist it, rubbing his eyes with a front paw, stretching and yawning, but it was to no avail. All of a sudden the failed hunt did not seem too important: now it was time to rest. As the last slice of moon played hide-and-seek with the blades of grass, he surrendered to fatigue and curled up like a puppy.
Dawn caught him asleep on a mossy pasture, with his head mere inches from the water. He mumbled and licked his lips, feeling chafed skin. He was thirsty and the smell was close and inviting. He pushed himself forward, dipped his face in the stream, and lapped avidly. The water was icy in the bright light, and made his teeth ache.
It also kick-started his brain, and he was suddenly aware, with a pang of fear, of his surroundings. He was naked and covered in scratches in the middle of nowhere, his hands and feet were aching like they had been clubbed, and had no bloody idea of where his wand lay.
And on top of all this and worse than everything, there was the certainty of what he had tried to deny for an entire month.
He was cursed. For the rest of his life.
