Surviving Malfoy _ Part II : Anger and Depression
Rollers of Bedlam 'June' - I heard her Cry, can you hear her cry?
Chapter 1:
Although my last few days in Britain were warm, they are nothing compared to the heat that overtakes New Orleans during the summer months. I used to hate it. It comes with a pressing humidity that makes your skin sticky and your lungs heavy. If it can be avoided, no one goes outside until early evening, when the heat dies down and the streets come back to life.
I used to hide from it in the basement of our mansion. It is both a classroom and the coolest part of the house, making it by far my favorite place to be. Now that I've experienced the always cool corridors of Hogwarts however, I've started seeking out the sun every free minute I have, dragging Debbie along with me on the rare occasions my mother gives me permission to leave the house without her supervision.
I have few freedoms these days. It's only been a few weeks since Madam Fox, my mother and Debbie stormed into Hogwarts to rush me back to Salem after my brief encounter with a bunch of Death Eaters. The school year is only due to end today and I've been busy working out my curriculum along with my Salem teachers after a year abroad. But during the little free time I do have, my mother tends to keep me busy inside, under the pretense of needing help looking after the other girls. It's help she's never needed before, but I know her goal is to keep an eye on me and, for the most part, I'm happy to indulge her.
My year at Hogwarts didn't exactly end in the best way possible. I did manage to keep my head down for most of the year, but somehow I still managed to raise the attention of one particular Death Eater's son which not only left me with a bit of a bruised heart, but also with a severe werewolf bite across half my face and - worse even - the risk of Lord Voldemort finding out about my consanguineal kinship with his arch nemesis, Harry Potter. I can't really argue with my mother that I'm better off inside.
She isn't the only nervous one either. The minute I filled Madam Fox in on the going-ons of my year at Hogwarts she rounded up every teacher in Salem along with several alumni and had each put a different protective charm on the house. Those daring enough went so far as to use blood magic - all to make sure no one can get to me.
It's surreal to me how so many people can put so much at stake for my protection. Being a student at the Salem Institute, I've heard many tales about the lengths to which Salem Witches go to protect and defend their own. But nothing grave enough has ever happened to make me witness it until now. One call from Madam Fox and thirteen witches dropped everything and came to New Orleans to ensure my and my mother's safety. They've put up an intruder charm around the entire block, a magical barrier on the gates, more concealment charms than there already were and imperturbable charms on each window and door. A Fidelius Charm isn't an option as too many people need to be able to come and go freely, but a blood sacrifice has been made to prevent anyone from entering if they aren't accompanied by a consenting Salem Witch.
All this for me.
And the more time passes, the more I start wondering whether that was all necessary. I get very few messages from my friends in Britain. In fact, I only ever receive them from Hermione Granger, coincidentally one of my brother's best friends. She's charmed two gold coins to mirror each other, allowing us to transfigure their numbers into small messages for one another. She's been overly casual over the last few weeks though, occasionally letting me know things are fine, but not much more. I don't expect much more anyway, to be fair. She is in as dangerous a position as my brother. From what we've heard in the US, their ministry seems to be putting up a strong facade yet failing at producing any real results. Albus Dumbledore has been killed within his own school. He'd been Lord Voldemort's biggest opponent and now he's gone, the British Wizarding World's political climate seems to grow progressively more tense and frantic. Getting any messages about the ministry across the pond can be dangerous business, any opposition could be misinterpreted and for now I'm simply glad Hermione is still able to let me know she's okay at all.
I have another one of these little coins. This one linked to Draco Malfoy, the Death Eater's son who was intent on killing Albus Dumbledore all of last year. That coin has stayed unchanged since he accidentally sent me a message meant for his informant though, and I haven't tried to get in touch with him either. That business is infinitely more dangerous than discussing the weaknesses of the British Ministry.
I also haven't heard a word from my brother, but I'm not too concerned about him as of now. I know he's with our aunt and uncle, safe at least until our seventeenth birthday just over a month away. I also assume he's under Ministry supervision, his owl undoubtedly would be intercepted and would have to fly a distance much too dangerous for such a small bird if he did try to send me anything. He'll let me know once he's back with Hermione and their friend Ron before the end of the summer and then I'll be able to check in on him through her.
No news is good news, that's the general rule I try to live by.
"Every damn year."
Debbie is sitting on my left, on the floor of the balcony just outside the room we share at Salem. She's leaning her back against the wall, legs outstretched in front of her, crossed at the ankles and enjoying the pumpkin ice cream Martha made this morning. My legs are crossed, but otherwise I'm mirroring her stance entirely. From up here, we have a straight view of the road passing the Mansion and on it, the hordes of muggles, dressed all in white on their way to Bayou St. John. Today is St. John's Eve. For the muggles, this means religious rituals, for us the end of the school year.
"They're not doing any harm," I shrug.
"They're playing with fire."
"They're muggles Debs, what do you think's going to happen? They can brew as many potions or use as many trinkets as they want, the only effect it'll have is placebo."
I don't need to turn my head in her direction to know her eyebrows are way beyond her hairline. "How do you know they're all muggles? It's dangerous. Any wizard could sneak in among them and kill half of them during one head washing."
"Tituba, you sound like my brother," I sigh.
"Yeah well, maybe he's got a point," she murmurs. I don't respond. "Heard anything from him lately?"
I shake my head. "He's still with his aunt and uncle. Hermione will let me know once they're all back together."
"How's she doing?"
Debbie and Hermione met during my last stay in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. They had taken it in turns carrying me to the bathroom until I had enough strength to do so on my own. Hermione still doesn't know Debbie was the one who screwed me over badly enough last Christmas to get me temporarily thrown out of Salem and she's been rather fond of her so far. Debbie on the other hand, was awfully quiet around Hermione at first - she later admitted she feared I would replace her, but also knew full well she had no right to complain if I did. I'd insisted nobody could replace her.
"I'm not sure," I shrug. "We can't send super long messages with that coin, but she sounds tense. She's preparing to go into hiding is my guess."
"They're definitely not going back to Hogwarts then?"
I shake my head again. "Too risky."
"What's their plan?"
"I have no idea."
Debbie pokes at her ice cream. She knows why it's too risky and she knows as much about their plans as I do. We've been discussing nothing else since coming back from the UK.
"Anything from..?" She doesn't finish her sentence.
"No," I say flatly.
It's funny how being blind, even just in one eye, can make you so much more perceptive of people. I sense Debbie pausing with her spoon halfway between the bowl and her lips, her head cocked in my direction and her eyebrows furrowed. I turn my head to look at her and get the confirmation that that's exactly how she's looking at me. Or maybe I just know her too well.
"What?" I ask.
She shrugs. "How are you feeling?"
"How am I supposed to be feeling?"
"I don't know," she says curtly. "You never talk about him."
I sigh and put my own bowl of ice cream down on the wooden floor. "That's because I don't really want to talk about him," I say.
"I see you looking at that coin every day," Debbie huffs. "Don't tell me you don't care."
"I never said that I don't," I pause. "I'm angry. That's what I am: angry."
"Good," Debbie says. "Now tell me why."
I turn to look at her again. "What do you mean why? He screwed me over. Me and the entire British wizarding world. He got Voldemort's biggest opponent killed and gave him free rein to take power. Of course, I'm angry."
"I know that," Debbie says. "But I also know that's not the only reason you're angry. You're angry because he screwed you over, because he made promises he didn't keep. And let me guess, you're not angry because he broke the promise but because he made it in the first place knowing full well he couldn't keep it."
I frown. "If you already know why I'm angry, why are you even asking?"
"Because I want to make sure you're not angry at yourself."
My jaw clenches of its own accord. "I'm not," I say reluctantly, and Debbie's eyebrows shoot back up to her hairline. Maybe she knows me too well too. "Just a little bit," I admit. "I was stupid enough to believe him."
"Or maybe you just wanted to believe in him," Debbie says softly.
"Don't give me this bullshit," I say forcefully.
Debbie groans. "I wouldn't be sitting here if you didn't believe in the good in people," she says. "I like that you do that and I'm begging you, don't stop."
"Look where that got me," I gesture at the left side of my face that's nothing but a map of scars.
"You said yourself he didn't have a choice."
"And that's exactly why I shouldn't have trusted him." My voice is bitter.
Debbie sighs. "Don't blame yourself," she says so quietly I can barely hear her.
The problem is, I do blame myself. I keep repeating to myself that I did all I could, I was following Dumbledore's orders when I met up with Draco, when I offered him help. I was being a friend to him because I'd been told to. I didn't report him to any higher authorities because I'd been told not to, because I'd been told it was under control.
And yet I blame myself for trusting him when he said he wasn't going to carry on with his mission., for being stupid enough not to worry when he didn't ask what kind of help I had to offer. I let him seduce me. Only to a point sure, but I let him seduce me, nonetheless.
"Blaise is right," Debbie is looking forward again, gazing at the neatly cut front lawn and beyond the wrought iron gate where the street is slowly quieting down. Night is starting to fall. "The whole situation wasn't his fault. The both of you just got tangled up in something bigger than yourselves and he can't be blamed for reacting the way he did. What he can be blamed for is making promises to you he knew he wasn't going to keep. And you have every right to be angry, but you have no right to blame yourself."
Debatable. I sigh. "He used me," I say. "And I'm pretty sure he knew he was using me. I was just some stupid bint to him. And I do have every right to be angry at myself for being just as stupid as he took me to be."
Debbie inhales sharply about to retort but before she can do so, Lizzie sticks her head through the door to our bedroom.
"There you are," she says looking at me, her red ponytail swinging behind her. "Madam Vincent's looking for you."
"What does she want?" I ask. It's the last day of term, there's hardly anything she could want from me.
Lizzie shrugs. "Don't know. She just said she needed you."
I sigh and get up, picking up my bowl of ice cream in the process. Lizzie has already vanished back inside. "Where is she?" I ask, stepping through the French doors.
"In the conservatory," I catch Lizzie's small frame just as it vanishes into the first-floor hallway. I can't help but marvel at the growth spurt she's had since I last saw her six months ago, she's turning eight just five days before I'm due to turn seventeen.
I follow her out into the bright hallway. Just like the rest of New Orleans House it's predominantly white, hornbeam floors, white walls, silver doorknobs. Only the doorframes are mahogany, mirroring the steps of the imperial staircase that leads down to the entrance hall. I skip down it as fast as I can; I learnt its intricacies years ago and I run down on autopilot by now.
I follow Lizzie into the kitchen. It stands opposite the dining room on the left coming down the stairs and Martha, one of the matrons, is standing by the sink, peeling carrots for the end of term dinner.
"Do you need help with that?" I ask.
"Later maybe," She turns to me with a smile. She's hardly five years older than Debbie and I and she's always been more of an older sister to us than a matron we're supposed to listen to. "Vincent needs you. She's in the back." I groan. If even Martha knows about it, it might just be worrying. I cross the kitchen into the back hall, past the pantry and the back drawing room, down a few steps and into the conservatory.
We only call it the conservatory because it's linked to the house, but really, it's more of a greenhouse. The inside has been magically enhanced to fit all of Madam Vincent and Madam Holbein's plants. Vincent is our potions and alchemy instructor, Holbein is responsible for magical flora and fauna and although Vincent teaches her classes in the basement, she spends most of her time in the conservatory with Madam Holbein conducting research on Tituba knows what.
I spot Madam Vincent's lean frame at the back of the greenhouse, facing one of the work benches. She's wearing the typical attire for graduate Salem Witches, black bottoms, white top, black tie and wide brimmed hat, black shoes. It isn't mandatory anymore, but most graduates choose to wear the apparel at the very least on formal occasions as a sign of loyalty and respect. It's required of Salem teachers though, so this isn't an unusual sight outside a formal occasion either.
"Madam Vincent?" I ask when I approach, and she still hasn't turned around. She's fiddling around with vials.
"Oh, there you are." She drops what she's holding and whips her head around to me. She breaks out into a reassuring smile, pale eyes twinkling, and yet I sense she's tense about something. I've known her long enough, she's been the one nurturing my talent in potions ever since I turned eleven, spending many extra hours on my education.
"Lizzie said you needed me?" I say.
"In a way," she says, turning back around to the workbench and picking up a cup that's been sitting on her right. "I need you to drink this."
She holds up the goblet and I feel my stomach drop. It isn't exactly a small cup and there's a faint blue smoke slowly rising from it. I've never seen it before, but I know enough about it to know what's coming. This is wolfsbane potion.
"Look," she says, sensing my discomfort. "I still don't think you'll need it, but I'd rather be safe than sorry. I did my research on werewolf bites by untransformed werewolves, but I couldn't find any substantial reports. On the off chance something happens at full moon, I'm going to need you to drink a cup full of this every evening for the next week."
I take a deep breath. I've been shutting my mind down every time it reminds me of the werewolf bite on my face, but I've also been expecting something like this. And Madam Vincent is right, better safe than sorry. I nod.
"Just this once, okay?" She says lifting her hand in reassurance to beckon me over.
"Okay," I say, taking the cup from her. The fumes smell pleasant enough, but the potion itself tastes absolutely disgusting and I cough in revulsion after just one gulp.
"The whole cup," Madam Vincent says when I struggle swallowing a second mouth full and a sudden wave of pity overtakes me. Draco was swallowing this for a full seven days every month for all of last year and it is the most disgusting thing I have ever had the misfortune of tasting in my life.
"I really do hope you won't need it," she says when I finally manage to force down the entire potion. My throat stings with the taste of it.
"I know," I say before she can continue. "Better than having a loose werewolf."
She gives me a sad smile before she nods. "Just in case," she says again, and I give her back her cup.
My tongue is still burning when I walk back up to the kitchen minutes later. Only six more times and I'll know if I ever need to take this again, but to be perfectly honest I don't know if I could live with the prospect of ingesting that potion seven times every month for the rest of my life. It feels like it's clawing at my insides.
"Still willing to help?" Martha asks when I enter the kitchen and I grimace at her. "She forced the wolfsbane potion on you, didn't she?"
"What's a wolfsbane potion?" Lizzie peeps from her seat at the big butchers table in the middle of the room. She's shelling peas for dinner.
"You don't need to know," I say glumly.
Martha gives me a pitying look. "It's ridiculous. It wasn't the full moon when you got bitten. You don't need it."
"She's right though," I say. "You never know."
Even though Martha turns back around towards the sink, I'm pretty sure her lips have tightened. "I guess so," she says. "What are you going to do on the full moon?"
I shrug. I'll be back at my mother's house for the summer in a week's time. She lives just outside the borders of New Orleans in Metairie, and she's surrounded by muggles. Not exactly a safe place for a werewolf to transform or to be on the loose. My stomach tightens up in a knot again. "I'm not sure."
"Go to the swamps," Martha says. "I can let dad know and he can keep an eye on you if anything does happen. It'll be safer than being in the middle of a suburb."
Cassius Warbeck, Martha's father, is a Cajun wizard living in the swamps outside New Orleans, west of Lake Lery. I've known him since I was ten, he'd been bringing Martha around to get her comfortable around us years before she started work as a Matron at Salem. She's a Squib and he wanted to make sure she has a promising future. He grew rather fond of Debbie and I in the process. We used to spend our afternoons in his home on the bank of Le Blanc Bayou whenever Madam Holbein would take us out to look for swamp plants.
The idea is comforting.
"I don't know if mum would let me," I say.
Martha sighs. "She doesn't need to know, does she? Lock your room, apparate out of it and she won't know a thing."
I frown at her. "She'll kill me if she finds out."
"If she does, let me know and I'll have a word with her. I'd rather have you be somewhere far from civilization with a capable wizard around who can handle a werewolf if he needs to, than know you're stuck in a room in the middle of a muggle suburb with nothing but a squib to look after you."
I gulp. "The wolfsbane potion-" I start but Martha cuts me off.
"Helps, I know," she says. "But still. On the off chance something goes wrong, do me a favor and spend that night in the swamps."