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Draco Malfoy.
The name was embellished with intricate swirls of gold, and the lettering itself was a dark green, forest almost, engraved in the marble. He was vaguely surprised he could read it. It was situated near the bottom middle of the immense black, gold-veined sheet which formed the east wall of the drawing room. The name’s owner put his fingers on the name and rested them there for a moment. Rain-silver eyes flickered to the top of the embellishments, where a brilliant silver line rose gracefully to meet the infinity sign engraved between the names Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black. It was the only such line, and Draco traced his finger up it slowly, almost fearfully, as if it were a shimmering thread that might break at any moment and leave him floundering in that great black-and-gold sea of names.
He hurriedly completed the journey, and let his fingers rest on the pair. Narcissa Black. He had never really thought of her as being a part of the Black family, much less half one himself. He had always known, naturally—his mother was from one of the most...pureblood...wizarding families in England, not a fact that his parents would hide from him; rather, they flaunted it openly. And his aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange; he had never thought of her as Bellatrix Black, just as he had never considered himself anything but a Malfoy. How strange, to be only half your last name. He could just as easily have been Draco Black...
His fingers, of their own accord, wandered away from the Malfoy line and onto his mother’s half of the family tree. Some part of his mind noted that his father had actually included Narcissa’s entire family, rather than simply adding her name, on his family tree. Draco supposed that it was because the Blacks were such a powerful family. Or maybe his mother had insisted. He really didn’t care, and let his gaze—and fingertips—travel over the clear, almost-crystalline silver lines.
Bellatrix Black m. R. Lestrange. Andromeda Black m. Ted Tonks. A line descended from their infinity sign to another name: Nymphadora Tonks. Draco wrinkled his nose in disgust. He’d heard of her, though of course his family would never associate with her...kind. She wasn’t a Mudblood like Granger, exactly, but she was half-blood—her father was Muggleborn, and his marriage to Andromeda had been the latter’s undoing. Narcissa and Bellatrix no longer recognized her as a sister, and if her remembered right, his maternal grandmother—a rather terrifying woman—had blasted her off the family tree.
His fingers followed the silver lines once more until they stopped on a name he hadn’t really paid attention to before: Regulus Black. The name wasn’t green like the others—it was gray, and seemed to shimmer faintly. Draco frowned at it. Why was this one different than the others? Then it hit him. Regulus Black. Death Eater. Tried to back out and was killed by Voldemort. Right. The stupid fool Mum was talking about. ...can’t believe he’s my cousin. Or second cousin, or something like that. Father would never do such an idiotic thing...
He snorted, the sound nearly echoing in the previously silent room, and turned to go, but a name caught his eye. He stood staring at the family tree as if under some kind of Binding hex. Two words etched themselves into Draco Malfoy’s mind. They had always been there—he had seen them every day of his life, had heard all the stories, knew every detail—but this time, the words “Sirius Black” were not easy to ignore.
Just as it had never truly occurred to Draco that he was half-Malfoy, half-Black, he realized for the first time in his life that Draco Malfoy and Sirius Black were relatives, cousins in fact. It had never been of any importance to Draco before, because Sirius had been put in Azkaban when the former was still barely learning to walk. Fleetingly, the thought crossed his mind that Bellatrix might have seen him while she and her husband served their sentences.
Sirius Black. The man was like a legend. At Hogwarts, he, Potty’s father, and—as laughable as it sounded to Draco—Professor Lupin were terrors of the school, beyond even—according to everyone who had met both—those stupid Weasley twins. The “Marauders”. And yet, in the end, even they were not invincible. The man Draco’s father spoke of, Wormtail, their betrayer—Draco sneered in angry contempt. No matter how useful Pettigrew was to the Dark Lord and Lucius Malfoy, he was still a little rat in all senses of the word, and in Draco’s opinion he didn’t deserve to live. The two things you learned in Slytherin were loyalty to self and loyalty to one’s friends. You protected yourself above all else, but you never betrayed your friends; that was absolutely unforgivable.
Of course, Draco thought wryly, it would help if he had any friends—Crabbe and Goyle were closer to minion status, though he would not betray a fellow Slytherin regardless. He envied the Golden Trio, though he would never admit it to anyone. Stupid Potter—he got all the fame and the friends and the glory and...
And the agony. Draco thought of never knowing his father, whom he worshipped as much as he disliked, and of his mother dying to protect him, her final scream “...not Draco, take me, oh God please not Draco...” and his heart and throat constricted. Emotion is bad, he told himself fiercely. Emotion is weak. His throat slowly eased, and his thoughts turned in a new—and even more disturbing—direction. His father had been there, had brought home the memory of Lily Potter’s last words (or a general sense of them) to share with his family...and Draco was feeling sorry for himself now by reliving the death of Potter’s mother, but with his mother instead, screaming for Voldemort to spare him?
He shook his head violently, and for the first time in his life Draco Malfoy was disgusted with himself.
His fingers were still touching the name where he had unconsciously raised his hand to trace the line that ran from himself to Sirius in a series of bends. Potty’s godfather...so Potty is related to you...his father was pureblood, of course he’s related to you somehow...Weasel too...what does it matter? He had a sudden vision of the screams ending and the chilling laughter of Lord Voldemort fading away into the night, and of a motor approaching; a vision of a young man who vaguely resembled his mother, especially around the set of the nose, but with black hair and once-laughing grey eyes—Sirius—running into the house and crying out in anguish as he found the bodies of his best friend and the latter’s wife; Draco saw him cradle the body of James Potter in his arms, sobbing; he, Sirius, took out his wand, stared at it a moment, put it back...then, with a look in his eyes that frightened Draco more than Voldemort himself, laid James beside his wife and crouched, examining the tiny prints in the dust, the tracks of a rat...
Draco had always been somewhat surprised that Sirius Black was not more of a family celebrity; until the news had come out recently of Pettigrew’s non-dead state, the entire wizarding world had believed Sirius to be the one who betrayed Lily and James Potter, his best friends, and killed his other friend, Peter Pettigrew, along with a dozen or so Muggles—and if all that didn’t make him a great man in the eyes of Lucius Malfoy, Draco thought with a grimace, nothing would. They must have known all along that Sirius was innocent.
Pettigrew didn’t come out of hiding, then, because “the other Death Eaters would have killed me”, or so he claimed. Draco’s mouth twisted upward. Had the Malfoys been doing something other than hiding? No, maybe not hiding, per se, but...
The door to the drawing room creaked open, and a tiny, wizened house-elf came in. “Master Draco?” he squeaked. “Afternoon tea is being served.”
“Yes, good, um...” He’d forgotten the house-elf’s name, as usual. Rinky? Something with a “T”? He had no idea. Turning back to the family tree, he released his fingertips from the name of Sirius Black. My cousin...how very strange...
“Ah, yes. Sirius Black. A true pureblood.” The tiny old elf was stooped and worn, but the squeakiness in his voice had diminished.
“Excuse me?” Draco frowned, turning. The house-elf had never uttered any sort of opinion whatsoever—and this statement, while fact, carried the undertones of a strong opinion—in the entire time he had served the Malfoys, which Draco assumed had been long before he was born.
The elf bobbed and bowed his head. “Your tea is ready, young master.”
Draco nodded, eyes still on the elf’s oddly knowing gaze. He had to look down, not his usual habit, and—also unusual—followed the house-elf out the door. The faint scent of tea and scones wafted through the corridors of Malfoy Manor.
Draco looked back at the family tree on the wall as the door clicked shut.
Ivy