Hogwarts: The Legacy

(c)2005 by Josh Cohen. May not be reprinted, except for personal use. The Potterverse was created by JK Rowling, and remains her property. Death, Binky, and Susan (implied) were created by Terry Pratchett, and remain his property. I\'m just borrowing from them both for a little while.

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TEN: SUNSET

Warning: This chapter made me cry a little when I wrote it.

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Hermione and Draco Apparated in front of a largish house in the middle of a wide, flat green field. The field was actually more a bowl in the countryside, surrounded by huge pine trees. Hermione knew the entire area was Unplottable, and the only way to get in was to be told about it from the outside. The letter from Dumbledore had included directions on how to Apparate in.

“This is nice,” Draco said. “A little out-of-the-way, but nice.”

Hermione nodded. Since Draco had read her the letter from Dumbledore, she’d felt strained, as if a part of her was dying as well.

There was an old-fashioned doorbell hanging to the right of the oak-looking front door, and Draco pulled the braided cord. A moment later, the door opened and Dobby the house-elf smiled up at them. “Master Malfoy, Madam Malfoy, Dobby is happy to see you.” But there was sadness in Dobby’s eyes that even the effusiveness of the house-elf people couldn’t hide. “Professor Dumbledore is waiting for you in the solarium. Dobby will take you there.”

“Thank you, Dobby,” said Hermione. The tightness in her chest had ratcheted several notches tighter when she’d seen that even Dobby was subdued.

Draco and Hermione trailed the diminutive elf through the house. It looked like any other wizarding house – books and parchment scrolls everywhere, magical artifacts, and portraits along the walls, all of them looking quite worried. “I would’ve thought Dumbledore would find somewhere more opulent,” Draco noted as they passed through yet another room full of books and low sofas.

“Professor Dumbledore is wanting things to be normal for Mistress Caroline,” Dobby said. “Mistress Caroline is the most precious in Professor Dumbledore’s house, and he is wanting her to not be clouded by possessions.”

“I understand.” Hermione paused beside an empty perch near the back door of the house. “This belonged to Fawkes.”

“I remember,” Draco said. “I remember when he sacrificed himself to save the first years.” The spectacle of Fawkes becoming a gigantic fire-bird, holding back the creatures Voldemort had summoned until Dumbledore’s Army could regroup and hold them off, was an image that would never leave him. Even Hagrid with his silly umbrella had cast shield charm after shield charm over the eleven-year-old students, fending off the attacks.

It had been Draco\'s seventh year. It was the first time he had truly chosen to stand against Voldemort.

Hermione turned to him, tears glittering in her eyes. “Draco, I’m scared.”

He opened his arms and Hermione went to him, her arms around his ribs so tight he felt they might crack. “I know, love,” he whispered.

Dobby watched them for a moment. “Professor Dumbledore is waiting there,” he said finally, pointing to one of the large French doors behind Draco. “I will be waiting with Mistress Caroline.” The pop of Apparition signaled his departure.

Draco simply stood there, holding his wife in his arms. They both owed so much to Professor Dumbledore – their lives, many times over; their safety; in Draco’s case, even his continued livelihood, as Dumbledore had stood up for Draco in front of the Wizengamot, arguing that the Malfoy name didn’t automatically mean Death Eater. And when Caroline had come, he had been the only one they could trust to protect her.

“She’s your daughter, Draco,” Mariah MacDuff snapped, holding the baby out to him. “I don’t want her in my life. I kept her because I didn’t want to end the pregnancy, but I don’t want her. I have a life of my own to lead, and she doesn’t fit into it.”

“Like she fits into mine?” Draco shot back. “You told me you were on potions! Did you lie?”

“You and I both know potions can be counteracted. Maybe I was taking some other medicine that had a reaction. Maybe I forgot that day. It was almost a year ago, and I don’t remember it!” Mariah shook her black hair away from her face. “The baby even looks like you.”

Draco was trying to avoid looking at the girl Mariah MacDuff claimed was his daughter. He was trying to remember whether or not he’d remembered his own biocontrol potions that month, or if he’d let them lapse because he trusted Mariah. She’d been a Slytherin also, a few years ahead of Draco, but unlike so many, she’d avoided the Dark Mark. Her parents had hidden her away until after the war, and gotten her a job afterward, working for Runescapes as a translator.

Draco had met her there picking something up for Hermione; for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what. They’d hit it off, and inside of two weeks, they were shagging regularly. He would spend the entire day with Hermione, looking after her while she recovered from her ordeal at the hands of the Dark Lord, and at night, Mariah would be waiting for him at her flat in Kent.

But then Runescapes had transferred Mariah, and she’d decided to end the relationship.

“Look,” she said reasonably, “do you want me to do a paternity charm? Or even a muggle paternity test? Because I will, if you ask. But I’d like to think we know each other well enough to know that I’m not lying to you.”

“No, no,” Draco said, guarded but resigned. “I believe you. It must have been a mistake.”

“So what are you going to do about the baby?”

“Does she have a name?”

Mariah nodded. “Caroline. It was my grandmother’s name.”

“My great-great’s, as well, and the only Malfoy to ever be in Gryffindor.” He reached out, and Mariah handed the baby over to him. He cradled her against his chest and took a good look at her.

She certainly looked like a Malfoy. She had the hallmarks of the Malfoy profile, even in her young face, and she had a fuzz of blond hair and the dark-gray eyes that Draco himself had had before they’d lightened around his third birthday.

“Draco, I’m sorry,” Mariah said. “But I can’t handle a child. I have a job, and I have a life. You have money, and you have the Manor. You can hire someone to take care of her if you can’t do it yourself.”

“I’m not ready to be a father,” Draco confessed.

“I’m not ready to be a mother, either. But you have the resources to solve your problem. I don’t.” She turned to go. “We probably shouldn’t see each other anymore,” Mariah said. “I’ll have my lawyer draw up papers awarding you sole custody.”

“Very well.” Mariah stepped out of the living room and into the foyer; the pop of her Apparition was the last he heard of her.

Draco stared into his daughter’s eyes. “Well,” he said quietly, “I guess I’d better figure out what to do with you.”


“Are you ready?” Draco asked quietly.

Hermione looked up. Tear-tracks streaked her face, and she cast a quick cleansing charm over her face and over the front of Draco’s shirt, where she’d been crying. “I’d better be. I can’t stand here in the living room and cry forever.”

“No.” Draco ran a finger over her cheek. “You can’t. But if you could, I’d hold you as long as you needed.”

She smiled, then reached out for the doorknob. “Let’s go.”

“Professor, I know I’ve not asked you for much, but I need your help.”

Professor Dumbledore folded his hands on his desk after gesturing Draco to a seat. “What can I do for you, Draco?” He always had time for one of the heroes of the Voldemort Wars; besides, it was the start of summer, and there were no students for him to oversee.

Draco took the proffered chair, slouching downward. “I think I’ve been tricked. Mariah MacDuff came to me and told me I was the father of a baby girl, Caroline. Madam Pomfrey is with her now.”

“Ah. Does Hermione know?”

“No. I don’t want to tell her just yet. She’s at a very delicate stage in her recovery.”

Dumbledore nodded. “And what do you want me to do?”

Draco pushed himself up a little. “I’ve been to the best medi-wizard in all of Britain. He says that I am definitely this girl’s father, but that Mariah MacDuff can’t possibly be her mother.”

“So who was her mother?”

“That’s just it!” Draco exploded. “I don’t know! I backtracked in my mind, but Mariah MacDuff was the only witch I was...” He paused. “...intimate with... eleven months ago.”

The twinkle in the professor’s eyes dimmed somewhat. He’d been present when Hermione had told him not to wait for her, that he was too good a person to let himself be tied down by her protracted recovery. He hadn’t really expected Draco to accept her offer.

“Draco, I cannot make this go away. My powers are only so great.”

“Professor, it’s not just that.”

“What is it, then?”

Draco lifted himself up out of the chair and started pacing. Dumbledore waited.

“Professor, I don’t know who the mother is, but I know someone who’s got a grudge against everyone who’s connected with the fall of Voldemort.”

“Draco, do you really believe that Bellatrix LeStrange is this child’s mother?”

“I don’t know, Professor,” he said, leaning on the chair, his knuckles so tight on the back of it that they were almost white. “It’s possible that she took a Polyjuice Potion and replaced Mariah for one night. I really don’t know. But if she is Bellatrix LeStrange’s daughter, I don’t know if I’m powerful enough to stop her.”

Dumbledore understood Draco’s concerns. While Draco was a powerful, talented wizard, Bellatrix LeStrange had been second in power only to Voldemort himself. Harry had been strong enough to take her on and, if not defeat her, at least send her scurrying away to fight another day. Now that Voldemort was gone, she remained missing, presumed at large.

“Draco, if I do this for you, if I become this child’s guardian, you know I can no longer be the headmaster of Hogwarts. You are truly asking much of me.”

“I know, Professor, and I’m sorry. I know that you love teaching, and that Hogwarts is your home. But I have nowhere else to go.”

Dumbledore blinked, slowly. “Go to Madam Pomfrey and wait with your daughter. I will give you an answer within the hour.”

“Yes, Professor.” Draco turned to go.

“Draco,” Dumbledore said, and Draco looked back over his shoulder, “whatever my decision is to be, know that I am honored you’ve asked me to help you in this.”

Draco nodded and left the headmaster’s office. His feet remembered the way to the infirmary, where Madam Pomfrey was watching over Caroline. “Is she all right?” Draco asked.

“Oh, she’s fine, Mr Malfoy,” Madam Pomfrey assured him. “I was just giving her a once-over, to make sure there was nothing wrong.”

“Thank you.”

The medi-witch levitated the baby toward Draco, who caught her easily and arranged her into the crook of his arm. Madam Pomfrey transfigured a stool into a rocking chair and sent it Draco’s way, and he sat down in it. The baby stared at him with stormy eyes, and he stared right back at her.

“I’m sorry, Caroline,” he whispered, “but this is for the best.”

The solarium was a large, open room filled with several dozen varieties of magical plants, many of which Hermione recognized from Herbology classes and Professor Sprout’s greenhouses. At the center, a chaise lounge was positioned to catch the best of the setting sun. There was a wizard reclining in it.

“Do come closer,” said a frail voice. “There’s nothing to fear.”

Hermione and Draco moved to stand beside the chaise, and a thin, paper-white hand gestured in the air. Two cane-backed side chairs appeared, and Hermione and Draco sat down in them. “Professor,” Hermione said softly, “why didn’t you tell us?”

Dumbledore’s pure-white hair and beard were thinning with age, and his face was narrower than was probably healthy. The twinkling eyes Hermione remembered from her youth were dim and clouded. “I did not want to bother you with such trivialities. But a wizard such as myself knows when Death is coming to his door, and has time to prepare.”

“Professor...” But Hermione’s next words didn’t come. When relatives and friends had died of long illnesses, she had offered the usual platitudes – you’ll be all right, things will change, and so on – but Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard of the last two centuries, the wizard who defeated Voldemort once and for all, and if he said he was dying, he was dying.

Draco’s throat was also tight, but he was able to speak. “Professor, what about Caroline?”

“Draco,” Dumbledore said quietly, “I will watch over your daughter.”

He got to his feet; the rocking chair had been lulling both himself and Caroline to sleep. “Thank you, Professor. I appreciate this more than you know.”

“I know you do, Draco.” He held out his hands, and Draco placed the baby in them. He’d only spent a couple of days with the child, and had yet to form a true attachment to her; in his mind, he’d only been babysitting. “But there are some things I must tell you. Some things you must do.”

“Anything, Professor.”

His face grew serious as he cradled the child. “You must tell Hermione about the child. And about your liaisons.” Draco opened his mouth as if to protest, but Dumbledore held up a finger. “No arguments. She must know the true implications of what she’s allowed you to do. If she says you may continue in this vein, I will not stop you, but know that I do not approve.”

Draco swallowed. “All right, Professor. I’ll tell her.”

“Secondly,” Dumbledore continued, “you must never attempt to contact either myself or your daughter.”

“Never?” Even though Draco didn’t know if he loved the baby just yet, he knew he felt something for her. “But...”

“It is because of your initial reason for coming to me. If the child was born of Bellatrix LeStrange, then she may have designs on the baby. If I am to protect her, you must never know where she is. I will go to my home, in an Unplottable, warded location, and I will raise Caroline as if she were my own granddaughter.”

“Very well, Professor,” Draco said. “Is there anything else?”

“Two things more.”

“Anything, Professor.” Draco’s gratitude was like an aura shining around him, it was so powerful.

“Should anything ever happen to me, you must promise to return for your daughter, and you must promise to be a father to her.”

“Agreed.”

“And you must promise me that you will look after Hermione.”

Draco swallowed hard. “I will, Professor. I promise.”

“Then Caroline and I will take our leave of you.”

Draco watched Dumbledore walk out of the infirmary. He stared at the closed doors for some time before Madam Pomfrey joined him and rested a hand on his shoulder. “You did the right thing, Mr Malfoy,” she assured him. “And the professor will be an excellent father-figure to her.”

“I know. But I can’t help thinking I should have tried to be a father to her, at least for a while.”

“I know how you feel,” Madam Pomfrey said, letting her hand fall. “I know.”

Dumbledore blinked, the sunlight reflecting off his half-moon spectacles. “I have made sure her instruction mirrors that of Hogwarts. She is at the same point as most of the students at the school. I think she will fit in well there, after a period of adjustment.”

“What does that mean?” Draco reached over and took Hermione’s hand; she squeezed his tightly. Her hand was clammy with sweat.

“Caroline has not interacted with many people her own age. Her instruction has come from myself and a few of my friends, respected instructors in their own right. Including, I might add, our friend Remus Lupin.”

“Remus taught Caroline?” Hermione’s voice sounded close to breaking. “And he didn’t tell me?”

“I asked him not to,” Dumbledore said gently. “I thought it best that I adhere to the original terms I set out to Draco when I assumed guardianship of Caroline. Remus agreed with me.”

“Still, he could have trusted me.”

“Could he have?” The old firmness returned to Dumbledore’s voice for a moment. “And what if Draco had decided to follow him one day, just to see how his daughter was doing? What if Bellatrix LeStrange really is her mother, and she’s simply been watching Draco all this time?”

“You still don’t know who the mother is?” Draco asked sharply.

Dumbledore shook his head. “I’m sorry, Draco. I have done every test I could, but the only genetic match I can find is yours. It is as if the other half of her genetic code is itself Unplottable, even to me.”

Draco sighed. “Where is she?”

“Dobby is waiting with her. They have become friends, you know.”

“At least she’s got someone to talk to,” Hermione said. “Someone who isn’t an adult.”

“It has been a learning experience for them both,” Dumbledore agreed. “Would you like me to call them down?”

Draco nodded and got to his feet. Hermione stood as well. Dumbledore cast a soft wandless spell, and his lounge shifted shape, becoming a familiar-looking rocking chair. “Yes, Draco,” he said in response to the younger wizard’s unasked question. “Poppy Pomfrey taught me that spell.”

Draco smiled.

“Dobby,” Dumbledore whispered, “please come here. Bring Caroline.”

There was a double-pop, and Draco got his first look in fourteen years at his daughter.

Caroline looked very much like Draco’s mother, the late Narcissa Malfoy. She had waves of curly ice-blond hair, and the same elegant profile and Malfoy nose and cheekbones. The eyes, though, were pure Draco, only darker. She was taller than Hermione, perhaps by two or three inches, and had the willowy slenderness of all the Malfoy and Black – for Narcissa Malfoy had been born Narcissa Black – aunts and grandparents that Draco could remember from his youth. From what he knew of his family, he knew that she would grow no taller, and that her body shape was at the place it would remain until she left this earth.

“Is this him?” she asked. Her voice was a soft, clear contralto. It reminded him more of his Aunt Andromeda – the mother of his cousin Nymphadora Tonks – but there was just a hint of the dark-chocolate bitterness that Draco remembered from the few times he had faced Bellatrix LeStrange. Of course, since Bellatrix was a Black as well, it could simply be a recessive gene.

Maybe.

“Yes, Caroline. My name is Draco Malfoy, and I am your father.” He held out his hand to the girl, the daughter he had not seen in fourteen years.

Caroline took it and shook it lightly. Her fingers were long and cool, her nails well-manicured and painted a soft peach shade. Then she turned to Hermione. “And you?”

“Professor Hermione Granger. Potions Mistress at Hogwarts.”

Caroline shook her hand as well. “Yes, Grandfather has mentioned you from time to time. He’s very fond of you.” She stared at Hermione. “Are you my mother?”

Draco and Hermione shared a look. Dumbledore’s voice echoed in her head: Say yes. Explain later. She’s had enough shock these past few days.

“Yes,” Hermione said without hesitation. “I’m your mother.”

“Oh.” Caroline examined Hermione critically, but kept her observations – that she looked nothing at all like Caroline herself – on the inside.

“And now,” Dumbledore said, “I must ask you all to leave. Dobby will be joining you at Malfoy Manor in a few days, once he has finished settling my affairs.”

“Grandfather,” Caroline said, her voice quivering. “Please, don’t send me away. Let me stay with you.”

“No.” Dumbledore’s voice was firm. “You do not need to witness this. Go with your parents; they will care for you. And in January, you will join the student population at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

“But Grandfather...”

“No buts, Caroline, my dear,” he said, full of tenderness now. “Please, go.”

Caroline instead went to Dumbledore and hugged him gently, placing a reverent kiss on his cheek. “I love you, Grandfather,” she whispered.

“I love you too, Caroline.” His eyes were closed, and only Dobby and Hermione knew Dumbledore well enough anymore to know that he was near tears. Eventually she released him and Hermione took her turn, her arms around the frail wizard. “Goodbye, Hermione,” he said quietly. “You really are the brightest witch of your generation, and the brightest star of our world.”

Hermione couldn’t speak; the tears were coming openly now. She let go of Dumbledore and pulled away.

Draco offered his hand. “Professor, with all I am, I thank you for what you have done for me. I will never forget you, and I will never forget that you have done me a favor for which I can never repay you.”

Dumbledore shook his hand. “The pleasure was mine, Draco. You have been my greatest success.” He shook, almost imperceptibly, as he opened his hand and Draco withdrew his. “Now, I must regrettably ask you to go. Dobby, if you would?”

Dobby ushered the Malfoys out of the solarium and closed the door as he passed.

Dumbledore waved his hand. A platter of apples and carrots materialized in midair. A tin of chocolate biscuits appeared next to it. One of the chairs became a rather-high table, and both plates settled upon it.

PROFESSOR ALBUS DUMBLEDORE, came a heavy voice.

“Ah. Death.” Dumbledore turned his head to the left; the tall skeleton in the black robe was seated in the chair so recently vacated by Hermione. “So good to see you.”

PARDON?

“Oh, I’ve been holding you off for quite some time.”

I KNOW. Death drew a complex-looking hourglass out of his robe. I HAD THOUGHT TO COME FOR YOU FOURTEEN YEARS AGO, BUT YOU DID SOMETHING I AM STILL NOT COGNIZANT OF.

“Oh, yes,” Dumbledore said, smiling. He took off his spectacles, his eyes fixed on the sunset. “And I’m afraid I won’t be able to share the secret with you.”

I WILL LEARN IT IN TIME. NO DOOR IS BARRED TO ME FOREVER.

“No, I suppose not.” Dumbledore looked past Death. “Binky, the vegetables are for you.”

Death’s horse, the huge, glowing beast idiosyncratically-named Binky, bent his head and lipped up a carrot, crunching it contentedly.

“The biscuits are for you.”

INDEED? I APPRECIATE THAT. MY GRANDDAUGHTER ALWAYS FORGETS TO BRING THEM, AND SO MANY PEOPLE HAVE FORGOTTEN THAT I LIKE CHOCOLATE BISCUITS. SO MANY PEOPLE FEAR ME THAT THEY DON’T EVEN LEAVE ME BISCUITS AT ALL.

“But I do not fear you, Death. I welcome you.”

I KNOW, PROFESSOR.

The sun slipped below the level of the trees; from their vantage point in the valley, it appeared as though twilight had come hours early.

IT IS TIME, PROFESSOR, Death said.

“I know. Enjoy the biscuits.”

I SHALL. Death got to his feet and reached into the air; his scythe appeared in his hand. Without another word, he cocked it, and when the moment was right, he swung it.

The shade of Albus Dumbledore rose and shifted, becoming younger, the kinks in the spine straightening out, until he was as he had been almost 150 years earlier, when he had been a young wizard. “I hope you’ll not take this personally,” he said, his voice much stronger, “but I hope this is the last time we meet.”

I CANNOT ANSWER THAT, PROFESSOR.

“Oh, I know.” The shade began to fade in the dimming light. “Be well, Death.”

Death watched for a moment more, until the image of the young Professor Dumbledore was completely gone. Binky had finished off the carrots and apples with his usual aplomb, and he waited patiently for Death to climb into his saddle. The skeletal figure tucked the tin of biscuits under his arm. WHAT A PLEASANT INDIVIDUAL, FOR A WIZARD.

Binky knickered; Death dug his heels gently into the horse’s flank.

When Dobby returned to the solarium, there was no evidence that either of them had ever been present.

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Notes: As I have said, this was by far the hardest chapter I\'ve written of this story. I implore you to let me know what you thought.

Chapter 11 will be along in a few days. Meanwhilst, commence review-age, if you would.