Chapter Text
“You’re no true Slytherin.”
“Go back home to your filthy Muggle parents.”
“You’re a dirty, fucking Mudblood.”
Tracey woke gasping, lying in a sweat-soaked bed that wasn’t her own, in a room that wasn’t her own, in a house that wasn’t her own.
In a world that didn’t feel like her own.
She sat up slowly as she regulated her breathing, still feeling claustrophobic despite how big the room was.
She’d left the window open and it was raining in; the sill was wet and there were rain drops on the carpet. Tracey made no attempt to correct the problem; the cool air coming in calmed her as she hugged her knees to her chest.
It must have been the early hours of the morning, judging from the darkness outside, and it was no longer unusual for Tracey to wake up at this sort of time from one nightmare or another.
She wasn’t sure when they first started. What she was dreaming of was something she had worried would actually happen right from the start of her first-year, but as she grew older, she’d dismissed such concerns as that of a child imagining the worst-case scenarios.
Not one of her friends in Slytherin had ever learned or suspected she was Muggleborn, and the only one of them who knew, Daphne, did so only because of a moment of weak desire from Tracey to ensure at least one of her house mates would accept her, and she’d been fortunate enough to never regret the moment.
Since then- since the Dark Lord had returned- Tracey had been on edge around the other Slytherins, and nightmares like this had started to occur.
Daphne had never said a word against Tracey for her Muggle upbringing and heritage, but she’d still gossiped with Pansy Parkinson and the others about Mudbloods and Blood Traitors for years before Tracey revealed her secret, and no matter how guilty and regretful she seemed now- and how much Tracey appreciated that- they were still the views she’d been brought up with, hadn’t questioned for years.
It was Daphne’s home she was staying in now, Daphne who had ensured Tracey and her mother’s protection, but it was Daphne at the forefront of her nightmares, who Tracey feared most would turn against her.
What if she was threatened? What if her family, her little sister, were threatened? Would she stay quiet even then, just for the sake of a Mudblood like Tracey, and her Muggle mother? She couldn’t be sure, but it was a risk she lived with every day, every waking second.
Tracey listened to the gentle dropping of the rain as she caught up with her own breathing. She’s not sold me out yet, Tracey reminded herself.
She checked her watch; a delicate gift Daphne gave her last year. It had just gone six o’clock. She sighed, accepting it was unlikely she would get back to sleep, and clambered out of bed for the bathroom.
It was a wizarding house, which meant no electricity, and no easy and simple light switches. She was guided only by wandlight as she made her way out of her room and into the vast corridor.
The house was in the lake district, hidden away from Muggles and with limited use to the wizarding owners. Daphne had explained her mother and father rarely used the home, which had been in their family for centuries, because they preferred the Kensington townhouse with a private Floo connection straight into both Diagon Alley and the Ministry of Magic.
However, Daphne explained, the townhouse had once been Muggle, and was in a Muggle area, so selling a secluded home steeped in centuries of magic was unthinkable to them.
“Fortunately, it’s also hard to get to,” Daphne had told her. The house required visitors to Apparate, or walk, to the front gates, and the anti-Apparition jinxes ensured that would be the closest they could get before walking up to the house, which would take at least ten minutes. If the front gates opened, the occupants of the house would know about it, giving Tracey plenty of time to escape.
The house creaked with every step she took, though. Tracey was on the second floor, her mother on the first, so fortunately she was unlikely to disrupt her mother’s sleep.
It was impossible not to wake the portraits though.
“Can’t you be quiet?” Snapped one of them, an ancestor of Daphne’s from several centuries past.
“Let her be, Donald, you’re making as much noise as she is,” another moaned, sleepily.
Tracey did her best to ignore them. The portraits here were not dissimilar to the ones at Hogwarts, she’d been pleased to discover. Donald Greengrass occasionally grumbled about a Muggle being in the house- hence why Tracey had insisted her mum take the room on the floor below- but the rest only politely inquired about her day from time-to-time, and let her go about her business. Tracey didn’t have much business to go about, so conversations with portraits were not, usually, a bad way to spend her time.
The bathroom was as big as some of the bedrooms; with a bath large enough to seat two people in it at one end of the room, and a smart marble basin on the other side beside the toilet. Tracey carefully lit the candles around the room, enjoying the flickering light, and ran the taps.
She must have lain in the bath for over an hour, feeling the water soak into her hair and skin, calming her, trying to dispel the nightmares she’d had of her housemates.
She wondered what her former classmates were going through now. It was coming up to Hallowe’en; they’d surely be preparing for the legendary feast that took took place annually.
The feasts were one of the simpler things about Hogwarts she had found herself missing- the unending platters of food, the gossip she would share with Daphne over dinner, the school ghosts and the live bats and the floating candles and the gamekeeper’s giant pumpkins. She sighed, feeling strangely homesick.
She wondered if the same annual events would be happening at Hogwarts this year, or if the new regime- the Dark Lord’s regime- had ensured Hogwarts would be more subdued than it had under Albus Dumbledore.
Some of the other Slytherins might still be enjoying themselves, she thought. Daphne and Theodore would be keeping their heads down, as usual, but Malfoy, Goyle, and Crabbe might be getting carried away.
Tracey wondered, as she often did, what had become of the students she was friends with in other houses. The other Muggleborns.
Daphne had been her only contact in the wizarding world since she had received a letter from the Ministry of Magic requesting her presence before the Muggleborn Registration Committee. Tracey had never had her own owl and, hidden where she was now, she had no landline either.
So all she could do was hope they were safe.
She was confident Justin Finch-Fletchley would be alright. His family was well-connected in the Muggle world, and he’d been part of Harry Potter’s defence club in their fifth year, so he probably had a good idea of how to defend himself if any Death Eaters- or Aurors- came after him.
Justin would surely have been able to help Megan Jones as well, if he had the chance. The two were housemates, and she’d need looking out for- Justin would see it as his duty.
Maybe the pair of them would be able to meet up with some of the Gryffindors. Justin got on with Colin Creevey from the year below, and Colin hero-worshipped Harry Potter- it was difficult to imagine he would be doing anything other than look for some way to resist the Death Eaters.
Tracey didn’t know the other Muggleborns in her year that well. She’d never even spoken with Hermione Granger or Dean Thomas; everything she knew of them was second-hand or, in Granger’s case, from seeing her regurgitating information in class. She’d be too smart to get caught out by the Muggleborn Registration Committee, Tracey was sure. She was far less-certain on Thomas, but maybe he had the sense to go underground, too, like she did. Maybe, like her, he’d have a friend who could set him up.
Tracey knew that she wouldn’t have got far without Daphne’s help if Death Eaters had gone looking for her. She hadn't even thought about how to go into hiding, she reminded herself, thinking of the danger she could have put her mother in.
For the ten months of the year where Tracey was at Hogwarts, her mother, Mavis, lived alone in their little Bristol flat. It had been just the two of them since Tracey’s dad died, when she was ten. She was reluctant to abandon her job at short notice- Mavis was an underwriter for an insurance broker, which sounded distinctly mundane to Tracey but was everything to her mum- and she had been beside herself when Tracey told her of the plan to move north, to go into hiding.
“Hopefully just for a few months,” Tracey had initially lied, knowing it was likely to be far longer. It had been just over two months now that they had gone into hiding, and Tracey had been given no indication that the time to return to normalcy was coming to an end.
But her mum was going mad cooped up in the house all day. She’d taken an extended sabbatical from the brokers she worked at- twenty-five years in the business gave her a fair bit of sway- and, other than the occasional shopping trip, which Tracey insisted they did together, her mum spent her time pacing the living room with a book or insurance file in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. Being unable to leave the house, her mum insisted on staying on her feet, which Tracey admired.
Tracey kept up her studies. She’d taken all of her school books with her, even the ones she’d had since first-year, and was dedicating five hours a day to practicing magic. Hopefully, when all this was over, she could take her NEWTs. Failing that, Daphne had promised to help her move abroad, to France or the Americas, where Muggleborns were still accepted and she would have no problems getting qualifications and a job in the wizarding world.
Light was peeping through the windows by the time she emerged from the bathroom, feeling fresher than when she had first woken and more prepared to go through the day.
She could hear her mum getting up as she descended to the ground floor, creeping quietly on the first floor landing to not disturb her shower, and made her way to the kitchen for breakfast.
She brought with her Advanced Transfiguration, The Dark Arts Outsmarted, and one volume of Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts.
Transfiguration was her strongest subject, so Tracey was sure to spend at least an hour on it every day to keep in practice with it, but learning from a book was quite different to Professor McGonagall’s careful instruction and patient correction. She also had no one to ask if her essays were correct and she was understanding the theory, which was a pain in the arse, but something she had no way of working round. She carefully peered through Advanced Transfiguration while eating her toast.
Defence Against the Dark Arts was not her strongest subject, and it was something she had persevered with more as a necessity than out of inert desire. She disliked the chopping and changing of the professors ever year, the inconsistency of the subject’s topics and, most of all, she hated how important the subject was now to keep both her and her mum safe.
And that was her main priority for the day.
The Greengrass house had extensive grounds; the large woodland round the back was close enough to the house for Tracey to practice some of the louder and more powerful defensive magic without her mum taking offence.
It transpired that was easier said, than done.
Tracey tried charming logs so they would run around and throw twigs at her, to give her some practice if she were in a real fight, but she found the logs were distinctly unthreatening- she spent more time re-charming them from falling over than she did deflecting the twigs or sending spells at them.
It started to rain- heavily- just before she meant to go in for lunch, and Tracey’s boots were muddy when she came in through the back door. Her mum was sat at the table with a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.
“Take your shoes off,” she said, without looking away from the thick hardback. Tracey kicked her boots off sullenly, remaining dissatisfied by the lack of her improvement when it came to Defence Against the Dark Arts.
“Have you heard from your friend?” Her mum asked, as Tracey made to leave the room. “The one who’s letting us stay here?”
“Not yet,” Tracey sighed. Her mum would ask this question in one form or another every day, expecting it to be different each time.
It never was- Tracey hadn’t hard from Daphne since the summer holidays, and it was too dangerous to contact her now, while she was at Hogwarts and constantly, in one way or another, being watched. Tracey had been hoping Daphne would get in touch by the Christmas holidays, but that was still two months away, and every passing day made her feel more and more isolated.
Her mum looked like she wanted to say more, but Tracey excused herself quickly, insisting she had more schoolwork to practice.
In reality, while an open book was in front of her, she spent most of the afternoon sat staring outside, watching the rain lashing down without turning a single page.
She was preoccupied thinking of what was happening in the world outside her. How close was the Dark Lord to defeat? She wondered.
Or was Harry Potter the one who would lose?
She slept uneasily again that night, though it was later before she got out of bed the following morning. She went down for breakfast first, maybe to avoid her mum, or maybe to break up her routine, and rushed back upstairs, hopping in the shower just as she could hear her mum coming out of her bedroom on the floor below.
It was still pouring down outside, so she tried magic in the house today, once again taking out one of her defence books.
Dementors are best defended against, she read, by the Patronus Charm. Also effective against Lethifolds, the Patronus Charm is an advanced and powerful magic, powered by thoughts or memories of intense or pure happiness. Beginners should be able to produce a Patronus which will appear as a shield; a more practiced Witch or Wizard will produce what is called a Corporeal Patronus, where the Patronus takes the consistent form of an animal that the Witch or Wizard in question may feel some affiliation for (the form of an individual’s corporeal patronus has been known to change). Any Witch or Wizard attempting to learn the Patronus Charm should learn to cast it proficiently in a safe environment first before attempting the spell in a live situation where possible…
Tracey tried the incantation twice, but nothing came from her wand either time. She thought her mother and her together and safe, of what precious few memories of her father were left, of the Dark Lord being defeated, but these thoughts proved futile.
She knew Susan Bones could cast a good Patronus. They’d been in Hogsmeade one weekend last year, with Daphne and Justin and Megan, and she’d shown them, a huge silver Dolphin which swam in the air beside them on their way up to the castle. Justin said he could cast one too, but Tracey hadn’t seen his, and he’d admitted Susan’s was better.
“Mine’s not always Corporeal,” he’d told her, shrugging as though unbothered, though Tracey rather got the impression he was.
Happy thoughts, happy memories, Tracey pondered. As she reread the passage, she felt more than a little put out that those she had so far used weren’t good enough.
Memories of pure happiness, she read again, and again, and again.
Her further attempts to cast a Patronus that afternoon remained unsuccessful.
Tracey ate with her mum that night, each of them having half a steak pie that mum had risked going into the village for.
“This is really good,” Tracey admitted, after a few minutes of eating in silence. The chips were a bit undercooked for her liking, but the pie couldn’t be beaten.
Her mum smiled her agreement. They typically went into the village together for their necessities, but today, she had left Tracey undisturbed, apparently deciding she could be left to study. It made Tracey uncomfortable.
“I’d have preferred it if we went together,” Tracey said. “You just don’t know who’ll be watching.”
“You’re the one they’re more likely to be looking for,” her mum replied, and Tracey feared an argument was about to break. “It’s a tiny village, Tracey, and we’ve talked about this, there aren’t enough wizards that they’d dedicate all their resources to you.”
“I don’t know that,” Tracey said, bitingly. Going under the radar had been her greatest hope- she’d managed it for six years, after all- and she truly didn’t know what risks she could afford to take. Were Death Eaters hunting her down even now? Or were they too focused on targets like Harry Potter, and Tracey had slipped too far beneath their notice? She didn’t dare find out.
Her mum continued. “Well, I’m sure we’ll be fine. The only person who saw me was the shop assistant; we have nothing to worry about.”
Tracey didn’t argue back, and the conversation died until they’d finished eating. She was about to go up to bed when her mum stopped her.
“Why not play a game tonight?” She suggested. “Cards, or I brought a few board games from home. What do you fancy? Monopoly? Cluedo? Or I think I saw a chess set in the drawing room, if you fancy that?”
Tracey considered it for a moment- the idea of her mum playing Wizard’s Chess even threatened to make her smile- but apathy had her in its grip. “Not tonight, mum. Maybe another time.”
She didn’t look back at her mum’s dejected face as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom.
Once again, she slept poorly. She tossed and turned and at around three in the morning, found she was wide awake, and threw her covers off in frustration.
It was lashing down again, so she sat on the sill and cracked open a window, letting the cool air blow in as the rain thudded against the house, the occasional drop spilling in from the open window and landing on her bare arm or leg. She grabbed for her wand on her nightstand, and pointed it carefully out of the window, and thought suddenly of when Theodore Nott had first kissed her, after the Yule Ball.
“Expecto Patronum,” she whispered, and smiled as the tip of her wand lit up, very slightly, at the memory, and a vapour-like shield began to form out of the end…and then her other memories of Theodore joined the memory of her kiss, of him laughing with Draco Malfoy about Mudbloods, of the night where she’d asked him if his father was truly a Death Eater, and of his dismissive, unbothered response to her fears for Muggles and Muggleborns, compared to his own fears for himself as a result of Voldemort’s return.
The burgeoning Patronus spluttered out rapidly into nothing; Tracey gave her wand one more shake that was so angry acid-green sparks flew out and, feeling embarrassed, slammed the window shut and dropped her wand unceremoniously on the bedside table, pulling the covers over her tightly as she fell back into bed.
Light was pouring through the window when she woke the next day. She was sure it was only barely still morning when she roused herself, and forced herself towards the bathroom.
She was midway through her shower when the Caterwauling Charm went off, and her blood ran cold.
“Tracey!” Shrieked her mother, a floor below, “Tracey, what is that?”
Tracey ignored her, stopped the tap, and jumped out of the bathroom like she’d been burned.
You fucking idiot, Tracey, she thought to herself furiously, running naked down the hallway. She’d left her wand in her bedroom, the door to which she tore open, clambering over her bed to the table, and flicking it at herself to dry off. Her hair, she could feel on her shoulders, was still damp, but there was no time for that as she ripped the wardrobe door open and pulled on a pair of jeans and her warmest jumper, taking no time to grab anything sentimental to her.
“Tracey!” She heard her mother again, audible above the still wailing Caterwauling Charm, “Tracey, where are you, do we need to go?”
“YES!” Tracey screeched back, slinging her emergency rucksack onto her back- a bag she’d enchanted to fit inside what money she had, a few magic books, some clean changes of clothes, and a magical tent which Daphne leant her.
Her mother was looking panicked when Tracey descended to the second floor. “MUM,” Tracey shouted, making her jump. “Do you have everything?”
“Ye-yes, yes I do,” she said, grabbing her own rucksack from inside her bedroom, and heaving it onto her shoulder to follow Tracey.
Briefly, Tracey considered setting the house on fire, or blowing it up, but whoever had found them had found them, and there was no time to waste.
Then the Caterwauling Charm stopped, and so did Tracey’s heart. Surely it hadn’t been ten minutes yet? She thought.
She peered out of a window, and watched as a figure made its way up to the path. No time, Tracey realised, I’m going to be taken off to Azkaban. Mum’ll be killed. Her eyes felt wet as she moved away from the window, pulling her mum down to the ground floor, wondering if they had time to go out the back.
But their boots were right by the front door, and they couldn’t possibly make it through the countryside and lake district bare foot, and Tracey was not confident of attempting side-along Apparition with her mother without splinching one of them. Hurriedly, she tossed her mother her shoes, before tugging on her own boots.
She spared a glance at the front door, and felt nothing but horror at seeing the outline of a figure through the stained glass window.
Her ten minutes were up. Stupid, she thought, stupid, stupid. Why hadn’t she been better prepared? Why hadn’t she been ready for this? Had she really thought she’d be lucky enough that she’d be able to stay here for the whole war? You idiot, Tracey, she thought again.
To her surprise, the figure knocked on the door, and she could faintly hear the voice calling through.
“Tracey Davis!” The man shouted.
Tracey clutched her wand tightly, pointing it at the front door. It’s only one man, she reminded herself, and he knows we’re here now.
“Mum,” she hissed. “Stay in the kitchen. Do what I say.”
She didn’t wait for her mum to acknowledge her. She wrenched the door open, and got ready to fight.