Blanket/Standard Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter or any of the canon characters or concepts. All else is probably mine.


A/N - While this story does indeed feature romance between Draco and Ginny, it purposefully evolves very slowly.



CHAPTER 1



Walking swiftly out of the Leaving Feast, where for once in his life it wasn’t important which House had won the House and the Quidditch Cup, Draco went in search of air, of peace, and of a place where there was no intrigue, no speculative glances, no whispering behind his back, and, just for a change, no Slytherin politics.


He’d had his fill of it – and that was a thing he’d never thought to say. But this last year had simply been too much…especially the events towards the end of the OWLs, after Harry Potter had, once and for all, alerted the world to the indisputable truth that the Dark Lord was indeed back.


He stood there, alone on the Quidditch Pitch, hands shoved in pockets more to ward off the cold than for any sense of nonchalance or deliberate unconcern. For once in this strange half-life he was leading, he wasn’t worried about what others would see when they looked at him.


Quite frankly, he wasn’t sure that he cared anymore…


His father – his supremely confident, seemingly invulnerable father – had been caught red handed, participating in an attack against the Ministry building. And while he may have been able to escape conviction fifteen years ago, Draco didn’t think that he would get away with it now.


Not now, after Fudge had turned on them to save his own skin and position, executing a political about-face now that he could no longer deny the blindingly obvious truth, now that his long denial had left him on very thin ice.


Fudge had been deliberately created as the perfect puppet Minister – his intractable insistence that Voldemort couldn’t be back, (all the more genuine for its utter sincerity), and his blind refusal to see any evidence to the contrary, even to the point of discrediting and ostracising any who tried to speak the truth, had created the perfect political climate for the Dark Lord’s return.


Perfect indeed, had that been the primary goal of those who had brought Fudge into power. In fact, when Fudge had been elected, shortly after 1981, Lucius and the others who had been behind his election had actually seen him as the man who would stand by and allow the High Clan to slowly and quietly regain everything they had lost in the Dark Times, everything they had lost in the trials where so many had been condemned.


Unfortunately, it seemed that his very blindness had also worked to Voldemort’s advantage. And while Lucius, had he been given a choice, would have opposed bringing the grim spectre of his past and everything he had done and had been forced to do in the name of survival and power back to life, the final resurrection had occurred while he had only held vague forebodings of what was happening.


And once the Dark Lord had finally been fully brought back to life, there had no longer been any chance of backing out, of reconsidering and quickly changing allegiances. He’d been plunged in at the deep end, with no warning and very little hope of ever fighting his way out again.


And, incapable of fighting against the tide, Lucius had decided his best chance lay with cooperation – for now – and with working from within to turn circumstance to his advantage. Unfortunately, cooperation and working from within had led to a disastrous defeat at the Ministry building, and arrest in circumstances where it was impossible to deny any involvement with the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord, where Lucius himself had been the leader of the attack…


And that, of course, meant Azkaban – fortunately without the Dementors, which was the only good thing about this – and Ministry harassment, as they poked their sanctimonious and newly zealous noses into Malfoy business, Malfoy affairs, and Malfoy property, even to the point of searching the Manor itself, once they found someone who would let them through the Veil.


And there was always someone willing to cause trouble for the Malfoy.


All this, of course, would lead to a massive public loss of face – their influence would diminish, and challenges to their position in the High Clan and social hierarchy would come from ambitious newcomers and ancient enemies. And Draco would face hell from his peers, now that his father could no longer back up his threats…


For the last four years, he had played the bully and the brat, running contrary to every precept of correct High Clan behaviour his father had drummed into him since childhood. And he’d hated it, although he’d recognised the necessity of pretending for any spies who might be evaluating his actions – he’d only agreed to it because he knew that his father was there to support him.


And now? Had things gone their normal way, he would have established his place among his peers years ago by his own merit, by his own strength of will and determination – now he didn’t his father fall back on, when the challenges came (and yes, they would come) and he would have to re-establish himself as the ruler of Slytherin alone, and preferably within a very short time.


Because soon, the Dark Lord would approach him.


And then, the true Games would begin…



***************************************************



Severus Snape looked over at the slight figure on the Quidditch Pitch, unguarded for once, unaware of any eyes and onlookers evaluating his performance and his loyalty. Draco Malfoy, for once in his career at Hogwarts, was completely stripped of any defences, masks or affectations, and he looked…well, quite frankly he looked a little vulnerable there, alone under the stars, without his father or his two sidekicks to back him up.


He wondered if he’d ever seen Draco Malfoy on his own, without anyone standing behind and beside him.


Because Slytherin was an odd, paradoxical House; in the deep, dark undercurrents of Slytherin politics, it was political and social suicide to stand alone, and yet anyone who relied too obviously on others gained no respect and no face – to gain any real power in the House, of the kind the Malfoy had wielded since the Founding, you had to show that you can stand alone, that you were strong enough to take on the rest of Slytherin and come out unscathed…


And even so, that you had enough allies to make standing alone unnecessary.


It was all about bluff, about show and intimidation and deception – but occasionally, only occasionally, someone was brave or insolent enough to call that bluff…and that was when the truth of your façade was revealed.


With his father’s arrest, all of Draco’s façade had been stripped away, and all that he had left was himself.


Snape wondered if it was enough, whether he had the kind of strength that would allow him to take on the whole world. Because in the times to come, when his enemies came against him – and they would, no matter which side he chose in this war – he would need it. And no one would be there to back him up.



*************************************************



From the corner of her eye, she saw him leave the Feast. But then, she and the rest of the school were used to seeing Draco Malfoy storm off in anger, in furious chagrin. The only thing that had caught her attention now was that he was alone – no mountainous goons following behind him, willing to carry out his slightest whim, no adoring fan club to laugh at his every utterance, no matter how banal or trite.


In fact, she didn’t think she’d seen the adoring fan club around since…well, since the news came that Lucius Malfoy had been arrested. Perhaps the rats were deserting the sinking ship?


Well, it was about time that Malfoy had to stand up for himself. She allowed herself a small smile at the thought of Draco Malfoy, without any support whatsoever, trying to survive at Hogwarts, where he had made so many enemies…


And then she turned back to her friends, who would always be there should she need them, and forgot all about him.

CHAPTER 2 - Loyalty and Precautions



As he stepped back into the familiar environs of the Burrow, of the house where he had lived his whole life, the subtle tension in Arthur Weasley’s shoulders eased, and the nagging headache just behind his eyes disappeared.


He was home. And here, in the Burrow, there were no pretences, no intrigues, and most of all – for which he was most grateful – no politics. Only the honesty of family, and love, and familiarity; this was the life he loved, the one he truly considered real.


His job at the Ministry – that was the dream, the illusion.


He had never been a powerful man, or a particularly ambitious one, but nevertheless he had some influence and respect in certain circles – mostly due to his known affiliation with Dumbledore. And when it became apparent that the Headmaster’s star was now in the ascendant – and that he had been right all along – Arthur had suddenly become more popular than ever. A fairly modest man, with no delusions of grandeur, he had not let it go to his head, but nevertheless...it had gratified him, somewhat, to be allowed closer to the centre of power.


And it had scared him, even more than it gratified him, when he found out just how deep and swift the undercurrents ran. The closer one came to the centre, the more treacherous things became – and the stakes of the Game were driven higher and higher, and deeper and deeper.


Because there were layers and layers within this Game that he had been forced to learn when he came into the centre. The surface layer of the Ministry against the Death Eaters overlay deeper feuds, hatreds, ambitions, vendettas, and subtle designs…


And nowhere was it more evident than in the most controversial matter of the last decade – Lucius Malfoy’s trial.


For Fudge to condemn the man who had all but engineered his election, who had been keeping him afloat and out of serious trouble ever since he became Minister, and who knew all of his secrets and skeletons and knew where everyone else’s skeletons were buried…it was a radical move, and one Arthur would have regarded dubiously even if it had sprung from more than a convenient political campaign against the newly re-emergent Death Eaters.


Putting Malfoy away would certainly demoralise the Death Eaters, but it would also throw the whole High Clan into chaos, depriving it of the one man who had been able to keep it centred and relatively stable over the last twenty years. And while some may think that a good thing, the resulting struggle for power could not be good for society in any way.


Ambition and opportunism had led more than one man down the road to darkness…


Oh, Percy…


How would Percy cope, in the struggle to fill the power vacuum? If even the most experienced of players could fall…


Clattering footsteps sounded on the stairs, as Ron and Ginny – the last of his children still living at home – ran down to greet him and to find out the latest news.


“Dad!” shouted Ron, exuberant in his affection and his curiosity. “Have they decided what they’re going to do with the Death Eaters yet?” Oh, he was fierce in his hatred and his love, and still young enough to think in stark black and white, good and evil. There had been a time, once, when he too thought the same way.


Ginny, more dignified, less emotionally innocent – and that was one thing he could blame Malfoy for – stopped and watched him with big, curious dark eyes.


He shrugged out of his over robes and slumped tiredly into a chair, closing his eyes momentarily. When he opened them again, he had himself under control and was ready to fill his children in.


“There’s no doubt whatsoever that they’re Death Eaters,” he said slowly, “and that in itself means an automatic life sentence in Azkaban.” He stopped as Ron whooped and cheered. “However, with the current public sentiment running high against anyone involved with – with You-Know-Who – I would say they would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law…and that means they’ll be stripped of everything they own – and I mean everything…”


Molly looked fiercely satisfied; content that justice would finally be done. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”


Arthur looked at her, a most uncharacteristically sardonic smile tugging at his mouth – but then, he had been in an odd mood all day. “Is it?” he asked softly, more of himself than of her. Because he was no longer so sure.



*************************************************



There were times, thought Lucius Malfoy, when he wondered why family tradition had such a hold on him. Why centuries long tradition could still influence his behaviour today, and why, when there were so many other options available, the Malfoy still, after nearly six hundred years, exclusively patronised the legal firm of Finch and Son.


In these ancient chambers above Knockturn Alley, shabby and cramped, like the worst kind of Dickensian stereotype, various Finches had passed the role of Malfoy solicitors down from father to son, as Malfoy Lord after Malfoy Lord retained their part of the bargain. And now, composed and elegant, the latest Lord (apparently unaware of the Aurors standing guard outside the door) sat across the overflowing desk from the latest Finch, who was at least eighty years old, wild haired but keen eyed over his rimless spectacles that rested half-way down his long, sensitive nose.


Finch had seemed ancient when Lucius had been a boy…he should have retired by now, and passed the senior partnership down to his eldest son, but unfortunately, the younger Finch had taken off to America in the seventies, and refused to return and take up what he called a ‘feudal master-servant relationship’ with a man who was an unrepentant evildoer.


Lucius' morals, or lack thereof, had never been an issue with the elder Finch. He - and his father before him - were the Malfoy, and they were his patrons, and therefore he would serve them to the best of his ability, as long as he was able to, and take pride in the act of service.


And that was why, despite a number of up-and-coming, far more ambitious and competent firms all competing for his patronage, Lucius had never even considered withdrawing his services from Finch and Son. It was simply not done. And there were times when complete loyalty was far more valuable than any amount of competence.


Such as now.


Loyalty, and not ambition or ego, was what was driving Finch as he looked across at the current Lord Malfoy. The Goddess knew that Lucius had not had an easy life – especially not after his father had been forced to join the Death Eaters – but he had thought that he would have been allowed to live his life in peace, after You-Know-Who had finally been defeated. When he’d heard rumours that the Dark Lord was active again, he had shaken his head, sorrowing that his patron (not his master, no, but his patron) would once more be dragged back into the shadow game.


And this time he’d slipped, and he would have to pay the price.


He said as much, always scrupulously honest in his dealings with Lucius, never afraid to be frank and open. If you couldn’t be frank with your lawyer, who could you be open with? “I’m afraid,” he said, polishing his glasses self-effacingly, despite his brave thoughts, “that I can’t see any real way to avoid Azkaban this time, my lord…”


And although he looked for it, looked quite closely, he couldn’t see a single sign of a reaction from the man sitting across from him, utterly composed and aristocratically elegant. He didn’t even blink – but Finch knew that it had to have been a severe blow. Conviction now of all times would be a disaster, and there was the slight matter of Master Draco, who was…well, who presented a somewhat less than inspiring image. Whether he was really like that…Finch didn’t like to dabble in things that weren’t his concern, but he did have his suspicions.


Finally, Lucius spoke. “If I go to Azkaban,” he said, his voice casual and detached, “what else will the Ministry be able to do to us?” By ‘us’ he meant his family, the Malfoy, and everyone who depended on them – and that included the people who lived on Malfoy land, and others who had a similar patron-client to the one Finch and Son did with the Clan. Finch knew, from his long involvement with Lucius’ affairs, that there were far more than was at first glance apparent.


In two and a half thousand years, High Clan Malfoy had built up quite a lot of influence in Britain…


Clearing his throat, fighting not to let his sympathy show in his voice, nor his worry for his own matters, if they no longer had the Malfoy to rely on, Finch retreated into the safety of dry legal details.


Lucius heard the sympathy, and the concealed worry, and felt again the helpless rage and frustration at the turn Fate had taken. He had been so close…so, so close to getting away with it, to finding his balance again, finding the right platform from which he could play the Death Eaters against Dumbledore and the Ministry, play both sides against the middle so that no matter who won, he would benefit – but Voldemort no longer trusted him as he used to, suspicious of why Lucius had not spent the last fifteen years scheming night and day for his return, and had sent him to the Ministry to test his competence and his loyalty.


He had gambled all, and he had lost. And now he would pay the price, and so would his whole Clan and everyone who depended on him. Unless Draco was everything he thought he was, everything he could be…and unless he could gain the strength and the cunning to hold it all together. Having lost the gamble on himself, he would now gamble everything on Draco…


He forced his attention back to Finch. “As well as imprisoning you, sir, the Ministry is within its rights, because you are a confirmed Death Eater, to arbitrarily search the premises of every one of your properties for anything it deems illegal or connected in any way to the Dark Arts, and then confiscate it…” Lucius spared a thought for the collection of fascinating artefacts that his ancestors had built up over the years, and wondered how he could conceal it. Some of those things were far too dangerous to let fall into the inexpert hands of the Ministry…


Finch droned on, his voice precise, pedantic and monotonous. “Given a warrant – and I don’t think there will be any trouble gaining one – they will be authorised to investigate your financial affairs, and to confiscate any illegal accounts or funds they find therein…” Lucius was sure there would be no trouble finding any illegalities – Fudge was always happy to get his hands on Malfoy money, no matter how it was acquired. There was no use wasting anger on the man, because he was exactly as Lucius had made him – a supremely political animal, well aware of where his best interests lay and which was the hand that fed him.


That didn’t make it any better, though.


“And finally,” Finch said, voice supremely didactic in defence of what he was saying, “if there is enough support, the Ministry may even be authorised to confiscate all your lands and all your properties, to take them away from High Clan Malfoy and present them to someone else…”


Lucius stilled.


Finch flinched involuntarily.


Finally, the set face relaxed, the silver eyes lost their frightening chill, and Lucius spoke softly, with only the very slightest hint of sibilance, “Malfoy lands are not theirs to give, nor to take away…”


Finch clasped his hands, wracked with fine tremours, together in his lap. “Yes, sir, but…” he wet his lips, “there are precedents…ancient ones, to be sure, most dealing with cases of vassals unsuccessfully rebelling against their rulers…” he rushed on when he saw Lucius’ eyes, “and although that doesn’t quite apply in this case, it can be made to apply, especially with the political and social protest against Death Eaters right now…they’ll be out to strip you of anything and everything you have, and will stretch the law as far as it can go and even further…”


For a moment, the mask cracked, and sheer frustration and ice-cold anger shone through with frightening clarity. The air in the room chilled noticeably, and Lucius’ body thrummed with pent up, barely controlled tension just waiting to be let out – backed by an enormous well of power honed and disciplined by a formidable will…Finch’s ears popped as the air pressure thickened, and his hands were white where he gripped them together to stop the shaking.


And then, Lucius calmed, the mask descending again, the frightening pressure simply vanishing as he realised the truth of Finch’s last statement. And as he accepted it, he rose from his chair to walk over to the window, his robes falling perfectly around him, and stared blankly into the distance as he thought.


And plotted.


“Do everything you can to conceal the extent of my client network,” he said finally, still with his back to the room. “And where identification is unavoidable, make sure that they suffer as little as possible because of it.”


Finch nodded, relieved beyond measure to see that his patron was not going to lose control, and was once more his manipulative, Machiavellian self. That brief trip into passion had been most unsettling, to a man who preferred not to think of what truly lay beneath the calm Malfoy exterior – and to a man whose livelihood relied on Lucius keeping that calm façade.


“Clear out the Malfoy vault in Gringott’s,” he said, turning around to smile in sardonic amusement at Finch’s goggling look. “Yes, it will indeed be under Ministry impoundment, but the goblins consider our custom far more important…show them my token, and then take the money and distribute it among these overseas accounts…” he rattled off a string of account numbers, some of them wizarding, some of them Muggle Swiss accounts, “and do as much as you can to make it as difficult as possible for Fudge to get his hands on any of my money.” He smiled grimly. “This is the end of enough, Finch – I will not play their game anymore…”


And he gave a bewildering array of instructions, on a bewildering array of subjects, which Finch, recognising true genius when he saw it, took down faithfully and without question. Finally, Lucius came to the very last and most important instructions. Crossing over to the desk, he stared down into Finch’s eyes, into an old man who had served his House faithfully for all of his life, and entrusted him with the most precious of all his possessions.


“Make sure,” he said with almost dangerous intensity, “that once I am in Azkaban, Draco is given into the care of Severus Andronicus Snape, and of no one else. Do you understand me, Finch? Into Professor Snape’s care alone, and with no Ministry supervision, no monitoring, no interference even by Dumbledore.”


Finch cleared his throat delicately. “It is customary, in these cases, for the child’s mother –“


“No.” It was almost a whip-crack. “Not to Narcissa, and not to the Beauforts, and not to anyone else who might offer for him. Snape, and only Snape.” He made a sharp, uncharacteristic movement. “On your blood, and the blood of your ancestors, swear it.”


Finch gazed at him without speaking for an endless moment, and then slowly, solemnly nodded. “On my blood, and the blood of my ancestors,” he began, speaking the words of Blood Vow, the most solemn and terrible of High Clan oaths, “I do so swear it. Severus Snape, and no one else.”


The eye contact held for a few more heartbeats, and then Lucius broke away, his shoulders slumping with something like relief. But only for a moment, and then it was gone. “Good,” he said, and with a final nod, “Thank you, Finch.” A last, almost reluctant look back, and Finch smiled slightly, as if he were not used to it, especially not with Lucius Malfoy, and then Lucius opened the door and was gone.


Leaving Phineas Finch, who was sore and tired and far, far too old to still be the senior partner of Finch and Son, to do everything he could to ensure that the Malfoy survived this coming disaster. Another, more ambitious, more competent firm might have cut their losses and refused to put everything they had into reviving an almost certainly sinking ship – but not this one.


Six hundred years they had served the Malfoy. They would not abandon them now in their hour of need.



******************************************************



You stupid fool, she thought. How could you be this careless?


I thought you were good enough to avoid this – I only married you because I thought you were powerful enough to be beyond the law. I thought you would be invulnerable.


But now that you’re going down, don’t expect me to stand by you – if you’re not strong or ruthless enough to stay on top, then I’ll find someone who is.


And I’ll take your precious, beloved son with me.



***************************************************



A/N - In this story I have kept to my old idea of Narcissa coming from a fictional French pureblood House, despite canon evidence to the contrary. This was because I wanted her to have a powerful, fully intact family behind her, not just the remnants of the Blacks.

CHAPTER 3



The Manor seemed empty without his father; it had always seemed that Lucius was so dominant here that his very presence infused the whole house, so much so that without him, the heart had gone out of it. Where before, there had always been the comforting sense of confidence, of power and sure control, now the halls whispered of uncertainty, of upheaval, of change.


It was as if the Castle, constructed of ancient stone and wood, imbued with the power and presence of countless generations of Malfoy scions, somehow knew that he was gone, and would not be coming back. That, more than anything, told Draco that his father would not miraculously escape this time, no matter how much money he spread around, no matter how many officials he had under his thumb.


And the other, telling thing, his beautiful, elegant mother – with her faithless, calculating heart and her callous unconcern for anyone she thought below her, her slavish adoration for the Dark Lord and her voracious appetites – his lady mother had dared to bring one of her many lovers into her husband’s house. Always before, she had taken care to be discreet, both in her choice of partner and in the designations, but now…now she brought them into the very stronghold of the Malfoy itself.


And he hated her for it, if he hadn’t crossed that line long ago.


Alastair Nott, burly and powerful, arrogant and as subtle as a bull in all his dealings, was nevertheless the unquestioned leader of a rival faction within the High Clan. In his earthy, powerful manner, he was the very antithesis of Lucius – Draco was sure that his mother had chosen to cultivate him because of that, because of his influence, and because she knew it would offend her fastidious husband. And because it was rumoured that the bull-like characteristics carried over into other things…


Almost involuntarily, Draco’s lips quirked. He was by no means a stranger to sex of any kind, but that thought was going a bit far.


He watched, concealed in the shadows at the top of the stairs, as Alexander Nott strode in through the front door as if this were his house, as he laid possessive hands on his mother, in front of any and all who might be watching (he saw the house elves, concealed as he was, exchanging alarmed glances) and felt a sickness in his stomach. This was no bad dream. This was for real…


Nott’s rumbling baritone carried clearly to his ears. “Gods, this place always gives me the shivers. I always feel like there’s someone looking over my shoulder, watching everything I do and say…”


Narcissa laughed, a perfectly pitched trill of sound that she had practiced hard to perfect. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that now. There’s no one here but the servants, and Draco of course…” Her voice dismissed him as if he was nothing, and he was surprised at how much it galled him.


So he was nothing, was he? Easily dismissed, was he?


Something, some instinct made Nott look up to where he was hiding – an expression of mocking humour crossed his face, and he called out tauntingly, “Come on boy, don’t be shy – come down and greet your new step-father…”


The anger came, as Nott had intended it to, but Draco controlled it and his instinctive revulsion. He came out of the shadows slowly, with as much bravado and confidence he could muster, almost sauntering. “I wasn’t aware that I needed a step-father…”


Narcissa smiled warmly, her face angelically beautiful. “But I am divorcing your father, Draco – I couldn’t remain married to such an evil man…” she sniffed delicately as tears threatened, trembled on the brink of falling. “I was so afraid, before, to do anything about it…but I’m not afraid anymore…” She lifted her chin, the very picture of fragile courage. But the glint of triumph in her eyes made a mockery of the whole performance.


Draco stilled as he realised the implications of this – but then he forced himself to continue down the stairs. He was Caius Draconis Malfoy, the Malfoy Heir, and he would not be intimidated by these two, no matter the way Nott’s eyes were watching him, assessing him, no matter the heat that was slowly growing within them…


He stopped on the second last step, so that he was eye to eye with Nott, and then he bowed, a curt, perfunctory inclination of the head that was the absolute minimum required of him by Nott’s status. “My Lord Nott,” he said coldly.


Nott’s eyebrow went up, and he smiled. “Master Malfoy,” he drawled lazily, “or may I call you Draco? I’m sure we’ll get along well; I’m looking forward to establishing our relationship…”


I’m sure you are, Draco thought. And not just because you want the Malfoy Heir under your control…


He wondered, for the merest moment, if he should take Nott up on his offer. If he could oust Narcissa from his affections…and gain what in return? Certainly not independence or self respect…no, he wouldn’t do that. But he could certainly use it as a lever…


And by the sudden flicker of Narcissa’s eyes, she had just realised that too.


Looking back to Nott, he drew himself up, unconsciously pulling on all the arrogance he could muster. He saw the amused contempt lurking in the older man’s eyes change to speculation, to anger, and then said with his father’s voice, his father’s manner, “I think not.”


Nott’s lips smiled mirthlessly, and he tilted his head. “No?”


Draco raised one blonde, questioning brow. “Of course, no. Did you honestly think I’d say yes?”


He didn’t see it coming – but when Nott’s huge fist came out of nowhere and smashed into his chin, with all the power of his burly, muscular frame behind it, his head snapped back and he seemed to fold in on himself, collapsing, with a remarkable lack of grace, at the foot of the staircase, out stone cold. Blood trickled from his split lip, a crimson trail across his white, white skin.


Narcissa blinked, then looked into Nott’s challenging eyes, shivered once, and put it out of her mind. Lucius had never, in all the time she had known him, employed physical force in his discipline and punishment, and Nott’s all too apparent eagerness scared her, just a little.


But then, Lucius was going to Azkaban, and Nott was still free and completely without suspicion. She would just have to make sure that he never used his fists on her – she was confident, utterly confident, that she could control him. After all, hadn’t she controlled Lucius these last seventeen years?


As they moved away, leaving Draco in a heap where he had fallen, the house elves crept fearfully out of their concealment, looking around to see if anyone else was watching, and clustered around their young Master. They looked down at him with a kind of horrified fascination, and then at each other with dawning fear. If young Master Malfoy could be treated in this way, in his own home, then what else would Nott do?


They were not like the humans who lived beyond the Veil, who could leave Malfoy protection behind if they wished to, they were House Elves bound to the service of Clan Malfoy. Some of them could remember serving under Jaryd Malfoy, who was Marcus’ grandfather, and Lucius’ great-grandfather. They could not leave the Castle, unless they were freed, and unless they could successfully deal with the guilt of abandoning their sworn posts.


With tenderness, with almost love, they picked their Young Master up off the floor, and took him to his room where they laid him gently on the bed. Now that the Master was gone, they would have to take special care of his son. They, and their fathers before them, had served the Malfoy since time immemorial. None of them particularly wanted to find another position…or any other masters. They were quite content with what they had.



************************************************



The Aurors on guard regarded him with hard, suspicious eyes, inspecting him with almost insulting thoroughness, but Dumbledore’s patronage and references were enough, eventually, to get him through the very tight security. Walking through the long, tightly shielded corridor to the cells hidden in the lowest depths of the Ministry Building, he could feel his shoulders pricking as he felt their eyes boring into his back.


Did they think Dumbledore’s tame predator would turn on the hand that fed him? If he put one single foot out of line, even now, they would toss him back in Azkaban no matter what he had done to redeem himself since he first turned coat. And he would do anything – anything – to avoid going back there, sans Dementors or not.


Which was why he was going to see Lucius – he knew what Azkaban was, he knew what it could do to a person’s heart and soul and mind…perhaps, if he explained something of his experience, he would be able to convince Lucius to cooperate, to make it easier on himself.


That was the theory, anyway. And whichever genius came up with that – admittedly sound, had it been anyone else – plan had no idea of the true state of affairs between he and Lucius. Because he had no influence whatsoever over Malfoy. And if Malfoy wanted to cooperate, he would do it on his own terms, and not because Severus Snape told him horror stories about Azkaban.


As it was, he rather thought that Lucius was trying to use him, and not the other way around.


He stepped into the cell – a stark, cheerless place with its standard rock hard pallet and not much else – and his eyes were drawn to the man who effortlessly dominated it, no matter that he no longer had fine, rich robes or that he it looked as though he had been worked over by a few vindictive professionals. Lucius Malfoy, no matter his external appearance, was a man who could command attention, respect and effortless authority. Even in a stark, stone cell. Even if they had sheared the thick, long white hair that was his most noticeable and notorious affectation.


It was a small while before he noticed Lucius’ companion, an ancient, wizened man whom Snape was sure he had seen before…


Lucius smiled, his eyes amused as he saw his guest. “My dear Severus,” he purred, bowing his head to the correct degree and just a bit more, in subtle mockery. “How good of you to visit me in my new…quarters.” He swept a hand out, to indicate the cell, and Severus raised an eyebrow.


“I think you need a decorator, Lucius,” he said dryly, and Lucius chuckled.


“Ah, well…I can’t hope for the same room the second time around, can I?” Severus remembered that last time, Lucius’ cell had been considerable more comfortable…he was right, the second time round, it would be very different.


He looked into Lucius’ eyes, and saw the realisation there. He was under no illusions as to what would happen to him, so why had he asked Severus to come here, if he was resigned to Azkaban?


He asked as much. “What am I doing here, Lucius?”


One corner of the other man’s mouth kicked up wryly. “I thought that you came to see if I was willing to cooperate,” he murmured. “Weren’t you?”


Severus scowled. “If I thought that you were willing to cooperate,” he said acerbically, “I would be very surprised. I know you Lucius.”


Lucius tilted his head, raised a playful eyebrow. “Do you, Sev?” he asked, voice suddenly serious. “Do you?”


Snape looked at him, serious himself now. “Are you saying that you’ll talk?”


Lucius turned to his companion, the old man. “This, my dear Severus, is M. Finch, of Finch and Son. He is my legal representative in this matter…”


He and the old man exchanged greetings. Lucius continued. “He tells me that my chances of escaping Azkaban are all but nonexistent, especially now, since my dear wife – you do remember my dear wife, don’t you Severus? – has finally gotten up the courage to defy me, her cruel and dictatorial husband, and has asked for a divorce and the chance to tell all the deepest secrets of our marriage and my affairs.”


Severus blinked – he did indeed remember Narcissa. She had tried to work her wiles on him, once…


“In petitioning for a divorce, she has also asked for custody of Draco and for power of attorney over all my holdings and finances, on the strength of her proposed remarriage to Alexander Nott, who will, presumably, provide Draco with a proper role model.”


He remembered Alexander Nott, too – and he couldn’t reconcile his memories with anything resembling a proper role model for a teenage boy. In fact, if he remembered correctly…no, he wouldn’t do that to Draco. He wouldn’t.


“You understand my problem, here, Sev?” Lucius asked, finally.


He did indeed. “What could I possibly do to help you, Lucius?” he asked, sceptically. “I have no influence in the Game…”


Lucius shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant. What I want, what I need from you, is for you to look after my son, my estate, and my affairs. In that order.”


He gaped. “I’m sorry?”


“I am giving you – and you alone – complete and sole custody over Draco until he turns eighteen, and power of attorney over everything that I have and everything that I own, again until Draco reaches his majority.” Lucius’ voice was implacable, immovable.


Snape shook his head, bemused. “What gives you the idea that that will work, Lucius? I’m a known Death Eater, tolerated only for my usefulness, and the Dark Lord regards me with suspicion as well. How could you possibly make it practical, and make it stick?”


“And there…” said Lucius, “that is where M. Finch comes in. He will make it legal. And as for practical, well…I have knowledge that you all want, don’t you? Knowledge that you want, quite badly…”


Snape stilled. If Lucius was willing to share everything he knew…yes, quite a few favours could be granted for that information. And Dumbledore – indeed, the whole Ministry – knew it.


But there was really only one question left. “Why me?” he asked simply, spreading his arms wide, as if to show Lucius what he was. A Death Eater. A spy. A turncoat. A Clan Lord with no estate and no people and most damning of all, no real power beyond that given him by Dumbledore. He had no standing at all, in a class where standing and face were everything.


Lucius only shook his head. “Because you don’t care about money or power, or even about the Game, but you do care for my son. Because you are not part of the Game, have no money or power, but you know the ways of them. Because you are High Clan, but you have learned to cooperate with others…”


Snape looked at him. “And?” he asked softly. There was always more.


“And because you have Dumbledore’s trust and patronage…”



***************************************************


Rising to stand at the window of his cell, looking out into the illusory weather, he began to talk. The three people behind him, witnesses to the veracity of his account, duly noted that he had indeed ingested Veritaserum and was relating this of his own free will, and were even now eagerly recording every single word he spoke.


Old, wily Dumbledore, pleased to see Lucius come to his senses, grateful for the gift of this intelligence. Fanatical, supremely suspicious Mad-Eye Moody, on the lookout for Slytherin stratagems and plots. And honest, eccentric Weasley, who in his honest concern felt he should take on the burden of this knowledge. Arthur Weasley, who was growing more popular and more influential the longer he stood as a sane and sensible alternative to Fudge…


Well, Draco, he thought, this is my gift to you – double-edged, as all the best gifts are. Use it wisely…



*************************************************

CHAPTER 4



The sight of Narcissa Malfoy going about openly with Alexander Nott was guaranteed to cause speculation, even in jaded, blasé High Clan hearts. Perhaps that was what inspired the small smile twisting Nott’s mouth; perhaps that was what caused his son to look at Draco with suddenly challenging eyes – for the first time in their lives, he no longer veiled his contempt behind lip service and polite protestations.


The new relationship/alliance – even the intended marriage, once Lucius was conveniently out of the way – was flaunted openly; as Draco trailed behind his mother and her lover, his swollen lip magically concealed, he could see their minds working, see the evaluation and the calculation as the new status quo was announced with a thoroughness that had nothing at all to do with subtlety.


Had they seen the results of Draco’s first attempt to assert his independence, known just how easily and casually Nott had quashed it, they would have been given even more food for thought. As it was, the possessive hand Nott placed on Narcissa’s waist, the half amused, half contemptuous, wholly…hungry look he had when he looked a Draco was enough, and more than enough.


Much could be inferred from such things…


The atmosphere at the Ministry Building had changed remarkably with the public announcement of the Dark Lord’s return. From a forced cheer, a half concealed tension vehemently denied and a desperate show of unity with deep, deep divides underneath, it had now been transformed into a place desperate in its zeal, manic in its determination and cheer.


As they walked into the bustling foyer – Narcissa making a grand entrance out of habit, out of a desire to show off her new lover/partner/protector – all activity slowed; no, it didn’t stop, that was too blatant…but they all watched, out of the corner of their eyes, looking up furtively from the activities they were ostensibly performing.


She took a deep breath, seemed to steel herself, and Nott’s arm tightened around her waist in support. “I have come,” she began, announcing to the foyer at large rather than discreetly enquiring at the reception, “that is, I want to see my…” she swallowed, and seemed to clutch Nott’s arm for reassurance, “my husband.”


Draco could actually see the various reactions to that speech and the affecting image she presented. The Aurors, some of them hardened veterans who had lived through the worst of the Dark Times, others younger but still with the edge of scepticism, of cynicism, exchanged glances and raised questioning eyebrows. Others, less suspicious, or at least less well acquainted with the actions of the Beauforts and the Malfoy and the Notts, seemed to take pity on this beautiful woman, so obviously scared of her husband, but willing to see justice done…


And on the man who stood by her in her hour of need, and was obviously so fond of her son already…


Draco saw more than a few speculative – and some not so neutral – looks aimed his way. With his father in Azkaban, which way would he jump? Could he be of use, would he bend, or would he have to be removed? What would be the best way to handle him, given the current situation? And how brave would he be without his daddy to back him up now?


But whatever they seemed to think, now was not the time. Nothing could be done until Lucius Malfoy was permanently out of the Game – although Nott’s presence had changed the rules, somewhat…


Nott.


Draco was growing more and more resentful of Nott’s presence, of his constant threat and subtle surveillance. It seemed he couldn’t do anything without Nott becoming aware of it, couldn’t turn around without encountering those dark, amused eyes. But outright protest would gain him nothing, and would even make the situation worse – far, far better to wait, and watch, and to plot in silence…


The Malfoy were manipulators, webspinners; Lucius had taught him patience, and discretion, and had taught him the most important lesson of all in the double life he had led because his father asked it of him – how to shrug off insults, contempt, and even humiliating defeat, and to allow the opponent to think they had won…


Draco knew how to bend, and what it meant to fall.


But he needed to talk to his father again, privately – and that was the only reason he had agreed to the humiliation of the public promenade through Diagon Alley. To see his father again, feel his cool confidence and to hear his calm, detached analysis of the situation – he needed that, even for one last time, to give him the faith that he could do this, that he really was as strong as his father believed him to be, as he needed him to be.


Because, deep down, Draco didn’t believe it himself.



**************************************************



Dane Harcourt escorted them to the cell and watched them enter, the elegant, beautiful woman and her elegant, beautiful son, and the man who simply didn’t seem to fit. Perhaps it was because he was so used to seeing Lucius with them, completing the image of three blonde angels. Perhaps it was because Nott was not – and never would be – Lucius Malfoy. Because Lucius was, for all his affectations – the aristocratic drawl, the hair, the sneering prejudice – a strong, charismatic, and above all, capable leader.


And a rational one, in his own way. He had done his best to ensure peace and a stable environment for the Malfoy and the Clans to prosper, and had no interest in murder and mayhem if it would upset the current favourable status quo. But Nott…Nott would do anything, cross any lines, in his search for superiority. If he grew to dominate the High Clan…


Surely that wouldn’t happen. Surely that couldn’t.


“I don’t know why, but this whole situation just doesn’t seem good,” came a voice from behind him. He didn’t turn around, but straightened and looked at Arthur Weasley as he came up alongside him.


“And there I agree with you,” he murmured softly. “It’s not good…in fact, it’s bad – very, very bad…”


Arthur looked at him inquiringly, silently asking an explanation. Dane made a noise deep in his throat, turned back to the cell door, as if he could see what was going on inside. “Nott is the leading contender for Malfoy’s place.”


“But you don’t like it.”


“Hmmm…” Harcourt struggled against his own High Clan, Slytherin upbringing and mindset. Weasley could be a useful ally… “We would prefer that power stay in Malfoy hands…”


Arthur raised an eyebrow. “We?” he asked sharply – curious, intrigued and more than a little wary.


The corner of Harcourt’s mouth curled in a very small smile.


“Arthur, dear,” came the warm, firm voice of Molly Weasley. “We’re ready to go…” she blinked as she saw Dane, nodded absently at him in greeting. “Mr. Harcourt.”


He bowed his head to her in turn. “Mrs. Weasley…”


She turned back to Arthur, who looked a little ashamed to be found out whispering in corners with him. “We’re ready to go when you are.” She turned back to wave at a familiar threesome, and a redheaded girl standing a little apart from them. That would be Potter and his two sidekicks, and the youngest Weasley – the only daughter, apparently.


“Right,” said Arthur absently. “Did you see Mrs Malfoy and her new beau?” he asked her, curious as to her reaction.


Molly snorted disgustedly. “Narcissa, that ice-bitch,” she all but growled. “The man isn’t even in Azkaban before she’s got a replacement for him. She’ll never be satisfied…”


Dane looked at her in renewed interest. Such depth of feeling, openly displayed…how fascinating. He wondered what had inspired it. She saw his look but refused to meet his eyes.



*************************************************



He looked up as the door to his cell opened. Ignoring the dictates of common courtesy, he remained seated, cross legged on his pallet with his back against the wall – a calculated discourtesy designed to needle, a little piece of insolence noticed only by those who knew how important such things and gestures were to the High Clan, and completely unnoticed by anyone who didn’t. A small gesture, true, but it had sufficed in its purpose, if the flickering nerve in Nott’s temple and the tightening of Narcissa’s lips were any indication.


“Hello Lucius,” Narcissa said flatly, all pretence of fear or apprehension vanishing as soon as the Aurors discreetly withdrew. There was no fear in Narcissa, at least not of him – it was drowned by her ambition and pride. He knew that much of her, and knew it well, after so many years of marriage.


“Hello, Narcissa,” he finally answered, after a small silence. Another insolence. His eyes flicked to Nott, who had abandoned protection for possessiveness, and drew Narcissa back against him, far too close for High Clan dictates. The smallest of sneers curled Lucius’ lips – but how subtle… “Nott,” he said flatly.


He met Draco’s eyes for a timeless moment, and nodded, once – and then turned back to his wife, his so-lovely wife. “To what do I owe this…pleasure?” he purred.


Narcissa ignored the taunting tone, but Nott’s fingers twitched, flexed, tightened. He opened his mouth to retort, rising eagerly to the bait even as he had always done, but Narcissa laid a restraining hand on his arm, urging caution.


“We came to wish you good luck in your upcoming trial,” she said in her most sincere tone. She held out a hand, moved as if to reach out to him – he lifted his eyes to hers, slowly, and she hastily retracted it. She knew that much of him, at least. “Our thoughts will be with you,” she finished, a little flustered.


“Is that so?” he drawled lazily.


Nott smiled gently – if such a word could be used in relation to him. “Yes, indeed,” he said genially. “I’d just like to tell you that if you are sent to…to Azkaban, I’ll look after everything while you’re gone. I think Narcissa and I will deal very well together, we should be able to take good care of the Malfoy affairs…”


Lucius said nothing.


“Oh,” Nott said, as if he had just remembered. “If you’re given the death sentence, I was going to ask for permission to look after Draco, too. Perhaps I might even go so far as to adopt him – I’ve grown quite fond of him…”


The hell you will, Lucius the father snarled. But Lucius the Clan Lord only smiled – just as gently as Nott had. “Let us not be hasty, my dear man – I am not yet done…”



~()~



After Nott and Narcissa had departed, Lucius looked at his son. Draco was nearly sixteen years old, now – nearly sixteen, and untried, unconfident in his strength and his ability to survive alone. Lucius had coddled him – he knew it, and he admitted it freely. It was bordering on criminal negligence, he knew – yes, he had taught Draco everything he needed to know to survive in Slytherin and the wider world of the High Clan and the game, but he had – quite deliberately – never given him the strength and the freedom to try his own wings, to turn that theoretical knowledge into real, practical power.


He had kept the boy from any real personal influence, but he had encouraged the image of the spoiled brat for two reasons – one, to throw any spies off the scent, and two, to make the boy stronger. To accustom him to humiliation and ridicule, hatred and contempt, to teach him how to get back on his feet after each defeat, and continue on even when he had no heart for it…


He had thought the price – the reputation Draco had as a bully, as a coward – was worth the gain of the extra time and strength it earned them both. He had gambled on Draco being strong enough to win a different reputation for himself when it became time, but he had also gambled on being there to support him, encourage him.


Well, at least he had ensured there would be someone there to support him, even if it was only Snape. And in guaranteeing that, his last gift to his son, he had also doomed himself as a traitor… Voldemort’s right hand – not in Pettigrew’s sense as chief bootlicker and fool, but the man who saw that the Lord’s wishes were followed through – did not lightly spill everything he knew. He had known, as soon as he had made that bargain, that they would come after him…


"Hello, Father,” Draco finally said, standing at ease before him, silver eyes meeting his openly, if a little guardedly. That was good. His eyes should never be completely unguarded.


“Draco,” he acknowledged. “Have you been enjoying your holidays?”


One corner of Draco’s lips lifted. It was not a smile. “No, Father. I haven’t…”


Lucius’ lip curled too – a perfect, unconscious mirror of his son’s expression. “Nott.”


Draco lowered his eyes. “I tried to stand up to him directly, Father, but he is simply too strong…” After the first few humiliating attempts, he had learned his lesson.


“And indirectly?”


The eyes came back to his, something fierce in their depths. “The house elves and I have come to an arrangement.”


Lucius’ brow went up. “Oh?”


“Small things. Irritants and pinpricks…nothing that would see his wrath turned against them. Their loyalty goes far, but I would not ask that much of them…”


“They would give it, if you asked.”


He shook his head, face grave. “I know. But it will accomplish nothing…and turn mischief into something more real, with consequences that may further enforce his authority.”


Lucius nodded slowly, his face blank but pride welling up in him at this son of his. “Very soon, Draco, he will have no authority over you or the Castle at all.”


He was supremely gratified when Draco only raised an eyebrow, no sign of surprise or speculation anywhere in his demeanour. “Oh?” he asked, a perfect echo of his father only moments ago. Lucius had to suppress a smile.


“I have,” he hesitated, wondering how to say it, “made a deal with Dumbledore…”


Draco stilled. “In return for what?” He didn’t ask what he had offered – there was only one possible thing he could have that Dumbledore wanted desperately enough to bargain for. And even that would have consequences – very dangerous consequences…


“Professor Snape,” Lucius said finally, “as guardian, caretaker and executor.”


“But what of the Castle?” He asked. “And the land beyond the Veil?”


Lucius steepled his fingers together, lowered his lashes to veil the gleam in his eyes, and smiled…



***************************************************



Someone banged on the door outside, interrupting their discussion – Draco’s lips tightened as he saw his soon-to-be stepfather step into the cell, radiating satisfaction. “Come along, Draco – it’s time to go,” he said in a syrupy-sweet voice, as condescending as possible. It was entirely designed to put Draco’s back up – he had to actually force himself not to react to it.


He made a minor production of standing up – brushing out his robes, nonchalantly feigning unconcern and complete unawareness of the other man in the cell. But when he headed towards the door, Nott was leaning against the doorjamb, blocking the entrance – he moved aside, but only enough that Draco had to physically brush past him as he walked through. What could have been an entirely innocent encounter was given a darker, more twisted bent by Nott’s smile, by the light in his eyes as he looked at Draco – and the entirely different one as he looked at Lucius, watching him through heavy-lidded, completely impassive eyes.


Turning around, looking back, Draco met his father’s eyes one last time – and nodded, understanding, accepting. Patience, my dragon. Wait, and watch, and plot in silence – bend, so he does not break you…


But sometimes it was so much harder than it might seem.


Holding on to his self-control, gripping his patience tightly, he walked quickly through the corridor leading up from the cells, aware of Nott’s silent, contemptuous laughter and the touch of his gaze behind him. Draco was by no means innocent, but Nott’s far from subtle harassment was wearing on his nerves, and fraying his temper – it made him feel helpless, and there was nothing he disliked more…and yet he couldn’t act on it. He couldn’t do anything, lest it ruin his father’s timing…


He was in one hell of a bad mood, spoiling for a fight, when he heard a voice – a familiar, hated voice he thought he would be rid of for the holidays – calling out in mockery, taunting him, laughing at him…laughing at his father. He turned around, slowly, almost in slow motion, to see them.


“Hey Malfoy, now that your daddy’s going to Azkaban, who are you going to run to?”


The golden children of Hogwarts – perfect Potter, Gryffindor’s wunderkind, Weasley, whose eccentric, crackpot father dared (dared!) to judge Lucius Malfoy, and the upstart mudblood who thought that because she knew facts, memorised textbooks, she understood the wizarding world.


“Who’s going to protect you now, Malfoy? How are you going to stay in your new daddy’s graces?”


As he struggled with himself, trying not to react, trying to ignore the taunts, slough them off as he had never had to before, a cold, eerily unfamiliar feeling welled up from the depths of his soul. It was…it was alien, and it was disturbing, and it was stronger than anything he had ever felt before. In a way, it had nothing to do with the three golden children…nothing, and everything, for they had been the ones to finally trigger it.


In that moment, listening to those taunts, Draco Malfoy finally found out about rage. Not the pallid, immature emotion of a schoolboy, but the full-blooded, ice-cold anger of the scions of House Malfoy, the uncaring, implacable cold that allowed even the most unforgivable acts to seem justified, in Malfoy eyes if not anyone else’s.


The frustration of the last few weeks, the fear and the helplessness, and the sheer anger at the situation all iced over, destroying his control and his rationality…unfortunately, it also boosted his power immeasurably and awoke in him all the latent violence and cruelty the Malfoy were all too famous for, in the whispered fireside tales of long, long ago.


In an unforgivable moment, an unacceptable lapse of self-control that he would pay dearly for, again and again and again, he lashed out – going further than he had ever dared to at Hogwarts, and brought Ron Weasley to his knees…


Crimson blood trickled down the red-headed boy’s chin as he choked, his eyes wide and panicked – through the roaring in his ears he could hear Potter’s demands to let him go, to stop it; through a detached, impartial haze he could see the two friends rushing to Weasley’s side, see Weasley senior and his wife gaze at him in horror, in fear; he could feel the outrage of the Ministry workers who had rushed to help, and the arrested interest of the High Clan Lords, the major players in the Game, as they wondered what to make of this newest development.


The Malfoy Heir had done the unforgivable – had lost control in public, had flaunted the strength of his magic and his heritage…


He looked up to meet Arthur Weasley’s eyes, but looked away when he could not hold them; his eyes flicked to Dane Harcourt, cool grey eyes faintly creased in…in mild disapproval, as if something he had seen was faintly distasteful to him.


That was it. That was enough…


To those cool grey eyes, to Nott’s amused eyes, to all the calculating High Clan eyes, to all the outraged and righteous ordinary eyes – he released his hold on Weasley, allowed him to gasp in some air and recover his breath, and whispered, softly, but with enough force that it seemed to echo dizzyingly from each corner of the room…


“You have no right…!”



************************************************

Chapter 5



She was so tired…so, so tired…


St. Mungo’s was a soulless place, she decided at some time during the horrible nightlong vigil spent at her brother’s bedside. It was so…clinical, so efficient, and so impersonal in its white, spotlessly clean hallways, in its cool, competent staff, in the indefinable, intangible smell of sickness that lay underneath the astringent smell of medical potions and disinfectants.


The infirmary at Hogwarts was so much warmer, Madame Pomfrey so much more comforting, but St. Mungo’s was the main hospital of wizarding Britain, and an internationally renowned centre of healing besides. She supposed that some of that warmth and the caring touch found in the small school infirmary would have to be sacrificed in order to care for such a larger populace.


At Hogwarts, Ron would probably have Madame Pomfrey’s undivided attention, but here he was simply one among many, and not a very important patient either; his injuries were relatively minor, actually, considering the sheer hatred that had blazed in Malfoy’s eyes when he had inflicted them.


Malfoy…


How could they have known that he would go so far? Always before, he had restrained himself to insults, to taunts, and to minor hexes and curses that caused humiliating, ridiculous results (such as the hex that had lengthened Hermione’s teeth) but no real damage. But this…this had been far and beyond that schoolboy mischief. This had been real hatred, real desire to actually hurt Ron, to bring him to his knees, to punish him - there had been real hatred in his eyes, and something irrational, something close to madness.


It was unsettling…no, it was more than unsettling. It was as if the foundations of the world had shifted somehow; Malfoy had always been a predictable opponent, nasty and hateful and a real nuisance, but not a real danger, not something to be truly feared. A safe enemy, almost – a known quantity that they had always been confident they could overcome. And now he was…something wholly different.


It was as if a mask, a façade, had been stripped away, to show something completely different underneath. And what lay underneath was dangerous, frightening, and utterly alien to the world she thought she had known, thought she had understood.


Except…except for her dreams…


In her dreams, she could understand the look in Malfoy’s eyes as he had turned towards his stepfather before turning towards Harry and Ron, understand what he saw when he looked at Alexander Nott, who was obviously so much more than his mother’s latest lover. In her dreams, and in the remnants of her memories of a time she would rather forget, she could understand why he hated the dream team and their monochromatic worldview.


Sometimes she hated them herself.


But, when all was said and done, Ron was her brother and she loved him. And Malfoy had tried to kill him - or grievously injure him, which was not much better. No matter what issues he had, no matter how angry he had been, he’d had no right to take it out on Ron, who when all was said and done, didn’t have much of a head for subtleties…


Because she’d thought they’d had an understanding, Harry and Hermione and Ron and Malfoy, or perhaps the Gryffindors and the Slytherins – they’d insult and hex each other, perhaps try to do each other as much mischief as they could, but there was still an invisible line that hadn’t been crossed, shouldn’t be crossed. It was as if he no longer cared about maintaining the balance of their relationship, or to be bound by the rules they had played by for so long.


The world she’d known for so long was falling down around her ears – Voldemort had returned, the Death Eaters were truly a force to be feared once more, and what had once been a safe, predictable schoolboy rivalry had now turned horrifyingly real…


Desperate for something solid and familiar, something that was real and comforting in this world that was becoming increasingly unreal and frightening, she reached out and grasped hold of Ron’s limp hand, desperate to regain some of the feeling she had had as a child, before Hogwarts, before she had first seen the world through Slytherin eyes. Once, long ago, she had believed that Ron, her splendid elder brother, would be able to protect her from anything and everything.


Just once, even if just for a moment, she wanted to feel that again. She wanted to forget the unsettling look in Malfoy’s eyes and believe that the world was simple again – Weasleys and Gryffindors were good, Malfoy and Slytherins were bad, and there was nothing more dangerous in this world than Professor Snape’s glare and vicious sarcasm, or wondering into Knockturn Alley by mistake.


But innocence, once lost, can never be regained…



***********************************************



“That boy has turned vicious,” Molly snarled, fierce and indignant in defence of her children. “He attacked my son!”


Arthur closed his eyes wearily and massaged the bridge of his nose. He was so tired…and he was afraid. Afraid for his son, lying so still in the white hospital bed, his breath rasping painfully because his lungs had almost been crushed; afraid for his daughter, who had been exposed to too much violence in her life; afraid for his family, so vulnerable to attack now that they had become symbols, of a sort, for the Resistance, for Dumbledore’s way. And he was afraid for himself, because he could feel the undercurrents swirling, deepening, and threatening to pull him under.


Narcissa Malfoy, her cold, haughty face impassive and yet so evocative of her disdain for anyone whom she thought below her, was ignoring Molly’s accusations, coolly watching her new lover as he sneered at Dane Harcourt, who had been assigned as peacemaker in this nasty business. Probably because he was High Clan himself, but with a reputation for complete objectivity and for tolerating no nonsense from his erstwhile peers…


And yet from what he had said to Arthur before, a hint of a confidence, a whisper of a deeper, more dangerous Game, it seemed that Harcourt was still very much involved in High Clan politics - and if so, was there something more behind his appointment in this matter?


Arthur shook his head. Now he was seeing shadows and connections everywhere…


“My dear Alexander,” came a cool, amused purr. “I had thought better of you than this. Can it be that you can’t control my son?”


Lucius Malfoy. Narcissa stilled, suddenly, and Nott turned too slowly, too deliberately, to face him – two Aurors flanked their prisoner, who had been led into the room because someone had obviously thought his presence necessary. Once again, Arthur’s eyes flicked to Harcourt, whose face was blank and impassive.


“Malfoy,” snarled Nott, evidently surprised to see him. “What the hell are you doing here?”


A small flicker of a smile curled Lucius’ lips. “Draco is my son, my dear Nott. Surely you can see that this meeting requires my presence?” The small smile turned razor sharp and almost vicious. “Even in my…” he gestured at his drab prison robes, “current status, I still have rights…”


Nott’s eyes burned. There was something deeper, something older between these two than the current clash…the air hummed with tension, with an old, old animosity that he could almost taste. The Aurors shifted, straightened nervously, and Harcourt’s eyes narrowed in concentration.


“In your…” he paused, mocking Lucius’ former statement, “current status, my dear Lucius,” Nott purred softly, “you have no rights, no power, no influence at all, most certainly not over me, or my actions towards your precious son…”


Lucius half turned his head, all traces of the amused, elegant and languid aristocrat gone, and lifted his eyes slowly to meet Nott’s. This was not the melodramatic, purring villain whom Arthur had clashed with for years. This was not the polished leader who controlled the High Clan with velvet manipulation and smooth diplomacy. This was the man – and it was as much a part of him as the other guises – who had been the Dark Lord’s right hand, the ruthless killer who had fought his way to the top and stayed there by virtue of being stronger, crueller, more vicious than all the others…


Under the force – the tangible force – of that gaze, Nott took an involuntary step back, almost stumbling on his own robes; Narcissa suddenly became very, very quiet. And the air…stilled.


Arthur had known Lucius for years, but he had never, ever seen this side of him – and just like his son and his two friends, who had thought they understood Draco, understood their shared rivalry, he suddenly found that everything he had thought was true, every triumph he had treasured over the years, every small victory, was suddenly hollow, suddenly, horribly wrong…


Taking a deep, haggard breath, Nott drew himself up, drawing his dignity around him like a tattered, ragged cloak. “You can not…” he breathed, no conviction in his voice, “I no longer answer to you…”


Lucius simply stared at him with those unblinking, feral, alien eyes.


Arthur suddenly wished that he were somewhere – anywhere – else.


And then one of the Aurors stirred, coughed, and Lucius blinked, and then, just like that, from one moment to the next, became once again the amused aristocrat. “Well then,” he drawled, “but you cannot deny that, under your supervision, Draco committed a terrible act…”


Arthur frowned. Where was the man going with this? Always, before, Draco could do no wrong in his father’s eyes.


Harcourt came in, so smoothly it might have been rehearsed. “If you cannot control the boy, Nott, then I’m afraid you will not succeed in your quest for custody. We will have to give it to somebody else, someone he is familiar with and accustomed to obeying…”


“Someone,” said Molly darkly, “who will make him pay for what he did to my son!”


Narcissa, speaking for the first time, said coldly, “I will take care of my own son-” She made as if to continue, but encountered a cool, warning glance from her husband, and promptly shut her mouth.


Turning away from Narcissa, Lucius gave Molly a charming smile, despite the fact that it had no discernible affect. “Of course, Mrs Weasley. Professor Snape will know exactly what to do…”


Nott made a swift, involuntary gesture, cut it off halfway through, but still couldn’t conceal his reaction. Narcissa paled, then flushed angrily in a most interesting loss of composure, and Harcourt, impassive in his dark Auror’s robes, somehow and impartial witness and a key performer, an outsider, not part of the group, and yet still indefinably one of them in so many unseen ways, made no physical reaction, but his satisfaction was evident in the way he nodded his approval, and the almost imperceptible inclination of the head he gave Lucius before he left the room.


So.


There it was. The transfer of custody and power. Draco was in Professor Snape's hands now.



***********************************************



Professor Snape, hastily summoned from Hogwarts in the light of this newest development, was in a less than charitable frame of mind as he followed along in Harcourt’s footsteps. What had Draco done now…? Sometimes, the boy had a natural gift for finding – and making – trouble.


It wasn’t that Draco was stupid, or careless, in his actions – he was extremely intelligent, and always, always aware of the consequences of what he did. It was just that, even in his awareness of the consequences, lately he had been growing…restless, reckless, and, quite frankly, almost rebellious.


It was as if he were daring something to happen to him, as if he resented the role he had been forced to play; but now was really not the time to find out how far his father’s protection ran. Not when he had so publicly gone so far beyond the pale, at the precise moment his father relinquished his influence in the real world.


Really, Draco’s act displayed the most appalling timing that Snape had ever encountered, in all his years of playing the Game.


He couldn’t have done it deliberately, recklessly and rebelliously – had he decided to throw all the years of his training, his upbringing aside, Severus was more than sure Draco’s actions would have more…finesse…than trying, in a fit of uncontrollable rage, to strangle Ron Weasley.


No, that had been completely unplanned and unexpected. And that was the only thing that reassured him about the parental role he himself had been forced to assume, much earlier than either he or Lucius had anticipated. Because Draco was so, so good at pulling on the insufferable mask, at playing the troublemaker – if he had, indeed, been deliberately playing up…


Then everything Lucius had tried to teach the boy had been completely wasted.


Harcourt opened the door, standing aside to let Snape enter first, revealing a small meeting room, with two Aurors seated at an empty table, watching their charge with unblinking, uncaring eyes. Draco stared back at them, just as impassively. As Snape walked into the room, Draco’s head turned, much as his father did, at his most dangerous; there were no signs of relief, no signs of any kind of reaction, really, other than that subtle insolence Lucius projected at his most infuriating.


It struck him, then, how Draco could pick and choose his masks, his behaviour, and his attitude, according to the situation. How he could change from insufferable bully to High Clan Lord, to cool, pleasant aristocrat and, even rarest of all, to what Snape thought of as the true Draco Malfoy, that bright, vivid personality he had only ever seen once before, and then only for the briefest of moments…


Who was he, really? And just how did Lucius think that Snape would be able to play foster-father to this brilliant, mercurial, and certainly troubled man-child whose magic was so strong, he could feel the subliminal humming in his bones, in his teeth.


Snape couldn’t even manage his own life – how could he be a fit role model for Draco? And as for playing mentor to an adolescent, with all their issues and all their hormones…his fastidious, British soul shuddered at the very thought.


Silently, Harcourt made a circling gesture, ordering the two Aurors out of the room, and then followed them, leaving Snape and Draco alone in the room. He didn’t speak at first, but moved to the table and sat down, still holding Draco’s eyes with his own, searching for some clue as to how to proceed.


Finally, he spoke. “I do hope you thought that was justified.”


Draco’s lip curled. “It was an accident, Professor. I lost control, and you know it very well.”


Snape raised an eyebrow. “Do I? I had thought better of you than that. I thought you had been taught the dangers of losing control, of not thinking before you act…”


A quick flicker of heat, quickly hidden. “I was. But…”


“No,” he snapped. “No buts. What’s done is done, and there is no going back. So now you have to face the consequences of your loss of control, of your recklessness. And I’m sure that you’re more than aware of them.”


Indeed, Draco was. It had given his critics and his enemies – and there were many of them – further reason to dislike him and hold him in contempt and it had provided new, negative evidence for those who had, before, had no real opinion. It had cemented his already bad reputation. And, perhaps worst of all, it had given the impression that he was weak, and easily manipulated, and even, in extreme cases, unworthy of the name Malfoy.


But no, the worst thing was that now he had to make reparation to the Weasleys. And wasn’t that going to be fun.


And they were only the immediate implications. Other, less obvious, more tenuous connections, spreading out from the main, going deeper, going further…the fallout from his one and only real loss of temper would continue for quite some time, like spreading, concentric ripples after the stone disrupts the calm, flat water.


He knew this. He knew. And he resented it fiercely, resented the cold, impersonal dissection of every single thing he did, everything he said, every single reaction on his face. He hated the pressure, the expectations, the masks that he had been forced to create, the sheer…artificiality of it.


That was not him. He was not the insufferable git, or the cold, arrogant Clan Lord. He was not the smooth, charming aristocrat, or the strong, patient saviour that his father wished him to be. They were all masks, manufactured parts of his soul, made for love of his father, for the Clan, for political and social necessity. And in the sheer variety of his roles, where was his true self?



His true self had been the one who had almost strangled Ron Weasley. His true self had been the one who had rejoiced in the fierceness of true anger, of true rage, of true emotion. His true self had been what they had all disapproved of, what they had all condemned, what they called recklessness, impulsiveness, loss of control. He had not lost anything; rather he had found himself in the purity of that anger.


And they had rejected him.


That was what he had meant, with his hissed, completely and dangerously open objection. They had no right – no right to judge him that way, to analyse and to probe and to weigh private griefs that should have been his and his alone. They had no right to push him, to manipulate him, to bait him, to try and break him…


Yes, he was the Malfoy Heir. Yes, he had a position and duties. But that did not give them the right to judge him, to examine his deepest, darkest emotions with their feline, impassive eyes, to twist him with whatever they found inside. That didn’t give them the right to circle him, to try and manipulate him, to use him as they would use a pawn, to try and control him as simply another piece on the board.


He was Draco, but Draco was so vulnerable that he had to be hidden, protected, because the merest hint that he was anything less than everything he should be, and the predators would gather, circling, searching for any sign of weakness. He had played that game for so long he could not remember any other way of life. But surely it was not supposed to be that way….


Surely he had a right to be just Draco, even in private, every now and then in this life – that wasn’t too much to ask, was it?


Of course it was. Because as well as those who wanted to manipulate him, there were also those who wanted to place their belief and faith in him, those who wanted to believe that he could be everything they needed in this world, that he could be their Clan Lord and their saviour, that he could be strong enough to hold them, defend them, carry them…


And they were the worst of all.


With Lucius gone, he had to assume the duties and the responsibilities – if not the mantle – of the Lord of High Clan Malfoy. And that meant taking on everyone who depended on the Malfoy, and all of their enemies. He had to be – not just appear, be – a strong ruler to his people, a capable and invulnerable foe to his enemies, an amenable and willing disciple to the philosophies and dictates of the Light side for Dumbledore and the Ministry…


Everything that they asked, he would do. But even now, he was exhausted from living up to their expectations…



***************************************************



A/N - (coughs discreetly). That last line was lifted and paraphrased from Labyrinth. And poor Draco, feeling so sorry for himself, comes perilously close to whining. But I feel he's entitled to a little adolescent angst. It will only get worse later.

CHAPTER 6



“Caius Lucius Malfoy,” intoned Minister Fudge, his round, amiable face grim and his words suitable grave as malicious triumph oozed slyly out of his every pore, “you have been found guilty of grievous and terrible crimes against the government…”


Although he knew this had been coming – indeed, that it had been all but inevitable – Albus Dumbledore felt his heart grow heavy with an old, old grief. He remembered Lucius, remembered him when he had first come to Hogwarts in 1970…


It seemed just like yesterday, really, and not just because he himself had passed the one hundred and fifty mark some time ago. That particular year had seen the admittance of some of the most memorable students Hogwarts had ever seen – the two essentially opposed…gangs, he supposed one would call them now of the Marauders and the Slytherin, High Clan students who had called themselves the Lords of Slytherin.


Malfoy, Snape, Avery, Andahni, Courtney, and Lestrange – the younger brother, not the elder who had just escaped from Azkaban. And Potter, Black, Lupin and Pettigrew. Together, the two groups had dominated the entire school - but now, more than twenty years later, what had become of the young, promising students who had been so vital, so alive that their legend endured at Hogwarts, even today?


Potter and Black were dead. Lupin was almost broken, a shadow of his former self. Pettigrew…well, he would not think of the twisted thing that the once-shy young man had become. Snape was confined to Hogwarts, bitter and crippled by his memories and his guilt. Avery, Andahni, Courtney and Lestrange were Clan Lords, locked into the Game, hiding their pasts and treading a dangerous course, balancing Voldemort and the Ministry and anything that might destroy the fragile framework of their deceptions…


And Malfoy? Lucius Malfoy had played the Game so skilfully for so long, it had seemed that he would never fall, that he would always be there, pulling strings in the shadows, disguising his own, mysterious agenda behind a thin guise of public welfare and concern, or even – although he had no evidence this was true – behind the mask of Voldemort’s right hand. Even though Albus had known – known – what Lucius was, he still felt an odd twist in his heart.


Because Lucius Malfoy had shone so brightly, once, and because he had not always been destined for the Dark. In fact, Marcus Malfoy had only sworn loyalty to Voldemort in Lucius’ seventh year – Lucius himself had held out until after his father’s murder some six months later. The day after Marcus Malfoy’s murder, there had been something different about the Malfoy, on that morning.


Oh, he’d always been ruthless and ambitious, ruling Slytherin and his peers with an iron fist, but Dumbledore had known when he finally made the decision, which finally became irrevocable once Augustus Snape had died – had been executed – so horribly. Because Lucius, in fulfilling his ancient right of vengeance, had abandoned all thoughts of any other way…


There were times, in the depths of the night, when he wished in vain that things could have unfolded differently. But what else could he have done? He had always made it clear that students could confide in him about anything, at any time, but what self-respecting, High Clan Slytherin would trust anyone with their deepest, darkest doubts, desires and secrets – especially after he had so horribly mishandled Severus.


Because he was a Gryffindor, and not even an aristocratic one – even at the most innocent of times, the High Clan were notoriously secretive and insular. But back then…back then it had been even worse. The intrigue had been vicious and the Game deadly, and the consequences for the losers fatal, as Lucius had learned all too well. And to survive in such a world, Lucius had descended down, deep down into the depths of his own personal core, and had found the strength – or perhaps the moral flaw – that had allowed him to become a Death Eater and think it justified.


That had allowed him to do what he had done, and think it justified, in the name of High Clan Malfoy.


What hold did this idea of “the Clan” have on High Clan minds that it allowed them to justify almost anything in the name of its survival, prosperity and wellbeing? What magic did the Clan hold, that they would give anything and everything for it? For surely, the history and the mythology of the High Clan was so rife with blood, sacrifice, and such blind, fanatical devotion that the Groves of the highest, oldest Clans must be running with blood…


And Lucius, who had once been the Lord, was now the Sacrifice. He would go into the shadows, the cold, brilliant man who had once been the cool, brilliant child, and his son would become the Lord, and the cycle would begin again, play out again, and finally come full circle, all in the name of the Clan. It had continued, changing only in the small details of the Lord’s life, since the inception of the Clan, long, long ago, and would continue on into the future – but hopefully, this time, Draco would not follow his father and grandfather into the Dark. Because three generations of Malfoy would put a seal on it…


**************************************************


“You are sentenced to life in Azkaban prison, with no hope of parole…”


And no doubt, Draco thought sourly, if you still had control over the Dementors, you would get rid of him as soon as possible, you cowering, hypocritical fool…


Draco had known this would happen. His father had told him so. But even so, he still felt a numb sense of disbelief that this could happen to them, to the Malfoy, and to his father, of all people. Because his father was a God among men - or at least Draco had always believed so, in a small, impressionable corner of his soul. But the disbelief was passing now, as he accepted the changes, even if he didn’t like them, and accepted that soon everything would be his problem, his responsibility.


He didn’t blame his father for leaving him like this. Lucius hadn’t wanted this to happen, but once he had accepted the inevitable, he had prepared Draco for what was coming, and had done as much as he could to ensure it would go smoothly. If Draco had any feelings of resentment, he had only to think of Lucius, whose own father had been betrayed and killed by Aurors, forcing his son to take up the reins, with no warning, the morning immediately after…


Things could be worse.


He slid out of his seat, heading towards his father, but stopped short when the youngest Weasley – the daughter, Ginny? – stepped out in front of him, challenge inherent in every line of her body, her dark eyes glaring at him. He swore inwardly, not in the mood for playing games today, of all days…


It was just one more humiliation, this open trial, so that all the public could watch and gloat. He supposed he should have expected the Weasleys to be here.


“Not today, Weasley,” he said, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, fatigue plain in his voice.


She ignored him, and, red-faced, went in for the attack with as much stubborn ferocity as her brother had ever done. “You bastard! What the hell is your problem?” He winced – she had come dangerously close to shouting at him.


And the High Clan never, ever shouted in anger, or listened to anyone who did – had she actually gone so far as to shout in his face, he would have walked off, despite all the rules of courtesy…


“My problem, Weasley?” he asked softly, hoping to calm her down before anyone noticed.


“Your problem, Malfoy,” she snarled, but softer this time. “Why did you attack Ron like that?”


He stiffened imperceptibly, offended by the reminder of his foolishness. “Because he pissed me off. Why else?”


She checked, her face openly upset for one puzzling moment. Could it be that she had actually… “I thought that you were better than that, Malfoy. I thought that you could control yourself…”


Her disappointment – yes, it was disappointment – rubbed against a raw place in his conscience. “Well, you thought wrong, Weasley.” He turned on his heel to walk off, but her voice stopped him.


“Why Ron?” she asked, quietly, composedly, as if all the unseemly emotion had been banished, as all High Clan scions were taught from the cradle. “Why was it always Ron?” He responded to that dignity, to that seeming indifference, as he would not have responded to shouts, tears and accusations. Turning around, he faced her, saw for the first time the scars left by Tom Riddle, by her experience with the darker side of the wizarding world at such an early, innocent age. She went far, far deeper than was apparent on the surface.


To those eyes, to that scarred innocence, he spoke the plain truth, as he had not for a long, long time. “Because, if he ever had ambition, if he ever stepped beyond Potter’s shadow, he could be dangerous…”


She frowned, incredulous. “Ron?”


His mouth twisted cynically. “Your brother beat McGonagall at chess in his first year – if he were a Slytherin, he would be a threat, but…” he shook his head, “as a Gryffindor, as Potter’s sidekick, he’s a complete waste of the most extraordinary talent I’ve ever seen. And I intend to see he stays that way.”


Shocked, dark eyes flew up to his. “You mean…all the insults, all the put-downs…”


He nodded. “He’s entirely too loyal to Potter. And if he can’t be turned to my own use, I won’t let anyone else have him either – I’d rather break him, destroy his confidence…”


She looked sick. He only smiled bitterly, mirthlessly. “You asked for the truth, Weasley; don’t complain when you get it.”


“You and your Slytherins belittle and despise everything around you, Malfoy,” she breathed, sickened. “Just what does it take to earn your respect?”


His face went completely blank, and silver eyes lifted to hers then, cool and not entirely neutral. “Strength, Weasley. Slytherins and the High Clan respect strength of will, strength of mind, strength of personality…”


Her lips curled into an admirably vicious sneer. “Then why do they respect you?”


He flinched, and he smiled terribly. “Do they?” was all he asked. And then he turned his back on her and walked off.



*******************************************************



She watched him go, puzzled by something that she couldn’t define. Why had he been so upset by that last question? And why had he spoken to her so truthfully – for truth it had been, no matter how repellent.


And why did she feel even the slightest grain of sympathy for him?


******************************************************


“And may the Gods have mercy on your soul…”


Lucius had had a dream, once, when he’d been very young, and still naïve enough to believe in such things. It had been a simple dream, really – he’d dreamed that he’d been one of the village children, his father a blacksmith, or a farmer, or an innkeeper, and his mother had been an ordinary village woman in an apron with floury hands. He’d had no responsibilities, no expectations, and no ambitions – he was content to live his whole life beyond the Veil, happy with what he had, secure in the knowledge that the Lord up at the Castle would take care of anything the villagers couldn’t handle themselves.


And he married the woman he loved and lived happily ever after.


He wondered if Draco had ever dreamed of similar things.


But the Malfoy blood, and the Covenant that had been sealed in it so many centuries ago, would not allow them such an easy way out. They had taken on responsibility when they first set themselves up as Lords, and so responsibility they would always carry, no matter how heavy or wearing the load…


He put his hands on his son’s shoulders one last time, savouring the feel of Draco’s warmth, of his vitality, of the youth that held so many possibilities, so much promise. This, this splendidly formed man-child, with his clear, bright eyes and his firm, strong limbs and his quicksilver, brilliant mind was his son. His flesh and blood, quickened by some divine spark – it had never before seemed so marvellous.


Some things in this life were sacred. Unfortunately, all too many of them were responsibilities.


In the name of the Clan, of High Clan Malfoy, he put a hand underneath Draco’s chin and turned his eyes up to meet his own, and whispered the last words he would ever speak to his son. “Keep them all safe through the dark times, Draco, and happy during the peaceful times. Remember, the Clan, and the Covenant, above all else – even your own life and freedom.”


Eyes dark, Draco nodded fiercely, and Lucius’ hands tightened on his shoulders in an uncharacteristic show of public affection. “I have taught you everything you need – now you must put it into practice, and stand or fall on your own.” Draco made to speak, but Lucius shook his head. “If you fall, remember that the Game is never, ever over until you are dead; as long as you live there will always be another chance to claw your way back up.”


He bent down, closed his eyes, called upon all his magic, summoned forth the bright, burning warmth of the Covenant, of the sacred trust of Clan Malfoy, and placing his mouth on his son’s, let it pour through him and into Draco, into the new, unMarked, flawless vessel…


Until he was empty, and strangely light, without the burdens he had carried since he was seventeen.


“Remember that I love you, Draco,” he whispered one last time, staring into those solemn, silver eyes for one, last time. He couldn’t be sure, but when he looked back, he thought he saw the new Lord of High Clan Malfoy smile, once, as the Aurors led him away.



*********************************************************



As his father moved out of sight, Draco became aware of three Aurors watching him, their faces unreadable and their eyes veiled. Beside them, watching him just as seriously – if with more malice – were his mother and Nott, no doubt puzzling over the significance of that last kiss. Was it possible they knew what it meant? Narcissa had never taken an interest in the deeper magics of the Malfoy, and Nott was notoriously contemptuous of the old ways and the old order. Of course, that was why he was so powerful – he could be persuasive when he spoke, and his opinions and rhetoric appealed to many within the High Clan, especially those of the younger, less traditionally powerful Clans.


So Lucius had known, and so he had gambled.


They walked over, approaching him warily, keeping close to the Aurors as if their presence could keep them safe if Draco decided to do something reckless. For their part, the Aurors looked a little uncomfortable themselves, mainly because they felt it a little tactless to be doing this to Draco so soon after his father’s conviction, but they had their orders. And if that meant that they had to work with the convicted man’s wife and her lover – who had clearly conspired to bring him down – then that was what they would do. But it didn’t mean they had to like it…


As well as the three Aurors, Dane Harcourt and the Minister, Cornelius Fudge, also made their way to Draco’s side. Harcourt was unreadable, but seemed a little uncomfortable and reluctant. This was, after all, a very big step, interfering with the ancient sovereignty of the Malfoy land… Fudge only looked extremely self-satisfied.


Nott smiled at Draco, a horribly insincere smile, sympathetic and understanding, and all the more disturbing for it. He put a hand on his shoulder, as Lucius had just done, but unlike Lucius it was not in the least fatherly. “Come on Draco, let’s go home…”


Draco stiffened under that hand, and drew himself away, taking a very obvious step back. Nott’s smile faded, and Narcissa looked faintly anxious – he thought he saw Harcourt’s mouth flatten in distaste. And then a very welcome voice came from behind him, wiping the smile right off his almost-stepfather’s face.


“My dear boy,” Snape purred, “I’ve been looking all over for you. Are you ready to go?”


“Oh?” Nott’s eyebrows went up in a poor imitation of Lucius. “And where are you going?”


Snape smiled blandly. “Diagon Alley,” he purred. “As Draco’s guardian, it is my responsibility to ensure he has everything he needs for school next year…”


Narcissa regained her composure, and her wits. “My dear Severus,” she cooed, turning her huge blue eyes on him, to no discernable effect. “Surely you misunderstand…Draco and Alexander and I, we are going home now.”


Almost involuntarily, Draco moved closer to Snape. “I do need my school supplies,” he said innocently.


Nott looked surprised. “So soon after your father’s trial? Surely it could wait a while longer…”


Fudge, not fond of being ignored, and a little disturbed by the ancient undercurrents he could only just sense, cleared his throat self-importantly. “I am afraid,” he began, pompous as always, “that there is something that can’t wait…”


Turning the full force of his black, sardonic eyes on Fudge, Snape raised an awful eyebrow. Watching Nott, Draco could almost sense the malicious satisfaction he could hardly contain.


“Because your father has been convicted of Death Eater activities, the Ministry now has the right to search the premises of Malfoy Manor for any forbidden magical artefacts…”


Harcourt looked at the very lack of expression on Draco’s face, and turned his eyes back to Fudge, wondering now, as he had done countless times before, just how a man could be so wilfully blind.


“By all means, Minister,” said Nott. “We would be happy to allow a team of Aurors and experts free run of the Manor, won’t we darling?” He turned to Narcissa, who simpered and smiled brilliantly at Fudge. “Only say the word, and we’ll be happy to oblige you…”


Fudge’s smile was supremely satisfied, as he indicated the three Aurors and Dane Harcourt. “We have the warrant already, and are ready to begin searching right now, actually.” He beamed at them. “If that’s all right with you…”


Despite his show of carefully concealed consternation, Nott was not in the least put out. “Of course.” He turned to them all, and to Snape, who had shown no signs of leaving, and held out an ancient ring-brooch, worn smooth with the touch of countless hands. “If you’ll all lay hand on this…”


They all touched the Portkey, and there was a dizzying, disorienting rush, and then they emerged, blinking, in the forest very near to the edge of a high, abrupt cliff. And, shimmering in the air like a heat haze, a step over the edge of the cliff, was the fabled Veil that separated Malfoy land from the rest of Britain that had kept the Clan and their people safe for two and a half thousand years.


“Open it,” Nott said to Draco, eager to go back beyond the safety and the symbolism of the Veil.


Draco looked at him…and smiled.



************************************************



Since Brandon Malfoy had first created the Veil so many long centuries ago, only those who were part of the Malfoy Covenant – that is, those who took the Blood that the Malfoy shared on Midsummer, and shared their own in return – had been able to open the Veil and move freely between the Outside world and the land Beyond the Veil. In effect, this meant that only those of Malfoy blood, or those who had been born and bred beyond the Veil, could ever open it. To all others it was impenetrable…


Narcissa had found the whole idea of a blood Covenant frankly distasteful and had refused to participate in the Midsummer rituals, and the others, Snape and Nott and Harcourt, were all Clan Lords, to whom sharing blood with Malfoy would have meant swearing allegiance. And so, out of all those gathered on the edge of the cliff, only Draco was able to open the Veil and provide the Ministry search party entrance. Somehow, the idea that he wouldn’t cooperate hadn’t occurred to Nott or Fudge – until now, when he had smiled so tauntingly.


Because whoever held the land beyond the Veil, whoever occupied the Castle, ancient, symbolic stronghold that it was, had access to the Malfoy power base – their practical power, and the power of their myth, of their reputation. And, even more importantly, they had access to the Malfoy Grove…and that was no myth, but very real, and very potent magic. Draco was adamant that Nott and Narcissa would not get their hands on any of it, and nor would the Ministry, even if it did come in the person of Dane Harcourt, who at least seemed to know what it was he tampered with. No one – no one – would fulfil their ambitions at the Malfoy’s expense, by moving in when Lucius was gone and the new Lord was a fifteen year old boy, when it seemed they were at their most vulnerable and fragile.


Such was the purpose of the Veil. Unless Draco, or someone else who had shared Malfoy blood, opened the way, no one would get in. And since, especially in these troubled times, most of those able to open the Veil were gathered beyond it, and those who weren’t were too loyal – or too afraid – to go against the express wishes of the Lord, Draco had only to refuse to open it, and the people and possessions Lucius had moved onto Malfoy land would be safe.


Until someone turned traitor – but he would deal with that if and when it became an issue.


Watching them all, pompous and puffed-up Fudge, insincere, ruthless Nott and vicious Narcissa, quiet, composed Harcourt and sardonic, protective Snape, Draco laughed inwardly as he thanked his ancestor’s ancient foresight, and his father’s more recent planning.


“No,” he said.


There was a beat of silence – and then the consternation set in.


Fudge snarled at him, blustering and threatening, in his ineffectual way, but Harcourt touched his shoulder, bent down and whispered in his ear – no doubt warning him of the consequences of pushing too far, too fast, and of alienating the High Clan (for surely he had already alienated the Malfoy far enough) when he had no real need to. There would be another day…


Nott, in his frustration, thwarted by a mere weakling, felt a mindless urge to enraged violence stirring, rising – but then caught Snape’s eye, and subsided. Wretched, almost powerless professor that he was, Snape was nevertheless the premier Potions Master in Britain, and a powerful wizard in his own right – there was also the small matter of the cruelty and inventiveness he had honed so exquisitely as one of the Dark Lord’s Inquisitors…


Not a man you wanted as an enemy. But exactly the sort of protector that Malfoy would choose for his son – strong enough to look after him, but not strong enough to reshape him, or to oust him and take control for himself…


And besides, there was nothing that he could do. Until and unless he found someone else who could open it for him, the Veil would remain closed, and all that power, all that history, all that magic, would be beyond his reach. And so would Draco, ensconced at Hogwarts with the godsdamned Potions Master and that fool Dumbledore, laughing at him for all the effort he had put into wooing Narcissa, the ice-cold, treacherous whore…


Well, Malfoy had won this round. But could he win the Game?


**********************************************************


The word went out, after that, that Draco Malfoy had denied Fudge and Nott entry beyond the Veil – had denied everyone entry – and those who had previously denigrated him as a weakling, as his father’s puppet, were moved to reconsider. Well, this plan had all the hallmarks of Lucius’ planning, but truly, Draco had carried it out without his father’s support…


Perhaps there was more to him than was apparent at first glance. Perhaps, if they weren’t careful, and if they didn’t take action, he might grow into something dangerous…


But as long as he remained under Snape’s protection, under Dumbledore’s nose, they could not move directly against him.


So they would be indirect.



**************************************************

CHAPTER 7



Drip.


Drip.


Drip.


The incessant dripping was enough to drive anyone mad, but that, he had found, was not the worst thing about Azkaban. The wailing and weeping of the long-term inhabitants, those who had been there for years, who had been abandoned and forgotten, was enough to give him nightmares, to drive him out of his head with the sheer mind-numbing helplessness of it all, the despair and the hopelessness.


But even that could be ignored, were it not for the whispering, the plotting, the endless footsteps he could hear in his dreams – the inexorable footprints of his executioner, the arbiter of Voldemort’s displeasure and his final punishment…


It would come one day, one night, in dreams or in waking – he knew it, he could feel it in his bones. But the question was – would he be there, waiting calmly and fatalistically for his death?


Or did Lucius Malfoy still have one last Game to play…


Drip.


Drip.


Drip.


Lips curving, he settled himself down, closed his eyes, blocked out the dripping and the screaming, and sustained himself – for now – on memories of another time, another place, and another life.



**************************************************



A circle of black-robed, masked figures thronged around a single focal point – a throne-like chair, and in it Abomination. A thing that had been human, once, long ago, before ambition and hatred had twisted it, before it had been corrupted beyond anything natural or even recognisable.


Alexander Nott’s flesh crawled at the sight, but he fought down the instinctive revulsion and told himself – as he had told himself so many times before – that it was worth it. That if he could only hold on long enough, gain enough power through serving this monster, he would be able to make it on his own…


He refused to acknowledge that Malfoy had tried to play the same game, and had lost. He could hold on, where Malfoy had lost control, he could stomach what Malfoy could not. He would be strong, where Malfoy had been weak – and therefore he would succeed where Lucius Malfoy, brilliant and golden, had failed.


Standing at Voldemort’s right hand, in the place that had, ever since he had first joined, belonged to Malfoy, he had the satisfaction of seeing the first of his many plans and ambitions put into action.


“Severus Snape,” came the hissing, horrible voice, calling the other man into the circle. “My dear Inquisitor – come closer, where I can see you clearly…” There was a horrifying note of amusement, of terrible glee in that voice, and Nott, standing behind him and to the right, could feel his blood chill even as his heart began to pump triumphantly.


Snape, tall and thin and disdainful, advanced into the centre of the clearing, dropped to knee and bowed his head, reaching out to kiss the hem of the Dark Lord’s robes. “My Lord…”


A pasty white, scaly hand reached out and caressed Snape’s chin, forcing his head up, forcing the mask off, until those rich, dark eyes were looking straight into Voldemort’s, and Nott could see straight into their clear, completely impassive depths. Reluctantly, he admired that steady gaze – Severus had always had balls, no matter what else he had lacked. “I hear that Malfoy has been put out of the picture, Severus…”


Snape remained completely neutral, despite what had to be terrible strain and pressure on his neck; despite the fingers biting so hard into the underside of his jaw they drew blood. Before his eyes, he could see Snape actually assume the persona of the Potions Master, the Chief Inquisitor…


“He has been sent to Azkaban, my Lord,” he said steadily, indifferently stating what every person there in the clearing knew.


“And his son? What of him?” Watching intently, Nott could hear Pettigrew’s mad giggling in the stillness of the night, feel the detached curiosity of the watching Death Eaters, watching interestedly as the predator closed in on his prey, supremely indifferent to the outcome. It was a scenario that they had all seen played out, in various circumstances, time and time again.


Snape paused, seemed almost hypnotised by those red, horribly sane eyes. “I have assumed guardianship of Draco, Lord,” he said clearly.


“Is that so.” The Dark Lord smiled horribly, and Nott’s heartbeat sped up until he could hear it drumming in his ears. Here it came…


“And how did you gain custody of the traitor’s precious son, Severus?”


Snape stilled, visibly stopped himself from flinching. Inside, Nott was almost howling with glee. Oh, watch darling Severus with his ancient pedigree and his disdainful sneer talk his way out of this one…


“Oh, yes,” Voldemort crooned, “Nott has been telling us about the bargain Malfoy made with the Ministry.” Briefly, Snape’s eyes flicked to him – he smiled a special smile, a triumphant smile he had been looking forward to for a long, long time. Voldemort continued. “And now, tell me, dear Severus, if you can, why Lucius Malfoy, who signed his own death warrant by turning against us, would then turn around and gift you, my most loyal Inquisitor, with custody of his beloved only son, his most precious Heir?”


The air quivered with expectancy, with awful intensity. Somehow, somewhere, to Nott’s disbelief and reluctant admiration, Snape found the strength to keep his face and his thoughts impassive, to resist Voldemort’s probing eyes.


And then he flicked his eyes back to Nott’s, and smiled…



*********************************************



Afterwards, after Snape had screamed himself hoarse and had exhausted his voice even further spinning his story of playing triple agent, playing spy for both sides and for Malfoy as well, and of using his childhood friendship with Malfoy to gain his trust, the amusement ended and the meeting broke up. Nott walked up behind the battered Potions Master, noting how slowly he moved and how deeply the lines on his face were graven.


Even the fierce, clear black eyes were clouded – but there was still enough life in him to glare viciously at Nott as he drew abreast and offered an arm in support. Pointedly, he refused and straightened himself out alone.


Nott smiled congenially as he spoke, withdrawing his offered hand. “That was a very nice story you spun for us there, Snape. It was almost convincing…”


Scowling, Snape refused to grant him an answer, and went to brush past him. Nott caught his arm and detained him, swinging him around for a face-to-face confrontation. Lowering his voice, he said, “Let them fall, man. Let the Malfoy fall, and let the world carry on as it always does. It won’t matter in the end…”


Snape snarled and shook him off, but Nott refused to let it go. “Why did you take on Malfoy’s burdens, Snape? It’s not worth it – don’t you have enough to carry on your own?”


Finally, he stopped and looked at Alexander Nott, at the man who wanted to dominate the High Clan, to take on the position that the Malfoy had occupied for so long. He only shook his head. “If you can’t understand, Nott, then I can’t explain it to you…”


And then he walked off.


Watching him go, Nott remembered his days at Hogwarts, looking after this same man walking off, with Lucius Malfoy and Brandon Avery and Rayden Lestrange, after one remark after another explaining that he didn’t understand, that he couldn’t understand, that he would never understand.


Because he was not one of them.


Oh, he was High Clan; the Notts had been part of the High Clan since they came over with the Conqueror. But that was not enough, because he was not one of them. He was not one of “The Thirteen”, the oldest, most powerful Clans, who could trace direct descent back to Brandon Malfoy and his twelve Companions. People talked of prejudice in the wizarding world, of the deep divisions between the High Clan and the rest of society. But they didn’t talk of the divides within the High Clan itself, of the great gulf between the Thirteen and the rest of the Clans, between the oldest and the newer, less traditional Clans, and even, farther in, the divisions among the Thirteen themselves.


It wasn’t spoken of, really, but by the Lady, the prejudice was real, and it was tangible, and it infuriated him.


He understood all right, he understood that Severus Snape – the real Severus Snape – had no liking for such games and was by no means a webspinner of the calibre necessary to pull off the elaborate scheme he had outlined to Voldemort tonight. He understood that there was something very shady going on with Snape’s involvement with Dumbledore – although surely the man would not be foolish enough to be wholly committed to the old man’s cause? And he understood that, no matter what the circumstances, Severus Snape would never, ever turn on Lucius Malfoy.


Because the Malfoy were Slytherin’s Golden Children, the centre and the balance of the High Clan, and their light and the love they inspired cast an enchantment stronger than any magic imaginable on the minds and hearts of everyone unlucky enough to experience it. They burned so brightly that fools like Snape would do absolutely anything for them, for a chance to share in that light…


He wondered if Severus thought that Draco would ever turn that love and light onto him.



**************************************************



The next day they watched him through the staffroom window as he walked, desultorily, in the gardens, his hands shoved into his pockets and his shoulders hunched, his pale hair and skin making him look almost like a wraith, lost and haunted, keeping an eternal vigil over lands that lay far to the south-west. Every morning, he stood there, in the same place, looking out in the same direction – towards the Veil and the land he had deliberately exiled from the rest of the world.


And ever since he had first come to Hogwarts, some three weeks ago, they had watched over him, watched him become more and more withdrawn, more and more removed from the boy he had once been. In some ways that was good – he had manners now, had dropped the sneering and the taunting insolence – but it was somehow disturbing, to watch all that energy diminish, all the spirit fade, and witness him falling deeper and deeper into apathy.


Concerned, Minerva McGonagall turned towards Severus, who was leaning against the windowsill, sipping tea, and watching Draco through faintly narrowed eyes. She noticed – although he made it clear that he did not want to discuss it – that Snape was moving more carefully today, that he clutched the tea cup with both hands, and even so every now and then the cup shook with imperceptible, invisible tremors. He hid it from them, but not as thoroughly as he had concealed it from Draco at the breakfast table. Why didn’t he want the boy to know? Was it pride, or was it something deeper than that? She knew just how close he and Lucius had been…


And so it had come as no surprise to her when she heard he had taken custody of Draco. What did surprise her was the way he had chosen to exercise it – why he had brought the boy here and had let him mope, let him feel sorry for himself, when she was certain most High Clan – Snape included – would look on such behaviour as foolish weakness.


If Draco Malfoy, motivated and determined, were to come over to the Order, bringing all of his strength and all of his considerable drive, and all of the weight of the Malfoy name – just think of what they could do… But they had been over this before, and would doubtless discuss it again – but what else were they to think, when he bought the boy here, of all places?


Catching her eye, reading her thoughts easily, Severus gave her a twisted smile and shook his head. “You know how devoted I am to the Order, Minerva, and how far I will go for it, but this is not about me. It’s not my decision, or even my business. I am a shield and a mentor, and despite what authority I have on paper, I have no right,” he shook his head as she opened her mouth to protest, “no right at all to impose my will on the Lord of the Malfoy.”


“I thought you were his Guardian?” she asked acerbically, still unwilling to accept this, this half measure of authority.


He raised an eyebrow. “I am. But that only means I guard him, and offer my advice if it is needed, whether he will listen or not. Authority over him?” he laughed shortly, “I am not his father, or even of Malfoy blood, to control him if he chooses to run counter to my will…”


“Besides,” he said, “I have not the strength.”


She looked down to the ghostly, frail figure in the gardens, and raised a brow.


Slowly, he shook his head. “He is mourning, now, mourning his father and the end of his innocence, but once he comes out of it, once he comes back to life…” slowly, almost reminiscently, he smiled, “he will burn, by the Lady, he will shine with all the light of the world…”


She was less than impressed – she had seen how Lucius had burned, and how he had turned out. “And what will he do, once he comes back to life? Will he stand with us?”


He turned back to her, and the light – the faith – in his eyes slowly faded. “If he wishes to.”


“And if he wishes not to?” she asked, exasperated at his descent into mysticism.


“Then he will go another way.” Snape shrugged, supremely fatalistic.


Suddenly, she eyed him suspiciously – but no, he was not winding her up. He was completely sincere. “How do you propose that we get him on our side, then?”


Snape sighed – they had also been over this before. Before he could speak, Dumbledore’s voice came from the doorway. “Mr. Malfoy’s case is…unusual. No doubt, normally he would choose the side which he thought would give him the greatest advantage, as so many High Clan scions did…”


Involuntarily, Snape winced. Albus noticed and made an apologetic gesture, briefly touching him on the shoulder. “However, in this case it is a little more…complicated than that. After Lucius told us everything he knew, the Death Eaters will be intent on the Malfoy’s destruction – however, the Ministry will be little better in their search for ‘justice’…”


“And while we might be against Voldemort, we don’t necessary support Fudge and the Ministry, if he is inclined to appreciate such a distinction,” Minerva offered, thoughtfully.


Albus cleared his throat. “There is also the matter of…Mr. Potter…”


Minerva snorted. “If Severus can learn to cooperate with Black, then Malfoy can learn to work with Potter.”


Severus shook his head. Running a hand through his hair, he closed his eyes wearily and sighed, showing that he was not as blasé about this as he pretended. It looked as if he had not slept for days, and traces of pain, stress, and, yes, even a deep sorrow were all too visible, if you knew how to look. “The strange thing about the Malfoy, my dear Minerva,” he looked up at her, bitterly amused, “is that they have a tendency – despite their pragmatism and their patience – to possess very strong emotions, and, even worse, sometimes they let those emotions influence them…”


“What are you saying?” she asked sharply, alarmed by his tone.


“I’m saying that Draco is fragile right now, and thus more likely to be thinking with his instincts and emotions than his head. He’s been taught, thoroughly, to control that, but he isn’t thinking clearly – he’s lost his balance, is reacting, controlled by events, instead of the other way around. He’s in no state to make any important decisions – and those he does make will be based on flawed reasoning.”


“I thought that High Clan scions thought of that as weakness,” Albus teased.


One corner of his mouth curled up sardonically. “It is,” he said dryly. “And that’s why Lucius gave him me. Because right now, he’s at his most vulnerable, and he needs someone to help him get through it – I could shock him out of his grief early and force him to take control before he’s ready, but that could break him.”


The smile turned bitter. “And, as Lucius knew, I would never risk breaking him…”


Albus’ eyes were dark with compassion, dark with understanding as he saw how one man’s love could be manipulated, could be turned into a chain stronger than any curse, than any compulsion. Oh, in his determination to protect his son, Lucius had spared no cruelty – Severus’ love for father and son was as double-edged as everything else in this world was.


But the offer had been made, and Severus had accepted it willingly and freely, well aware of the price he would pay.


Draco Malfoy’s guardian lifted his head and stared at them both with intent, fierce dark eyes. “He will make his own decision, and will be allowed to abide by it.”


Albus and Minerva exchanged glances, but made no promises.



********************************************

Chapter 8



Finally, he knew that he couldn’t feign sleep any longer, and that he would have to wake up and face the day, and everything that would come with it.


Like the rest of the students, returning to Hogwarts for the first day of school. Like the Slytherins, returning to Hogwarts for the beginning of one of the most desperate and vicious power struggles the High Clan had ever seen.


Like the Weasleys, to whom, whether he liked it or not, he owed a very great debt.


He wasn’t sure whether he was more reluctant to face the Slytherins or the Weasleys…


Unfortunately, he was too much the pragmatist to think that he could in any way avoid what was coming. Such wishful thinking was for idealistic Gryffindors and naïve Hufflepuffs – and Draco Malfoy, whatever else he was, was neither naïve nor idealistic…


One could not afford to be either, in this world, in these times.


And so he dragged himself out of bed, out of the rich, four-poster bed hung with tapestry drapery and fitted with sinfully expensive, crisp linen sheets redolent of sandalwood – one of the benefits of his prefect’s badge and his father’s money – and staggered into the bathroom, clad only in black silk pyjama bottoms.


His body – pale, lean and smooth – gleamed dully in the half-light of the dungeons and the pre-dawn, and his face was a pale blur in the mirror, framed by thick white hair reaching almost to his shoulders that he had yet to cut since his father’s imprisonment. Perhaps he enjoyed the melodrama of such a statement…


But he didn’t spare a glance at the body he had worn for fifteen years. He was familiar with it, confident of it, and took for granted – with all the supreme arrogance of youth – that it would never let him down. No, this morning, Draco looked into his own eyes in the mirror, into the silver eyes that marked the scions of Clan Malfoy, and wandered what, exactly, others would see there.


Because all he saw were his own doubts, his own fears reflected back at him…


Was there any strength in the pale stranger he watched so closely? Anything remarkable, as they said marked the visages of the great heroes of old, to mark him as anything more than he had pretended to be for most of his life? Was there anything lurking deep inside those eyes that would stop others from seeing straight through him into the doubts, into the hesitation and the pretences…


Happily, melancholy had never been too large a part of his makeup; with a scowl, he dunked his head under ice-cold water and banished – for today at least – any inclination towards self-pity.


What would come would come. And he would be ready for it, because there was no one else, this time, to face it for him.



***********************************************



It seemed strange, somehow, to think that there were only two Weasley children left, living at the Burrow – of course, her elder brothers Bill and Charlie had moved out long ago, and Percy as soon as he had graduated, but somehow she had always thought that Fred and George would never leave home.


She had also thought that they would never grow up – so far, she had been right in that, at least.


But now that only she and Ron were left out of all the seven Weasley children, it was a very strange feeling. The house seemed empty, although it was still as small and cluttered as ever; and life seemed…flatter, if a little more peaceful.


But to think of these times as peaceful…


She had only to look at Ron to see just how peaceful they were.


He had been released from hospital a few weeks ago, and had been declared fit enough to return to Hogwarts, but he was still weak, still a little shaky. In his anger, Malfoy had come so very near to causing Ron irreparable harm – any more force and he might have killed him – over a commonplace, quite frankly pitiable insult that he would not have turned a hair at, before his father had been arrested. And that was the most incomprehensible thing of all – his answer to her question.


Because he pissed me off, Weasley.


That was not, and never had been, enough justification to almost kill a man in public. Not even for the High Clan. It had been, more than anything, a sign of his discomposure, of his…of his fear.


And it was not an indication that was going to go away any time soon, either. Because too many people had witnessed it. Because incidents like that were like catalysts, changing the whole fabric of perception and reality, painting the way a man is seen throughout history and beyond.


Draco Malfoy, they would say, once let a Weasley get so under his skin – gave his words so much importance – that he tried to strangle him in public and had to be torn away from him, and in doing so, put himself and the Malfoy into the Weasleys’ debt…


Even if her father did not know or did not care, Ginny intended to make sure that she collected. Every last bit of it…


“Are you ready yet, Ginny?” her mother called, her voice a little sharper now than it had been in the past, a little more worried – but when she thought of it, it was not surprising. Things had been very bad, lately, and the Weasley family had been right in the thick of it – everyone except her. There were times when she resented her age and her gender, cursing her family’s protectiveness that had prevented her from playing a greater part in the resistance.


Of course, her experiences in her first year may have had something to do with that as well...


But she knew that it had only made her stronger, had shown her a different world, so different from anything she would ever have otherwise experienced. Yes, she had been used, yes, she had been stripped of her innocence and her naïve Gryffindor certainty, but she had found something else, something deeper…


In the depths of her despair, when she had fallen as far as she could, she had found the deepest, most fundamental reserves of her own strength – the endurance of her will, the strength and the strange, rock-stubborn courage that allowed her to go on when everything else was gone, when there was nothing left and all the world whispered, pointed fingers, watched her with those wary eyes.


And that was the true characteristic of Godric Gryffindor – not the chivalry, not the gallantry or the high spirits that the Slytherins so despised, but the strength and courage to continue, to fight on against all odds. But she supposed it was not as romantic, glorious or simple as young, innocent students might like or even understand.


On that same note, not all Slytherins were cunning, amoral and power-hungry manipulators. Salazar Slytherin, child of an ancient Clan, born and bred in the morality of the High Clan, had valued those who had the cool judgement and intelligence necessary to survive the labyrinthine politics of their world, to protect their Clan without having to resort to outright war…and yet, even so, the ruthlessness to fight if necessary, and to finish it so thoroughly it would never become an issue again.


Strength, Weasley – strength of will, strength of mind, strength of personality…


Odd how both Gryffindor and Slytherin respected strength, but saw it in such different ways…


Was she ready? She knew what she had to do, but could she really do it…?


She remembered Malfoy’s sneer. If he ever had ambition, if he ever stepped beyond Potter’s shadow, he could be dangerous…


She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, and exhaled slowly and steadily, slowly drawing herself up and straightening her shoulders. She could do this. She could step beyond her brothers’ shadows, beyond Harry Potter’s, and she could be everything she had ever dreamed she could be…


Strength, Weasley.



**************************************************



He stood inside the doorway at the far end of the Great Hall, watching them as they filed in for the Feast. Still hesitant and unsure – despite his bravado this morning – he stayed to the shadows, nerving himself to face them, the comrades he had bullied and lorded it over for the last five years, who had hated him and resented him and feared him, but never liked him, never respected him as he had seen the Gryffindors respect Potter.


He had never wanted them to like him or respect him. But it would have made things easier, now…


There they were – Crabbe and Goyle, not the brightest of sparks, but more intelligent than most of the school suspected, and with enough wit to know which was the winning side and attach themselves willingly to it; they stood behind and flanking Nott Jnr, now, who was now the centre and the heart of them all, thanks to his father’s growing influence.


Pansy, whose father was no longer so eager to see his daughter betrothed to him – although, there was an intriguing opportunity to play father-in-law to a puppet Malfoy Lord – was batting her eyes at Nott, now, and doing her best to draw attention to her – admittedly abundant – assets…


He wondered if Nott would avail himself of what she was offering, and whether he thought it worth the price - because there was a price, because Pansy was not as brainless as she seemed, under the exterior. Malicious, vain and capricious, yes, but stupid, no.


He had always liked Millicent, awkward and ill favoured as she was, better than Pansy, because she was more honest, and much steadier. That didn’t mean, however, that she was any less dangerous. Pansy was more predictable, much easier to understand and manipulate; Millicent was elusive, and even now he still wasn’t quite sure how she thought, or what she wanted. The one thing he was sure of was that she was standing in the fringes of the group surrounding Nott, not in the very centre.


Blaise Zabini, cool and impartial behind the neutrality he flaunted when disputes arose in the Common Room, was nevertheless canny enough to know not to offend Nott, or to stand clearly against him – his cool, incisive intelligence had led him to become the closest thing to a friend Draco had in Slytherin, or anywhere else for that matter.


He had actually trusted Zabini – although not to the point he would expect him to remain loyal in such circumstances. He wondered, then, why the sight of his maddeningly cool smile aimed at Nott, instead of him, would cause him a slight pang…


Of course he didn’t expect any of the Slytherins to stand by him, not when he had had to play such a part. His father had allies, had friends who, despite political intelligence, had stood by him in the bad times – Snape was a prime example of this – but he was not his father. He had not acted as his father had acted in his own school days, so he should not expect any of his schoolmates to remain loyal to him…


And then there was Nott, who stood at the heart of Slytherin, just as Draco had only three months ago. Alexander Nott’s only son, just as crude as his father, with his wiry black hair, his high colour, and his stocky build. He had his father’s gift for crowd pleasing, and the same raw charisma, but Draco could see – small, subtle signs, but still telling – he was not yet entirely sure of himself in his new position. Perhaps that could be turned to his own use…


He threw back his head and laughed, and they all laughed with him, Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, Bulstrode, Zabini and all the other Slytherins – but none of it was real, none of it was sincere, as he had seen it at the Gryffindor table. None of them would stand with Nott if he or his father lost hold of their power, just as they had not stood with Draco…


He would do well to remember that.


Finally, the hubbub was starting to die down, and he could delay it no longer if he wished to enter without making himself conspicuous. Slipping out of the shadows, he ghosted through the crowd, making a conscious effort to attract no attention – not an easy thing, with his fair hair – until he reached the Slytherin table, where they had all been waiting for him. They had been anticipating this moment ever since he’d come with Snape to Hogwarts, waiting for the opportunity to test his strength, and, if they found him weak, to repay, in kind, everything he’d done to them in his quest to disguise his true self from the Dark Lord…


And they watched him, with predatory eyes, as he made to sit down – he looked them in the eye, tried to exert his will, but none of them moved aside, or made room, and not one of them looked away, or failed to meet his gaze. Finally, extremely conscious of their eyes and Nott’s amusement at his failed show of bravado, he seated himself at the far end of the table, isolated and cut off from all the others.


And then the whispers began, and he concentrated on keeping his face impassive, his head high and his back straight.



**************************************************



“Damn,” hissed Snape, watching from the High Table. If Draco had won that first skirmish, it would have been much easier to gain enough momentum to swing them back his way…


But he had lost too much face.


And now Draco would have to get to the top the hard way – starting from the bottom.



**************************************************



Sitting at the Gryffindor table, Ginny was eating absently, concentrating on how she could persuade her parents she was mature enough to work for the Order, when Ron, recovered and cheerful once more, elbowed her in the ribs and pointed with his chin over to the Slytherin table.


“Looks like Malfoy’s been demoted,” he said gleefully. If he had hated Malfoy before he’d been sent to hospital, it was nothing compared to what he felt now.


Dutifully, because she knew she would never get any peace until she complied, she followed his gaze over to where Malfoy was sitting, and found out that he’d been correct, for once. Because the Draco Malfoy, the Great Ferret himself, was sitting on his own, clearly excluded from the rest of the table, where once he’d been right in the midst of them.


And from the smug, triumphant looks they were shooting at him, they were relishing his change in status almost as much as Ron was.


Well, well, well. Wasn’t that interesting…



***************************************************



Later that night, in the Slytherin common room, the full import of his earlier failure at the dinner table was brought home to him, if he hadn’t managed to grasp it before.


Not even the first years feared him.


Well, of course, they were wary of him, of what he could do, but that didn’t stop them from smirking at him, and from small displays of insolence and impertinence that they wouldn’t have dared contemplate, had they started here last year. Yes, they blinked a bit when he looked at them at his most impassive, yes they took a small step back, but that was not enough to scare them into submission.


And if not even the first years feared him…


Preparing for bed, he kept to himself, spoke to no one, and merely stared impassively – almost defiantly, he thought with disgust – at his dorm mates as they looked at him speculatively, calculatingly. It didn’t make them drop their eyes, but at least it was a sign that he was not finished yet.


He may have lost an enormous amount of face, his father’s support and all of his influence, but by the Gods he was still Caius Draconis Malfoy and he was still Slytherin, still dangerous.


Nevertheless, he slept lightly, clutching his wand under the pillow…



*************************************************

Chapter 9



It didn’t start immediately.


There were no attacks on the first night back, or on the first day. Apparently, even though they hated him, even though they were more than eager to see him pay, they were content to bide their time, to see how strong his bluff really was – certainly it seemed they were testing his nerves, which were being strung tighter and tighter by the day.


The first day back, at breakfast, they had watched him, unblinkingly, as he ate his croissant and drank his coffee – the one and only thing in which he copied his mother – with all the unconcern and nonchalance he could summon. Theodore Nott, glaring at him over his own plate of ham and eggs (and at this time of the morning, too) was watching for any hesitations, any sign of apprehension or fear, and he was determined to show nothing, to give nothing away – other than what he had already given away last night.


He could no longer command unspoken obedience – and in Slytherin, despite whatever behaviour went on in the corridors with members of other houses, compelling obedience without threats or bullying was the only kind of power that mattered. Yes, he could probably intimidate some of the younger Slytherins if he resorted to curses and threats of dire punishment. But, after ruling for five years with only a raised brow and a lifted finger, it would be unspeakably vulgar. Even his feud with Potter – and the tactics he had employed therein – had been, by High Clan standards, rather childish and petty.


Especially when they had bested him so often.


“You’ll pay for this, Potter!” just didn’t sound very cool.


Oh, well, things were different now, and it may indeed come to the point where he would have to resort to such unpleasant tactics, if he wanted to regain his former position. But if he did that…


What would Dumbledore think if Draco abandoned his pretence – and Snape would make sure the old man knew it was pretence – and started playing dirty for real? And it would have to be even worse than anything he had ever done before, because Nott himself had no care for the niceties of appearance and show. If he resorted to Nott’s own tactics, wouldn’t that be – as his father had always said – descending to his level?


But then, Lucius had joined Voldemort and had murdered, terrorised and tortured his own way back into a secure position.



*************************************************



In the silence of the night, when the wailing had been reduced to hopeless weeping, when even the dripping seemed subdued, Lucius found it was easy to lose himself in the past, in everything he had done in the supreme arrogance of his youth and the ruthlessness of his ambition.


For the first time in his life, he allowed himself to ask whether it could have gone a different way, whether – and this was something he had never, ever asked of himself – he had done the right thing in selling his soul to save his Clan. Yes, pragmatism had dictated it was certainly the most effective way, and everything he had been taught had seemed to support the decision. Use him, his mind had whispered to him, use him to attain your goals, eliminate your enemies, and when you have what you want of him, bring him down…


No, that had been pride, and arrogance speaking.


Another perspective, then – a seventeen year old boy (and he had been a boy back then, no matter what he had thought at the time) whose beloved father had just been killed, and crucified by the media as a Death Eater. He had known – they had flaunted it! – that Augustus Snape had been behind it from the beginning, and in his grief, in his anger, in the sudden shock of new, terrifying responsibility, he had seized on the first thing that made sense, the first act that he had been entitled – and more than encouraged – to make.


Revenge.


But – short of playing kamikaze – in order to reach the elder Snape, high up in the Dark Lord’s favour as he had been, he had had to join the Death Eaters himself…


Looking back now, it was all so clear, so terrifyingly clear. Had he thought that he had been clever, even quite cunning in his scheming? Yes, he had had the pleasure of slowly destroying his father’s killer, but in order to gain what should have been his by right, he had sold his soul and told himself it was right, it was justified.


He had avenged his father, had bought short-lived security for his land and some sort of influence and power for himself – and at what price? Why, an oath sworn on his knees, when the Malfoy bowed to nothing and no one, an oath binding for now and all eternity, that he had had no intention to keep…


Unconsciously, his fingers – not so smooth and elegant, now – rubbed, over and over, along the malignancy on his left forearm. Remembering, and reassessing, and regretting…


Had it really been worth it? Could it have gone another way?


How else could you have survived? whispered a smooth, urbane, reasonable and High Clan voice – the voice of his own personal devil that could justify anything and make it acceptable. Could you have stood against the Dark on your own, had you not made that oath?


I had no right to make that oath, he responded, hesitantly, voicing things he had never dared think before. I had prior allegiances, and I had no right to compromise the Malfoy for my own fear, arrogance, and ambition…



*************************************************



After the first day, it began – the taunting, the needling, and the testing. The jostling in the hallways, the whispered taunts and insults, the sneering, the unseen blows when his back was turned. It was nothing he had not endured before – albeit from the Gryffindors – and so he ignored it, going his own way, determined not to be drawn in and down.


Then the pranks began – the stealing, the vandalism; they trashed his room, slashing his clothes to bits and burning his homework. It was juvenile stuff, if with malicious intent – once again, he ignored it, repairing his clothes and secretly glad he had made copies of everything important. He knew how to play this game.


They voted him off the Slytherin Quidditch team, and declared Nott Seeker.


Oddly enough, that had truly stung.


But then, frustrated by his lack of response, they took it up another level.


Monday morning of the third week back at school, after he had so maddeningly refused to react to anything, his owl dropped his copy of the Daily Prophet on the table before him, and flew off unconcerned by the havoc its arrival would wreak. Coolly unwrapping the paper, he saw others do the same, stop, read the front page again, still – and then look up, towards him, and towards Nott. Impassively, but with a current of tension coiling through them like muggle electricity.


Inside, Draco froze. But he forced himself to look at the front page, read the headline, and find out just what had gone so terribly wrong.


MINISTRY DECLARES MALFOY LAND AND POSSESSIONS FORFEIT!!!


After an extensive investigation into the conduct and crimes of Lucius Malfoy, the Ministry has declared all holdings, possessions, estates and accounts held by the Malfoy family to be forfeit to the government…

A special committee, headed by Mr. Alexander Nott, has been appointed to oversee the confiscation of Mr. Malfoy’s extensive and tangled affairs, and has been granted wide discretionary powers to exercise their mandate…


He lowered the paper, and looked straight into Nott’s triumphant, sneering eyes. He was making no effort at all to conceal his delight, so much so that it had to be obvious, even at the Gryffindor table. A wide, horrible smile stretched his lips, and there was something feral in his triumph – for the first time, Draco realised just how much Nott really hated him. This was not a game to Nott, this was personal – but he had no idea why.


“Oh, how the mighty have fallen…” Nott purred, and the rest of Slytherin leaned back with him, savouring the smell of blood that suddenly permeated the air.



**************************************************



Arthur Weasley, in his cramped office in the Ministry Building – he’d refused to move to another location, despite being offered a very nice corner room – read through the morning paper with a sense of weary disgust, and even deeper, a bitter sense of failure.


As much as he had wanted to see the Death Eaters brought to justice – most especially Malfoy, who had made his life as difficult as he possibly could – and as much as he approved the idea of actually punishing them rather than simply slapping them on the wrist, he could not in all conscience countenance the idea of Nott taking responsibility for investigating Malfoy’s affairs.


It was obvious Nott hated Malfoy, and so how could he be objective in his decisions?


He could almost see Lucius Malfoy’s raised brow, almost hear that lazy, amused drawl. Justice and objectivity, Weasley? Dear me, what were you thinking?


Leaning his head against the back of the chair, Arthur closed his eyes and laughed soundlessly, mirthlessly. At least the man would not expect to be treated fairly…


But he knew it would be dangerous to let Nott have too much control in this matter – he had spoken out, as vehemently as he could, against it, but had been overruled; there was a limit to how far he could go, in Malfoy’s defence, lest he himself fall. It was not fashionable to be a Malfoy fan – even such a reluctant and unenthusiastic one as he was – in the Ministry these days.


“So, you have seen today’s Prophet,” drawled a High Clan voice, momentarily jolting him out of his reverie. For a wild moment, he thought it was Malfoy – but no, it was only Harcourt.


Only Harcourt. It seemed that, compared to Malfoy, all others were reduced to ‘only’. He wondered if they resented that.


“Harcourt,” he said, eyeing the dark haired Auror curiously, if a little warily. “What do you want?” And that was blunt, more than blunt enough to bring the reflective wince he had so enjoyed provoking in Malfoy. He was not disappointed, as he saw the other man’s eyes crease momentarily, and felt a petty little satisfaction.


But, veteran Auror that he was, used to performing unpleasant jobs, Harcourt was prepared to speak plainly if he absolutely had to. “You remember what we spoke of, earlier?”


Arthur thought back to the last time they had spoken, when had that been…? Ah, yes, when Narcissa and her lover had come to visit Lucius… “Yes, I remember,” he said, cautiously. They had spoken, casually and indirectly, of Nott, and of Malfoy, and of those who would prefer not to see Nott take Malfoy’s place.


And Arthur had listened, but said nothing, made no promises, no indications of agreement or otherwise. He had always tried to steer clear of involvement in High Clan games – and what Harcourt had suggested had been entanglement on a grand scale.


Rescuing Draco Malfoy – or, perhaps, more tactfully, ensuring Draco Malfoy assumed his place in the correct scale of things in the High Clan – Merlin, what a thought. Even more ridiculous was the thought of actively opposing Nott, on Draco’s behalf…


Harcourt must have sensed his reluctance, because he only nodded, and on his way out, turned and looked back towards Arthur, slouched in his chair, red hair thinning and greying, deep shadows beneath his blue eyes. “Think on it,” he said, businesslike now. “He owes you a debt, a great one – it could be a great opportunity for you and yours.”


Arthur scowled at him, angry now, insulted. “The Weasleys do not need Malfoy charity, or handouts of any other sort. And we do not play the Game.” Even the Weasleys had their pride.


“Perhaps not,” Harcourt pointed out. “But if you are not careful, you will become part of it whether you will it or not. Far better to ensure it goes your way from the beginning…”


“Was that a threat, Harcourt?” Arthur asked softly, rising from his chair.


Amused grey eyes met his, the eyes of a veteran of twenty of the bloodiest years in history. “No, Weasley, it was not a threat, nor even a warning. Consider it advice, if you will, and take it in the spirit it was given. You are one of the few honest politicians left in this place – I would hate to see your pride let events sweep you under.”


And with that, he opened the door, and walked out, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts, and his pride.



**************************************************



She’d been watching him for the last few weeks, observing with great interest all the manoeuvrings of his housemates, all the needling and the insults, and his reactions to them. And she’d been surprised to see that he could hold his temper, that he could ignore petty insults and even malicious harassment, could keep his cool even under great provocation.


It was not something she’d have thought him capable of, once – but now, she was beginning to see a different side.


Although, quite predictably, so predictable it actually reassured her, was his reaction to the news that Slytherin had replaced him with a new Seeker. He’d been visibly upset over that – but somehow it made him seem more human, somehow, to learn that he was just as Quidditch-mad as any of the boys in Gryffindor.


It made him seem more…more familiar, more like her brothers – in this aspect, at least.


Harry and Ron had been jubilant at the news, although, after a while, Harry became a little indignant that Malfoy – a very capable seeker, had it not been for Harry himself – had been so summarily replaced. Ron spared him no sympathy, the memory of his stay in hospital too fresh in his mind.


But the article on the front page of the Prophet had actually shaken him, although it was not obvious; she could see it in his very stillness, in the perfection of his façade and mask. And the Slytherins could see it, if their glee was any indication – she could see their anticipation from the other side of the room, and so could Professor Snape, from his worried gaze at Malfoy, and Professor Dumbledore, in the concern of his regard.


But somehow she knew neither of them would interfere in whatever was going on. Looking around the Hall, at the breakfasting students, most of them watching Malfoy with interest, she knew not one of them would stand in the way of whatever was coming to him. Because they were too terrified of the Slytherins, because they were intellectually fascinated and wanted to know what was going to happen next, or because they actively hated Malfoy and wanted to see him suffer.


And he knew it.



~~()~~



At lunchtime, it happened.


She knew, as soon as she saw the Slytherins trickling through the school corridors, taking diverse routes two by two, or three and four together, that they were up to no good. Should she leave him to what he no doubt deserved?


No. He owed her family a debt – and he couldn’t pay it if he was crushed at Hogwarts, could he? Besides, she couldn’t quite forget the expression on his face that day, at his father’s trial, when she had seen something different in his eyes.


“Slytherins and High Clan respect strength, Weasley. Strength of will, strength of mind, strength of personality…”


“Then why do they respect you?”


He had flinched, and the strangest expression had crossed his face, through his eyes. “Do they?”


Did they?


They had certainly respected his father, until he had been sent to Azkaban. She had thought they respected him, but now she wasn’t so sure.


And she knew what happened to those whom Slytherins didn’t respect.


And so, prompted by determination that Malfoy wasn’t going to escape the debt he owed her family, by morbid curiosity as to whether Malfoy could face down the whole of Slytherin on his own, and by an indefinable feeling that she couldn’t name, she followed the trickles of Slytherin students, keeping to the shadows as they made their way to the old, almost abandoned corridors of the eastern part of the third floor, through dusty, cobwebby passages and musty, moth eaten rooms…


And into what looked like an old, old ballroom, the walls lined with mirrors like the room in the French muggle palace of Versailles, where Malfoy stood, confronted by Nott, who was flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, and Parkinson and Bulstrode, and Zabini, who stood a little to the side, but not enough to be considered impartial.


No one stood behind Malfoy.


Sinking into a shadow near the doorway where she could get a good view of what was going on, she watched as the rest of the Slytherins filed into the room and took up station along the walls to stand witness. Finally, when it seemed everyone had arrived, Nott spoke, his words almost echoing in the perfect acoustics of the room.


“Well, Malfoy, do you have anything to say for yourself?” It sounded rather like a ritual, as if they both had parts to play, and knew them intimately, as if there was really nothing else to say. It had finally come down to this.


Draco looked around, pale in his black robes, a slim, lone figure reflected endlessly in the mirrors, standing alone, but straight, unbowed, and insolent. He shrugged, a graceful movement of his shoulders, and decided that it was too late for talk – nothing he would say would stop this from happening. So, as always in moments of greatest danger, when all seemed lost – put a good face on it. Go down having made a statement.


He smiled. “Fuck you, Nott. And fuck your daddy too.”



***************************************************


He wondered, almost absently, whether it was possible for a human being to actually go that red in the face. And then he was too busy to worry about it, as he shielded from the first curse, and threw one of his own for good measure. But really, one against…gods, even if some students stayed out of the fray, he was still fucked.


He had been rigorously trained in the Dark Arts and Defence Against it, instructed by his father – a master, if he did say so himself – but even his father might have had difficulty with odds of this magnitude. And these were not chivalrous Gryffindors who played by rules of conduct, or Hufflepuffs who knew only mild curses; these were Slytherins, with no notions of nicety, and no shortage of dark curses to call upon. And this time, it was not a game – this time, it was real, horribly real.


He lost himself in the rhythm of combat, curse, shield, hex, shield, curse, shield, shield, shield, ouch…!


“Crucio!” Nott shouted, and his shield, battered and strained, failed and let it through, and oh gods it hurt…but he had been subjected to the Cruciatus before, and he was intimately familiar with the pain. He returned it, anything short of the Killing Curse was fair game in this battle, hex, curse, shield, curse, shield, curs- shield, damn it, shield, shield, shield, and attacks were coming from all sides, far too many to shield at once, and they got through, he could feel the pain, feel the drain on his magic…


“Crucio!” He blinked sweat from his eyes, ignored the pain.


“Crucio!” He winced for the first time.


“Crucio!” He bit down on his lip, drawing blood. His shields failed, collapsing under the weight of the whole of Slytherin House – at least those who were game enough to join in – and it took all his concentration not to react to the pain.


“Crucio!” He drew in breath, hissed in pain.


“Crucio! Crucio! Crucio!” Metallic, coppery blood filled his mouth, and his bones vibrated with the intensity of the curse, as well as the pain. Nott watched him with feline, Slytherin eyes, taking great pleasure in the pain in his eyes that he couldn’t conceal – and infuriated by that amusement, Draco smiled crookedly, and spat a mouthful of blood and saliva into that mocking, crude face. And then he laughed…


Rage suffused Nott’s face as he slowly wiped the blood off with a white linen handkerchief, and at a curt gesture, Crabbe and Goyle, protectors of his childhood, grabbed his arms and pulled them behind his back, leaving him open and vulnerable. They also seized his wand and took a grip on his hair – messing it up, for gods’ sakes – and pulled his head back at a painful angle.


Nott punched him in the stomach, and he doubled over – or would have, if he had been allowed to. And then, “Crucio!” before he had the chance to recover his breath, and then another punch, and another dose of the Cruciatus, and another punch, and another, and another…


His knees gave out, and they let him go, and Nott grabbed him by the hair and held a knife to his throat, hatred blazing in his eyes, and whispered hoarsely – Lady, he was aroused by the violence – “Had enough, pretty boy?”


The silence was deafening, the tension thick enough to cut. Draco smiled, as much as he could through his split lips. “Fuck you, Teddy…”


An audible gasp ran through the room, and Nott’s face twisted; he had finally succeeded in smashing the other’s control, by the looks of it, but the knife was descending now, a flash of silver reflected over and over and over again in the mirrors, and it looked as if he had gone just a little too far in his provocation…


“Don’t kill him, Mr. Nott,” Snape’s voice purred, his magic snaked through the air to stop the knife before it finished its descent. “It will cause me far too much paperwork…”


Draco would have laughed, if it wouldn’t have broken the spell woven by Snape’s velvet voice. So, his protector had finally decided to come out of the shadows where he had been watching all along.


Nott dropped the knife, but swung his fist anyway, connecting with a sickening thud to Draco’s temple. The world went black, in an explosion of pain and light.



*********************************************************



She watched, horrified, as his body slumped to the floor, the silver hair darkened by blood and sweat, and as Nott calmly picked up the knife – Gods, the knife, he would have killed Malfoy – and put it away, before calmly resettling his robes and walking back to his supporters, leaving Malfoy alone, unconscious on the floor.


Oh, dear Lady…


She clapped a hand over her mouth, and bolted, fleeing in a flurry of robes and red hair, running away from the terrifying truth in the violence she had just witnessed.



*********************************************************

“…This is Major Tom to Ground Control:
I’m stepping through the door,
And I’m floating in a most peculiar way.
And the stars look very different today…”


David Bowie, “Space Oddity”



CHAPTER 10



Ginny wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, spat, trying to rid her mouth of the acrid taste of her own fear; the sheer, horrified terror she had felt watching Theodore Nott – a seemingly normal Slytherin, if there was such a thing; a little arrogant, true, and a little crude, but not half as bad as some – taking a sick, twisted pleasure in beating the hell out of Draco Malfoy…


She had watched with frozen fascination, her mind enthralled with the spectacle, with the sheer surrealism of it all. Students – especially Housemates – simply did not beat and curse each other to near-death in the corridors of Hogwarts. It was just not done, it was just not right; she was still Gryffindor and Weasley enough to believe that. The part of her that was the legacy of Tom’s possession noted that Nott had had to get Crabbe and Goyle to hold Malfoy’s arms, and that his use of his fists was rather bad form…


But she silenced that voice, pushed it as far down into the depths of her mind as she could.


She’d thought she’d seen violence before, during her possession, during the Tri-Wizard Tournament, during the recent firefight at the Ministry; what she had seen in that room had been far, far removed from that. All those had been…impersonal, but Nott’s enjoyment had been all too personal. He had fully intended to kill Malfoy, there at the end – if Snape had not intervened…


But Ginny had been given a close up and personal view of the violence and cruelty that lay just behind those cool Slytherin eyes, a glimpse into the darkest, bloodiest nature of Slytherin politics and what happened to the losers. She had seen the surface, before, seen how Malfoy could control his housemates with only a gesture – she had never before wondered just how he had controlled them, what would happen if they didn’t obey…


She had rather naively looked forward to seeing what would happen to Malfoy without his father – she had thought it would be pranks, or a few shoving matches and broken noses – but this? She had never dreamed the consequences of losing the Game would be this high, when she had dreamed, in her room at the Burrow, of stepping out from her brothers' shadows…


She had thought she’d been familiar with the Game.


She hadn’t known a damned thing about it.



***********************************************



To veterans of the first long, bloody struggle against the Dark Lord, the cold, soulless feel of Dark Magic was all too familiar; most of those who had actually participated in the fighting – on either side – still relived the horror and fear in their dreams, woke panting and sweating from memories they had thought long forgotten. But to feel the insidious chill – so terrifyingly familiar – in broad daylight, just after lunch on a Monday afternoon, and in the very halls of Hogwarts itself…


It was one of their deepest, darkest fears.


Hearts beating frantically, wands gripped in faintly sweaty hands, Professors McGonagall and Flitwick raced as quickly as they could towards the source of the power, moving aside only to let a fleeing student through – a flash of a parchment white face, wide dark eyes – before (she?) knocked them down. Recognising the corridors heading towards the Mirrored Hall, they slowed down and approached more cautiously, listening with sinking heart to the laughter and the jocular comments they could only just hear coming from within.


And then encountered the full force of Snape’s fierce gaze – he gestured frantically for them to move into the shadows, to stand aside so as not to let whoever was inside see them. Doubtfully, they complied – and had only just hidden themselves before what seemed like the whole of Slytherin House filed out of the Hall, supremely pleased with themselves, crowding around Theodore Nott, sharing the warmth of his power and position.


Minerva frowned, looking for Malfoy…she looked up to Snape, again, who was watching Nott’s departing back with ice-cold, feral eyes. And then he turned back to her, and the anger was gone – he challenged them, with his impassivity, dared them to be as deliberately cool as he was.


Willing to play along, she and Filius Flitwick made sure all the Slytherins were gone before leaving their hiding space, and joined Snape by the door, looking in at the mirrors, each and every one of them reflecting an empty hall, dusty hangings, cobwebby corners, and a black mass slumped on the floor…


And then her eyes focused, and she truly saw.


“Merlin’s Balls!” she exclaimed, rather indelicately. “It’s Malfoy…”


Filius sucked in a deep, shocked breath. Snape only nodded, stepped softly into the room and crouched down near his protégé’s bruised and battered form, long, white elegant fingers hesitating just short of touching him. Minerva and Flitwick followed, silent in the face of the enormity of what must have happened here.


Finally, Snape laid his fingers on Draco’s pulse, closed his eyes as he felt the staggering, faltering heartbeat, actually felt the heart beginning to fail. “Get Poppy,” he said curtly. “We daren’t move him…”


Flitwick, his small hands fluttering, distressed at the residue of pain and hatred that still permeated the walls, at the dark magic that still charged the air, lit the fire and called for Madame Pomfrey through the floo network – then he turned back to Snape and said, quietly, seriously, “what happened, here, Severus?”


Snape took his eyes away from Draco’s pale face, looked, somewhat vaguely, at Flitwick – then he shook his head. “This has been coming for a very long time…”


“Yes, yes, but what happened?” the other man asked insistently, not asking for the literal truth, for he could still taste the Cruciatus and myriad others in the air, but for an explanation. An answer that would make sense of this…


Good gods, he had never thought to see Draco Malfoy in this position, and put there by his fellow Slytherins, too.


Minerva, her cool, no nonsense voice crisp in the silence, stated the all too obvious – it would not make it any more true, if it were spoken aloud, no matter what Severus believed. “The Slytherins turned on him,” she said, her voice brisk but not ungentle. Snape’s jaw worked, but he kept his silence.


The sound of rushing footsteps brought their heads up, and they turned towards the doorway, where Poppy Pomfrey bustled in, her arms filled with healing paraphernalia. “What’s wrong with Mr. Malfoy now?” she asked, half jesting, half irritated.


Snape’s head snapped towards her so quickly it was all Minerva could do to grip his arms and restrain him, bring him back to his usual composure…


But as she came further into the room, saw how white he was, felt the power still staining the air, all inclinations towards levity disappeared. This was not Malfoy’s usual playacting, and nor were his injuries the result of the usual schoolboy violence – slowly, her blood chilled as she saw the blood staining Snape’s fingers, the twisted way the body had fallen, and heard for herself the raspy, faltering breathing. “Oh, sweet Goddess,” she breathed, “oh, no…” All business now, she dropped to her knees and began the process of healing.


She could feel Snape’s eyes watching her as she worked, following and weighing her every movement, but she’d had plenty of practice at healing injuries of this type – more experience than she’d ever wanted, or cared to remember – and so the movements were familiar, far too familiar. So was the anger, the suppressed and slow-burning anger at anyone who would do this to another, at the bloody and terrible war that had claimed so many lives, taken so many she had loved…


“Who did this?” she asked, her voice low, but they didn’t make the mistake of thinking it gentle. “Who?”


Minerva and Flitwick exchanged glances and refused to look at Snape, who was watching Poppy’s hands with bleak, bitter eyes. He raised his eyes to hers, and produced a thin, bitter, mirthless grin. “Why, the Slytherins, of course; who else would dare?”


Her normally placid, comfortable face twisted in rage. “And will you punish them for this?”


All expression blanked, but his eyes remained steady on hers. “You know I cannot…”



*******************************************************



After they had seen Draco safely installed in a bed in the infirmary, Severus remembered the small figure he had seen from the corner of his eye fleeing the mirrored Hall and whatever she had seen within. The glimpse of red hair and the shabbiness of the patched robes had led – brilliant deduction, my dear Inquisitor – to his identifying her as the youngest Weasley child, who stood in his memory as a quiet, respectful girl much overshadowed by her elder brothers. But her brothers had not been there to protect her from what she had just witnessed, and nor would they be able to protect her if it came out that she had, indeed, been privy to a very private Slytherin matter…


What young Nott had just done – and all the others who had helped him, or had stood aside and let him do – could get them and their families into serious trouble, if it came to the Ministry’s attention – the Ministry who had just put Lucius Malfoy away, and who would be delighted to see other Slytherins, High Clan or not, follow in his footsteps. They knew that he himself would not – could not – report them, or even discipline them, for fear of seeming disloyal to the Cause, but a Weasley would have no such scruples.


So it was that he found himself stalking a fifteen year old girl – and a Weasley at that – up into the highest reaches of the Astronomy tower, where the light of the sunset flooded in through the windows and she crouched, shivering, in the corner, her arms hugging herself tightly and her eyes almost black with fear and wariness. When he entered the room, her eyes widened even further, but she braced her muscles, preparing to spring and fight. Sighing mentally, he stopped halfway in, squatted down so that he didn’t loom over her – let no one say he had no sensitivity – and said, in his gentlest voice, “I assume you saw, then.”


She watched him, not relaxing in the least. Curtly, she nodded. “I saw.”


He looked deep into her eyes, saw the potential strength, and saw the scars and the strange wisdom that had replaced much of her innocence. “And you understand the implications?”


She lowered her eyes, refusing to maintain eye contact as she sought to hide her distrust, the fear she would not admit to, but he would have had less respect for her if she had not been afraid. Once again, she nodded.


“Then I do not have to ask you to stay silent, Miss Weasley,” he said, getting up, dusting off his robes, and preparing to leave.


She stopped him, as she had once stopped Draco Malfoy. “Wait.”


And just as Malfoy had, he halted, turned back to her. “I…” she faltered, swallowed, forged on, “I will keep silent, but only if…”


Snape blinked, raised a brow. Oh? The youngest Weasley was attempting to play games with him?


Undaunted, she continued. “I…I want to be an Auror.”


The brow arched even higher.


She swallowed yet again, flushed painfully red – but raised her chin. “I want to learn about Death Eaters.”


Their eyes held, neither of them blinking in the silence. Finally, he turned his back on her and walked to the door. “No bet, Miss Weasley,” he called over his shoulder. “Find someone else to satisfy your curiosity. Miss Granger will no doubt be happy to show off her knowledge…”


“But…wait!” she called, getting up off the floor and trying to head him off before he could leave. “You have to. I’ll tell the whole school…”


He put his hand on the door handle, twisted, then turned back to watch her. “By all means, tell the whole school – all you will achieve is titillation, approval of their actions, and your own injury.”


Thinking desperately, watching her only chance slip away, she played her last card – one she was by no means sure she could even manage to bring about. “My father is one of the Ministers considered for Nott’s special committee…”


That did gain his attention.


“If you will teach me about Death Eaters, I will encourage him to join it…”


He looked at her, then, evaluating her, measuring her as if he had never seen her before. And then he smiled, sending a shiver down her back for no good reason.


“Very well, Miss Weasley.” He held up a hand to forestall her thanks – instinctive, thanks to her upbringing. “But it will not be I who will instruct you…” The smile grew even more amused. “Mr. Malfoy will be confined to his bed for the next week or so – if he agrees to it, he will teach you everything you need to know…”


Her eyes widened – with shock, this time – and she opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head. “Are we agreed?”


She shut her mouth with a distinct click, scowled, but nodded. “Agreed, sir.”


“Very well then, when he wakes up, you will need to convince him to teach you.” He opened the door and stepped out. “And Miss Weasley?” he asked, turning back one last time, “never, ever try to play such a transparent bluff again. Someone may call it.”


He inclined his head – almost a bow – before he closed the door in her face.



****************************************************



…My dear Lucius,


Do you remember, in our schooldays, when we thought we knew everything, when we had meaningful discussions about morality, about what was right, what was wrong, and what was necessary – and how we talked, above all, of strength in all its kinds?


How strange, looking back now, to think that we counted intelligence, and determination, and the ability to both compel and persuade others, whilst completely overlooking one of the rarest, most bitter of all personal strengths – courage. We dismissed it as Gryffindoric, preferring to rely on manipulation, on strategy, on cunning – but how wrong we were, once faced with real world, with the truth of the darkness in Him, and in ourselves…


Draco has found his courage, I think – found it in the confrontation we all knew was coming, when he was forced to finally shed the mask we made for him all those years ago. Oh, he was beautiful, Lucius, beautiful in his resignation, his acceptance, and his ultimate victory. Because they could not break him, could not make him bow – he was laughing, at the end.


And yet, even so, he is fragile – flesh, as well as spirit; as I write this in the infirmary, he sleeps, still, pale and spent, no sign of the strength I know he possesses, or the bright, vital being known as Draco that I saw shining through as he laughed.


Perhaps we expect too much of him, this man-child. Perhaps we always ask too much of our heroes. But who else will we turn to for hope in these times? For surely, we all need something to believe in, even such bitter, jaded failures as I…


I will keep him safe, my dear friend. As far as I am able, I will keep him safe…



*******************************************



Albus Dumbledore, standing silently at the foot of Draco’s bed in the infirmary, took stock of the boy’s condition as he watched him sleep, pale and battered and bruised, stirring uneasily, troubled by whatever he saw in his dreams. He was rather more accustomed to seeing Harry in the infirmary in this condition; it was an interesting turn of affairs to see Mr. Malfoy here in his stead.


And placed here by his own Slytherins, no less.


How had matters come to this? How had Voldemort grown so powerful in such a short time that, for the chance to be worthy of his notice, school children turned against one of their own, whom they had known for so many years…or, for fear of him, they refused to move a hand to prevent it happening?


Such an act scarred the soul for life; these were children…


Another former child, similarly and far more severely scarred, was curled, fast asleep, in a chair near Malfoy’s bed, his black hair falling into his face, a parchment scroll, partially unrolled, clutched in his fingers. Albus, always curious, could see the first line of the greeting – and felt a familiar helpless fatigue steal over him, a sadness that was all too bitter, because every person, no matter what their station, is gifted at birth with the keen, double-edged gift of free will…


He had once asked, when Severus had returned yet again from a late night Death Eater meeting, quivering uncontrollably, his proud composure in tatters, whether he ever regretted his long ago choice, that had led to his serving two Masters. The younger man, proud even in his shattered state, had replied that some things were necessary, whether he liked it or not.


But this time, it was different – this time he himself had agreed to it, knowing the price, knowing the consequences…


Albus moved to stand over his sleeping protégé, his old, parchment fragile fingers hesitating just short of touching him. Not even you can serve three masters, Severus…



****************************************************



In the shadowy Slytherin common room, Theodore Nott slouched in the chair that had once been Draco Malfoy’s, nearest the fire where the leader of Slytherin had sat, year after year, generation after generation, since the Founding. And that meant that quite a number of Malfoy had sat there, over the past thousand years or so…


Including Draco, just over three months ago. And that was, one supposed, why Nott was taking such pleasure in taking his place, this night, after he had so brutally exerted his physical dominance over his pale rival. But only physical dominance – sheer numbers had overwhelmed him, and Crabbe and Goyle’s physical strength had brought him to his knees; he had not surrendered, and he had not bowed his head to Nott’s authority…


They had all watched, all of Slytherin, as he and Nott had faced each other, and even after all the face Malfoy had lost, he had still had enough presence – sheer, physical presence – to convince quite a few Slytherins to stay out of the fight, to stand on the sidelines and watch instead of actually taking Nott’s part. When Malfoy had swept his eyes – those cool, cool eyes – over them all, there had been power in them, in his acceptance of what was to come, and High Clan pride had reacted to that, High Clan beliefs and upbringing had reacted to what he had been, and represented, in those few moments…


So, Nott had not managed to break Draco Malfoy, as much as he might like to think so, and those few moments of real strength – not the insults, but the laughter, the calm refusal to give in – had won him more respect than all the physical beatings ever could Nott. Any fool could use his fists and feet, and any wizard could cast the Cruciatus, if they had a mind to. But when manipulation fails, when you’re backed into a corner and there’s no other option but to fight, and you go into it despite the odds, despite the certain knowledge of pain, humiliation and defeat – some might say it was too Gryffindoric. But there was more to Slytherin and the High Clan than most outsiders ever knew…



*******************************************

Chapter 11



First came the pain. The relentless, throbbing pain that consumed his whole body, burning like acid through his veins and like fire on his skin, like…well, like nothing he had ever experienced before.


Oh, Lady, it hurt…


Then came awareness of his surroundings, of the high ceilings of the Infirmary at Hogwarts, of the light streaming in through a window that told him that, for what it was worth, it was early morning. When he worked up the effort to turn his head, wondering rather bitterly whether anyone was actually in the ward, whether anyone cared enough to sit by his bed while he was sick (although he would have sneered at the thought of it) he was almost ridiculously gratified to see a battered leather-bound potions tome lying on the chair next to his bed, a sure sign that Snape had been there at some point since Draco had been admitted.


It seemed someone did care for him after all, despite his humiliating defeat…


Nott.


His eyes narrowed before he could control them, his mouth twisting and hardening – for the smallest moment, his face was a true reflection of everything he was feeling, of the feral rage that was slowly, surely growing in the deepest, darkest parts of his soul. Before, in reacting to Nott and the other threats against him, he had been upset, true, but he had faced them not really caring whether he came out on top or not.


But now…now he was angry.


Now, for perhaps the first time in his life, he knew the true, terrifying cold anger of the Malfoy – not the flash burn of his loss of temper with Weasley, this was the cold rage that could watch, and wait, and fester for years and years before it was unleashed. This was hatred, the full-blown hatred of a Clan Lord for the enemies who would destroy him, who had taken everything from him but by the Lady, he would make them pay for it, and pay and pay and pay…


They had brought him into the Game, thinking they could use him; that they could control him and what he represented.


Well, and well, and well. They would soon know their mistake.


Just as soon as his head stopped pounding.



**********************************************



Blaise Zabini soared above the Quidditch pitch, revelling in the freedom he found on his broom, in the air, far, far away from the reality of Slytherin politics, of Death Eater politics, and of what he had done, and what he had allowed to be done, to perhaps the closest thing he would ever have to a real friend.


He still winced every time he thought of it.


Yes, of course it had been necessary. If he had backed Malfoy, he would have gone down with him. If he had refrained from participating, as others had done, Nott would have looked on him with suspicion – his alliance with Malfoy had been well known. So, cold pragmatic common sense had dictated that he throw in his lot with Nott.


Only fools and Gryffindors believed in standing by a man until the end, no matter what came.


And yet…


And there it was, the ‘but’ that had been irritating him ever since he had left Malfoy for dead inside the Mirrored Hall, and had gone out to fawn over Nott. Quite simply, he didn’t like Nott. He didn’t like him, he didn’t like his father, he didn’t like his politics, and he didn’t like the deliberate crudity that underlay everything he did, no matter how he tried to cover it with those ingratiating manners.


Everything about him offended Zabini’s High Clan sensibilities – for all that House Nott had come over with the Conqueror almost a thousand years ago, that still didn’t make them High Clan as the Malfoy and Zabini were High Clan. They’re not quite the thing; not one of us…


Blaise prided himself on his tolerance towards others not of the High Clan – he accepted that Muggles were humans too, and had nothing against Muggleborns in wizarding society, so long as they knew their place and kept to it, and didn’t bring their muggle ideas – like that ridiculous claim that all men were equal – with them. He tolerated those of lower social rank than he, because he knew that the High Clan was not the whole world, and not everybody could be High Clan.


But if he was prejudiced, it was in his dealings with those actually within the charmed circle of the High Clans – there was a hierarchy, a very definite hierarchy, and a range of levels and standings within it, and the Notts, whatever they may claim, were most definitely not at the top. No matter how far Draco Malfoy fell, he would still be at the top of the social hierarchy, and far, far above the Theodore Notts of the world…


It was in the way he truly spoke, in the true way he interacted with others, in the easy manners and distinguished bearing he could call on if it became necessary, in…in everything about him, and it was so obvious to those who had been trained to see such things from birth. Power mattered, but power was only one type of standing, only one type of influence within the High Clan. No matter how powerful he became, Nott would never rival Draco’s social standing.


And if that was snobbery, if that was deliberate blind prejudice, well then…


But it was the simple truth.


There were many levels of truth in this world, many layers and views and mindsets beyond cold power politics…


Perhaps, just to be safe, he should go see Draco in the Infirmary and see if he was all right, try and mend his bridges…? It couldn’t hurt, especially after that unexpected exhibition of strength just before he was beaten into the ground. Perhaps Draco would be able to live up to all those illustrious Malfoy ancestors he had staring down at him in the Hall of Portraits, and actually manage to wrest control of Slytherin and the High Clan from his wicked stepfather – and if he did, perhaps it was not too late for Blaise Zabini to be right beside him…


It certainly couldn’t hurt to hedge his bets.



***********************************************



It had taken her two days to actually screw up the courage, but Ginny Weasley was finally ready to try her luck again. That conversation with Snape in the Astronomy Tower had been profoundly embarrassing; she didn’t think she wanted to face another barrage of scorn, disdain, or worst of all, sardonic amusement…


No bet, Miss Weasley…


By all means, tell the whole school…


Never, ever attempt to play such a transparent bluff again…


And as well as chronic embarrassment, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Snape had been manipulating her; that his suggestion she ask Draco to teach her had some hidden motive, and that his smile – that Slytherin smile – had boded no good for her at all.


Nevertheless, here she was, outside the Hospital Wing, hesitating and trying to convince herself that of course it wouldn’t be all that bad, of course Malfoy would not react with scorn, withering sarcasm and that amusement that simply infuriated her…


Oh, damn. Where was her vaunted Gryffindor courage? Where was her famous Weasley temper and stubbornness? Surely she wasn’t afraid of Malfoy? Not the Great Ferret himself? Of course she wasn’t. And to prove it, she was going to push open that door, go inside, and somehow get Malfoy to agree to teach her about Slytherins and Death Eaters so she could become an Auror and hunt them down.


Easy.


Taking a deep breath, she put her hand to the door, and refusing to hesitate any further, pushed it open and ventured into the room. Her eyes were immediately drawn to him – probably because he was the only inhabitant – and her eyes widened before she could control it, surprised – no, shocked – at what she saw.


He was sleeping – or at least pretending to, she wasn’t sure – and in repose, his features were…not screwed up into malicious sneers, or malevolent glares, or sullen scowls. Pale, almost translucent finely drawn features framed by thick white hair, all highlighted by the ray of sunshine pouring conveniently – and somehow fittingly – onto his face, creating an almost aureole that was, when one thought about it, not fitting at all.


The only way it could have been more of a pose would be if his arms were crossed over his chest like a mediaeval tomb effigy of some saint or great knight. She scowled at him, banishing a most unwelcome reaction to the sheer physical beauty – should she be associating that thought with Draco Malfoy? – and deliberately sat down heavily in the chair, making as much noise as she could.


As she thought, he flinched, or rather he reacted instinctively, opening his eyes – wary, and somehow ready for anything – and scowling rather half-heartedly (as if he didn’t quite have the energy for it) when he saw her and registered just who she was.


“Weasley.” That was all, a flat, resigned word that was accusation, statement and question all in one.


She grinned, rather enjoying this new Malfoy who didn’t have the energy to be thoroughly nasty. “Hello, Malfoy. Are you all right? I bet that repeated Cruciatus hurt…”


For the first time, his eyes locked to hers, a strange kind of fierce resignation in his. “You saw?” he asked, half incredulous, half angry.


She nodded, smiled rather cruelly… Deliberately, she pushed down the memory that told her just how he had become so weak that she could easily best him. “I saw.” She still saw, in her dreams.


He closed his eyes. “Shit…” He opened those eyes, fierce in their defiance. “I suppose it’s all over the school, now? Draco Malfoy brought low by his own Housemates?”


She cleared her throat, fought the urge to look away. “Well, no…”


Lady, those eyes were fierce, especially in their intelligence, in their inquiry… She stopped herself from squirming, and lifted her chin. She would not give up now. “I thought…I thought that you might do something for me…”


He raised a brow. “Oh? And what made you think that?” There it was, that exact tone of voice that she absolutely, positively loathed.


She scowled, steeled herself. “You owe my family a debt, Malfoy.”


His whole face blanked of expression. Just like that, it was a pale, carved marble mask. “What of it?” he asked, very casually.


She kept her own expression impassive, or as impassive as she could make it, considering the anticipation she felt and the adrenalin pumping through her veins. “I want…” she paused, peering at him, trying to see into him, “I want you to teach me about Death Eaters.”


He stilled.


“And what makes you think I know anything about Death Eaters?” That made her hesitate, just a bit – the fierceness she sensed just underneath that rejoinder.


“Well,” she said, picking her way more carefully, “your father…” She stopped, warned by the look in his eyes, and changed tack. “Um…you’re a Slytherin, and a High Clan scion, so I…I assumed you knew something about them.”


He raised an eyebrow, his composure almost returned. “Not all Slytherins are High Clan, and not all the High Clan are Slytherin…and neither are wholly given over to the Dark Lord’s service, Weasley. I thought prejudice that strong was against the Gryffindor creed…”


She stiffened, shook off the effects of his anger. “Don’t mock me, Malfoy. With your record, any talk of tolerance or open-mindedness is spectacularly inappropriate.”


Slowly, he blinked. Then, unbelievably, he smiled, and the slow smile turned into a grin, and the grin into laughter that lit his whole face up and made it…glow. Speechless, she sat and watched in amazement, completely floored by the sudden and absolute change in his demeanour. There was nothing of mockery or sardonic humour in that laughter, nothing dark or grim or nasty. It was…it was actually genuine humour. When he stopped, she felt as though the light in the room had dimmed.


“Well,” he said, amusement still rich in his voice, “I can’t argue with that…” He looked back up to her, eyes serious now. “And if I teach you about Slytherins, about Death Eaters, and about the High Clan, will that level the debt I owe the Weasleys? Will it be enough to fulfil it wholly and completely?” There was something almost ritualistic in his words, but – and here was the point – Ginny was not High Clan. She didn’t understand the true significance of what he was asking, nor did she know the true significance of what it meant for a Malfoy – for the Malfoy – to owe a Debt.


And in her innocence, she said the words, the irrevocable words. “Wholly and completely, Malfoy. We’ll be square, I swear it.”


“And your family?” He was strangely insistent, but she didn’t know why.


“Oh, they’ll agree with it. The word of one Weasley is the word of us all…” Suddenly, light hearted in her success, she laughed. “What would we want with a Malfoy in our debt? What good would that do us?”


Draco said nothing, but eyed her quite strangely, as if he had never quite seen anything like her before.


“What indeed?” he drawled, his voice extremely dry. “Well, Weasley, what do you want to know?”



*****************************************************

Chapter 12



After she had gone, retreated back to the relative safety of the Gryffindor Common Room – and the familiarity it represented – Draco lay back against his pillow, and laughed softly, caught by the sheer unlikeliness of the situation.


So, the smallest Weasel wanted to grow teeth, fearsome teeth, and she chose him of all people to teach her how. She wanted to learn about Slytherin, the High Clan, and the Death Eaters, and so she came to him. As little as three months ago, he might well have been the best person to teach her…but not now. He had miscalculated, in the worst possible way, and now look at the consequences.


But who else was there? Snape? He had too much to do already, too many worries to have any patience for one curious, just-finding-her-own-courage Weasley. The other professors…? They were not High Clan, or Slytherins, or Death Eaters to understand the shadows as Snape did. The other Slytherin students were either under Nott’s thumb, or reluctant to oppose him, and Nott would most definitely not approve of teaching their ways to outsiders, Gryffindors, commoners or Weasleys…


Draco smiled. Come to think of it…


The irony was wonderful. Three months ago, he would have been in Nott’s place. Three months ago, Nott might have considered teaching Ginny Weasley everything she needed to know to bring the Death Eaters down, and all of it out of a desire to destroy the Malfoy – and most definitely not the other way around, as it was today.


Even had she not invoked the debt he owed her family, he might have considered teaching her anyway. As it was, it was too sweet an offer to pass up, especially as she had so sweetly, so naively, agreed that it was all she and her family would ever want from him…


What would we want with a Malfoy in our debt? What good would that do us?


By all the gods, she would need teeth in this world, if that was the way she thought. It almost made him feel ashamed of the way he had so easily secured her agreement to his terms – and only confirmed the imperative that he, himself, teach her everything she would need to know to even survive. He could all too easily imagine how that naiveté – no, not naiveté, but simple innocence – could be turned against her in countless ways. As it was, she had some knowledge of evil already; gods knew what she would be like if it hadn’t been for her experiences with the Chamber. He shuddered to think.


He had spoken truth to her, before, when he had said Slytherins respected strength. The greatest and most unforgivable sin in the eyes of Slytherins, High Clan and most especially Death Eaters, was weakness. Weakness, especially moral and intellectual weakness, was to be utterly despised – and those deemed to be weak were ostracised and outcast. The prejudice was so strong, so ingrained, that he would, if reluctantly, accept a strong mudblood before a weak scion of the highest Clans…


His mouth twisted. Weakness came in so many different forms and interpretations…


There were some who argued – quite convincingly – that he himself could be labelled as weak. That he relied too much and too often on his father’s strength, and that he himself had shown no sign of strength of any sort, unless it be insolence and attitude. That was why so many had abandoned him for Nott; he had shown weakness in their eyes, and the ancient prejudices had come into play… And yet he himself had the same instinctive, automatic reactions. Everything that the other Slytherins had done to him, everything he felt so bitterly about, were actions he would have taken himself, had he been in their place.


As with so many other things that had happened since the beginning of this year, he understood exactly what was happening and why; but for the first time he began to understand what it felt like to be the victim, or the outcast, or the person who was paying the price of that pride, that arrogance, and that cool calculation. It was knowledge he could easily have done without, and would have much preferred to forego.


A faint sound disturbed the sickroom silence, a scuff of a leather shoe against the floor, the swish of fabric against the stone walls – he turned his head, carefully, and surreptitiously put his hand on his wand, ready for anything, although he wasn’t sure that he could actually do any real damage in his injured state.


Before he could call out, Blaise Zabini cautiously opened the door, poking his head inside to check if there was anyone else about. He saw Draco, started forward with something like relief, but then checked as he saw that Draco had yet to remove his hand from his wand, and was watching him with cool, distrustful eyes instead of the old mockery that they had once shared.


But he was not a Gryffindor, to prate about fairness; he was a Slytherin, who had done what he had done, knowing what the consequences would be, and fully accepting them. Blaise sat down in the chair next to Draco’s bed, still clad in his flying robes, his hair still messed about – he had not Draco’s vanity, to insist on perfect composure at all times – and attempted to mend their odd almost-friendship.


“Your last words to Nott earned you some real respect, Malfoy,” he said casually, looking out of the window rather than at Draco. “More respect than his torture earned him, anyway.”


Although he did not see it, he could imagine Draco’s sardonic expression. “That was not my intention,” he said dryly.


Blaise shrugged. “Nevertheless…you showed that you are not so weak you cannot take a beating.” He turned back to face him. “You showed us there is more to you than your father.”


A raised eyebrow, somewhat bitter. “Did you ever doubt it?”


Blaise smiled, a little twistedly. “I?” He shook his head. “I never doubted. But many others did…”


“A pity that it took such an irrevocable act to earn their respect. It will be a long while before they earn mine…”


Blaise slowly turned his head until his eyes met Draco’s. “All of them?” His question was pointed, almost too pointed. The eye contact was too intense, and they both looked away.


“Does Nott offend you, Zabini?” he asked, too solicitously. “Perhaps you should find an alternative candidate for the Prince of Slytherin…” He raised a brow. “Yourself, perhaps?”


Blaise shook his head, smiling crookedly. “I don’t have the balls, Malfoy, and you know it. Unfortunately,” he said ruefully, “there do not seem to be any other candidates willing to take the chance. They have all seen what Nott did to you.”


Draco’s brows rose higher. “No challengers, no enemies willing to overthrow him and take his place? Gods know there were enough who wanted to take mine.”


Blaise winced at the implications of that fact. “Oh, he has enemies enough. But there is no one strong enough…” he trailed off and looked meaningfully at Draco, who only looked back blankly, forcing him to complete that thought, to say the words outright. “There are those among us…” he paused, automatically lowering his voice, “who believe that you are strong enough now…”


He forced himself to meet Draco’s ironic gaze, and in a show of trust, of his sincerity, he dropped all of his masks and defences and left himself vulnerable to those searching, silver eyes. But Draco took pity on him. “Now?” was all he said.


Blaise only nodded.


“And who are these…extremely faithful individuals?”


Blaise looked around, ascertained that no one was watching or eavesdropping, and then named some influential names, some very shady names, who could be very useful if Draco ever wanted to be installed as a puppet ruler. But that was not what he wanted – and so he let the rarely seen lighter, reckless side of his nature show as he smiled – and barely controlled wicked chuckles as he saw Zabini’s eyes widen with the wariness he had learned from long experience.


“And what would these people say, if they knew that I have agreed to teach a Weasley all that they need to become an Auror, and to bring the Dark Lord down?”


Wide eyes met his, saw that he wasn’t joking, was in fact speaking the exact truth, and Zabini ran a hand through his hair, dropped his head into his hands and simply sighed.


Draco only laughed. “And what would you say to that, Blaise?”


Blaise’s eyes met his, held – they measured each other, these two almost-friends, measured the strength of their bond, of their mutual ambition, and of their resolve…


Slowly, Blaise held out his hand, an offer of friendship, assistance, alliance, and even allegiance…they shook hands, and sealed an unspoken pact, a private agreement that would be just as binding as if they had sworn it in blood.


********************************************


The Gryffindor Common Room was cheerful, warm and comfortable, just as it had been for the last four years of her school life, and Ginny took strength from that realisation that some things, thank all the gods, did not change. Of course, the common room itself may not change, but her attitude, her focus, and her point of view might undergo alteration over time. That could not be helped; it was a part of growing up, so she thought. So she had been told.


Nevertheless, she was glad enough of the familiarity, now that she felt that she had somehow struck a bargain with the devil, and not just Draco Malfoy. Excitement fluttered in her stomach at the thought that, soon, she would be on her way to standing on an equal footing with all the other courageous Aurors out there, fighting against the Shadow… She would step out from the shadows of her overachieving family, and be her own person, be useful, and be someone that she herself could respect.


And all she needed to do was let Draco Malfoy teach her. Surely it couldn’t be that hard, could it? Could it?


“Oi, Gin!” called Ron, thankfully distracting her from thinking of what exactly could go wrong. “I found out what happened to Malfoy, why we haven’t seen him for three days.” Ron was practically dancing with glee, almost bursting with it.


She blinked, feigned intense interest. It had taken two days for the news to get out? But then, Slytherin might fight amongst itself all it liked, but against outsiders, it presented a united front… “What, Ron?” she asked, preparing herself for the onslaught of his delight.


“Oh, this is perfect,” he crowed, rubbing his hands together. “Malfoy got beaten up by his own housemates! Isn’t that just perfect?” he asked triumphantly, gesturing to the common room at large. Various Gryffindors looked up, nodded absently, and went back to their own business. Evidently, Ron had been going on about this for quite some time.


She feigned amazement, delight, triumph, and agreement with Ron, all the while wondering that he could take such delight in what she had seen in the Mirrored Hall. He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen, hadn’t seen the way Malfoy had stood, all on his own, with no one at all to take his side. He hadn’t seen Draco’s injuries, seen him slump bonelessly to the floor.


But Ron had spent a week in hospital, thanks to Malfoy. He, too, had been injured…


Perhaps it was a cycle, then, or even payment in kind…


She shook her head. Both attacks had distressed her, and she couldn’t truly say that neither of them had been unprovoked, or that they had been earned, either. It seemed that there was no clear black or white, good or bad, and she was slightly uncomfortable with the shifting, ambiguous moral ground.


Murmuring some excuses, she left the common room and went up to her bed.



************************************************



One thing Lucius had found, in his short time in this hellhole, was that if one had enough money and bribed the correct gaolers, certain amenities and luxuries might be provided that could make prison life slightly less unbearable. Such as better food, stronger drink, muggle cigarettes – a filthy habit he had flirted with in his misspent youth, and then never again – and, most expensive of all, uncensored mail.


So it was that he sat in his dank cell, positioned directly under the single weak beam of sunlight, and deciphered Severus’ scrawling, spider like script, devouring what news he could of the current situation, and of his son. He had read with grim amusement of his removal from the Quidditch team – oh, Draco would not like that at all – and with resigned dismay of the beating in the Mirrored Hall. And now, in a hastily scrawled postscript, Severus had made small mention of Draco and Ginevra Weasley – the youngest child? The daughter? – forming some kind of partnership…


Lucius put the letter down, and tried to think of his fastidious son associating with Arthur Weasley’s daughter. Dear, dear me, he thought. Now that could be very interesting…


He stood up as he heard a key rattle in the door, hiding the letters and drawing himself up to his full height to face whatever new surprise was coming. The gaoler, short, unshaven, pot-bellied and horribly uncouth, jerked a thumb at the person standing behind him, snarling – he and Lucius did not get along well at all – “Visitor for ye, Malfoy.”


He went out, and locked the door behind him. Mildly intrigued at this odd happening, he turned towards the visitor, a hooded figure swathed heavily in black. As soon as the sounds of the gaoler had faded away down the corridor, the figure raised a white hand and pushed the hood of their cloak back, revealing their face.


Narcissa.


Somehow he doubted this was a conjugal visit.


“Hello, Narcissa,” he said coolly. “What an unpleasant surprise.”


She ignored his sarcasm, and moved forward to get a better look at him, after so long in prison. He wondered what she saw – he was not yet gaunt, but he had lost weight, and he certainly looked far too pale after so long in the dark. But he had not seen himself in a mirror for a very long time.


“Lucius,” she purred in that cool, ice-cold voice. “You look terrible.”


He didn’t react. He would not break first.


Finally, she gave a small, irritable sigh, shook out her sleeves, and spoke. “Alexander and I are to be married next week.”


He raised a brow. “Congratulations. You two deserve each other.”


“Your son is now the Malfoy Lord,” she said, businesslike, “and safely under Snape’s protection and Dumbledore’s eyes.” Lucius wondered that she should class those two together – did the Dark Lord know Severus was a spy? What did that signify, for him and for Draco? But Narcissa was continuing on, so he saved the speculation for later. “The Veil is safely sealed off, and no one can get in – oh, believe me, Lucius, we’ve tried. And you’ve made such a maze of your affairs that it will take them years to unravel, and by then Draco will be old enough and sufficiently like you to take charge.” She snorted. “There is no longer any need for you to stay in here, wasting taxpayers money and spinning your useless webs. It is all taken care of – you may now die with honour, before you are killed horribly.”


He blinked. “I didn’t know you cared so, darling. What prompted this wondrous generosity?”


Ah, finally, a reaction. She bristled. “I merely do not wish to see my name linked to a horribly murdered convict, and see the speculation about Death Eater vengeance kills. Your imprisonment has reflected unfavourably on me as it is.”


He wondered why she was lying, and what the truth of it really was. Suicide would be a clean, dignified way out, true, and as she said, matters were almost resolved…but the key word was almost. Too much could still go wrong, for him to end it all of his own volition. So he shook his head. “No, Narcissa, I think I will wait and see how things unfold…”


She stared at him, her eyes wide. “But you will be killed horribly!” Her French accent emerged, a sure sign that she was feeling some sort of emotion.


He shrugged. “Perhaps I will…but until then…” he held up his hands, gracefully indicating it was out of his hands.


This time he had truly puzzled her. He could see it – and he could also see that her concern was genuine; she did not want to see him killed in a horribly inventive way. It was odd, really, these glimpses of the real woman – but one could not be married to a woman for seventeen years and not share some sort of relationship.


She shook her head. “You are mad, Lucius. You have always been mad…”


He only smiled as she turned away, dropping a long, thin hatpin onto his bedding as she left. He appreciated her gift, but he would not take the easy way out. But nor, as long as he was still Lucius Malfoy, a master of the Game, would he wait until death came for him in the night…


He had fulfilled his role as Clan Lord, had played the traditional role dictated for him by the High Clan, and now, while still in his prime, he had been presented with a new set of choices. His life was no longer dictated by tradition – this time, he could go another way, make another choice…



***********************************************

Chapter 13



Madame Pomfrey had been surprised – as much as she could be surprised, with all the years she had spent as a nurse at this school – to learn of Miss Weasley’s visit to Mr. Malfoy. Somehow she had not thought there was any potential for romance in that direction – the powerful, manipulative Malfoy saw no point and even less advantage in consorting with poor, common Weasleys, and the Weasleys, poor and common they may be, were too proud and not ambitious enough to mix with a family they saw as corrupt, and quite frankly dangerous.


But then, quite a few of the lesser families, those not of the High Clan and the higher aristocracy but the more common, bourgeois families, saw the Malfoy in that light. They were bad blood, with their bloody history and their barely veiled cruelty, with their ambitions and their constant manipulations. It didn’t matter how powerful they were, or how pure their blood was, it was simply not a good idea to become involved with them at all.


It was a common stereotype, among the bourgeois, that the Malfoy and all their associates were ‘bad’ – bad in the sense that mattered to the sensibilities of their class, not bad in the High Clan sense; hence that stereotype had bled over to include Slytherin…


Madame Pomfrey snorted. ‘Bourgeois sensibilities’ indeed… She had been listening to Severus for too long, if she was beginning to think in such old-fashioned terms. But it was true enough – the High Clan had different standards, different values, and they were in some ways almost alien to the rest of society. And another true thing – it was indeed a good idea to be very, very cautious when entering into involvement with the Malfoy, or the High Clan Slytherin families. The dark years of Voldemort’s reign of terror had only served to reinforce and crystallise this truth – at least it had been justified, and vindicated. There was nothing anyone could do or say that would excuse what had been willingly committed during that period, in the name of pure blood, or Lord Voldemort, or sheer, naked power…


And yet it seemed that Miss Weasley had thought it worth the risk to enter into some kind of partnership with young Malfoy, and Malfoy had evidently thought there was some advantage in it, to go along with it. It was certainly nothing deeper than that – when she had, as she would have done to some of the students of other Houses, teased him that he had an admirer, he had been – if one could say such a thing of Draco Malfoy – almost shocked by the insinuation.


If there was one thing that prevented her from dismissing this boy as already lost to the darkness, it was that he was more innocent than his father, less familiar with his own cruelty, his own potential for violence. It wasn’t ignorance, but it was almost as if he had theoretical knowledge, but no practical experience – he had never actually taken the last, irrevocable step that would signal the end of his innocence.


Well, this year he would come closer and closer to the edge, with every taunt, with every battle he would have to fight to establish his dominance, with every step that would take him further into the High Clan leadership, and therefore closer and closer to the Dark Lord. It would be a painful awakening, a revelation of who he really was and what he was capable of, and of the depths to which he would have to descend…


Perhaps that was why Lucius had never insisted his son gain that practical knowledge. Perhaps he knew that this time would come, one day, and if Draco were already experienced in the practical underside of the Game, the moral and ethical questions would not have such an impact, and it might be easier to justify turning to the darkness, easier to turn to violence and cruelty because he was already intimately familiar with it…


And thus Snape was explained – the mentor, the guide, who knew the temptations and the pitfalls of the road Draco would have to face, and who would do anything to see that he was not dragged into the darkness. Snape, who, despite having abandoned his own responsibilities to become Potions Master at Hogwarts, was a traditionalist in every sense of the word and would make sure Draco fulfilled his obligations…


She had not known Lucius Malfoy had such an understanding of human nature.


But there was one thing that he had not foreseen, and that was this odd involvement with Miss Ginevra Weasley – she suspected this was entirely Snape’s doing, although she could not – simply could not – imagine the dour Potions Master matchmaking out of the goodness of his heart. Doubtless there was something else behind it.


Perhaps it would do the boy a world of good, to become involved with the Weasleys, to see something of a family and a world where the Game had no purchase. The Gods only knew what Miss Weasley would get out of it, though.



***************************************



Miss Weasley knew very well what she was getting out of these impromptu lessons, and it was not exactly what she had expected it to be. She had thought he would give her tangible information, things she could touch, could grasp and understand as easily as learning a spell, or a formula that would always – every time – work out to give the same result. She had thought he would tell her about Death Eater methods, about the spells they used, about the ways they worked…


In a way, he was. One day, he said, he would. But, so far, he was giving her what he called a crash course in High Clan ideology and Slytherin beliefs – and no, they were not the same – of which Death Eater rhetoric was a corrupted, bastardised, patchwork. He had said he would tell her how the international wizarding world worked, how the British wizarding world worked, of the forces that shaped and sustained it, and of countless other seemingly unrelated subjects like wizarding history – and a very different version it was to Binns’ mind-numbing lectures – and even muggle history, which she had no idea Malfoy had ever studied.


When she pointed this out to him, he had only looked at her and raised an eyebrow. She had had the grace to flush. But when she had asked him why all this other stuff, when all she wanted was to learn how to fight Death Eaters, he had said that any fool of an Auror could kill them; if she wanted to learn how to defeat them, she would have to understand how they thought, how they fought, why they fought and why they were so successful.


And that led to discussions on the nature of power – power underlay every aspect of the Game, but what was power? Hard, tangible power such as military and economic strength, softer, more pervasive power such as the influence of an idea, a belief… There were many different types of power, and they all played a part – apart from the killing, the anonymity, the fear they inspired, the Death Eaters gained in power every time people used “You-Know-Who” instead of Voldemort.


All of these issues and questions they discussed, seated by his bedside listening to his cool voice as he led her into a world she had never, ever imagined, a world of swirling, shifting certainties, of the conflict between cold pragmatism and the power of rhetoric and ideology, of ambition and zealotry, of stark and objective realist thought and the more complex world of constructed ideas and subjective perspectives.


Hermione had begun to notice that Ginny was doing even more study than the normal revision for OWLs, and Ginny had only just managed to escape a very pointed interrogation – no fool, the older girl had begun to suspect Ginny was up to something; Hermione knew books, knew scholarship, and Ginny’s sudden interest in traditional Slytherin subjects was very suspicious…


Ginny would not be able to fob her off for much longer. Soon she would have to come up with a plausible explanation for her sneaking out, for her new knowledge, and for the change in her perspective. And it had better be good – if Ron got one tiny hint of her involvement with Malfoy, well…it would not be pretty, she knew that much.


But perhaps there was a way to circumvent that confrontation, to head it off before it could ever have a chance to occur…


Dear Dad, she wrote, late at night while no one watched, a small frown line etched between her brows. She had to remember that her mother would also demand a summary of the letter, and compose it accordingly.


Fifth year is proving to be harder than I thought it would be – so much homework! So much to study…


No doubt you have already heard of Malfoy’s misfortune, of the beating he took from his fellow Slytherins. Ron is ecstatic, as you may have guessed, but I am not so sure – somehow, the Slytherins’ actions seem wrong, even though I understand the motives behind them. I have begun to see a lot of things differently, now – like you told me earlier, after we saw Lucius sent to Azkaban; nothing is ever stark black and white.


In return for this new understanding – and no, I won’t tell you how or from whom I am gaining it – I have promised that you would gain a place on the special committee overseeing the dealings with the confiscated Malfoy property. A bit presumptuous, I know, but you can do it, can’t you? If you could possibly deal a little…leniently…with what you find…?


Please don’t be angry with me, Dad – I know what I’m doing. It’s perfectly safe, I’m not running any risks, and it’s the only real way that I can become…well, you know what I’m talking about. We talked about it before I left for Hogwarts, remember? Oh, and I also had to promise that this would be enough to fulfil the debt we are owed – that’s no problem, right?



*****************************************



Arthur Weasley read the letter through one more time, sighed, and dropped his head into his hands. Used to his antics after receiving an Owl from Hogwarts, usually bearing news of one spectacular stunt after another, his co-workers merely grinned and went about their own business, quietly relieved that they did not have seven children to plague their lives. But the man sitting across from Arthur, an odd companion, watched with interest; Arthur’s dismay was greater than a standard disciplinary Owl from Hogwarts warranted.


Mr. Weasley tossed the letter across to Dane Harcourt, giving tacit permission to read it. Dark eyebrows twitched, curious at the uncharacteristic reaction, and then lowered to the parchment. Halfway through, one of his brows rose in surprise; three quarters of the way down, the other joined it, this time incredulous.


”Good Gods,” Harcourt drawled, “what kind of devil’s bargain has she made, and with whom?”


Arthur only shrugged. “Either Malfoy or Snape, I should imagine,” he said. “There is no one else who would stipulate both my appointment to the committee and the waiver of that Debt. Certainly no one else would benefit from it at all.”


“Certainly not you, Weasley,” Harcourt couldn’t resist, his quick tongue getting the best of him. It was problematic, sometimes, jesting in such a way with Gryffindors. Some of them had no sense of humour at all…


“And as for the bargain,” Arthur continued as if he had not heard the comment, “she wants to become an Auror.”


Harcourt snorted. Bright, brilliant Gryffindor children just out of Hogwarts all wanted to be Aurors, all wanted to be heroes. But once through the training, they soon found out that there was nothing heroic about the job at all…


Weasley made a dismissive gesture, waving aside Harcourt’s cynicism. “Not so much an Auror, exactly – she wants to do everything she can to bring You-Know-Who down. Perhaps she asked someone to teach her how.”


"Very expensive lessons,” Harcourt noted, “and not just in leverage. Perhaps it might have been easier to become an Auror, after all. At least then you retain something of your illusions…”


“She says she knows what she’s doing.”


Harcourt only looked at Arthur, his eyes filled with wry amusement. “We all knew exactly what we were doing, when we were fifteen…” Arthur sighed once again, reached for the letter, and tossed it into the fireplace, watching it blacken, crumple and then burn.



**********************************************



A full two weeks after his injury, Draco was allowed to leave the Infirmary. Slytherin House viewed this development with gleeful anticipation, eager to see how the Malfoy would react to the new order, to the new way of things – the rest of the school viewed it with dismay. It had been a good two weeks, without Malfoy – things had been peaceful, the Slytherins seemingly waiting for him to return, so they could greet him with whatever welcome they had cooked up amongst themselves…


Certainly Nott, reasonably comfortable now in the chair nearest the fire, was waiting to see Malfoy’s face as he walked into the Common Room and saw Nott in his seat; he was also eager to see whether he had beaten the fight out of him, or whether he would be foolish enough to try and continue in his resistance. He had told his father of the example he had made of Malfoy, and had been told to make sure the lesson went home – to Malfoy, as well as to the rest of Slytherin.


If he had managed to cow Draco Malfoy, then he would have the whole of Slytherin under his thumb, and not just because they saw benefit in it…


And the Lady knew that he wanted to control Slytherin. He wanted power, he wanted control, and he wanted to rule – for far too long had he been one of Malfoy’s lesser followers, content to stand in his shadow and torment Hufflepuff first years. Well, now such mundane ambitions – so grand, so sweeping in their scope – would be replaced by something real, something worth his precious time. Instead of spying on Potter, he would destroy him; instead of playing the old fool Dumbledore’s game, he would work to bring this godsdamned school down, and he would be the one to hand it to the Dark Lord, and receive his gratitude…


He shivered at the thought of his own greatness. Malfoy had held him back for far too long, but now that he had the power, things would be very different in Slytherin, and in the High Clan…oh yes, things would be very different now. He would be the Prince, now – they would bow to him, they would respect him, they would look up to him. No longer would he suffer in comparison with Draco fucking Malfoy; no longer would they watch, and whisper, and flock around Malfoy’s silver form in droves because he was beautiful, elegant, well-dressed, and everything a High Clan aristocrat should be – with the implication that he, Theodore, was not. There were times, in the past, when he would have sold his soul to be like Malfoy…


Well, his father had always told him his time would come. And now here it was, and there was Malfoy making his entrance, face still bruised, still marked – marked by him; a fact which gave him a vicious thrill – and still moving a little gingerly, as if he were still sore. All of Slytherin looked up as he entered, cold feline eyes watching, waiting, evaluating – but this time, Malfoy refused to play by the rules.


He ignored them.


Ignored the most influential figures in Slytherin, which he should have been courting. Ignored Nott, whom he should have challenged. Ignored the whole of Slytherin House, whom he should have forced – once more, irrevocably – to acknowledge him in some way or another.


He saw them, dismissed them, and walked past them to go up to his room – or would have, if Nott, who had had a speech prepared for this occasion, had not challenged him in a rather awkward role reversal.


“Malfoy!” he called, taunting. “What are you doing associating with the Weasley girl?”


The slim blonde figure stopped, turned around, his face impassive. “I don’t see that it’s any business of yours, Teddy,” he said, smiling insolently.


Nott paused. That was not right. Malfoy was not supposed to be insolent and rude – that was not how the Game was played… Now, of course, Nott would have to punish that insolence. But because such a public insult had been made in front of a crowd watching and evaluating both of them, and because of the respect Malfoy had won by his show in the Mirrored Hall, he would have to handle it by himself, with no other help.


He stood up, unfolding his stocky, solid body from the chair that had seen generations of slim, elegant Malfoy, and prepared to face a Draco Malfoy who no longer cared about playing by the rules.



********************************************



Behind his careful indifference, Draco’s heart was beating faster than he cared to admit, as he watched Nott advance on him once more – acid edged flashes of memory taunted him with echoes of Nott’s voice intoning “Crucio” over, and over, and over again…


But nothing of that showed on his face, because if even one hint of his fear leaked out, he would be finished and there would never, ever be another chance to regain what he had lost, or to capitalise on what he had gained. By challenging Nott so publicly, so soon after he had been put in the Infirmary, he could build on the credit he had gained; but it must be done now, immediately after his discharge, or else the advantage would be lost. If he could hold his own here – he didn’t need to defeat Nott now, simply to stand up to him without being smashed down – then he would have valid face of his own.


And if he could force them to accept his association with the Weasley daughter, then other, larger concessions could also be won – but if he lost this confrontation, there would never be another chance…


All he needed to do was hold on, think clearly, and conceal his fear. Bluff, bravado, and brazen gall. And if his bluff was called…


Well, he no longer cared about niceties anymore. Two weeks in a hospital bed after being beaten within an inch of his life tended to change one’s perspective about such things.


“I can make it my business, Malfoy,” Nott warned, striding up until he was right in Draco’s face.


Draco’s lips curled into a smile. “Can you?” he drawled softly. “Somehow, I don’t think that you can…”


Nott’s hands clenched into fists, his face reddened, and the tension rose higher and higher. He seemed to be searching for something to say, and Draco could feel the hatred – and…jealousy? – radiating from him like a heatwave; for a moment, the memories threatened to overwhelm him…


But he held firm, held Nott’s eyes, held his challenging sneer. He wondered if Nott was so lost to propriety and etiquette that he would use his fists – one punch to his very tender ribs and he would be crumpled on the ground whimpering. But Nott had actually lost some credit when he had alternated the Cruciatus and vicious punches – he was obsessed enough about gaining Slytherin respect and of taking Malfoy’s place both socially and politically that he would be sensitive to such nuances, would hesitate to use them if he thought that others would view it disapprovingly, would see it as rather bad form.


Those clenched fists – just one punch, and Draco would be completely out of the game – grew almost white with suppressed tension, and Nott’s whole body seemed to vibrate, but still Draco watched him coolly, sardonically, not conceding an inch despite the phantom pain sparking along his veins, the memory of the incredible agony almost blinding him as he confronted his attacker.


They stood there, both of them, and there was not a single sound in the whole room…


Until the grandfather clock in the corner chimed the hour, and it was time for the first class of the day. They stared at each other for the duration of the nine chimes, and then by some strange mutual agreement they both looked away, breaking the deadlock.


Nott shoved past him, knocking into his shoulder on the way up to his room; the rest of the Slytherins followed him, but with more respect, and several meaningful looks – he watched them through blank eyes, accepting their hypocrisy and not despising them for it, because that was simply the way things were.


Then, when they were all gone and he was alone in the room, he closed his eyes and ran a shaky hand through his hair, breathing a deep, unsteady sigh of undiluted relief.


He smiled. Slytherin courage…


By all the Gods, he had done it.


Draco Malfoy was back.

Chapter 14



Young Theodore Nott was not, by any means, the most dangerous thing Draco would have to face in his life; standing behind Nott Jnr was his far more formidable father, as well as those others who supported him (or simply opposed the Malfoy) but always, above all, loomed the grim spectre of the Dark Lord, overshadowing the whole path of his future. And yet Snape was almost ridiculously pleased of his young protégé, with the almost giddy pride of a man who had never had any children of his own, yet who considered this bright boy to be his.


Intellectually, he knew that regaining face in Slytherin to the point where he had established himself as a serious rival contender to Nott was only the first step in a very long journey; that didn’t mean that it wasn’t a serious achievement that sent a very real message to the players outside the bounds of Hogwarts.


Draco Malfoy had left his father’s protection, had tried to continue as he had always done before, and had been beaten within an inch of his life. Recovering from this, he had learned to stand on his own and to be a power in his own right, not as Lucius Malfoy’s son. It was the most important thing he would ever have to learn, and now that he had grasped it, now that he knew the extent of his own strength and what he was capable of, he would begin to grow in confidence, in power, and in stature.


If, Snape knew, and only if, things were allowed to develop naturally. They were so, so close to everything he and Lucius had ever worked for, to the culmination of a hope, a dream, a wish…and it could all be taken away, if things went awry.


Even so, it was a glorious thing, to see him once more as a major player in Slytherin.


And as for the interaction with Miss Weasley…? Well, he was certainly watching that situation with great interest. Miss Weasley’s unexpectedly Slytherin bent was an entirely new development that no one could possibly have foreseen; perhaps, perhaps it would be of great significance in the future…


She was certainly far better for the boy than Parkinson’s whore of a daughter.


**************************************


Others were less pleased by the news that the Malfoy boy had found his feet again. Dark eyes narrowed grimly, huge, heavy hands clenched, white knuckled, and stocky body all but shivering with rage, Alexander Nott looked to be in a particularly bad mood as he read his son’s rather hastily penned missive.


Narcissa thought it best not to interfere.


She had learned, in the course of her relationship with Nott, that there were certain lines that should not be crossed, certain buttons that shouldn’t be pushed, in the interests of keeping the peace, or in the interests of her own safety. Nott had none of Lucius’ fine, inborn manners – while Lucius certainly had no compunctions about harming women, he would not have harmed his own wife; he would have thought it…distasteful.


Alexander Nott had no such scruples; she had learned through whispered rumour and hurried warnings. She had known this entering into the liaison, because she never entered into such affairs without first conducting a thorough investigation. Forearmed, she had known just how to manage him without offending his ego to the point where he had to reassert his masculinity – the point where he would lash out, attempt to control her through violence and other means.


If Lucius was a consummate political intriguer, then Narcissa was brilliant at sexual intrigue. They had always cooperated fairly well, until she had thought him a failure, and therefore a liability to be coolly and efficiently discarded. She was beginning to wonder whether she had been just a little hasty in her judgement – certainly, she had completely alienated Draco when she had committed herself to Nott, and had lost all chance of joining herself to his star, which now seemed to be rapidly on the rise. Unfortunately, she couldn’t use her wiles on her son…


Draco.


He’d been a loud, squalling, tiresome thing that she’d had absolutely no use for; she hadn’t even been able to use him as a social accessory, as a trophy in her eternal wars with the other ladies in her circle, because Lucius had put his foot down in one of the few times in their married life. After his birth, it had taken her nearly four months to get her figure back, and after that, it seemed as though Lucius had had no further use for her, devoting all his attention and affection to his son and Heir. No, she’d never loved or even liked the boy, and in return, he’d never loved or even liked her.


Perhaps it had been a mistake. But if so, it was the unfortunate truth that she had no way of rectifying it. Her true strength lay in her sexual allure, and Narcissa may have been and done many unpleasant things, but she was not, and never had been, a woman who could cold-bloodedly lie with her own son – there were some things that were simply not done. Besides, she doubted that it would work.


Her chance at power carefully lay his son’s letter down on the desk, pushed up out of the chair, and turning around, pinned her with furious eyes. She fought the instinctive desire to freeze, to flee; instead she made herself smile, softened her eyes, and reached out to him with one white, entreating hand. “My dear Alexander,” she purred sympathetically, not throatily because he was not looking for sex now, “how is Theodore?”


He looked at her, distinctly cynical, but smiled indulgently, willing to pat her on the head and go along with her games – the ultimate condescending, patronising bastard…but a powerful one, nonetheless. She smiled back at him, reinforcing the image she had so carefully cultivated since they had begun living together – ambitious, but desperately willing to please, and most important of all, less intelligent, less ruthless than he.


“Theodore is very well,” he said, with a false smile, which faded almost immediately as his voice sharpened. “But it is your son, my dear, who is causing us some trouble…”


She didn’t like the way he classed Draco as her son, as if he were identifying her with the Malfoy once more. But what could Draco have possibly done to cause the Dark Lord’s right hand concern? She hadn’t thought him capable of so much, yet. She moistened her lips, widened her eyes in concern. “Trouble…?”


“Yes,” he said grimly. “Trouble. It seems that not only has he regained the loyalty of many of his fellow students, but that he has gained support from their parents as well, and from…various others, who have an interest in him…” He looked up at her, face twisted with rage and ancient hatred. “How did he do it? How did he manage to worm his way back into power, despite all the odds against it, despite everything Theodore had to work with?” He slammed his fist on the desk, thoroughly enraged.


Narcissa thought it best to remain silent. She wondered, as she had wondered for a very long time, just what was really behind this vehement, bordering on obsessive hatred for the Malfoy. Lucius had always refused to tell her, dismissing Nott as unimportant and beneath his notice, and she had simply not had the courage to approach Alexander.


“It appears,” Nott said reflectively, deliberately submerging the frightening passion beneath the languor he aspired to but could not quite achieve, “as though I have underestimated him. Perhaps,” he paused, savouring the word and the thought of causing Lucius Malfoy more harm, “perhaps it is time we upped the stakes…”


He smiled, and Narcissa shuddered.



*********************************************



They had all underestimated Draco. Hidden behind the arrogance and the bravado and the conceit lay the instincts of a true Malfoy, the fundamental strength of the descendants of Brandon Malfoy. It had simply taken him longer to discover it, longer to understand the true meaning of the phrase ‘worth fighting for’. He had reached the point, now, where he was in a perfect position to go after Nott himself, to take back the premium position that had been taken from him.


And with every one of Nott’s hangers-on who defected to Draco, with every influential Slytherin who joined him, believing that not only was Draco the more dangerous, and therefore the more likely to win, but that he was also the better choice for a leader, he grew in power. With their support, with every step closer he came to genuinely earning the place he had once held because of his father, he was growing in confidence. With every challenge, he was growing in cunning and experience. And with every day that passed, he knew that this was only the first step, that gaining control of Slytherin was only the prelude to another, much greater test…


But that was still some time away. There was time, yet, to become established. Time to tighten what hold he had on Slytherin, to gain more supporters against the day when he would seek to pay Nott back – oh, in kind, and with interest – for that humiliation in the Mirrored Hall. Nott had taught him a lesson with that experience – a lesson on the true impact of real, brute force and the brutal reality that underlay the Game – but even so, Draco had not appreciated Nott’s methods. Not one little bit.


During this busy period of consolidation, of constant challenge and testing, taunting and probing, there was time for things that were not strictly political, not directly related to gaining power or forging alliances, although that was how Draco justified his brief indulgences. Woven through the stark politics and the almost secondary priorities of schoolwork was a bright thread, an innocent curiosity, a voracious hunger for knowledge and understanding that he had never encountered in anyone else before. It was almost a pity that she was a Weasley, really…


His twice-weekly rendezvous with Ginny Weasley were indulgences that would certainly cost him immensely, if the Slytherins or the Gryffindors found out, and yet it seemed as though he could not bear to give them up, to relinquish the only bright, pure pleasure he could take in this hellish year. It was entirely innocent; he had no designs on the Weasley girl. Twice a week, they would meet, and he would teach her something of his world, and she – by attempting to put the knowledge he gave her into a context she could understand – taught him something of the world she inhabited, which was not, he had discovered, quite as simple as he had once thought.


Draco had never believed in absolutes. He had been taught not to believe in them. It was not fashionable, it was not good politics, and most of all, it was extremely dangerous. But somewhere in between collapsing, broken, on the floor of the Mirrored Hall, and finally standing up for himself in the Common Room, he had glimpsed the edges of a fundamental truth, a concept that ran counter to the teachings that had been ingrained in him all his life.


Beyond the business of the Clan, beyond the bounders of the Veil, beyond the responsibilities of upholding the Covenant and defending his people, not all was grey…


There were some things that were absolute, some things that should be absolute. And they were worth everything he could give them…


This idea, this concept, was something that his father – his father, who knew everything there was to know about life, the High Clan and the Game – had never, ever mentioned to him, not even in passing. But evidently he knew of it – he must know of it – because it was such a fundamental idea, even on tentative examination. So why hadn’t Lucius told him of this? Why had he allowed Draco to discover it on his own, at such a high price? Why had he been left to learn it from a Weasley, of all people?


It was a question he refused to contemplate, to even face – he didn’t want to think that his father might be still be pulling his strings, even in this. Especially in this.


But the novelty of teaching a Weasley, of learning from her and their combined knowledge and understandings – despite the occasionally uncomfortable revelations on both sides – was not what thing that drew him back, again and again, to her company – it was the simple, undeniable fact that she had no designs on him, either. Oh, she wanted him to teach her about the darkness, true, but that was the extent of what she wanted of him. She did not want to embroil him in her intrigues; she did not want his favour or his protection or anything from him at all. She was not attracted to him, and nor did she seek to ensnare him – she had no designs upon him, his body, his skills, his position, his power, or anything else at all.


He felt safe in her presence.


And that, he had discovered, was a very rare and precious thing.



***************************************



After Narcissa had gone, Nott sat down at his desk again, reached for pen and parchment and the heavy, dark seal engraved with the skull and serpent. It seemed as though young Malfoy was more like his father than he seemed, and if that was so, he could become a very real threat, one that would have to be eliminated, and sooner, rather than later. Nott knew that Lucius had accepted the Dark Mark reluctantly, knew he would counsel his son not to follow in his footsteps. And Draco, who worshipped his father and had his own share of the Malfoy pride and arrogance, would not willingly bow his head to the force that had caused so much trouble for their House…


It followed, then, that all of the Dark Lord’s cunning manoeuvring would not create a willing servant out of young Malfoy – and therefore, instead of these…games they played, he must be destroyed before he found his feet, amassed a following, and turned everything he had against them. Because, if he committed fully to his cause, the Lord of the Malfoy would be a far, far greater threat to the Death Eaters – if not the Dark Lord – than the Boy who Lived would ever be. Potter would never understand Slytherin, and the High Clan, and the darkness; but Draco had been born and bred to it…


But Nott did not think that he was that dangerous…yet. He was still growing, still learning, and he was still not completely independent – he still needed the support his father arranged for him, and that he had won in his own right. But if they could destroy that support, take away everyone that he relied on, leaned on, and drew strength and reassurance from…


Perhaps then they would see a wavering in that newly formed resolve…


And perhaps then they could break him.



*****************************************

Chapter 15



Terrified, despairing screams filled the air, and white hot flames roared hellishly, sending sparks up into the night as the roof collapsed in on itself, as the stone walls that had endured for centuries beyond counting cracked from the intensity of the heat – no ordinary fire, this – and the eldritch green glow in the sky above sent an unequivocal message across the countryside as far as the eye could see in all directions…


Harry jerked awake, screaming; his lungs heaved as he fought for breath, fought the pain of his scar burning, throbbing in sickening waves. He could still hear the screams; still hear the fear and the pain, see the scene in vivid technicolour, etched in poisonous acid and forever burned into his memory…


Ron stirred, rolled over, and regarded him through bleary, dazed eyes. His hair shot up in all directions like that famous muggle scientist – Einstein? – but there was no real irritation in his scowl, which faded to concern once he realised that something was very, very wrong. “Wzzgoinon?” he mumbled, not quite capable of much more at this hour of the night.


Harry looked at him with wide eyes, a little unfocused without his glasses. “A…a nightmare,” he breathed, heart still racing, hands trembling from the overload of adrenalin. “A vision…it was burning – it was all burning, even the sky…and he was laughing…”



*****************************************



The house was burning.


That was an undeniable fact, as undeniable as the fact that he was also here, participating in the act of burning the house down, of terrorising, torturing and killing its inhabitants, and of fawning on the unholy abomination who had ordered it done, as if the abomination was worthy of such flattery, as if It was worth his loyalty and the faith that he had once – once, long ago – invested in It and Its cause.


Because he had believed, once. Others had joined for power, for ambition, for the thrill of flirting with the forbidden, but he had joined because he had believed the man once known as Tom Riddle could teach him, could show him truths that those who dwelled in the light could never, ever have dreamed of. He had never believed in their simplistic view of the world, never shared their trite sentiments; had always been drawn to the shadows, to uncertainties, to powers that did not fit into the nice, safe, blinkered reality that had been crafted for the majority of the wizarding world.


In his youth, he had not thought that there might be a reason some things should be forbidden, had not thought that some knowledge might be better off forgotten. Always the avid scholar, the academic, he had been arrogant – so arrogant in his naiveté…


And he was still paying the price of that, would pay for it until the day he died. Every time he lied, prostrated himself before Abomination in the name of the greater good, in the name of the great Cause and the Order, in the name of Albus Dumbledore, and, lately, in the name of the Malfoy, he lost another little bit of his soul.


At least it was for a good Cause. Albus had told him so. Lucius had told him so.


But it was hard to convince himself of that, when he watched the family that had been pulled from their beds and dragged out into the garden cling together, the father (he refused to think of him as William Harcourt) giving what comfort he could to his wife and two small daughters, while pretending not to be terrified of what was going to happen all too soon. Snape was glad for the concealment of his mask, because there was no way he could have hidden the expression on his face, not when faced with the grim reality of just how little help he could provide, how little he could do in the real world.


He was one of Voldemort’s inner circle, but that didn’t mean he had any real power at all – not with the Dark Lord’s suspicious eyes on him, watching, evaluating, only waiting for a sign that he was more loyal to Albus Dumbledore than to his sworn Lord. Not with Alexander Nott’s eyes on him, watching for any sign that he was more loyal to Draco Malfoy than to any of his other masters.


He was under suspicion, his every movement watched, judged, analysed; there was nothing he could do to help. All he could do was watch and Witness their deaths…


“Severus…” Abomination, prompted by naked Ambition, hissed out his name in malicious amusement. “You do not seem to be looking forward to the festivities…”


He froze, and turned around with agonising slowness to face his Lord, and the man who now stood behind him. Their eyes watched him, cruel feline eyes, as he scrambled to find an answer. But Voldemort forestalled him. “Perhaps you are…offended by the thought of serving your Lord in this manner? Hmm?”


He licked his lips, bowed his head in resignation. “My Lord, my life is yours to command.”


Voldemort’s hissing laugh grated against his ears, froze him to the spot. “I wonder if it is…” Snape looked up into the red, inhuman eyes, and saw his death written within them. Perhaps not now, not tonight, but some day soon – it was only a matter of time, and of how much of amusement they derived from taunting him.


But, just as he was powerless to save this family from hell, he was powerless to save himself from the inevitable price of his arrogance and his treachery. Perhaps, deep down in the most secret depths of his soul, he had no wish to save himself. He had played the game, and one day it would be time to pay the price… In some ways, it would be a relief.


But then Nott looked straight at him, smiled, and said something that made his blood run cold. “We are all yours, Lord, even those who may seem to be beyond your reach…”



*******************************************



Albus Dumbledore stood staring blankly out of the window in his office, ignoring the moonlit grounds of Hogwarts spread out before him, focusing instead on Harry’s disturbing midnight vision. The boy, dishevelled and distraught, had believed that the vision had not happened yet, but was only a product of Voldemort’s imagination – a fantasy, if you will. If one wanted to know what that abomination fantasised about.


Which place had Harry seen? At nearly sixteen, he had not yet seen much of the wizarding world beyond the main centres in London, Hogwarts and its environs, the Burrow, and the arena where the World Quidditch Cup had been held. He had not recognised the place. Ron, raised in the wizarding world, had not recognised the description. And Albus himself, with considerably more experience, who had seen and travelled most of the world, had not recognised it – a revelation that carried quite disturbing implications. If Voldemort attacked and destroyed one of the hidden places of the world…


He understood the urgency of Harry’s vision, but at the moment there was nothing he or anyone else could do. Not all dreams and night terrors were true visions, and even if this one was, there was little that could be done until and unless they understood where it was going to take place. At the very best, this vision was a glimpse of the Dark Lord’s next move; at worst, it could be a deception, a false messenger…


There was too much to lose, if they misinterpreted this vision. At the moment, more could be served by waiting, watching, analysing, and worrying about the here and now rather than the uncertain, shifting future.



**********************************************



Arthur Weasley had grown rather used to frequent visitations from Dane Harcourt, used to seeing the High Clan Auror – so graceful in his perfectly draped robes and so arrogant in his self-assurance – watch him with those assessing eyes; used to hearing the man’s rather unconventional opinions on current events and political machinations. He had found the man’s advice invaluable, after he had, for the first time in his life, pulled strings and called in all the markers he could in order to get himself onto Nott’s special committee in charge of assessing and investigating Malfoy property.


So when, for the first time in months, he went through a whole morning without one sign of the man, he grew a little worried – it was always a bad sign when an Auror disappeared, especially such a high profile, controversial figure as the Lord of Clan Harcourt, especially now, when they were up to their necks in such a delicate, dangerous game. Harcourt had made damned sure Arthur understood the stakes of this game they were playing – this was not office politics, or Ministerial rivalry, this was the Game, the notorious, infamous Game that had turned so fatal during Voldemort’s first rising and after his resurrection.


By midday, the whole of the Ministry was buzzing with rumour, and he was beginning to be seriously worried, not just for Harcourt but for himself as well. If they could take out Harcourt, then what would they do to him…? The approaching figure of Alexander Nott, not usually a visitor to this part of the Ministry, did nothing to allay his fears.


“Hello, Weasley,” Nott said smiling, the smile never reaching his hard, cold eyes. “How are you?”


Briefly, Arthur wondered what prompted this civility when prior to his joining the Committee, the other man had never before acknowledged him in the twenty years they had both worked at the Ministry. But he had learned something of discretion, in his dealings with Harcourt. “Nott,” he said agreeably. “I’m quite well…” he paused. “But what brings you here? Surely you didn’t come all this way to exchange greetings with me.” Perhaps the lessons had not rubbed off as well as they should have.


Nott’s smile lost any semblance of joviality and became almost vicious. “No doubt you’ve been wondering why Harcourt hasn’t come in today.” His eyes were cold and cruel, watching and analysing every tic, every blink, and every facial expression that crossed Arthur’s face. Pinned by those eyes, Arthur could only wonder how Nott had found out.


“I think everyone is wondering,” he said cautiously.


Nott laughed – a horrible laugh, a soft, amused, indulgent chuckling that destroyed any confidence Arthur might ever have had that he could hold his own with such an opponent. The man was worse than Malfoy had ever been. “I fear that Lord Harcourt was called away on a family emergency very early this morning,” he said, his voice rich, cruel and filled with amusement. “A random attack, they say, an act of violence against a prominent Auror’s family…” Nott paused to savour Arthur’s sudden fear. “You remember his younger brother William? He had a wife – Anne, I believe her name was – and two small children…”


Arthur suddenly felt sick, but beneath the sickness was a growing resentment, an anger that Nott would toy with him in this fashion. He stared at the other man with loathing, heard the taunting voice continue, ram its message home so that no possible question could remain in Arthur’s mind. “If they could attack Harcourt himself, then who else will they target? Who will be next?” Nott’s words and face were concerned, troubled; his eyes were gleeful and vicious.


Mechanically, Arthur nodded. He said something suitable, went through all the courteous motions, and then when the other man was gone, went to sit down at his desk, mind chaotically swirling with thoughts, emotions and fears. If they could attack Harcourt himself, who else will be next?


The message had been all too pointed. Running his hands through his hair, rubbing at his face to alleviate the tension and stress, he wondered just when the world had stopped being simple and straightforward, and when he had stepped over the line into such recklessness and arrogance that he would risk his family for the sake of a matter that had absolutely nothing to do with him…


What, in Merlin’s name, was he doing? Draco Malfoy was no concern of his, or even of the Order’s. In fact, why was he trying to preserve the paramount position of the Malfoy when, if they fell, it would send the whole of the High Clan and therefore most of the Dark Lord’s power base into disarray…


He had no right to risk his family in such a manner. Not after such a pointed warning, and such an illustrative example.



***************************************



Azkaban had always been a depressing place, a dark, dreary and soul-sapping hell that Dane Harcourt would go far out of his way to avoid. The Dementors brought far too many memories back to the surface of his mind, dredged them up out of the deepest, darkest part of his subconsciousness where he had worked so hard to bury them; faces of William and his family, of fallen comrades and enemies alike; flashes of vicious, bloody skirmishes and raids, ambushes and outright battles – all the horrors and outrages of a guerrilla war fought by unseen, anonymous terrorists who had no clear aim and no real purpose but to kill, and to benefit from it. Oh, Gods, how he hated them…


There were no Dementors on guard anymore, and no memories rose up to choke him, to give him pause as he walked swiftly through the halls – hurrying, because the prison’s aura was still black and rotted with horror and despair – towards a cell that had seen much traffic lately, and an inmate who was, despite his incarceration, still a very useful pawn.


He wondered how Lucius Malfoy liked his change in status.


Heading through the door that the filthy, leering gaoler so mockingly held open, he had one hand gathering his robes and the other as close to his body as possible, and with the sudden change from torch-lit corridor to the much darker, danker cell, he was lucky that Malfoy harboured no intentions of escape; it would have been all too easy to catch him off guard at that moment. Dane Harcourt, for all his heritage, skills and authority, was still only mortal – something he had been brutally reminded of last night – he could still die, and death could be granted by a desperate prisoner armed with a sharp tool just as easily as by an enemy’s curse in heated combat, or a terrorist’s vicious, twisted whim. So he drew in a soundless, displeased breath when he saw Lucius Malfoy seated on the bed, his long white fingers loosely holding a ladies’ hatpin filed to a vicious point.


Silver eyes rose slowly to his, but they were somehow empty, as if the vital force that had animated them had gone…elsewhere. For a moment Dane feared the worst – the Kiss, or some other kind of torture that had finally broken Malfoy’s mind – but no, awareness was slowly spilling back into his eyes, they were slowly filling with intelligence, and sardonic humour, and arrogance, and everything else that made up the man – the Death Eater – known as Lucius Malfoy. It was an unsettling process to watch, seeing someone come back to awareness from a deep, deep trance state – to watch the self return from the Void, or from wherever it went during meditation.


The door swung shut behind him with a tangible thump; Harcourt fought not to jump at the sound and all that it implied. Had it been any other man, any other prisoner, he would not have been afraid – he was an Auror, a fully trained, lethal killer, what could they possibly do to him? But this was Lucius Malfoy, strong in both body and mind, exceptionally ruthless when he felt himself threatened, and with an almost sickening capacity for cruelty if and when he thought it necessary. He ignored everything he knew of Malfoy’s record as he met his eyes, ventured forward into the centre of the cell and seated himself, unbidden, on the only chair.


He pretended not to see the barest tilt of a white brow at this small piece of insolence.


“Harcourt,” Malfoy spoke first, his tone a pleasant, civil drawl as his fingers stroked and caressed the sleek, vicious hatpin. Dane wondered how and where he had come by it, and why he was playing with it; it was almost obscene, the way he flirted with it, tempted it, and pressed the point against his flesh until it almost – almost – drew blood.


Dragging his eyes away from those white, white fingers, Dane fought to match his tone. “Malfoy.” He opened his mouth to say more, to think of small talk, inconsequential patter – that was, after all, the correct manner to begin a conversation – but closed it, because he could not think of anything to say. His brother had been murdered, his sister-in-law and young nieces tortured, raped and killed. He did not feel like playing games.


Malfoy stopped playing with the pin, slid it – quite deliberately, watching him as he did it – up his sleeve, concealing it like a deadly weapon. Dane said nothing. Finally, as the silence grew and Dane grew more and more impatient, unwilling to play this game, Malfoy spoke, and it was not an opening gambit, nor even a taunt. “Why did you come here, Harcourt?”


Slowly, Dane shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.” His eyes slid away from Malfoy’s, crept slowly back, unsure. “I wanted…” he stopped, drew breath, “I wanted to know if I was doing the right thing.”


Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”


Dane spoke slowly, putting vague, insubstantial doubts and thoughts he had never truly examined into words. “When I became an Auror, I embraced the Ministry’s creed, the Order’s beliefs, made them my own in the hope that they would replace all that I had given up.” He shrugged. “And they have served me well enough, over the years. But it seems,” he paused, considering his words, “that some things cannot be so easily laid aside.” He smiled mirthlessly. “I cannot bear the thought of Nott standing in your place.”


Lucius raised his brows and deliberately misunderstood. “I do not think,” he said slowly, cruelly, “that you would see much difference between Nott and myself.”


Dane flinched; he knew exactly what Malfoy had done, the list of atrocities, but before last night he had been able to keep an objective distance. Now, it all came home to him, the human reality of what the Death Eaters had done. He had known, but he had not wanted to understand, and with understanding came the certainty that most High Clan scions avoided. “I was not talking of your standing in the Death Eaters. I was referring to –“


“I know what you were referring to,” Lucius cut in softly. “What is it that disturbs you about your conspiracy with Weasley?”


Dane drew in a breath. This was blunt indeed… “Your son,” he said, his voice very soft, very forceful, “is, at first impression, a thoroughly unpleasant, horribly spoiled troublemaker. And yet I find myself going to extraordinary lengths to help preserve his paramount position among the High Clan, simply because he is a Malfoy. I would like to know whether my faith is justified, and he will be everything that Snape and Dumbledore believe he can be. I would like to know if he will follow in your footsteps, make the same choice you did, or whether he will have the strength to take the harder path.” He drew in a harsh breath, spoke around the pain and grief choked in his throat. “I want to know if my brother and his family died for a good reason, or for no reason at all.”


For the first time, Malfoy smiled. A small, sad smile that Dane had never seen before. “Do you think that bowing to Voldemort was the easier path? I, too, turned away from a creed, from a set of beliefs. I, too, gave up expectations and laid aside things that cannot be so easily discarded.” He paused. “I, too, searched for justification – but it is only now that I find it has been in vain…”


“I think,” Harcourt said softly, “that your son will have the hardest choice of all. And that he is the least equipped of all of us to make that choice.”


The sad smile turned sardonic. “And yet you still back him. There are other contenders, my dear Harcourt.”


He shook his head, dismissing the jab. “He is the only one who can generate enough support to maintain true control. I – we – would do much to see him regain his position, make the correct choice.”


Once more, Malfoy’s eyes rose to his, clear and open and completely unreadable. “You would do…much?” he asked, dangerously soft. “I think, my dear Harcourt, that the key to your problem lies in the question, would you do everything?”



*********************************************



Theodore Nott gestured to Crabbe and Goyle, who obediently held the small, wildly struggling figure still, presenting it so that Nott’s wand could focus on it and he could work the spell that would bring High Clan Malfoy down now and forever. With a flourish and a dramatic gesture, the solid boy whispered a single word, and the captive figure stilled, limbs frozen into an unnatural position.


He bit down gently on his lip, concentrating, focusing everything he had into this spell he had practiced again and again at his father’s behest, and whispered it into the silence, not concerned about consequences or reprisal. His face exultant at his success, he put his mouth close to the frozen figure’s ear and whispered clearly and unmistakably. And then he worked one last spell, just to cover all the eventualities, in case someone did credit the figure’s story.


After he had finished, his two bodyguard/henchmen released the figure – now unfrozen – into the corridors again, where it awoke, shook its head, looked around in puzzlement and frowned as if trying to remember something, but then shook its head in dismissal and went on its way.


Theodore laughed, and his two so-loyal followers laughed with him, secure in the knowledge that soon, they would not only be on the winning side, they would be on the only one.

Chapter 16



The letter came at breakfast, borne by a business-like Ministry owl that efficiently discharged its duty and left immediately, full of its own importance. Recognising their father’s official owl, Ron picked the letter up, glanced at the superscription –


Miss Ginevra Weasley


and, only mildly curious, handed it over to Ginny without a word, far more interested in discussing Harry’s disturbing dream. Hermione, on hearing the description Harry had made of the land he had seen, had been busy in the library looking up atlases of magical England, searching for ancient castles, green valleys, thick forests and mountains. Unfortunately for her, there were many places in wizarding England that could fit that vague description, but Hermione was nothing if not tenacious. If anyone could find out where Harry’s dream had taken place, it would be her.


Ron hoped that they could stop the Dark Lord before he fulfilled this vision – it seemed as though the Order was always a few steps behind, always reacting, never actually acting, never actually doing anything to attack the Death Eaters. To a hot-blooded, impulsive Gryffindor (and Ron admitted it freely) it was almost unbearable, watching the guerrilla attacks, the small pinprick attacks on civilians that spread fear and hysteria without providing a real target for the Aurors or the Order to see and identify. It was as if they were chasing a will-of-the-wisp, and the only intelligence they had of it was whatever Snape managed to pick up, or Harry’s dreams.


They all found it infuriating, but their reactions to it seemed to differ, according to their personalities. Harry was withdrawing further and further into himself, agonising over every death, every attack, wishing that he could do something more, beating himself up because he was supposed to save the world and yet could still do nothing. Ron wondered how he was going to save the world on his own at sixteen years old – it seemed like there should be others involved and supporting him, if Harry was to get anything at all done. No one could do everything on their own, after all.


Hermione was delving desperately into the library, spending more and more time lost in academia and old, old books searching for something – anything – that would give them any hope at all of defeating Voldemort. She spent all her evenings in the library and came back to the Gryffindor Tower at three or four in the morning, and seemed to go about in a permanent daze, eyes glazed and concentrating on another place, another world.


It seemed as though they were all withdrawing into their own worlds, concerned with their own problems and pain, and that nothing else except the news of the latest attack was real, nothing but the Order seemed to matter anymore, and everything else seemed to be frivolous, so that they felt guilty for enjoying life when there was so much trouble in the world. And while they were absorbed by their own concerns, Ron had been ignoring his other responsibilities – he had left Ginny to herself this year, had been all but ignoring her, but it seemed as though she, too, had been off in her own world…


Ginny had been going off by herself a lot, lately. Like Hermione, she had been coming back to the dormitories late at night – or early in the morning, whichever way you wanted to look at it – and had Ron not been supremely sure that there was no one in Gryffindor, Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff who would dare become interested in her without his permission, he would have suspected her of sneaking out to meet with a boyfriend of some sort, but of course that was impossible. But somehow, since the beginning of the year, she had…changed. Oh, she was still his little sister, but sometimes there was something different in the way she spoke, the way she acted – something that was not quite right, something strange; sometimes she came out with thoughts or reasoning that was most assuredly not mainstream…


Maybe that was what this message from their father was about.


Curious now, he turned his head to watch her, noticed with surprise that his sister was fifteen years old – and when did that happen? – and quite attractive. She had begun to come out of her shell after the fight in the Ministry building last year and had become even more confident this year – whatever she was doing, late at night, it was contributing to her self-esteem in some way. He had thought, for some time, that he should have a talk to her about it, but Ginny had her own share of the Weasley temper, and since she had grown older it was becoming more and more difficult to inquire into her business without incurring her considerable wrath.


His father’s words, not his – the last time he and his father had had a solemn talk about the responsibilities of elder brothers with attractive young sisters, and how best to fulfil them. Arthur had put an arm around his shoulder, looked around before lowering his voice and whispering the words discretion and tact, and contrariness and just agree to everything…


Had Ginny or his mother overheard that conversation, there would have been trouble for sure. But Ginny was his sister, and he was her elder brother, and some things in this life were sacred. That was why he resolved to get his hands on that letter soon – discreetly, tactfully or not – and see what his father had to say. Just in case.



*********************************



Ginny gazed at the letter from her father in trepidation, wondering what he knew, how much he had deduced. Her mother often seemed to be the dominant one in her parents’ marriage – at least she was the more flamboyant – but Ginny knew that her father could be surprisingly shrewd, at often inconvenient times. Such as now.


Dear Ginny, ran her father’s familiar scrawl,


Doubtless you’ve heard of the attack on the Honourable William Harcourt and his family by now. This is a dangerous time for us all, now, so I would ask you to be on your guard and to be very careful in everything you do. In fact, perhaps it would be best if you gave up any risky classes or activities you’re taking this term, and tried to be as safe and as far out of harm’s way as possible…


Anyone and everyone who stands against the Dark Lord and his followers is a target, now. Be very, very careful…


She wondered just how much he knew of those ‘risky classes or activities’ he alluded to; whether he knew of her bargain with Malfoy, or whether he thought she had something a little risky happening on the side. But even so, it was good advice – Hogwarts had been shocked to hear of the attack on William Harcourt, the second son of an influential High Clan. Or at least the High Clan students had. Dane Harcourt had made his choice, true, but there were other scions of Clan Harcourt who had chosen differently, and William had always preferred to remain out of such conflicts. Before, during the first Rising, his neutrality had been respected, because he was High Clan, and there were informal, unwritten rules for such situations that could not be truly pinned down, but were nevertheless held to be inviolable.


Or at least, there had been such rules. Before this.


Malfoy especially had received the news very quietly, and had been grim ever since. That was never a good sign - she had noticed that he was prone to moodiness on occasion, usually after a run-in with Nott, or after thinking too much about his father.


Ginny could not say that she felt at all sorry for Lucius Malfoy. But the man had done one good thing – he had got himself thrown into Azkaban, and had forced Draco to stand up for himself, thus prompting the change from the smug arrogant git he had been last year, to the still arrogant but somewhat more humble git he was now. Now, he was almost bearable…


Yes, he was still sardonic, malicious and razor-tongued. But she rather enjoyed his odd sense of humour and his quick, cynical mind. Yes, he was prejudiced and dismissive of anyone who didn’t meet his unknown, impossible High Clan standards of gentility, or strength, or whatever the hell it was that the High Clan judged people by. But she could ignore all that – she didn’t want his respect, or his friendship, and she most definitely didn’t want to provoke any deeper, stronger feelings (good gods, what a thought!). She wanted his knowledge, and nothing more.


But as she was drawn deeper and deeper into the very different world of the High Clan, as she began to see the world through High Clan eyes, or Slytherin eyes, or Death Eater eyes, she began to see a little more of their point of view, of his point of view. It wasn’t that she was converted to their way of thinking – yes, the Gryffindors and the rest of society were prejudiced, but so were the Slytherins and the High Clan – but rather that she learned to see both views, to see the merits and drawbacks of each viewpoint.


These new insights had opened up a whole new world for her, a world that left no room for her schoolmates’ absolutism, which insisted on lumping the whole of Slytherin House together under one stereotypical label, despite the clear fact that Slytherin was a seething pit of different factions with different ambitions, or for their indifference to anything outside their own concerns of Quidditch, their OWLs, or the opposite sex. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter anymore, not when outside, in the real world, people were being murdered left and right.


She drifted away, grew apart, and somehow found herself looking forward more and more to her chats with Malfoy, and becoming more and more involved with the necessary research she had to do to keep up with him and his quicksilver thoughts. But her father’s letter brought her back to earth. William Harcourt had been murdered with impunity, random attacks had taken on sinister overtones, and the intellectual challenge of her association with Malfoy had suddenly become dangerous, not only to her, but to her whole family…


She resolved to talk to him about it, as soon as she could get the chance.



************************************



Seated against a tree in the grounds, sheltering under its low branches where he couldn’t be seen from any of the windows or by any casual passers-by, Draco reviewed the events of the last few days. Somehow it had all gone very, very wrong. Instinctively and intellectually, Draco knew it – in fact, he knew of several things that had gone wrong, but there was only one main thing, and he knew exactly what it was.


Someone, somewhere, had stopped playing by the rules. Everything else was a by-product of that.


Yes, the Game was a vicious, unending fight for supremacy, power and survival. But there were unwritten rules, principles and norms that held it all together and kept the Clans from destroying each other – norms such as reciprocity and respect for neutrality. William Harcourt shouldn’t have died.


That one murder would only encourage the Aurors to go after Death Eater’s uninvolved siblings, and with just as much savagery, if they could get away with it. It would only encourage Harcourt to pull out all the stops and declare the war he had refrained from waging years ago, because he no longer cared about the survival of the High Clan more than defeating Voldemort. And it would encourage all those others who had remained silent and on the fence to be wary of what the Death Eaters would do…and to take steps to prevent it.


But someone no longer cared about such things. And by not playing by the rules, by ignoring such little things that had kept the wheels of the Game turning smoothly for centuries, they had taken it to a whole new level, raised the stakes so high that anyone who was not prepared to play bowed out and retreated…


He had seen the Ministry owl drop off a letter to the youngest Weasley this morning, knew from whom it had come and had a very good idea of what it contained. Arthur Weasley had had only a tentative alliance with Harcourt and his mysterious other partners, and the man would be backing out of it as fast as he could, now. He had responsibilities, and seven children scattered, vulnerable, over England and Europe. He had no right to risk them, most especially not for Draco Malfoy.


It was entirely understandable. Objectively, Draco had to admire the unseen manipulator’s tactics, to strike not at him but at his supporters: if Harcourt and Weasley withdrew, if Zabini’s father and all the others who were in with him, if all who supported him because he was a Malfoy or because they hated Nott withdrew because the stakes were too high to openly prefer him, then he was left in the same situation he had been in before – with nothing and no one but himself.


Snape alone would not withdraw, he was absolutely certain of that, but Snape was vulnerable; he was being watched, and fully expected to be found out as a spy every time he went to a rendezvous. And if Snape was killed, then everything – everything – would fall. If Snape died, then who would become his guardian?


His mother, and therefore Nott?


His mother’s brother, who had walked away from everything, and would take Draco away with him too?


Others, who were not so bound to the Malfoy, who would not do everything possible to see him succeed?


Coldly, Draco wondered if Snape’s ultimate loyalties lay with him, or with the Order.


Neither of them had ever voiced the thought, of course, but the shadow of it was always there, hanging over them whenever Snape returned haggard and exhausted from a meeting. Somehow, it seemed as though to speak of it would be to make it real, and neither he nor Snape was ready for the answer. It struck too close to home, for the both of them.


Leaning his head back against the tree trunk, he closed his eyes and allowed himself, just for a moment, to relax and enjoy the sunlight. Sometimes, it seemed as though his whole life had become the Game, the power struggle between himself and Theodore Nott, the grander picture of the Malfoy versus Alexander Nott and Voldemort, even, to a smaller extent, the Ministry and all the forces of ‘good’ against an overwhelming tide of ‘evil’. There was very little time to simply sit and relax, or to find simple enjoyment – he found himself anticipating the smallest Weasley’s conversation, or questions, or even her frown as she scowled at him.


An entirely platonic pleasure, so different from the expectations Pansy had placed upon him when he had still been Slytherin’s golden child. It was surprising how reassuring he found it.


“Malfoy! Where are you?” he heard, and instinctively pulled himself further into concealment, not wanting to go back to reality right now. But then he recognised the voice, and with a small, unguarded smile that would have shocked him, had he been able to see it, he stood up and gestured her into his hiding spot.



******************************



Ginny looked around curiously as she entered the little cave under the branches, her expression no doubt a little dubious – somehow she had not thought to find Draco Malfoy communing with nature. He just didn’t seem to be the type. But then she remembered her errand, and took her focus away from her new surroundings to fix it on him – bristling as she saw his eyes glimmer with amusement. They both sat down again, Draco with his back once more against the trunk, but she, well trained by her mother, laid her cloak on the ground so her robes didn’t get dirty.


When they were both settled, she silently held out the letter she had received this morning, and he – just as wordlessly, just as solemnly – took it from her, and read it through. His expression didn’t change, as if somehow he had known what the letter would contain. She wouldn’t put it past him; he was disconcertingly perceptive.


When he had finished, he folded it up again, handed it back and looked at her, his eyebrows raised slightly. “Well?” he asked lightly. “What are you going to do?”


For some reason, that question irritated her. She raised her own eyebrows, tossed it back at him. “What do you think I should do?”


He laughed, a little bitterly. He had become a lot more open with her, lately; had allowed her to see his normally hidden emotions. It surprised her, sometimes, to see how much he did feel… “Well, Weasley,” he said dryly, in his most irritating manner, “it looks like you have two options – you can give up your dangerous associations and risky activities, or you can keep them, and face the consequences. That’s the choice that we all face, in the end.”


“As simple as that?” she asked, just as dryly, with considerably more irony.


He nodded. “It is a simple choice, Weasley. It’s all the variables that make it complicated.”


She only sighed. “I thought that you would give me advice, Malfoy, not point out the blindingly obvious.”


His mouth curved, the bitterness returned. “No, you thought that I would tell you which way you should go. I can’t do that. Only you can make that choice.”


She scowled at him, frustrated at his refusal to make it easy for her. “Well, why don’t you lay out the variables for me, Malfoy – tell me the benefits and the drawbacks so I can consider them and make an informed choice.”


He looked at her. It was that look that saw through all the pretences, all the sarcasm, the attempts to save face and the fact that she would rather have him absolve her of the burden of having to make such a choice. She couldn’t meet that look, glanced down at her hands, at the letter, at her father’s writing that she had known all of her life. And then he began to speak, glancing away himself, so as to appear uninvolved and impassive.


“The Slytherins know that you have some association with me, Weasley. If we end it now, we can pass it off as nothing of any real significance, and you can once more fade into the background, as you were before, the baby daughter of the Weasley family. If your father ends his association with Harcourt, he, too, will have no more significance than he had before his entanglement, and no more harm will come to your family than was already heading your way before you entered the Game.” He looked back to her and shrugged gracefully, spreading his hands. “But of course, I can’t guarantee that. Things could go differently.”


She frowned. “And if I do continue with our lessons? And if my dad does continue on with Harcourt?”


“Now that,” he said softly, “is more difficult to predict. You will – both of you, and your whole family – become associated with the Malfoy and myself. You’ll become targets - even more than you are now - and the Death Eaters and the death eaters in training will come after all of you and try to kill you horribly. If I come out on top, then I’ll take you with me as far as I can, but if I lose then you’ll all share my horrible fate…and it will be horrible,” he said, fatalistically. “Of course it’s much more complicated than that, but those are the bare bones of it…”


“So we’ll be Death Eater targets either way?” she asked.


He nodded. “The difference will be the level of priority placed on your deaths.”


She frowned. “But what if I continue our association, and even support you, but my father doesn’t?”


He grinned, or rather he showed his teeth, and it wasn’t so much amused as sardonic. “Ah, that’s where it becomes interesting – unfortunately, you cannot make your father’s choice, nor he yours. And yet whatever you both choose will have a significant impact on your family…” He held up a hand before she could protest again. “Take the consequences into consideration, find out how much you're willing to lose to gain your objective. If you’re willing to pay that price, then by all means, make that decision.”


He stood up, moved to the branches and began to sweep them away, and then, before he left, he looked back. “Whichever way you choose, Weasley,” he said, voice uncharacteristically sincere, “I enjoyed our lessons. You’re a good student.” And then he grinned, and spoiled it. “For a poor, naive Gryffindoric Weasley, that is.” He laughed as she scowled at him, and then ducked under the branches and left.



*****************************************



Hours later, Ginny returned to the Common Room, her head still spinning from all the fierce thinking she had done. His words – find out how much you're willing to lose – were still echoing in her memory, as true a statement of Slytherin thought as he had ever taught her, along with the memory of how he had looked when he said he enjoyed their lessons. Somehow, that had been entirely sincere, and he had meant every word of what he said.


Another clue to the mystery that was Caius Draconis Malfoy.


As she threaded her way through the furniture and scattered heaps of books, cushions and games that littered the floor, she brushed past Ron, who was deep in conversation with Harry and Hermione about something or other, no doubt a vital issue – Dobby? Acting strangely? Didn’t he always? – but didn’t manage to get past him before he grabbed her arm.


“What did Dad’s letter say?” he asked in his best big brother interrogative tone.


She bristled. “Nothing,” she said, a little too quickly, because it occupied too much of her thoughts to be casual about it. His eyes sharpened, and she cursed her fair complexion as she flushed.


He scowled at her, and Harry and Hermione exchanged amused glances. “Don’t lie to me Ginny,” he warned, in a tone that reminded her eerily of her mother.


“Just a general letter,” she said, injecting a little indignation into her voice. Indignation always worked, and perhaps a hint of burgeoning anger… “Dad warned me to be very careful, and not to do anything…reckless…this term.”


“Reckless?” Harry laughed. “Come on, Ron, this is Ginny. I know that she’s grown up now, and more than capable of defending herself, but even so…she wouldn’t do that.”


Ginny’s face blanked of any and all expression, but only Hermione saw, and noted the trick. A frown crossed her brow, but before she could ask just where Ginny had learned to do such a thing, the younger girl had whirled around and stormed up the stairs to her dormitory, leaving the trio behind to watch in puzzlement. Ron and Harry exchanged mystified glances, then went back to their conversation, but Hermione gazed into the distance for a while longer, wondering just where she had seen someone become impassive like that, and what relation it had with Ginny’s sudden interest in ancient wizarding philosophy…



***************************************

Chapter 17




Dane Harcourt cursed all Gryffindors and their innate – some could say paranoid – wariness of Slytherin plots. Weasley was on the verge of backing out - William’s death and the message it had hammered home had shaken him badly, had brought home the true height of the stakes and the reality of everything they were risking for Malfoy. He wanted out, and so now Dane had to convince him that it was worth his while to stay in. He had lured Weasley into this by appealing to the things that most Slytherins understood – his ambition, his desire to remake things according to his own desires – and now, it seemed that he would have to appeal now to the man’s Gryffindoric instincts.


Idealistic values, such as making the world a better place, rather than focusing on what he could get out of this particular situation. It was like viewing the world through a skewed lens, and he wasn’t quite comfortable with it. For the slightest moment, he wished that he had Lucius’ eloquence…


But look where that ready tongue and quicksilver mind had gotten him.


Even so, it had taken some very quick talking to get the man to come with him today. Weasley’s loyalty and concern for his family was admirable, but Dane had had to point out that he was already risking everything every time he took Potter into his own home, had become associated with an enemy – the enemy – of the Dark Lord when the Weasleys became identified as Potter’s surrogate family. Illogically, Arthur had said that that was an entirely different thing. Evidently it was acceptable, even admirable, to risk everything for Harry Potter, but not for Draco Malfoy. Dane very rarely indulged in Slytherin anti-Gryffindor sentiment anymore, but there were some times when it was unavoidable.


He didn’t have Snape’s almost certain faith in young Malfoy – so out of character in such a cool, analytical and scientific man as the Potions Master – but nor did he share most of the wizarding world’s just as irrational faith in Potter, either. He didn’t believe that a sixteen-year-old boy could single-handedly take the fractured, divided High Clan into a new golden era, or even hope to defeat the worst Dark Lord of the century. But he did believe that, given enough support, both things could be done – after a fashion, and at a terrible price.


Hence this small meeting, in his club – the exclusive gentleman’s club that guaranteed discretion in all things, and charged accordingly. They went up the steps leading up to the old establishment, and he remembered the first time he had come here, when his father had put him up for membership on his sixteenth birthday. He himself had taken William for his first time, because by then their father had been dead…


“Good morning, sir,” said the impassive footman, taking his cloak. “I’m sorry to hear about your brother.”


Dane stiffened; there had been far too many condolences these last few days, and not all of them sincere. But the footman was blameless, so he automatically murmured something appropriate in return, and then hesitated, turned back. “Oh, and Timms,” he said casually, staring into the footman’s eyes, “this gentleman is with me.”


The footman looked at Weasley dubiously, but was very well trained, and Harcourt was a very influential patron, and so he only said “very good sir.”


A reluctant smile tugged at Dane’s mouth, and he took Weasley’s cloak and held it out to the footman, transferring a few gold coins as well as the cloak into the other’s hand. “Good man,” he said softly, and went in.



**************************************



Harcourt was pulling out all the stops for this. Arthur had been in politics for a long time, he had been courted before and he knew all the signs – the attention, the flattery, the lunches in expensive restaurants – but this was the first time that a Slytherin High Clan Lord had focused his whole attention on him, and he had to admit that, had he been less experienced, less suspicious of Harcourt’s motives, he might have been tempted.


He had been tempted before, but that was when it had been an intellectual exercise, when he had not had to risk his family. Now it was all too real – but he was sure that Harcourt would not let him go just because he wanted out. And that was where it got complicated. This subtle campaign – lunch at White’s, that most exclusive High Clan club, the entrée into the most powerful circles of influence in wizarding Britain, the information and the inside gossip that he could not, as simple Mr. Weasley, have ever dreamed of hearing – could turn dangerous, the courtship could turn into a more sinister pursuit…


But Arthur was determined, refused to commit himself to something he was not utterly sure of. Why should he support the Malfoy at all? Despite what Harcourt said, there was a very real difference between risking his life and family for Harry Potter, whom Arthur thought of as a son in everything but blood and name, and risking his life and family for Draco Malfoy, with whom he had absolutely nothing in common.


Except…


Harcourt’s eyes gleamed as they spoke, fencing, almost feral in their knowledge, in their challenge.


Except for Ginny, who wanted to be an Auror; fifteen year old Ginny, who had no idea of the golden charisma that could so ensnare even the most wary of opponents, who willingly gave herself over to learning everything – everything – that Malfoy could teach her. Ginny, his youngest child, and his only daughter…


Her experiences in her first year had changed her, that was true enough, but the changes had only reinforced her strength and bravery – despite, or perhaps because of the Slytherin traits she had picked up, Ginny was Gryffindor to the bone. And if she decided that Draco Malfoy was worth fighting for, she would not count the costs.


“But why are you supporting Malfoy, Harcourt?” Arthur asked, turning the focus back onto the other man. “Why are you willing to risk so much?”


“Why?” mused Dane Harcourt, the High Clan Slytherin who had turned his back on almost all of his peers when he became an Auror. “Because I want to see Voldemort dead once and for all, and I don’t believe he can be defeated by idealists who have no real understanding of him. I hope Malfoy will join the Order, and bring to it everything that he has learned of the darkness. Is that enough for you?”


“I’m surprised you didn’t try to recruit Lucius, then,” Arthur said dryly.


Harcourt grinned. “I did, actually. But he declined.”


“Then what do you need me for, if you say you have no use for idealists with no true knowledge of what we face?”


“I did not say that, I said that idealists must be backed up by those who know the darkness. That’s why Snape is so invaluable. That’s why Lucius’ sins would have been forgiven – or at least conveniently forgotten – had he chosen to come over to us. And that’s why, in the absence of any other traitors of the same sort, I believe Draco is vital to the Order’s success.”


“And you would do…much to persuade him so, then.”


Harcourt lifted his brows, but the look in his eyes was completely and utterly serious. “No, Arthur. I would do everything.”


Arthur drew in a breath as he absorbed the enormity of that statement. Finally, reluctantly, he relented. “I have no right to make such an important decision without first discussing it with my family.”


Slowly, Harcourt nodded. “As you will, then,” he said softly. “As you will…”



*******************************************



Millicent Bulstrode was not stupid. She may be ugly – she had no illusions that she was in any way good looking – but she was most certainly not stupid. So that was why she had never given away even the slightest indication of her attraction to Draco, why she had played the role of occasional indifferent friend for so many years – because she knew that her feelings were girlish, adolescent and most certainly not reciprocated. And because she had no liking for playing the fool.


Millicent hated giggling girls who cared for nothing more than sex, clothes and gossip; her mother and two sisters were a perfect example of the type – her maternal grandmother, the only one who really understood her, had told her that they had more looks than brains and she should not envy them because they were popular and well liked, and she was…


Well, she was what she was. Solid, frumpy and socially awkward, her only redeeming feature was her intelligence, which she could not use directly because she was a female, and not even a pretty one, which might have given her some leverage in the matter. The Bulstrodes, unlike some of the elder Clans, were fiercely patriarchal – daughters and wives were ornamental, and good for nothing more than spending money and bearing children.


Perhaps that was why she felt some small admiration for Ginny Weasley, who was trying to break out of her own mould. Of course, Gryffindor girls had quite a lot more freedom, but still, with a mother like Molly Weasley…


And perhaps that was why, despite her Clan’s nominal alliance with Nott, she had kept quiet about the true depth of the Weasley girl's involvement with Malfoy. Slytherins understood shallow physical attraction and manipulation – they even admired it – but genuine intellectual interest, and, of all things, friendship? An alliance, with the Weasleys?


She had been watching them both for a while now, observing the growing connection – despite the pains Draco took to keep their meetings secret – with masochistic fascination. Draco had always been able to draw female attention, even at his most insufferable. Sex was something he could have for the crooking of his finger, but an intellectual connection with a woman was a very different – and far more precious – thing. Millicent didn’t think he had anything more than platonic intentions towards Ginny Weasley at all – yet. But one day…


She was far too rational and intelligent for the small tug of jealousy she felt at that thought. And being rational and intelligent, and having a sincere desire to puncture Theodore Nott’s self-importance, she decided that it would be far better to make sure the Weasley girl came to no harm and continued to aid Malfoy with her confidence that he could actually succeed in this mad gamble, with those great dark eyes willing to believe that Draco was a master manipulator to match the first Malfoy himself…


So, less than a week after William Harcourt’s death, after an interminable dinner spent watching Nott and his cronies observe Draco surreptitiously glancing over at the Gryffindor table – there was always covert observation of some sort going on in Slytherin – Millicent knew that they had discovered Draco’s interest in the Weasley girl. Of course, they had known that there was something going on between them, but tonight, Draco’s eyes had been too openly possessive…


And Nott’s eyes had sparkled with malevolent glee.


Noting Ginny’s departure from the Hall, Millicent made some excuse about working on an assignment in the library and walked out after her, feeling a little foolish to be chasing after another girl in this fashion. Red hair appeared in front of her, actually heading for the library, and Millicent increased her pace, her shoes ringing on the flagstones. She saw the other girl stop and turn around, frowning as she recognised Millicent, a moment of hesitation as she wondered just why she was following her. They had never crossed paths before, but Ginny – wary Ginny, finally learning something – knew enough to be wary of Millicent, simply because she was a Slytherin, and Malfoy would have told her of Clan Bulstrode’s political alignment. The younger girl tensed, as if to turn away, but Millicent held out a hand.


“Weasley, wait!” She felt very foolish now, but having decided to do this, she would not back away now.


“What do you want?” the other girl asked, very wary.


“Just to talk, nothing more.”


Ginny frowned, and Millicent tried her best to look open and innocent. It must have worked, or else her curiosity got the better of her. “What about?” she asked.


For a moment, Millicent wondered what exactly she would say. She was not in the habit of conversing with Gryffindors, and she didn’t know just how much Ginny knew about the situation… “Your relationship with Malfoy,” she blurted out, wincing as she heard herself speak.


The response was automatic, and far too vehement. “With Malfoy? I don’t have a relationship with Malfoy.”


Millicent sighed. “Your…interactions then, if you will. They have been noticed.”


Ginny lifted her chin. “So?”


“So, things could become very dangerous for you, if you continue.”


“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”


“I think you do,” Millicent lowered her voice, stepped closer, looming over the shorter Gryffindor, who stubbornly refused to back down. “But this is not a game, Weasley, and it is not an inter-house squabble. You must take it seriously.”


“Oh believe me, I do take it seriously,” Ginny hissed, pushed into retaliating. “I am not a fool. I know what I’m doing –“


“Do you?” Millicent challenged. “Do you really? Then why are you still trying to convince yourself that you’re only learning from him, and that you and your family have no involvement at all in this power struggle?”


Ginny sucked in a breath. “I am only…”


“No,” she cut her off. “You’re all in too deep now. Even if your relationship with Malfoy is completely innocent, it is perceived otherwise…”


“By you?” came a very, very cold voice. Millicent fought to keep her face impassive as she writhed in shame inside. “My dear Millicent,” Draco drawled. “I had no idea that you had such an interest in my business. Tell me, what has prompted this concern?”


Draco had always been hatefully perceptive.


She refused to give him any satisfaction. “The fact that you automatically come to her defence,” she said. “She’s become…important to you.”


“Is that a warning?” he asked, too softly. Ginny opened her mouth to speak, but Draco waved her to silence, his eyes holding Millicent’s.


“Yes,” Millicent lifted her own chin, refusing to back down from those silver eyes. “It’s a warning. He’ll destroy everything that you hold dear – everything that gives you strength, everything that inspires you to continue fighting.”


There was a slight pause to allow the intensity of the moment to fade. “I have not even said that I will fight,” he pointed out blandly.


“You have not said it,” Ginny chipped in, “but everyone knows it.” Her eyes were sincere – she actually believed what she said. For a split second, surprise and discomfiture flashed across Draco’s face. Millicent wondered if Ginny had the same faith in Draco that she did in Potter, or whether, because she actually knew Draco’s faults, that faith was all the stronger…


“Indeed,” Millicent said dryly. “It is taken for granted – even in Slytherin – that you will reject the Dark Lord’s offer.” But that belief was based on more secular reasons than Ginny’s faith.


Draco flashed her a look. It was clear that he had been considerably taken aback by Ginny’s declaration; he was not used to being the recipient of such belief, of such expectations. Especially not with the only intelligent daughter of Clan Bulstrode looking on.


Millicent took the hint. Having delivered her warning, and seen it received, she left them together to sort out their own problems.



*****************************************



Draco looked at Ginny in profound discomfort. He had no liking for what he saw in her eyes; it made him itchy and uncomfortable, as if he should be doing everything he could to live up to her expectations, and anything that didn’t was somehow unworthy of him. Shrugging his shoulders, avoiding her eyes, he scowled. “Don’t look at me like that, Weasley.”


She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Why are you so uncomfortable, Malfoy?”


“Because I’m not bloody perfect Potter. I’m not a golden Gryffindor hero. So stop looking at me as though I am.” Unbelievably, she laughed, her eyes dancing, genuinely amused. “What?” he demanded.


“You’re malicious, prejudiced, egocentric and manipulative,” she said, voice unsteady. “Don’t worry, you’re in no danger of being similar to Harry in any way. But,” she continued, “I do believe that you’re not about to join Voldemort, and that you’ll do much to bring him down.”


He sneered half-heartedly – damned by faint praise, indeed. It comforted him inexplicably, to know that she didn’t think him perfect. But then she ruined it.


“And I believe that you can succeed in anything that you put your mind to, if you want it badly enough, believe in it strongly enough…”


Damn. She really believed it. No wonder her father was worried… And then she put her hand on his arm, causing him to stiffen in surprise. “I want to help you, Draco…”

CHAPTER 18




Very soon the days became shorter, the temperature dropped, and the students were infected with the restless excitement that always preceded Christmas. But Ginny noticed that this year the anticipation seemed to be a little more subdued, a little less innocent – they had all been touched by death, had been made aware of their own mortality, and it was hard to regain the childlike wonder of earlier years, when everything had been so happy and carefree. Nevertheless, the teachers made a determined effort to create an atmosphere of Christmas cheer, and if it was somewhat forced, then none of the students were inconsiderate enough to say so out loud.


Even the Slytherins, so cynical and jaded – whether it was real or not – seemed to be affected by the excitement, although to a somewhat lesser extent. It showed in their increased restlessness, a few unguarded moments of anticipation, and a completely spontaneous snowball fight behind the quidditch pitch, when Blaise and Draco, after making sure no one was watching, had pelted each other with snowballs until they were both covered in powder and had then wrestled and fought and scrambled in the snow like…


Well, like Harry and Ron.


Ginny had made a point to twit Draco about it, on their last rendezvous before the holidays. He hadn’t reacted, but his mouth had twitched, formed into that small, intriguingly crooked half-smile that was devastating simply because it was genuine…


“We can’t be serious all the time, Weasley,” was all he had said.



*************************************



Finally, the day came. It had been a very long while since Dane Harcourt had set foot inside Hogwarts – not since the end of Voldemort’s first rising, in fact – and it had been even longer since he had found himself celebrating Christmas within its walls. But Dumbledore thought that, even with a higher number of students than usual staying at the school over the holidays – their parents considering it safer to do so – the informal, holiday atmosphere would be a perfect backdrop for a meeting of the Order of the Phoenix. And the significance of the date was unavoidable – hope emerging even in the depths of midwinter…


Dane had no objections to the plan: usually he spent the holiday with his family on the Harcourt family estate, but he would not be able to face it this year, not with William’s absence creating such a tangible void…


And it would give him an unparalleled opportunity to bring Draco into the fold. He had failed with Lucius, but he would not fail with his son.



***********************************



“I have often wondered,” said Severus Snape, “just why Dumbledore has never asked you to be the Defence teacher, Harcourt.”


The two of them sat in one corner of the staff room, warming their hands at the fire and sipping cups of fragrant tea – the comfort and cosiness of the scene not lost on either of them. Both of them had learned to take and appreciate such luxuries when they could, given the uncertainties of their chosen careers.


Harcourt considered Snape’s question. “Perhaps he thinks that I am too practical,” he said at last.


Snape cocked a brow. “Lupin seemed to be quite successful utilising the hands on approach,” he mused softly, “but I don’t believe that is what you meant.”


“No,” came the sardonic reply. “You know very well what I meant. And don’t say that Moody – or the fake Moody – also taught quite practical lessons. I use the word in quite another sense – a Slytherin sense that I don’t think Dumbledore wishes the children to learn quite yet.”


“Yes, you have ever been a true Slytherin, despite your political leanings. Practical, as you say, and quite ruthless when you think it necessary…”


Harcourt looked up from his tea at the tone in Snape’s voice, searching his face for indications of his true meaning. His own face hardened imperceptibly. “You speak of Malfoy,” he said bluntly.


Snape said nothing, but stared into the fire, apparently rapt in the flames.


“You know that he must join the Order,” Harcourt said, voice still conversational, not insistent yet.


Still Snape said nothing, but his very silence was damning. Finally he looked up. “It is not my place,” he said softly, “to determine what the Malfoy must.”


Harcourt refused to back down, and their eyes clashed in a silent struggle of wills. “And what of must not? How far does your non-interference stretch?”


What, indeed, if Malfoy wished to join with the Dark Lord? The unasked question hung, with all its unvoiced implications, in the air between them, stretched back to the words Lucius Malfoy had spoken to Snape what seemed so long ago, when he had handed his son into the other man’s care.


Guide him, Severus… Support and protect him, and above all, keep him away from the Dark…


Snape lowered his eyes. “I do not believe that it will come to that.” He smiled grimly. “The rest of Slytherin do not believe it will come to that.”


“All the more reason then, to join with us and gain the greatest possible support.” He spoke casually, but watching carefully he could see Snape stiffen as the full import of his words struck home.


“Is your support conditional, Lord Harcourt?” asked the Lord of High Clan Snape.


“In these times, we cannot afford to be less than completely committed.” And with that pronouncement he drained the rest of his tea, set it down precisely in its saucer, and gracefully stood up and walked out, leaving Snape staring after him with dark, frowning eyes.


When Draco came in some time after, all signs of turmoil and trepidation had been ruthlessly banished, and Snape was his normal self again.



************************************



Seated in the darkest corner of the staff room, Draco had an unimpeded view of the door and of everyone who came in through it. Snape had told him of the Order’s meeting today, and he was curious to find out who made up the infamous secret society. Snape had been no surprise, and nor had McGonnagall or Potter, Weasley and the mudblood, but Harcourt – cool, Slytherin Harcourt – had been, although on second thought, it was not such an improbability. And nor was it improbable to envision the entire Weasley family – reckless, stubborn, and idealistic to the bone – at the heart and forefront of the Order, either.


The Weasleys had arrived in full force; well, not quite in full force – one of the brothers was missing, the third son, Percy. Draco remembered him as a prissy, tight-mouthed prig who embodied most of Gryffindor’s worst qualities – rock hard stubbornness, extreme self-righteousness and all the sensitivity and insight of an elephant. But the Weasley was obviously upset by her brother’s defection, despite the way she and the rest of her family had disparaged Percy amongst themselves before. Blood kin stood together against outsiders, no matter how viciously they might fight amongst themselves – and so it should be. This Percy’s rejection of his family was contemptible, especially because he had rejected them to follow Fudge.


He watched as the four Weasley brothers not at school, all tall, gangling and redheaded – although the elder two (Bill and Charlie?) were fully mature – walked in as if it were home, and were greeted by most of the professors as if they were family. Golden Gryffindors…


He also noticed that they all found time to glare viciously at him – evidently his attack on Ron was still very much at the forefront of their minds. Well, he had acknowledged and offered his debt to them, and it had been accepted and discharged, whether Weasley had informed them of the fact or not. Certainly she had told her father, and Arthur should have told his sons, but Arthur Weasley, walking in behind them, looked at him with his faded blue eyes – shrewd, despite the certain naïve innocence behind them – as if he were trying to measure him, as if he could measure him, and judge him, with his Gryffindoric, middle class standards…


He put a fatherly, approving hand on Ron’s shoulder – a habitual gesture, by the looks of it – and hugged Ginny, looking at her intently, silently promising a very important discussion later on. Lucius had gripped his shoulder like that, once – and only once – and it was one of Draco’s most treasured memories of his father.


Suddenly he missed him so much it hurt.


Distracted by his memories, by the unaccustomed stab of homesickness, he had missed the arrival of the other members of the Order – Lupin, their former Defence teacher, a few Aurors and Ministry officials he knew through his father, a few civilians he had neither seen nor heard of before – some of whom were suspected of sharing Dumbledore’s sympathies, others of whom nothing at all had been said…


Every single one of them – every single one – without exception, started when they saw him, recognition flashing into their eyes followed by suspicion followed by condemnation, and then the inevitable glance towards Dumbledore, and the reluctant, extremely dubious acceptance of the old man’s approval of his presence. And then, the dire warning stare focused in his direction.


And then there was Moody. Alastor ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody, whose doppelganger had once turned him into a ferret. Doppelganger or no, Draco had conceived a very healthy fear of the man during the year they had suffered under him – or the man who had pretended to be him, and he had absolutely no desire to find himself on the man’s bad side. Unfortunately, it seemed that he was already there, without any effort at all, simply because he was Lucius Malfoy’s son, because he was Snape’s protégé, because he was High Clan, because he epitomised everything the man despised, and no doubt a whole host of other reasons as well.


Moody made this all too clear, by being the first person to bring up the subject of his presence. “What the hell is he doing here?”


All eyes turned to Dumbledore, who cleared his throat. “Mr. Malfoy is here,” he said slowly, “because of our mutual goal – the downfall of Lord Voldemort.”


Moody sneered, but Harcourt held up his hand, staying the old man’s scorn. It was said that the Slytherin had actually done his training under Moody’s constant vigilance and suspicion, and that, although he never said it, Moody regarded Harcourt as the best of all his apprentices…


“With respect, Headmaster,” Harcourt said, far more smoothly than Dumbledore, “he is here because he has nowhere else to go. Is that not so, Mr. Malfoy?”


Draco raised a brow. “I am afraid that I don’t understand, Mr. Harcourt,” he stalled.


“Your High Clan Slytherin colleagues, while influential within the closed world of the High Clan, are not so committed to your cause that they will defy the others of their class, all of whom believe you are already an opponent of the Dark…yet. And yet, your need for their help draws ever nearer, as Nott seeks to destroy you before you become a real threat…”


Draco looked to Snape, who refused to meet his eyes. So, that was how Harcourt had gained his information.


“If you wish to see your next birthday, Mr Malfoy, you need friends with real influence…”


“Oh?” Draco asked quietly. “And these ‘friends’, what price their influence?”


Harcourt didn’t bother to answer that.


Ron spoke up, shattering the undercurrents. “Why should we help Malfoy? And how do we know that he’s really against Voldemort?”


Yes, that was what Draco wanted to know himself. How did everyone else know what he himself wasn’t certain of? The Weasley’s brown eyes, so filled with inexplicable faith, even though she knew exactly what he was and most especially what he wasn’t, Snape’s black eyes, and Harcourt’s steady, calculating, measuring grey ones…


They all seemed certain he would fight.


“He will fight,” said Harcourt, feline cruelty in his eyes as he watched and measured, “because it is in his best interest, at the moment.”


“And that’s it?” growled Moody. “Because it is in his best interests?”


Harcourt looked surprised. “But of course…is that not enough?”



*************************************



Put that way, it hadn’t sounded very convincing. But then, there had never been anything certain about what her instinct said about Malfoy. She knew he would fight, that he would much rather have Voldemort out of the way than hanging about plotting to bring him into the fold. He was proud, and he had no wish to bend knee to a half-blood, and had no real desire to go around wantonly killing muggles and muggle-lovers.


And there was Nott, who was trying to kill him – that was a good enough motivation.


But, all up, it wasn’t very convincing evidence, when weighed against Harry’s dead parents, or Harcourt’s murdered brother and father, or anyone else in the Order who had lost family and friends to the Death Eaters. She could see how they would doubt, how Draco himself would be reluctant to commit himself fully to such a Cause.


For the Malfoy to throw everything he had – body, mind and soul – into the Order, he would need incentive…


And Ginny would not wish ‘incentive’ on anyone. Least of all on Draco, whom she had come to know very well. Perhaps it would be enough that he committed intellectually to the Order? Because it was in ‘his best interests at the moment’?


But it was by no means a foregone conclusion that he would even be allowed in at the moment, let alone that he would commit himself in any way. The discussion carried on later that night at the Weasley family gathering, where Arthur finally put before his family the question he had been fretting over for weeks.


Were they willing to support Malfoy against Nott?


Ron, predictably, was vehemently against it. “What business is it of ours if Nott and Malfoy destroy each other? It’ll get rid of the two leaders of Slytherin and the High Clan without any effort at all on our part…”


Arthur cleared his throat. “And yet, the enemy of our enemy…”


Molly snorted. “Are you saying that you trust him? This is Draco Malfoy, Arthur…”


There was a general growl of consensus, and Ginny looked around at her family, whom she loved, and saw them united in a hatred that she no longer shared. It was a very disorienting thought, taking her further and further away from the girl she had once been.


“But, just think, if we could get him wholly on our side, he could be a great asset to us…”


“That’s the problem, Dad,” said Charlie, sober and experienced. “Getting him wholly on our side – you heard Harcourt, he’s only in it for himself. What if the wind suddenly shifts?”


“They’re not going to suddenly stop hating each other,” Ginny heard herself piping up. “The only way Malfoy will profit in the Death Eaters is over Nott’s dead body, and he’s a more ruthless right hand than Lucius Malfoy ever was.” She stopped, blushing at her family’s surprised looks. “They say that Nott was behind Malfoy’s arrest in the first place…”


Hermione, now an honorary member of the Weasley family, gave her a very odd look. Ginny avoided her eyes, sure that the other girl suspected something. Fred and George were openly surprised, but laughed and joked, as if she had done something terribly clever.


“Harcourt seems to think that we should make the support against Nott conditional on Draco’s joining the Order,” Bill said thoughtfully. “It seems like a good idea.”


Harry snorted. “Malfoy’s too proud to ask for help from anyone or anything, let alone from muggle-loving Gryffindors…”


“It’s not a matter of pride,” Ginny said again. “It’s a matter of indebtedness.”


“Arthur,” Molly said suddenly, “Whose idea was it, that we support Malfoy?”


They all looked to their father, who fidgeted uncomfortably. He never could hide anything from his family. “Well,” he said, hesitant under his wife’s gaze, “Harcourt’s.”


“And what do we get out of it, Dad?” Ginny asked, suddenly wary. Speaking of indebtedness…


He shrugged. “Influence,” he said with conviction. “The chance for a greater say in Ministry affairs, the power to make things better…”


Good intentions. Gryffindor idealism. Slytherin politics. The road to Hell.


And was Ginny herself any better?



**************************************



“Oh, by the way, Lucius,” Dane paused before exiting the cell, “I have been authorised to make you an offer…”


A white brow lifted, and Lucius did not even pretend to misunderstand. “Have you? Is it going that badly, then?”


“No.” Dane could not meet the other’s penetrating eyes. “But I believe you could be a great asset to the Order.”


Lucius only laughed. “And what could you offer me in return? Power? Riches? True freedom, not a gilded cage to replace this true one?”


“Self-respect,” Dane said flatly, “and the chance to once more take a leading part in this Game.”


“The Game,” Lucius mused. “For so long has it dominated my entire life…” He looked up at Harcourt, eyes bright and uncharacteristically reckless. “I do not wish to play it any longer.”


Harcourt looked at him, frustration and the oddest feeling of compassion welling up in his throat. “You cannot simply decide to bow out.”


Lucius smiled. “Watch me.”



******************************************



Later that night, congregated around a huge wooden table, they put the proposal to him – join the Order, give his all to the fight against Voldemort, and they would do everything they could to bring Nott down. But of course he could not back out once Nott had fallen – of course not.


To Draco, it did not sound like much of a bargain, and the reactions of the main instigators as they watched him making up his mind – Harcourt’s quiet feline satisfaction, Weasley’s earnest eagerness, Dumbledore’s approving nod – did nothing to endear him to it.


Harcourt in particular seemed certain that Draco would put aside his pride and acquiesce to common sense and necessity, and somehow it rubbed him the wrong way. Perhaps it was Harcourt’s similarity to his father – something neither of them would appreciate, he was sure – that aroused such resentment in him; perhaps it was that he was sixteen years old and tired of being pushed around and manipulated.


Whatever the reason, he did not relish the thought of falling in with Harcourt’s schemes, whether they were for his benefit or not. It was not entirely a matter of pride – as Ginny had said earlier that night, it was a matter of indebtedness. He did not know the Order. He didn’t know what they would ask from him in return for their help, didn’t know what, precisely, they wanted from him and therefore if they had any bargaining points where he could apply leverage…


Finally, they lost patience with waiting for his answer. Or at least one of them did. “You cannot sit on the fence in this, boy,” barked Moody. “You can’t deal and you can’t play your godsdamned Game. This is real life – you have to make a choice.”


Draco stiffened, bowed his head curtly, and said, disconcerted by the interruption, “Unfortunately, I must refuse your offer…”


“Balls!” shouted Moody. Dumbledore and Snape winced, and Draco stiffened even further. “Your father is rotting in prison, boy! You can’t rely on him to save you anymore! And who else will help you if you refuse us? There’s no one else…”


His spine poker straight, nostrils flared, Draco bowed one last time to the rest of the room – not looking at Snape, Harcourt or Ginny – and marched out, closing the door with a click behind him, cutting off the rest of Moody’s tirade.


The old man had not been entirely correct – there were others, but those others didn’t have one fraction of the Order’s clout… Was committing himself, making a choice, such a bad thing if it gained him real, official support? No, it wasn’t – but Draco wasn’t ready, wasn’t free, to commit himself in such a reckless manner, as his father had done when he’d joined Voldemort. The only grand Cause he had any right to embrace was that of Clan Malfoy and the land Beyond the Veil – and that was all that he had ever wanted, really.


Soft footsteps padded on the stone behind him, and he slowed and turned to wait for the Weasley to catch up with him.


“Why did you refuse, Malfoy?” she demanded, gasping for breath. She had sprinted after him, slipping out under cover of the uproar in the room as the Order reeled from his rejection.


He scowled at her. “You know why I refused, Weasley. I don’t believe in anything but the Malfoy.”


“Not even High Clan Malfoy is invulnerable,” she said softly.


“No,” he said, still fired up on the pride and anger of his confrontation with Moody, “but it’s damn near to it…”


He hesitated, remembering something received and dismissed days ago, but then banished the memory and the doubts engendered by it. No, he was still safe; there was no one else…


“They’re not going to go away, Draco,” she put the tips of her fingers against her arm, felt it tense at the contact, then relax as he forced himself to accept her touch. “You’ll have to make a choice one day.”


He looked down at her, shook his head. “No, Weasley,” he said. “I can do this myself, I can keep this going for as long as I need to…”


Can you? She asked silently. Merlin, I wish I could believe you…



*****************************************



Alone in the depths of the castle, the small figure writhed in the knowledge of its own guilt, and of its complicity in a terrible wrong… Different somehow, stronger than the rest of its kindred, it had faced hard choices and contrasting instincts before, but even though it had left every part of its previous life behind, some things never changed…


Some gifts and abilities given, especially to his kind, were never retracted…


“Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!”


But even knocking itself against the wall so hard that it all but cracked its skull did not exorcise the guilt…

Footprints 19 (pt 1)




Ginny watched Draco’s back as he walked off, arrogance and elegance in every line of his body. She could also see the pride, and the fundamental strength of will – stubbornness, if you will – that would not allow him to admit that he needed aid. He swore that he could do it alone, that he could balance everything himself, but she herself was not so sure…


“Draco, don’t be a fool,” she shouted after him, perhaps not very tactfully. But she thought they had become sufficiently close to allow her the familiarity. “Why won’t you accept help? I know this talk of indebtedness and devoting yourself to only one cause is true enough, but they’re not the only reasons, are they?” He stopped walking, but didn’t turn around. She continued on, softer now. “What else aren’t you telling me?”


She came up beside him, walked around him to look up into his face, his still, impassive, shadowed face. Once again, she put her hand on his arm, felt him start again, but relax almost instantaneously. Somehow it pleased her, to know that he trusted her enough to let her touch him, even in such a chaste manner. “Draco?” she asked again, unconsciously imploring.


Finally, he lifted his eyes to meet hers. “This is not the first offer I have had, Ginny,” he said softly, using her name for the first time. The significance of that nearly overshadowed the import of his words, but she had been a student of his for too long. Her eyes widened.


“Surely you’re not thinking of…”


He made a sharp, negative movement. “Of course I’m not. But I can’t refuse, either…”


“They’ll kill you, Draco. You know this.” She tightened her grip on his arm, and he did not draw away. “You can’t play your father’s games anymore…”


He looked away, sought to free himself from her grasp. “I can’t refuse them –“


“With what did they threaten you?” she asked, finally understanding. What did they threaten that would make Draco Malfoy hesitate? She thought she knew, and reached up to turn his eyes back to hers. This time, he didn’t flinch.


“Something that should be an impossibility.” The words were dragged out of him.


“Then why are you so afraid?”



***************************************



The offer, and the threat, had come from Vincent Crabbe, but he had not made the mistake of underestimating its significance because of its messenger. The games with Theodore had ended, and the true testing had begun; Nott, and his Lord, were pulling no more punches.


His mother had written him a letter, the week before she married Nott, recounting her visit to Lucius in Azkaban, and of the last grace she had granted him, and that he had refused. It is over, she had told his father. The Malfoy lands are closed off from the outside, and all those capable of opening the Veil are hidden from Death Eater eyes…


Why then do you hesitate?


Why indeed.


Draco was not Trelawney, to believe in foresight, in visions of the future. But as he had read those words, as he had looked into Vincent Crabbe’s eyes and heard him threaten to destroy everything the Malfoy held dear, a frisson of some nameless foreboding had seized him, and he had gone cold…



*************************************



“Dobby” he heard someone say, as if from a great distance, “now.”


And then the world faded…and reassembled, in an entirely different place…


And there was nothing left but the Other’s will, nothing left of Dobby but a distant, screaming whisper, scrabbling at the edges of reality, watching helplessly while his body went through the motions he had been taught – that all his kin had been taught – as their right, as part of their heritage, because they were House Elves in service to High Clan Malfoy, and they would never, ever betray their Family…


He had already betrayed his Master, his Family once, for the sake of Harry Potter, whom he had held in higher esteem than his own Master, his own Place. But he had never intended to betray them again…


The real Dobby watched in despair as the Veil shifted, and shimmered, and dissolved, and finally cleared, to reveal a lush green valley, ancient dark forests, snow capped mountains, and dominating all, the great stone fortress of the Malfoy.


There was a bone chilling laugh from behind him, and a voice intoning ancient, forbidden words – a flash of green light, a moment of pain and darkness, and then…


Nothing.



****************************************



Lucius Malfoy stiffened, lifted his head and turned to the west, to the land he saw every night in his dreams, the land he had spent all his life protecting and preserving. He had passed the responsibility of the Covenant over to Draco, yet even so he still had a strong connection to the land, strong enough that he could feel, even at this distance, even in this place, the shadow that passed through the Veil and set foot on the green, innocent grass…


But there was nothing that he could do. Because another shadow walked, quietly, malevolently, stalking through the misery and pain and horror of Azkaban, soft, soundless footsteps echoing inexorably as they had in his dreams, coming for him…


Everything has a price.


His son’s life, his own life, the life of his land and his people…


And now it was time to pay.


Drawing himself up, centring himself, he called upon every ounce of skill and experience he had ever gained, and drew from his sleeve the one genuine, unselfish gift his wife had ever given him. A painless death, yes, but also a very, very slim chance at another life…



*****************************************



Draco gasped, choked, cried out and crumpled, falling heavily to his knees as he fought desperately for breath, his eyes wide, blank and horrified. Ginny, caught completely by surprise, tried to catch him as he fell, going to her knees with him and grasping him tightly around the waist, giving what little support she could against this unexplained attack.


Her shouts of alarm drew the others running, Dumbledore concerned, Moody infuriated, Snape and Harcourt increasingly pale as they watched Draco try to claw his way to the west-facing window, and began to realise what was going on. Harry’s face was drawn, haggard and completely grey, he clutched the scar on his forehead desperately as alone out of all of them, he shared something of what Draco was seeing…


And then, ashen face drawn into agonising lines of anguish and helplessness, Draco screamed…

A/N - For poor Draco’s sake, and for mine, those who have read Unforgiven should note that upsetting the Malfoy Covenant will not, in this story at least, unleash an ancient enemy on the wizarding world, and nor will it kill Draco. It will, however, destroy the balance of the Land Beyond the Veil, and be a very dire loss of face.


Disclaimer – I don’t own Draco Malfoy. Don’t sue me.





Chapter 20





They came at noon, when the sun was at its highest, when Darkness and Evil should still, by all rights, be cowering in what little shadow was left. But then Nott had always had a keen sense of irony. Under the watchful eyes of their Lord, spurred on by the hatred and the quivering eagerness of His right hand, who had been dreaming of this day for decades and more, the Death Eaters stepped over the House Elf’s stiffening corpse and into a land of legend and myth that lay, slumbering complacently, peacefully, beneath the midday sun.



**********************



Narcissa Beaufort Malfoy Nott stood at the windows of her husband’s townhouse in the centre of wizarding London – a gothic monstrosity of a house, complete with ancient plumbing and drafty corridors – and wondered whether she had gone too far. She had known, from the start, that it would be a very delicate balance between using Nott and actually supporting him, between her own advancement and actual committal to her new husband’s plans. But here she was, no better off than she had been before, married to a man who was very, very close to losing it all, just as Lucius had done…


At the moment of what could be his greatest victory, Nott was the closest he had ever been to absolute defeat. This plan of his balanced on such a delicate, fine edge – the edge between his reason and his hate, between cool analytical ambition and absolute megalomania – that she had very little confidence he could keep his head. She knew Nott, knew him as only the woman who endured his bed could, knew that he coveted everything the Malfoy had, hungered to own, to control, and in the flush of his hatred, to break.


Men were such children.


Well, unless Nott could overcome his own nature, he would bring the full force of a vengeful Malfoy down on his head, and she would not be standing faithfully beside him if he did. All of her life she had been defined by her male relatives – she had been Philippe Beaufort’s daughter, Lucius Malfoy’s wife, Draco’s mother, and now Alexander Nott’s wife. She was sick of it, and eager to be a force in her own right, to play the Game as the Lords played it, and not in the bedroom or the drawing room as had always been her lot.


Not, of course, that there were no female Clan leaders, but as long as Philippe Beaufort ruled his family, there would be no such feminist nonsense in his household. He had had one of Narcisssa’s professors at Beauxbatons – a mudblood – dismissed because Narcissa had admired her and her ideals, and had made the mistake of showing it. After that, she had learned her lesson…


Oh, she had learned it very well.


But now it was time to put other, darker lessons into play.



*************************************



The Castle was burning.


Eldritch green flames licked at the ancient grey stone, tainting the flawless blue sky, sending columns of black smoke high into the atmosphere, so that it could be seen for miles around on all sides, and even from Outside. The Veil had fallen, and the lands that had once sheltered beyond it lay open, vulnerable, and part of mainstream Britain once more…


Black robed figures could be seen everywhere, spreading destruction and fear as they went, but no death yet – not yet. For some strange reason, no death yet…


Nott – for it was he, Draco knew it – stood in the centre of the shaded, tangled confines of the ancient circle of Oaks that was the centre, the very wellspring of Malfoy power, and, arms upraised, black robes eating the light, chanted ancient, horrifying words, malevolent and twisted, that seemed to blot out the very light of the sun itself…


And then the pain began, the…the separation…


His vision wavered as the chant came to a climax, and as Nott finished with a shout, he was…repelled…and something deep within him snapped, and then it all went black.


Draco screamed.



*********************************************



The cell door opened. Standing in the shadows, in the corner of the room, Lucius saw the visitor peer cautiously into the darkness, not risking a lantern or an illuminated wand, and slowly, furtively slip further in. The figure, cloaked and muffled all in smoky grey garments, padded silently – extremely skilfully, actually, Lucius noted with reluctant admiration – towards the bed, where in the oldest trick in the world, Lucius had bunched and shaped the bedding into a reasonably human shape. In the darkness, it would only fool the assassin for a moment – but a moment was all that was needed.


In the barest moment of hesitation, of reassessment and animal adrenaline as he realised he had been tricked, the assassin was off balance for the slightest second, and Lucius struck. He had no wand, and after months of incarceration with no exposure to sunlight or fresh air or exercise of any kind, his reflexes were slow and his strength drained, but he had been planning this for a very long time, with icy determination to drive him and an endless well of hatred to sustain him…


And, unlike the killer, he knew this cell, had paced out every single inch of it, had burned every detail of it onto his mind’s eye, and was intimately familiar with it, even in the darkness. But even so, he was rusty, and something alerted the assassin; his hand and the vicious, sharpened pin it wielded were blocked, held away by an iron grip and he didn’t have the strength to force it.


He twisted, turning, trying to gain a better grip, and the assassin – young, strong, at the peak of his abilities – went with him, kicking his legs out from beneath him, bearing him down to the ground, forcing him down, forcing his wrist down, pinning him to the floor with a forearm across his throat, blocking off his air supply.


Lucius had always prided himself on his self-control, his ability to override his instincts and the urge to panic, the mindless drive to thrash, struggle, scrabble and scratch, to do anything to gain another breath of air. But he was a man, and his mind was stronger than his body, his intellect stronger than his instincts. He held himself still, and they stared at each other, he and the assassin, in a surreal moment of calm. Their lips were drawn back in feral, animal snarls, muscles straining, hearts beating frantically, but Lucius noticed that his eyes were dark, velvet brown, streaked with gold – surprisingly beautiful eyes – and that they were entirely clear, no clouding or dilation to indicate hypnotism, potions or any kind of chemical aides.


A sober, coldblooded killer.


What the assassin saw in Lucius’ eyes, as they began to dim and cloud from lack of air, from the gathering darkness, no one would ever know. For as the darkness gathered at the edges of his consciousness, as the seductive peace began to pull him under, he heard Draco’s distant scream, felt the heavy phantom tread of malevolence on his soul, felt the link that he still shared with the land for which he had shed so much blood…snap.


Closed his eyes as he felt the last, final, desperate surge of strength fill him, infuse his mind and his muscles, and focusing all his concentration he held back, waited, imposed his will on his increasingly insistent body, and went limp. The arm across his throat relaxed fractionally – only fractionally – but it was enough. Maximum tension could only be sustained, even supported by the whole weight of the body, in the forearm for so long before the build up of lactic acid caused cramps and quivering; once it was relaxed the assassin – perhaps the first unwise thing he had done – took a moment to work his arm, and took his mind off his erstwhile victim.


It proved fatal.


Weak, half-strangled, bruised and battered and beaten, Lucius was nonetheless driven to something approaching fanaticism by the increasing peril he felt, by the driving imperative to save his son and his land, and moving within his last surge of strength he came up off the ground with all of the grace and agility he had once had at eighteen. Not expecting any further movement from behind him, the assassin nevertheless almost – almost – turned around in time to avoid Lucius’ blow to his kidneys, then the relentless flurry of other, precisely placed blows and kicks that saw him sink to the ground, whimpering and all but crippled.


No doubt devotees of Queensbury would not have approved, but Lucius had long known that sober, coldblooded killers could not be taken down nicely.


Not wishing to repeat the other man’s mistakes, and in too much pain to play games, he planted his knee on the assassin’s neck, wrested the hat pin from his spasmodic, slackening grip, and stabbed him straight through the heart, twisting the pin, bearing down until he was absolutely sure the other was dead.


Then, aching in countless places, he forced himself back to his feet, stretched painfully, and froze when he felt a wand touch lightly, delicately, against the nape of his neck.



*******************************************



“Poor, poor Lucius,” she purred dulcetly. “You must be getting old.”


Lucius could only laugh, his throat hoarse and scratchy from where it had almost been crushed. “Why am I not surprised, Narcissa?”


The feather light, but potentially dangerous touch of her wand trailed around his neck, healing wherever it touched, down his collarbones and as she moved around in front of him, rested in the hollow of his throat, against the pulse that had yet to calm down to its normal pace. Her cool, beautiful blue eyes surveyed him, skimming over the bruises and the blood and the prison pallor, and down to the still bleeding corpse on the floor. “I see you have made good use of the opportunity I gave you, Lucius. But then you always did land on your feet.”


He didn’t bother feigning surprise, and he was too tired to speculate about her motivations. “What do you want?”


Her eyes were icy, sardonic, and held his with almost masculine directness. “Nott,” she said flatly. “I want him out of the way.”


“And yourself in his place? He, too, has a son.”


“Theodore?” She snorted, dismissed him out of hand. “He is nothing.”


Lucius watched her, mouth quirking wryly, eyes laughing at himself, and the woman he thought he had known for nearly twenty years. Truly, the boy had no chance…


Narcissa stepped aside to let him precede her out of the cell, handed him back his wand and a thick, lined invisibility cloak, and a portkey that would take him as close to Malfoy land as he dared. “Oh, and Lucius,” she said softly. He turned around, raised an eyebrow. “Tell him who sent you.”


He laughed, a little hoarse, even after her healing, and put hand over heart, bowing his head in a gesture of utmost respect. “As you, say,” he said. “Lady.”



****************************************



Arthur Weasley came running out into the corridor, drawn by the agonised scream, his mind racing with images of Death Eater attacks, assassinations, even muggle bombs, only to find Draco Malfoy doubled over, slumped half on the ground and half on his daughter.


So that’s who she was learning from…


Chaos and disorder reigned, but Harcourt’s smooth, modulated voice – not Moody’s – rose over it all, his cool logic calming them, reassuring them that there was no danger, they were not being attacked, there was no need to panic, they hadn’t been found out…


But Snape, usually the most controlled, most imperturbable of them all, was sheet white, his hands shaking and oddly helpless as he watched his protégé gasping for breath, his silver eyes horrified. And Ginny had eyes only for Malfoy – it was as if Harry, pale and gasping as Dumbledore held his hand, didn’t even exist. Arthur wondered whether that was a good thing or not.


“What happened? What did you see, Potter?” Harcourt demanded, because Malfoy was obviously incapable of coherent speech.


The dark haired boy, green eyes haunted, spoke clearly despite his chattering teeth. But then, he’d had a lot of practice at this sort of thing. “There was…there was a castle,” he said, “and it was burning, and there were Death Eaters all around it, waiting…”


“Waiting for what?” Moody asked.


Harry shook his head. “I don’t know. But there were others – in a circle of trees, dark and tangled and creepy…”


Snape and Harcourt exchanged glances – Harcourt grim, Snape pale. Arthur assumed they knew what Harry was talking about.


“And…there was a Death Eater inside the circle, chanting –“


“Which Death Eater?” Snape grated out. “What was he chanting?”


Harry’s lips set mutinously, not appreciating the interjection. “I don’t know,” he said, a little sarcastically. “I’m not on first name basis with the Death Eaters.” Snape’s face blanked, and Harcourt’s eyes narrowed. Moody laughed delightedly.


“What did he look like, Mr Potter? And what was he chanting?” Harcourt’s voice was terrifyingly neutral.


Harry’s eyes widened, hearing that tone from an Auror, and he quickly reconsidered his position. “He was…dark haired, and stocky, and probably around forty or so, and he was chanting some kind of Latin spell. I don’t know the words, but it was very, very dark – it called shadows, and they seemed to…to choke the trees, somehow, and then something…snapped.”


“A shadow that choked the trees.” Moody repeated flatly. “And something snapped.”


Harry nodded, but the old man’s gaze shifted to Harcourt, who was, in his turn, watching Malfoy, who seemed to be regaining some of his strength – enough, at least, to lift his head and focus on them properly. “Yes,” he said softly. “Something snapped.” He forced himself to stand up, dusted himself off, and – almost as an afterthought – held out his hand to Ginny, pulled her back onto her feet, as if he had done it many times before.


Harry didn’t like it.


“Nott,” Draco said casually, as casually as he had stolen the scene and the momentum of the conversation. “He has invaded my land, burned my castle down, and desecrated my Grove.”


“Your land?” Harry asked incredulously.


Draco ignored him, ignored them all really, and turned and walked down the corridor towards the Great Hall. Ginny blinked, then leaped to follow him. Once again, Snape and Harcourt looked at each other, seemed to speak without need of words as all Slytherins – High Clan especially – did at their most irritating and secretive, and then followed after him as well. Exasperated, the rest of them followed suit, trailing after the fair-haired boy – no, not a boy, not anymore – to see what they could see.


Down in the Great Hall, voices were raised and words were clear, blunt and less than genteel; to Arthur’s amused eyes, it was an altercation most unbecoming of such highly ranked Slytherin aristocrats. Draco was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, the skirts of his robe flapping agitatedly; Snape and Harcourt were united in their disapproval, expressions equally grim and grave. Ginny was sitting on the sidelines and watching everything with great interest – but when she looked up and met Arthur’s eyes, her own were grim and troubled. There was nothing truly amusing in this at all – it was deadly serious.


“If you go,” Snape said direly, “it will be the ruin of everything we have worked so hard to achieve. You cannot risk yourself in this manner – you know what he is planning. It will destroy everything.”


Draco snarled. “And if I don’t go, it will be the ruin of everything I am, everything I ever will be. You know I have to go – he’s threatening my land, my people. I can’t stay away.”


“As you said, he’s threatening. He won’t destroy it or them; he wants to trap you, draw you out into the open and eliminate you, not make an implacable enemy of you by prematurely destroying the land beyond the Veil.”


“But there is no Veil any more,” Draco said violently. “He has destroyed it, brought down our last defence, made us vulnerable to everything and everyone.”


Arthur frowned. That was the first absolutely irrational, irrelevant thing he had ever heard Malfoy say.


“Draco,” Harcourt said insistently. “You cannot allow yourself to be drawn in this way. You know it’s a trap. You know it’s dangerous. You know he won’t destroy the land. Then why are you so insistent on rushing in recklessly, dangerously, and making such a fool of yourself?”


Snape concurred. “It’s an entirely Gryffindoric impulse, and you know it. Stay here. Wait him out. Don’t be foolish.”


But Draco wouldn’t listen, and no amount of cool, Slytherin logic, emotional persuasion, or ground out threats and orders could sway him from his completely uncharacteristic streak of stubborn recklessness. “No!” He shouted it – Merlin, he actually shouted it – at the two men who had been such reliable mentors, who had steadied his course when he had been so uncertain after Lucius’ conviction. “I can’t wait here while he has even one godsdamned foot on my land! I will not watch my people die while I am still alive to prevent it!” And then he stormed off, dragging an old battered ring brooch, worn smooth by the touch of many, many hands over the centuries – a portkey? – out of his pockets.


Snape and Harcourt both looked considerably shocked; Snape was swearing angrily, Harcourt merely looked furious, no doubt at the potential loss of all that suppressed energy and passion for the Order. Arthur thought he heard Snape mutter something about “bloody emotional Malfoy…” under his breath as they both, once again, followed after their leader, who was in no state to even think of looking after himself.


But no one, not Arthur, or Draco, or his two more sober mentors – or anyone else, for that matter – saw that Ginny, too, slipped away after them…



***************************************



Lucius, too, was outraged by the invasion of his lands. Older, wiser, with more cunning and ruthlessness than his son, his reaction had been no different; there were some things in this life that could not be compromised, and this was one of them. But even so, being older, wiser and more cunning than his son, he was not going to rush impetuously into action: not against such overwhelming odds.


One man, slow and sore, against approximately twenty highly trained, ruthless killers. He could raise local support, but for some reason the Death Eaters seemed reluctant to kill, and he didn’t want to incite them to it; if the villagers kept their heads down and stayed out of sight in the lands they knew far better than the invaders, there would be little need for violence. Nott seemed to have no desire to start a vicious guerrilla war, at least not until it became absolutely necessary.


Lucius thought he knew what the man was waiting for, and it made his blood run cold. He hadn’t thought Nott would have the patience, or the cold blooded nerve to pull such a thing off; still didn’t think it, and that was a frightening thought, because it led to disaster no matter which way Nott chose. He hoped that Draco had the good sense to utilise at least some caution, when he came rushing to the rescue.


Because that would make his own task so much easier…



**************************************

Chapter 21




“What the hell is going on, Weasley?” Moody shouted, lumbering down the stairs just as the three Slytherins disappeared. “Where are they going?”


Arthur looked at the old, formidable Auror. “Draco’s gone off to save his people,” he said slowly, still not believing it himself, “and the others have gone to make sure he doesn’t get killed.”


Lupin looked incredulous. “Draco charged off? Are you sure?”


Arthur nodded. “Oh yes.” He spread his hands out wide, and laughed helplessly. “Snape and Harcourt weren’t pleased…”


No one said anything.


“Well then,” Dumbledore said quietly, the voice of reason. “Let’s get ready, and follow after them.”


“It’s a trap,” Moody growled warningly.


“Then we will spring it with full knowledge of what we are entering into,” Dumbledore said, with great assurance.


Arthur, Lupin and Moody exchanged dubious looks. “Snape and Harcourt seemed extremely concerned,” Arthur said diplomatically. “They advised Draco to stay here and wait, that Nott would not stay on Malfoy land if no one came to challenge him.”


“Do you feel that Alexander Nott has the requisite self-control for such delicacy?” Dumbledore asked gently. “He has not Lucius Malfoy’s…” he paused, searching, “discipline. I don’t believe he will be able to restrain himself.”


“We can’t go into a situation and a location of which we have no concrete knowledge,” Lupin argued. “It would be madness.”


“We shouldn’t go into the situation at all,” Moody grumbled. “It’s Malfoy’s problem, and he’s seen fit to reject us. Let him and his two puppet masters look after their own problems.”


Arthur did not usually like to contradict Moody, being more than a little intimidated by the man, but this time he was compelled to speak up. “It is not just Malfoy’s problem, or even the High Clan’s,” he said, not very convincingly. “If Nott succeeds in killing the last scion of House Malfoy and conquering his land, in suborning his Grove, it will be a huge symbolic victory. All the fence sitters will flock to him. If we can prevent that, and show Malfoy that he can’t do everything on his own…”


“Why?” Lupin asked with devastating simplicity.


Dumbledore looked at Arthur with great interest, as if he was very interested in how he would answer that question… “Because the Malfoy are the focal point of the High Clan and the old families. And because, as Lucius has been flaunting all these years, they truly are very, very powerful – it’s not just Slytherin prejudice. If we can strip away all Draco Malfoy’s pride, all his arrogance, and convince him that it’s not just a matter of best interests, but survival and absolute necessity to join with us…”


“I thought best interests were all that Slytherins cared about,” Moody sneered. “It’s certainly all Draco cares about.”


Arthur smiled a little ruefully. “But Malfoy are not conventional Slytherins. I’m sure Snape has told you of their tendency to be…emotional…at the most inconvenient times…” And then he turned to Moody. “Harcourt misjudged him.”


“Why are you doing this, Arthur?” Dumbledore asked. “I have never known you to be a Malfoy fan.”


“Yes, Weasley. Why the sudden about face?” Moody stalked closer, suspicious that Arthur had suddenly turned coat. “What did they offer you?”


Arthur’s rueful smile twisted. Good old Moody. Constant
vigilance.


There was a clattering of footsteps, and they looked up to see Harry come down the stairs in a rush, his hair sticking everywhere, glasses askew and face worried. “Where’s Ginny?” he demanded, frantic. “We can’t find her anywhere…



**********************************



Ginny had been practicing Apparating over the holidays, on the sly; she was glad for it now, crouching in the underbrush and watching Draco and his two – advisors? mentors? she didn’t really know what to call them – as they themselves crouched, and watched the Death Eaters on guard over what she assumed was the border to Malfoy land. She had seen astonishment, dismay and rage pass in quick succession over Draco’s face as they approached, and wondered what it was he saw – or rather, what he didn’t see.


She remembered his words – there is no Veil anymore; he has destroyed it – and remembered the spectacular display of temper and passion in the argument in the Great Hall, where it seemed as though Draco had willingly stripped off his impassive mask to show the very deep, very dangerous currents underneath.


That show of emotion, more than anything, convinced her that she needed to follow him, to witness whatever action it was he was rushing into – she had to see whether Slytherin ideals such as logic, reason, and calculation actually stood up in the real world of blood, mud and adrenaline, or whether it was solely reserved for drawing rooms and discussions over brandy and cigars.


She had to see whether Draco himself practiced what he was teaching her.



*******************************



Curious, earnest Ginny overlooked one small, vitally important fact – Draco was sixteen years old, and he had never, ever had to play the Game on a practical level, in the mud, blood, and adrenaline. All he knew was what his father and mentors had taught him, and he was already beginning to doubt the infallibility of that advice…



************************************



“This is madness,” Snape hissed in Draco’s ear. “You’ll kill us all.” On his other side, Harcourt nodded in agreement. They had apparated to the thick, old forest that ran all the way up to the edge of the Veil – or rather, where the Veil used to be. Because, as he had said, as he had known, it was no longer there – the barrier that had maintained the illusion of a wide, endless abyss was gone, and land that had been hidden away for thousands of years was now indisputably there, for all to see. To Draco, it was a shocking violation of his view of the world, as if some basic, fundamental fact had suddenly been disproved.


It spurred his temper, inflamed the strange, alien streak of recklessness he had discovered within himself.


It was not right.


Draco ignored his two would-be advisors. He knew they were right, but… “I don’t care,” he hissed. “I’m going through with it anyway.” He was getting tired of them telling him that he was being foolish; he knew damn well that this was reckless, impulsive and entirely stupid. But it was also necessary, in a way that he simply could not put into words. It fell into the category of things the Malfoy must do. “You can stay behind, if you want,” he said, knowing full well they were obliged to come along, if only to protect the splendid achievement of everything they had spent so long working towards…


He was not the fulfilment of Slytherin High Clan hopes and dreams. He was not a saviour, or a prophet, or the Boy who Lived.


He was the Lord of the Malfoy: nothing more, and nothing less.


And as the Lord of the Malfoy, he had certain responsibilities, certain duties that were inviolable; Nott knew this, he was sure, and planned to use them to trap him. But he could not, would not allow the invasion of his lands, the desecration of his Grove and of his Covenant. Generations of his ancestors would turn their backs on him in shame and condemnation…


He would take back his lands and his Covenant, no matter what the cost.


But Snape – stubborn, determined Snape – was not so accepting of the realities of being a Malfoy. As Draco shifted his weight, preparing to move, Snape grabbed his wrist, holding him back, pulling him down. Slowly, Draco turned his head, nostrils flaring, to gaze blankly down at the long, strong fingers; he turned his eyes back to Snape, no longer blank –


“Let go of me.”


Slowly – oh so slowly – Snape released his grip.



************************************



Alexander Nott was a triumphant man. His ingenious plan to get through the Veil had worked, and so had his – relatively peaceful – conquest of the Malfoy land and people. Even the spell, given to him by the Dark Lord with great and malicious glee had done exactly what it was supposed to do – that is, it had broken the bond between land and lord and laymen; smashed the Covenant that had sustained this land for so many centuries.


It was sure to bring young Draco running.


Now all he had to do was wait, and everything he had ever wanted would fall into his fingers. Lucius was rotting in Azkaban, and he, Alexander Nott, whom the golden child of Slytherin had always thought of as not good enough, held onto everything that Lucius had ever owned, had ever valued. He controlled it. He had the power, the intoxicating power of life and death, destruction and complete devastation over these people Malfoy so loved.


And it was taking everything he had, every single ounce of patience he had ever possessed, to keep things relatively light, for now. Even his eager, bloodthirsty minions were anxious for a little action, but he kept them under control, until afterwards, when they could do exactly as they liked. Because by then, it wouldn’t matter a single jot what happened to the weak, helpless people of a leaderless land…


He chuckled as he watched the magical fire slowly consume the great, towering stone Castle, reducing two and a half millennia of rule into ashes and rubble.



******************************



Of course, not all of the invading Death Eaters shared Nott’s views – what was his grand, subtle plan to them? All they knew was that he had told them no one was to be harmed or killed, and nothing but the Castle was to be destroyed. That was all well and good, but did he really think that they would accept those restrictions? They were the Death Eaters, the chosen soldiers of the Dark Lord’s cause, and by all the gods they deserved to have some recompense for their efforts.


And, well, there were some things Nott didn’t need to know.


Walden McNair had partaken of Lucius Malfoy’s hospitality
before – once or twice, and on sufferance, he knew – and had heated memories of a woman of whom he had once caught a fleeting glimpse, in one of those villages Malfoy guarded from outsiders as if they were actually precious, and as if he actually took his position as Lord seriously.


If McNair had had control of villages of peasant women that looked like that, you could be sure that he would take his rights very seriously…


When Nott had first attacked, the villagers had reacted extremely quickly, fleeing into the forest, almost as if they had been expecting this – ridiculous, of course, but this was Malfoy land they were talking of – and McNair had been given the thankless chance of retrieving them peacefully, or at least without causing too much harm. They were to be hostages, Nott said grandly – but even so, would it not be better to kill them all, or at least some of them, to push the Malfoy boy into hasty action?


It was ridiculous. And McNair, chosen soldier of the Dark Lord’s cause, was very good at denigrating and ignoring that which he found ridiculous. So, when faced with another glimpse of the nubile peasant, fleeing headlong through the woods, he gave chase, his black-cloaked brothers following, and ran her down to earth in the best sport he had had in years…


Only to come face to face with another, infinitely more deadly predator.


“Avada Kedavra,” spoke a cool, remorseless voice, and again, “Avada Kedavra,” as the next Death Eater after him stumbled into the ambush, and again, and again, and again, merciless, unyielding, and fatal, every single time.


The girl, trembling but exultant, now that her faith had been justified, turned to face her rescuer and smiled fiercely. “I knew you would come,” she said.


Lucius smiled crookedly.



*****************************



The Death Eaters left to guard the entrance were not, contrary to what Snape and Harcourt thought, concealed in the trees, nor were they hiding behind invisibility cloaks ready to capture them all and drag them before Nott and the Dark Lord. Rather, they were slumped motionless on the grassy slope, limbs twisted and tumbled, stiff and waxen in the after affects of a fatal Dark curse.


With analytical, detached interest, Snape nudged one of the corpses with his boot, turning it over onto its back, flicking his wand to remove the featureless, anonymous mask and reveal the face underneath, contorted and hideous in its expression of mingled astonishment and fear.


Marcus Flint.


He sighed. Coming up beside him, Draco looked down at the man – boy – he had known, before, as a passable Keeper, an enthusiastic captain and a clumsy intriguer. He had been no match for his opponent; that much was sure. Seeing his look of inquiry, interpreting it correctly, Snape shrugged and said, “This has the look of your father’s work, were it possible…”


Harcourt made a noise deep in the back of his throat, perhaps agreement, perhaps disgust, perhaps disapproval. It was hard to tell. “He will never get out of Azkaban alive. He knew it, when he chose to turn.”


Draco scowled, stung by the mention of his father. “Whoever it was, they opened the way for us…” He stopped.


Stiffened.


Turned around.


“What the hell are you doing here?”



*******************************



The taste of her own fear and revulsion was acrid in her mouth, but she would not – would not – reveal just how horrified she had been by the two corpses, even if she had no doubt that Harcourt and Snape, at least, could tell. Draco, for once, looked to be wrapped up in his own concerns, too preoccupied to notice the small signs of her distress. She wondered how he had noticed her, despite his other worries.


“I’ve come to help you,” she said, defensively. She didn’t see the way that Snape and Harcourt exchanged looks, and nor did Draco.


“Help me?” he repeated, incredulous. “How could you possibly help me? Go home, Weasley.”


She scowled. “No. I will not be sent home like some…child!” She had not come all this way, been frightened almost out of her wits, to turn around and go home now.


Harcourt’s voice was calm and logical. “Be reasonable, Miss Weasley. It will help us more to know that you are safe.” Wise and experienced in the ways of Gryffindors, he did not bring emotion or gender into the issue.


“I want to learn about Death Eaters,” she protested. “Where and how else will I get a better chance? You know that eventually I have to go beyond the theoretical.”


“This is too close, and too real. It is too dangerous.” Snape was beginning to regret his impulsive decision to throw Draco and the girl together. Mutual support and companionship had grown just as he imagined it would, but Miss Weasley was, unfortunately, still all too eager to rush out and put herself in danger. If she died…


But Ginny had had enough of others allowing her space and room. “All my life, people have been telling me to stay out of harm’s way. I have just as much right to my own decisions, my own choices, and if necessary my own mistakes as anyone else. You can’t deny me that…” She turned, unconsciously imploring, to Draco. “You’re always talking about strength, about making my own decisions and sticking by them. Don’t you understand? Strength of will, strength of mind, standing on my own – this is what I want, and I am prepared to pay for it.”


Once more, Snape and Harcourt exchanged glances. Yes, ‘take what you want, and pay for it’ was one of Slytherin’s central teachings. But they had lived long enough, seen enough loss and pain and revenge to know that, sometimes, the price was paid by somebody else…



******************************



It was Hermione, surprisingly, who provided the answer to the puzzle. Certainly, she had been given enough clues over the last term – Ginny’s new interest in subjects that were definitely not standard Gryffindor fare, her new confidence in herself and her own abilities, and the disturbing similarities in behaviour she displayed, from time to time, to Draco Malfoy – more than enough to figure it out.


Ginny hadn’t been sneaking out to meet a boyfriend without Ron’s knowledge, she’d been learning from Malfoy. That was why she’d seemed so comfortable with him before – they must have been meeting for weeks, at least. And that was why she had been so distressed when Malfoy had collapsed so suddenly.


She’d followed him.


This revelation – confirmed by subsequent evidence – caused consternation among the various members of the Order: only Dumbledore and, oddly, Mr. Weasley seemed unsurprised. But that did not mean that they were unaffected.


“That confirms it,” Mr. Weasley said glumly. “We must go in after them, now.”


Mrs. Weasley agreed, glaring fiercely around at the others, red faced and adamant in defence of her youngest child. “I don’t care what quarrel you have with Snape or Malfoy, but we’re talking about my daughter now. We can’t abandon her.”


“I’d like to know what the silly chit was thinking, following him in the first place.” Moody growled under his breath. “The Malfoy are nothing but trouble.”


Harry, Ron and the rest of the Weasley children scowled. Usually, they would have been more than happy to let Malfoy handle his own troubles – a sentiment no doubt shared by all of those present at the meeting – but this time it was different. Despite her deception, whatever foolish choices she had made, Ginny was their sister…


Professor Lupin sighed and wearily massaged the bridge of his nose. “I understand the necessity of rescuing Ginny, but even so…” he seemed embarrassed, “it will be a very delicate operation…”


“My dear friends,” said Dumbledore gently, “why are we arguing? Surely Miss Weasley’s life comes before all other considerations? If you must have another reason to be convinced, think of it this way – we now have a completely valid, utterly inarguable reason to go and confront Nott; one that has nothing at all to do with the High Clan. Is that not enough?”



******************************



Eventually, Draco, Snape and Harcourt capitulated, and allowed Ginny to accompany them – on the understanding that she did exactly as they ordered, when they ordered it, and that she would seek safety at even the slightest sign of danger. Harcourt had no wish to face Arthur Weasley with the news that his beloved daughter was dead, and he was responsible for her death, and Snape had no wish to see her die, and Draco’s innocence with her.


So much rode on this one young girl’s shoulders…


Unerringly, Draco led them towards the centre of his land, towards Nott. The black, billowing smoke from the burning Castle was impossible to miss, and yet Draco did not look at it; the clouded shadowy miasma that crept through the forests, radiating out from the Grove was everywhere, and yet Draco pointedly ignored it. He was focused, single-mindedly – perhaps obsessively – on his target, on the instigator of all this chaos and ruin, and would not deviate from his path, no matter what arguments his advisors put forwards. They saw the girl frown as she observed Draco’s behaviour, and watched as she came to her own conclusions.


Young or not, Gryffindor or not, she was no fool.


Every so often, Draco clutched at his chest, breathing hoarsely, his face pale and glistening with beads of sweat. He refused to stop, pushing them onwards as fast as they could go, but they could all see the damage that the Grove’s violation had done. He was tiring, his strength waning – but still he pushed on.


This whole situation had escalated far beyond their control. The political machinations they had spun so delicately, so carefully, had been torn apart by Nott’s sudden, premature strike – it had come to action, to violence far earlier than they had thought, far earlier than they had ever imagined in their worst nightmares. Draco was in no way ready for the role he had been forced to play – he was not ready to kill, was still young and innocent enough to have ideals, to harbour dreams and secret inclinations towards heroics.


That had been perfectly well, when they had been trying to restore his place as the rightful centre of the High Clan. But now that it had come to this, to the point where all the plotting and careful manipulation in the world can be destroyed by brute, animal violence…


This was the very reason Lucius had appointed Snape Draco’s guardian, and manipulated Harcourt into taking up his cause. Because Draco was not yet ready for extreme, hands on pragmatism…



******************************



“This way, my lord,” the girl beckoned, moving through the forest with the greatest of ease. “The invaders are heading this way…”



****************************



Malfoy was coming – walking straight into his father’s clutches, as Theodore had known he would. Really, the Malfoy were so easy to predict, once one knew the way they thought, the secrets they kept so secret from the rest of the world. It was as his father had said – they were not invulnerable, they had weaknesses and foibles just like other, supposedly lesser men.


And if Theodore had failed to find Draco’s weak spots earlier in the year, well, he had not been ready then, had not perfectly understood the nature and stakes of the Game they were playing. Back then, he had not fully understood that niceties didn’t matter; what really counted was victory, no matter the methods or the cost.


Take what you want, and pay for it.


But his father had taught him the error of his ways. Oh, yes, he knew better now…


And Draco Malfoy, who knew all the niceties, all the fine points, who had such impeccable manners and was such a perfect example of the High Clan, would learn the true meaning of power – that the finest façade was nothing, absolutely nothing, unless there was something backing it up. Today, very, very soon, his father would teach him the last and most important lesson of his life – and he would watch, and laugh…


And then no one – no one – would sneer at Theodore Nott, son of Alexander Nott, ever again.


An insistent voice broke into his thoughts, interrupting his reverie, and he turned around to see his father’s face turn thunderous as he talked to one of his scouts. There was a knot of Death Eaters surrounding them, and suddenly there was an air of tension, of worry in the air.


“Father?” Theodore asked. “What is it?”


His father rounded on him with a snarl, but subsided when he shrank back instinctively. “Don’t worry, boy. A little bit of local resistance, a little stronger than we expected…”


But even Theodore could see that it was more than that – the scout was genuinely worried, and his father was far angrier than ‘a little local resistance’ warranted. Nott, seeing his dissatisfaction with the answer, sighed exaggeratedly and ruffled his hair, all condescension in front of his followers. “Malfoy evidently has some sense – he brought his two puppet masters with him.”


“Dumbledore and Harcourt, Father?”


Nott’s mouth twisted. “No, boy, Harcourt and Snape.”


The boy was stunned. Evidently, he had not had even the slightest inkling of Snape’s true allegiance – well, today’s developments would make it abundantly clear where and with whom he stood. But that had not been the disquieting news that had upset him so much that even his blockheaded son had noticed it.


There was indeed local resistance – quite effective, devastating local resistance, to be precise. And the signature and style of the attacks – their devastating, merciless efficiency – all pointed to one undeniable fact.


Lucius Malfoy.


Gods damn it all, the bastard was still alive! How in all hells had he managed it?


For a moment, a primitive thrill ran down his spine, lifting the hair on the back of his neck, but then he brought himself firmly back under control. He was a man like any other men. He could bleed, and he could die, and most of all, he was not invincible. He had fallen before, and he could fall again, permanently this time.


And if, as he knew deep down in his bones, Malfoy was coming straight for him just as unerringly – if a little less recklessly – as his son was, it was nothing to worry about. It would make everything easier – two birds with one stone.



*****************************



As they came closer and closer to the desecrated Grove where Nott – in the worst possible insult – had set up his headquarters, Draco could feel the watchers in the trees, feel their eyes measuring and evaluating him and everything about him. Only this time it wasn’t the detached analysis of High Clan eyes searching for weakness or strength – these eyes were his, concerned only with his ability to protect and defend them and theirs…


And despite their searching quality, there was no real doubt that he could.


He was the Malfoy, and they were his people, and he had come to protect them instead of staying safe at Hogwarts; it reinforced the magic, reaffirmed the faith and fixed him firmly in their eyes as the Lord. And, buoyed by their faith, driven by the strong, unfettered emotion that was the curse and strength of Clan Malfoy, he was not thinking of politics, or best interests, or even the Game…


He would do what he had to do. And he would let nothing stand in his way.



******************************

A/N - The quote 'Take what you want, and pay for it' is from Robert Jordan's 'The Shadow Rising'.



Chapter 22




Finally, the Order of the Phoenix agreed to take action.


Their first priority would, of course, be Miss Weasley’s safety, and only after that would they tackle Alexander Nott and his band of Death Eaters, supporting Messrs Harcourt, Malfoy and Snape in liberating the villagers and the land that had been so unlawfully taken over. The only reason Moody was persuaded to take such drastic action was that, for the first time, the Dark Lord had moved towards actually conquering tangible territory, rather than the usual terrorist, guerrilla tactics – if, Dumbledore argued, he managed to somehow rebuild the Veil, then nothing and no one would be able to follow him behind the magical barrier to his new land and stronghold…


In the hopes of preventing that, they assembled – Moody, Tonks, Shacklebolt, Lupin, Bill, Charlie, Fred and George Weasley, Ron and Harry and all others who could be spared – and, after a cursory examination of the map, apparated to the edge of Malfoy land.


Moody was the first to see the tumbled, discarded corpses. He made a guttural, disapproving grunt at the sight of Marcus Flint’s upturned, blind face, but then looked deeper, looked at the actual kill itself…


And swore savagely under his breath.


“What is it?” Charlie asked, curious.


Moody scowled and shook his head. “Nothing,” he said curtly, and continued on, muttering under his breath. The others followed, exchanging dubious looks; Shacklebolt frowned as he walked past the corpses, as if he had glimpsed something of what Moody had seen, but whatever he saw he kept to himself.


Crossing cautiously over the border, they walked through a deep, thickly wooded forest, silent and still – but it was not a quiet, peaceful stillness. This was a deeply uneasy, unquiet silence that marked very, very deep anger…


“The trees,” whispered Bill. “They’re…they’re angry…”


Tonks nodded, looking about her with wide eyes. “The land itself is rebelling…” her voice dropped. “It won’t accept Nott’s presence…”


And it was easy to understand why – even if you didn’t believe in sentient forests and magical Covenants. Though they walked through silent winter greenery, they could smell smoke in the distance, and a darker, more terrible smell; through a small gap in the tree trunks they could see some of the damage the invaders – who had purported to be non-violent – had done to those few that they had been able to find…


Lupin remembered Dumbledore’s words earlier that day. “He has not Lucius Malfoy’s…discipline. I don’t think he will be able to restrain himself…”


Or others, apparently. Even if Nott himself believed in his own course of non-violence, it was apparent that others under his command did not. Luckily, the damage was – relatively – small.


Even so, this did not bode well at all.


“Can you find any traces of them?” Moody asked.


Lupin, who had learned over the years to accept and even occasionally embrace his lycanthropy, turned to look back at his leader wryly. “Of whom, sir? Both parties are headed straight towards the middle of the forest.”


“You’re sure?” He looked sceptical, and his magical eye whirled, searching the trees. “Both parties?”


Lupin nodded. He had known Moody for a very long time: the old man was cantankerous, rude and utterly paranoid, but he was a professional – there was no one better. Oh, there were younger, stronger, more agile Aurors, some of whom were more magically skilled, or even more ruthless, but none who had his experience, or his instincts. And right now, those instincts were twitching…


But whatever it was, he wasn’t ready to reveal it yet. “Let’s go.” And with that, they moved out, following everyone else to the centre, where all the action would take place.



**************************************



Some fifteen peasants sat on the grass of their own sacred grove, huddled into a pathetic group under the cruel, malicious eyes of their Death Eater captors. Nott enjoyed the sight far more than he should have – enjoyed the wariness and the fear, poorly hidden under bravado and defiance – but was still infuriated by the irrational faith these villagers had in their Lords. They knew that Draco was coming, and probably some of them knew of Lucius’ covert activities – an irritant, but a dangerous one, when ten – ten! – of his twenty men had been killed already.


That was why the remaining ten were gathered here, where it was all but certain they would come – both of them. Five to guard and threaten the hostages, five to rid young Master Malfoy of his guard dogs, and, most of all, to watch for Lucius. The man was a renegade, and therefore dangerous, but he had one weakness which he shared with his son – he cared about his people, and he wanted to preserve and uphold that ridiculous faith.


Nott was determined that this time, there would be no mistakes. He was old enough, experienced enough, and had learned from enough of his – and others’ – mistakes to know that simple, ruthless efficiency was the best route. There would be no grandstanding, no gloating, and no stereotypical self-aggrandisement. He was not Voldemort.


He would simply kill them.


Only afterwards, when he looked down at their cold, stiff corpses, would he let himself bask in his triumph.



****************************************



Even through his unwavering, single-minded determination he could see the damage around him, could sense, with senses still raw from the desecration, the scars the Death Eaters left in their wake; no doubt it was no more than had been done in other places, to other people, but this was his place, and his people…


It was hypocritical in the extreme, of course. But Draco cared nothing for hypocrisy at the moment – all he felt was a driving determination to confront Nott, to punish him, to kill him for his crimes against the Malfoy. Yes, Draco was prepared to kill. The hot, pounding rush of his blood was primitive and unsophisticated, instinctive and intoxicating; he felt more alive now than he ever had in his whole life.


Because he had a Purpose.


Because he had left all the suffocating intrigue behind, and now was the time for action; it was…it was pure. There were no considerations beyond that of his Purpose, no thought of consequences, or repercussions, or how to capitulate on the aftermath, no matter which way it went.


And then, in the next moment, he found himself face down on the ground, winded and wheezing, the breath knocked out of him by a sudden weight…


“What the hell…?” he tried to croak, but Snape – yes, it was Snape – pushed his head further down into the forest floor, with a hissed admonition to be silent, and to stay down if he wanted to live. It was only then that he realised the ground where he had been standing was now black and scorching, and that Snape had thrown himself bodily at Draco, knocking him over and undoubtedly saving his life…


Somebody had tried to incinerate him.


He didn’t have time to be indignant. Ginny landed beside him with an undignified grunt and a muffled curse, and then there was a great deal of shouting and flashing lights, smoke and noise and hair-raising magic; it was so confusing that he could take very little in, but he thought he could see five shadowy outlines through the trees – he assumed they were the Death Eaters.


Snape and Harcourt, however, seemed to have no doubts about what was going on – as soon as they had realised the threat, they had reacted immediately; first by getting Ginny and himself out of danger, and then by turning to fight, throwing curses and dodging the ones thrown at them with an expertise and surety that spoke of both the highest training and a great deal of bitterly earned experience…


But even so, they were two against five, and hampered by the fact that they had two non-combatants to protect – slowly, but surely, they would be pushed farther back, and farther in, until they were back to back and could retreat no more, and then they would be slaughtered. Even with his ears ringing, his extra senses – those instincts that made him a wizard, that allowed him to sense and manipulate magic – overloading from all the input and his eyes misled and confused by the distortions, he could see that. And suddenly, he saw himself, face down on the icy ground, shivering, quivering, sheltering while two men faced almost certain death to protect him as he did nothing…


It was not how he wanted to die.


And nor was it how he wanted to live.


Forcing himself up on his hands and knees, and then onto his own legs, he gripped his wand as hard as he could in his suddenly sweaty palm, tried to ignore the fact that his hand was shaking and his knuckles white –


And stepped forward to into real, life-threatening danger, for perhaps the first time in his life.



*************************************



Ginny tried, too late, to hold him back. Before she could react, he had forced himself up and towards Snape’s side – the older man was tiring, his reflexes slowing, but Draco was young, strong, fresh, and above all, he was angry… She had never thought to see Draco Malfoy fired up. It was something she expected of her brothers, or Harry, but most certainly not of smooth, cool, manipulative, Slytherin Draco. But hadn’t he told her, during one of their first encounters?


All the bravado in the world was useless, unless there was something behind it to back it up. Was this not another type of strength? When all else – all the cold, sophisticated High Clan logic – was gone, and there was nothing of substance left, not even a façade, the only thing to fall back on was force. As Snape had so sneeringly put it once: brute, animal force. He had been sneering at Nott and the Death Eaters at the time, she knew, but, as a curse whizzed over her head and smashed into a tree just behind her, showering her with snow and fragments of bark and leaf, she had to admit that at the moment, animal force seemed to be very powerful…


Gryffindor to the bone, she screwed up her courage and resolve, clenching her fists, and crawled out of the sheltering bushes to see what was going on. With Draco at their side, Snape and Harcourt seemed to be prevailing – the number of curses and hexes sent their way seemed to be decreasing, and they were advancing and gaining ground on their enemies – at least, that was what Ginny thought was happening.


She had no real experience with such actions, and her one experience of a battle comparable to this one had been utterly chaotic. With hindsight, she had realised that she had been very, very lucky to come out of that battle at the Ministry alive. And that conflict, hide and seek in the cluttered, confusing surroundings of the Ministry, had been very different from this direct, brutal forest ambush where the only – rather dubious – cover was behind trees and bushes and snowdrifts.


There was a last flurry of curses exchanged, and then, suddenly, it was all over. The silence was eerie after the horrifying din of the battle, broken only by low moans and whimpers, and the ringing in her ears; emotionless, Snape and Harcourt strode across the devastated clearing to the fallen forms of the five Death Eaters as if they had done this a thousand times before – and perhaps they had – to make sure they were dead, and put them out of their misery if they weren’t.


They were professionals. They had seen and done things like this before, were accustomed to it, had become jaded and hardened by their experiences. But Draco… Draco was standing over the body of one of the Death Eaters, his face pale and colourless as he stared blankly at it, as if he couldn’t quite understand what had just happened. Harcourt, concerned by his silence, walked over to him and asked a quiet question, but he only tossed his head, an oddly jerky motion, and stumbled – stumbled – away, to lean against a tree and retch violently, throwing up the entire contents of his stomach.



***************************************



“Your first kill, Malfoy? Don’t worry, it’ll become easier…”



***************************************



Moody held up a hand, calling for a halt. His eyes were distant as he listened to the faint, distant clamour on the wind.


“What’s going on, sir?” Ron asked nervously.


Bill’s forehead was creased, his eyes narrowed. “Sounds like a skirmish,” he said, deliberately casual. He looked at Charlie, who had always been his closest brother. “Local resistance, do you think?”


Charlie knew him well enough to read between the lines. Ron was no fool, but he did tend to be very protective of their sister; he blamed himself for not seeing what was going on with Ginny and Malfoy, for not suspecting how far she was straying from the conventional Gryffindor path. He didn’t need to believe that she was probably in the middle of a firefight right now…


Moody gave them both a narrow, sceptical look, but didn’t contradict them. “Right. From all I’ve heard of Malfoy’s people, they’re not helpless; some of them would have fought back. They’re probably fighting all the harder because they know he’s here…”


“How would they know he’s here?” That was George, ever curious.


Tonks laughed shortly. “Weasley, these people have been here for generations beyond number. You can’t live in a place for so long without developing some kind of awareness of it. If they’re paying any attention at all, they’ll most certainly have detected Malfoy’s presence; I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re aware of us, too.”


“How do you know so much about the Malfoy, Tonks?” Ron
was scowling belligerently. He didn’t like talk of strange bonds and mystic covenants, or, at the moment, anything that had to do with Malfoy.


Tonks looked briefly uncomfortable. “My mum was a Black before she married my dad. She might have thrown over her High Clan origins, but she made sure I learned something of it…” she grimaced. “And Harcourt has taken it upon himself to try and teach me what I missed out on…”


Fred grinned. “It doesn’t look like it’s working.”


“No.” Tonks laughed out loud. “No, it’s not; and I’m determined it won’t. I like being a Gryffindoric half-blood, and not even Dane Harcourt himself can make me change my mind.”


“Come on, enough talk,” Moody growled. “Let’s keep going.”


Grumbling good naturedly, the others continued walking.



******************************



Malfoy’s villagers were indeed aware of their presence. Glittering silver eyes, cold and set, observed them as they made their way towards the Grove – their intervention was not entirely unexpected, now that he had seen Miss Weasley travelling with his son, and indeed, their presence might prove to be quite convenient, in the end…


As for the Order’s continued interest in Malfoy affairs after this incident – well, that was an entirely different thing.


Draco would have to work that out on his own.



****************************



“Welcome, welcome,” Alexander Nott said, opening his arms wide in a mockery of effusive welcome. “We knew you would come.”


Behind him, Draco could feel Snape and Harcourt stiffen as their eyes tracked the circle of ancient, twisted oaks that surrounded them, nerves strung to breaking point as they could feel the guards stationed all around them. But he himself was more interested in the fifteen villagers huddled on the ground, men, women and children he had known all his life, whose eyes held both defiance and hope as they saw him. Theodore Nott hovered behind them ostentatiously fingering his wand, a feral smile twisting his lips.


Draco recognised that smile. He had been afraid of it, before, in the Mirrored Hall, a whole lifetime ago. Now there was only anger, and a determination so strong it was almost suicidal… Oh yes, he knew exactly what he was doing. He had walked into the Grove, allowing himself to be surrounded on all sides, putting himself, his two guardians and Ginny Weasley into danger, but that was the extent of it – he had no intention of playing this according to Nott’s rules.


“Throw down your wands,” Nott ordered, not bothering to gloat anymore.


They threw down their wands, Ginny scowling furiously, but Snape and Harcourt impassive. None of them had truly expected to be allowed to keep them. Nott gestured, and the wands on the ground flew up into his hands. “I won’t play any foolish games,” he said quietly. “Give me the secrets of this land and the Veil, pass the Covenant to me, and I’ll let you and your people – yes, even your traitorous uncles – walk out of here alive. Refuse, and I’ll kill you all.”



************************************



They had used the noise of the Death Eaters’ preparations for Malfoy’s arrival to cover their own approach, and were now spread out in a loose net around the Grove, with each of the five guards in their sights. They were ready to attack now, but thanks to Dumbledore’s scruples, they could not simply attack in cold blood, they had to wait until it looked as though the enemy were going to strike – apparently, this restriction was the all important distinction between a justified strike and cold blooded murder…


Jus Bellum. The Just War. There was nothing just about this war, when you got down to the mud and the blood, but Lupin knew that there had to be something that separated us from them, the ‘good’ side from the ‘bad’ side…


They would wait. And when they saw their chance, they would attack.


Wait…


What was that?



************************************



Draco took a deep, deep breath, drawing into his lungs air that smelled of sweat, fear and excitement, of snow, rotting leaves and damp earth, and underneath it all, the familiar neck ruffling smell of old blood and deep magic that was unique to this Place, in all of Britain. He drew it all in, while slowly raising his eyes to meet Nott’s, seeing the reptilian flatness of the other man’s gaze, and understanding that there would be no place for error – if he failed, Nott would kill them all.


He closed his eyes to hide their glow, their power as he called upon the magic of the Grove, of the Malfoy heartland; closed them tighter as he reached out to it, Calling it despite the corruption, despite the way Nott had…twisted…it –


By all the Gods, he was the Lord of the Malfoy…


Smiled, as it finally answered, and his eyes snapped open, opaque and vague as he struggled to breathe over the blinding pain of a snapped bond recoiling, of a broken promise rebounding. But Nott saw nothing but a boy, backed by two very dangerous men and a young girl – granted, a boy who had successfully defied him before, but a boy nevertheless, just like Potter – smiling idiotically in the face of almost certain death.


Caius Draconis Malfoy laughed.


“No,” he said, once again.


And then all hell broke loose.



************************************



Several things happened all at once.


Ginny dropped to the ground, extended her hand and tried desperately to call the wands in Nott’s hand towards her.


Theodore, who had been anticipating this moment all night, snarled delightedly and pointed his wand at the hostages, all too happy to slaughter them. Before he could mouth the first few syllables of the Killing Curse, however, he was knocked backwards by a blast of pure, raw magic that Draco launched at him in desperation. Not being used to such power, and especially unused pain when trying to control it, Draco miscalculated the blow and merely bowled him over…


Snape and Harcourt, professionals to the bone, had been carrying hold out wands – the gods only knew why Nott hadn’t taken those, too, but they were bloody grateful for it – and whipped them out, diving low before shooting in different directions; Snape aiming at the guards in the trees and Harcourt going for Nott senior, both of them rolling and trying desperately to provide some kind of shelter for Draco and Ginny…


Nott and his five guards tossed simultaneous curses, and the four in the middle of the Grove would have been caught right in the crossfire, had it not been for the Order of the Phoenix, now free to act, who provided a shield strong enough to protect them, and then threw their own curses at the guards…


The hostages, now free to act, dove into the fray, swarming the trees, heading straight for either of the two Notts, and attacks came from the trees beyond even the Order, adding to the chaos, the noise, the smoke, the subliminal humming and the blinding lights.


In the midst of the chaos, no one saw the slim, elegant wand take careful aim at a struggling, desperate figure, or hear the softly voiced “Petrificus Totalus” that froze it, and the further spell that turned it invisible and allowed the other to spirit it away unnoticed, paralysed muscles working desperately, eyes rolling frantically.


And that was the way the other liked it.



***************************************



Draco had thought the aftermath of the first skirmish was terrible, but this… this was something entirely different. Of course he had known that the Order was waiting all around them in support, but that didn’t make the battle any less terrifying, nor its aftermath any less traumatising.


Harcourt had been right. It did get easier.


At least it was all for a good cause. For the only real good cause in this world...


Ears still ringing, senses still overloaded, he walked over to the spilled pile of wands on the ground, picked up his own and absently noted that Ginny’s was gone – she must have gotten a few shots of her own in too – before turning to face Moody, and even worse, Ginny’s five brothers who all looked utterly furious with him for dragging their sister into this.


For once, he couldn’t say he blamed them.


But first…


“Where’s Nott?” he asked, dully. Right now he couldn’t care less, he only wanted to make damned sure the bastard was dead.


“Which one?” Harcourt asked, ironically. Looking around, Draco noticed they were both gone. A low, insistent feeling of alarm tugged at his gut, his heart sped up again and he turned on them, about to demand an answer, when the high-pitched scream echoed shrilly through the forest, shattering his fragile composure…


Ginny!

He bolted off, following the sound, racing against his screaming instincts.



**********************************



At Hogwarts, seated in a deep, overstuffed armchair, Arthur Weasley worried. Had he been right to trust Malfoy to such an extent? Was the boy worthy of such trust?


He remembered Harcourt’s reassurances.


He remembered the way his daughter had held on to Draco when he had collapsed to the floor, as if she would protect him against any and all comers, and the casual, natural way he had helped her up off the floor, his strength easily supporting her weight.


He also remembered William Harcourt’s horrific death, and that of his family…


I want to be an Auror, Father…


I have begun to see things a little differently, now; nothing is ever stark black and white…


He remembered Lucius Malfoy, and the lengths he had gone to in order to protect his only son. Surely he would have taught Draco that same protective instinct? There was nothing he could do but wait, and believe that his children – his daughter especially, oh gods his baby – would come home safely.


He had to believe it.



********************************************



When he caught up with them, Theodore was dragging Ginny across the forest floor, struggling with her as she kicked and screamed and fought desperately for freedom. There was a spreading bruise on the side of her face, and she was bleeding from a split lip – something deep and dark snarled inside of him at the sight of that bruise and the blood – but Nott himself was limping, and there were deep furrows raked across his arms and his face.


He burst into the clearing – lungs heaving – and headed straight for Nott, forgetting about his wand in the heat of the moment and intending, instead, to tackle him and beat him unconscious. But then Nott sealed his own fate – he grabbed Ginny’s hair, wound it round his fist and hauled her up, placing a viciously sharp knife to her throat.


She froze, and so did Draco, but crackling and crashing behind him told of five brothers in hot pursuit, and Theodore looked panicked as he realised that the Weasleys were not just shabby, poor Gryffindors – outside of Hogwarts they were tall, strong, powerful wizards and above all, they were extremely protective of their baby sister…


Draco smiled.


The knife wavered, just a bit, but Nott called out, taunting and insolent, “Are you going to risk it, Malfoy? Don’t want her pretty face marked up, do you? Or even worse, a little slit in her throat…”


There was a terrible freedom in giving into his anger. He had been angry for what seemed a lifetime – ever since his father had been imprisoned, since he had been beaten into the ground, since he had seen the devastation Nott had brought to his lands – and he had been keeping it bottled up, rigidly controlled ever since the incident with Ron Weasley. Well, if he would be judged for that loss of temper, then he would be judged for this one, too – and this time, the verdict would be very, very different…


This time, he had his wand. It was all too easy – the knife suddenly burned white hot in Nott’s grip and he reacted instinctively, tossing it aside in his panic. Ginny tore herself out of his grasp and got the hell out of the way, and Draco let his temper go, purposely disregarding magic in favour of his bare hands – a sure indication of just how far gone he was. Rolling around on the leafy floor, his entire world shrank to the desire to punish Theodore Nott, to crush him, to kill him – he was on top, now, his hands wrapped firmly around the other’s throat as he squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed until his face was blue –


And then there were arms firmly wrapped around his chest, and Ginny Weasley’s brothers pulled him off his prey, denying him his retribution. Regaining a little of his composure, he staggered drunkenly as he tried to stand up, shook off all offers of – reluctant – assistance, and tried to regulate his breathing, turning just in time to see Theodore’s fingers grip the knife one last time, in a very familiar hold…


As the knife came flashing end over end towards him he could all but feel his life – such as it was – unravel before him, because there was no way he could avoid that knife, no matter how quickly he moved…


Ginny screamed.


And threw herself in front of him.


Someone yelled out “NO!” There was a blindingly bright flash of light, an implosion of sound, and then there was nothing.



*****************************************

CHAPTER 23



Blaise Zabini had always liked Christmas. It was one of the very few days when his father was guaranteed to be at home, rather than at the Ministry or, as was becoming more and more common lately, off somewhere on Death Eater business. It was perhaps the only day that he, his mother, and his father would always spend together, as a family. And now, after the events of the last few months, he appreciated it even more; there were others, he knew, who would not be so lucky…


He wondered how Draco was coping, without his father.


And so, apparently, did others – it seemed that the rest of the High Clan had descended en masse to the Zabini estate, ostensibly to celebrate Christmas, but in reality with a far different agenda in mind. They told his father in quiet, confidential tones that they wished to wait for news – news? What had his father been keeping from him? – in a relatively safe place, one that they could vacate quickly, should such a quick escape become necessary.


Blaise watched them with puzzled eyes, wondering what was going on – and then he realised. Nott had made his move. And his father had known of it, and deliberately kept it from him. His father had lied to him, knowingly manipulated him – he had allowed Blaise to secretly support Malfoy, while he himself had secretly gone along with Nott, so House Zabini had a foot in both camps…


Furious with the deception, he moved forward to confront his father with his accusations, but was stopped by a caustic, taunting voice. “What’s the problem, Zabini? Disillusioned?”


He turned his head to see Millicent Bulstrode watching him, her eyes direct and dangerously perceptive despite the lacy, flounced pink and white dress that looked utterly ridiculous on her solid frame. Her mother’s choice, of course. Briefly, he quashed any thought of sympathy; fiercely proud, she would reject and turn aside even the most tactful references to her appearance.


“No. Perhaps a little surprised.” He, too, had his pride.


Her lips lifted wryly. “You didn’t think your father would play both sides? You’re slipping.”


Blaise scowled. “He swore he would help me gather support for Malfoy. I thought I could trust him.” And then, hearing his own words, he winced.


She laughed. “Poor, innocent Blaise… Surely you’re too old to believe in such fairy tales?”


He paused. There had been something in her voice, some emphasis in the way she said ‘fairy tales’. “What do you mean? What do you know?”


Suddenly the hideous pink lace was utterly irrelevant. “Know? Nothing. But I suspect…” she paused, drawing it out. Too experienced to be drawn in, Blaise merely waited. Eventually, smiling cruelly, she continued. “Today is going to be a day for fairy tales. Perhaps you weren’t so naïve, after all…”



***********************************************



Thud-thud.


(She’s not breathing! Somebody get a mediwizard here!)


Thud-thud.


Thud-thud.


(Make way! There’s a healer coming…)


Thud-thud.


(Malfoy’s breathing – he’ll be all right)


Thud-thud.


(But what about the girl?)


Thud-thud.


(Pulse rate slowing, temperature dropping – whatever it was that hit them, she took the full impact of it…)


Thud-thud.


(What the hell was she thinking, throwing herself in front of him like that?)


Thud-thud. Thud-thud.


Thud-thud-Thud-thud. Thud-thud-Thud-thud.


(What’s going on? His heartbeat’s racing, his magic surging – looks like he’s reacting to some kind of threat…)


Thud-thud-Thud-thud-Thud-thud-Thud-Thud…


(He’s going into shock –)


(Don’t touch him…!)



******************************************



“Malfoy.”


“Malfoy, wake up.” Snape shook Draco’s shoulder, trying to wake him up.


The mediwitch frowned worriedly down at the writhing, twisting boy, her old eyes dark with concern and old, old pain. Snape stood by, an imposing figure in his torn, bloody black robes, and Harcourt and Moody flanked him, their faces hard and grim.


“What’s wrong with him?” Moody growled.


The healer shrugged. “He’s just been through a major battle, drawing on incredible amounts of power for most of it. And that shielding spell didn’t help – there was enough power in that to stop a nuclear explosion, let alone a small knife.”


Just for a moment, Snape’s face blanked and Harcourt frowned, truly puzzled. Realising that she was facing two genuine purebloods with no idea what a nuclear explosion was, the woman scowled. “Never mind. The shield may have stopped the knife, but the force of that much energy unleashed caused enough damage of its own.”


They all carefully avoided looking at Ginny Weasley, whose heart had so suddenly stopped after the shield spell had literally slammed into place, displacing a huge amount of air and creating a backlash of its own. For that reason, shield spells of such magnitude were usually crafted with infinite care and patience over a space of hours – they were not meant to be created instantaneously, and most certainly not by the pooled strength of five Weasley brothers. Right now, the only thing keeping Miss Weasley’s heart beating was a particularly delicate spell; hopefully her body would soon recover to the point where it could resume its normal functions, but until then, the healer’s magic kept her alive.


At the moment, they were all deliberately not thinking of Miss Weasley. It was better that way – for all of them – if they did not reflect on the way she had fallen. Deep within their psyches – yes, all three of them, Auror and Death Eater alike – was a fundamental aversion to innocents (especially female ones) paying the price of their power games…


So they blocked out the uncertainty, the guilt. There would be time enough for recriminations later, after the job was done, after all the practical considerations taken care of…


And they quickly glanced away from each other’s eyes; turning back to the one thing they could safely focus on.


The backlash had affected Draco too, knocking him unconscious. Or at least, they had thought it was only unconsciousness – the rapid rise of his temperature, his heartbeat and his magic had caught them all by surprise. Neither of them being particularly acquainted with the details of Malfoy magic, they couldn’t be sure that this was not a natural reaction to his harnessing the Grove’s power – as far as they could remember, Lucius hadn’t had such an extreme reaction when he first called on the true power of his position.


But then Lucius had not had such an…unusual introduction to his power.


Once again, Snape bent down to shake his young charge’s shoulder. But before he could make contact, Draco’s body heaved and an incredible surge of power welled up – thankfully undirected and uncontrolled – and knocked Snape’s hand away, delivering a nasty shock in the process. His eyes snapped open, wide and unseeing, and he took a heaving, gasping breath –



*******************************



The world snapped back into focus.


Draco’s first impression, his first rather clinical observation, was that he was lying on the ground just outside the Grove, flat on his back looking up at the cloudless, gloriously blue sky. The second thing that occurred to him was that he was in some considerable discomfort. His hands hurt, and so did his head and his chest and even his eyes – in fact, he ached all over. But it was more than that – his entire body felt strange, somehow…stretched, as if there was something else inside him, something more. He thought, absently, that it had something to do with the Grove, but that assumption covered a very large area…


Not for the first time – and, he suspected, not nearly the last – Draco wished that he could speak with his father again. No doubt Lucius would know what was going on, and just how to turn it to his advantage - but Draco was old enough, and hopefully mature enough, to have finally accepted that such wishes were futile. His father would die in Azkaban, if not now then tomorrow, or the next day; quite simply, he was too dangerous to be allowed to live.


Focusing once more on the world around him, he forced himself to sit up, ignoring the increased aches and pains. Snape, and to a lesser extent Harcourt, hovered over him protectively; Moody stood further away with sceptical crossed arms, and a woman in medical robes watched him like a hawk, measuring his reactions.


“So,” Snape said dryly, as he saw Draco suppress a wince. “You are alive. Despite your best efforts to get yourself killed.”


Draco scowled, looked beyond them to the silent crowd of villagers who watched him with great, dark eyes full of faith, and relief to see that he was well. So, he had managed to save the villagers, after all. “I take it Nott is finished, then?”


Something queer moved through Snape’s eyes at that question. “You could say that.” He looked suddenly sick.


A feeling of relief rushed over Draco, but something else was nagging at his instincts, something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something important, perhaps even vital…


His eyes narrowed. Slowly, he said, “There’s something else you aren’t telling me…”


There was silence. Only the old mediwitch would meet his eyes, and in them he could only sadness, and a compassion that quite took him aback. Concerned now, Draco suddenly wondered why the Order would send for such a highly qualified mediwitch to deal with his relatively minor injuries, and just why she was using so much magic…


And then, even before she told him, eyes still squarely meeting his, he guessed.


Oh, no…


But the truth – and the memory – hit him with all the force of inevitability, shattering his calm complacency.


Oh, Lady no…


Ginny lay, pale and motionless, on a bed of cloaks spread out over the forest floor. Somehow, he could not quite believe the reality of what his eyes told him – it did not seem real, in the solid, concrete sense.


It could not be real. Should not be real.


But it was.


Whatever the price, he had said. No matter who or what stood in his way. He had not meant Ginny to be hurt, had not planned on it, had not even thought that it would be possible. She was…she was not part of his plans at all. All the others – Snape, Harcourt, Moody, Arthur Weasley and the rest of the Order – they were all pawns, all expendable, but Ginny…


Ginny was not meant to be included in the Game, but he had forced her into it. She was not supposed to be here at all, but hadn’t he fostered her curiosity, shaping her, manipulating her, tempting her with talk of strength and ambition and power? And now here she was, pale, bruised, silent and still, all her vitality quenched; it was as if the indefinable thing that made her ‘Ginny’ and therefore worthy of consideration despite her name, her brothers and her House was somehow gone.


It was not supposed to be this way.


Find out how much you're willing to lose in order to gain whatever it is you want.


He had wanted Nott – father and son – dead. He had wanted his estate back. He had wanted respect in Slytherin. And he had been willing to pay an extremely high price for it.


But Ginny’s life? That was too much: far, far too much.


Oblivious of the onlookers, of all the disapproving glares and the wary glances from the members of the Order, he reached out a shaking hand and pressed it against her cheek – cold! – and managed, through a massive effort of will, not to turn and bolt because somehow, all her warmth was gone and it was his fault…



****************************************



Some of the older members of the Order coughed and turned away, slightly uncomfortable at the highly charged intimacy implicit in that gesture, that touch; in the intensity of his eyes as he watched her, as if he would keep her alive through force of will alone…


It was as if Draco Malfoy was being born again, right before their eyes. The newly emerging man-child was strong, yes, but it was a strength born of painful experience and a sudden, horrifying introduction to his own limitations. One day, he would be a force to be reckoned with – even the blindest of them could recognise that. But now, the understanding was so new, so fragile that he was brittle; the slightest mishandling and he would shatter…



**************************************



Some two hours after the Order left, Molly Weasley was knitting almost desperately, trying to rein in her instinctive and overwhelming fear for her family, and her husband was slumped in a chair, his white-knuckled grip on the armrests belying his apparent calm. Dumbledore was standing by the window of the staff room, where he could keep an eye on both of them while still seeming to be staring outside at the garden, or the grounds, or whatever it was; he was too preoccupied to notice.


They were carrying on a desultory conversation, keeping up the façade of bravery, but their hearts weren’t in it; too many times their eyes turned southwest, gazing out over the distance towards a land none of them had ever seen. Little wonder – there had been so much to lose in this hastily planned mission, and only ambiguous symbols and dubious allies to gain.


And Arthur and Dumbledore were the ones who had advocated it. Forced to wait behind, to worry while others fought and faced a terrible death, they themselves fought the doubts and regrets and second thoughts in their own hearts…


As she entered, still a little flushed from the speed with which she had come from Wales, Tonks took in the scene with one comprehensive glance, and her heart sank as she saw the desperate question in Molly Weasley’s eyes. Too many times had she delivered unfortunate news to desperately hoping family – she was only glad that she had not been old enough to have been an Auror in the first Rising. Nearly sixteen years on, the scars were still unhealed, and now there would be new ones to add onto the weight of the old.


At least this time, she did not bear the worst possible news.


Their eyes were all too transparent – the hope and fear that shone through was almost painful. “What news do you bring, Miss Tonks?” Dumbledore asked gently, taking the first step. The Weasleys looked as though they were too fragile.


She took a moment to collect herself, searching for the best way to tell them. “First of all, sir, there were no fatalities.” She paused, to allow audible sighs of relief, “and no one in the Order sustained more than superficial cuts and bruises. But,” once again she stopped, swallowed uncomfortably, “but Ginny was seriously injured…”


Molly Weasley made a strangled sound of shock and fear, and Arthur reached for her hand, gripping it convulsively. Tonks wondered if it could get any worse, but Arthur rallied. “Did…did we defeat Nott?”


Finally, she smiled weakly; at least there was still some relief. “Yes. Yes, we did, Mr. Weasley. He and his son will not be bothering us anymore – and nor will twenty other Death Eaters…”


But somehow, the good news paled beside the thought of Ginny, lying pale and still, her life force dim because she had stepped – instinctively, and without question or hesitation – in front of a knife meant for Draco Malfoy…



****************************************

Chapter 24




Ever since Sirius Black had pulled off the impossible, vanishing from a heavily guarded and strongly warded cell, and ever since the Dementors had deserted their posts, the Governor of Azkaban Prison had made a point, every evening, to check on his prisoners and make sure that they were, indeed, still secure. He especially enjoyed visiting Lucius Malfoy, who, before his imprisonment, had always looked down his pure-blooded nose at him, disdaining his extremely humble origins. It was one of the highlights of his day, to see that once-proud and arrogant bastard humbled – and an even more intoxicating treat to exercise his prerogatives and take an active hand in the humbling process.


But not too often – underneath that cool control, he sometimes thought he saw something feral, something that raised the hairs on the back of his neck…


However, today there was something different about Malfoy – instead of sitting on the bed, meditating and maddeningly composed, he was lying – slumping – sprawled on the floor, and the guards swore that he hadn’t moved at all since they’d first noticed the strange phenomenon a few hours ago. None of them were quite game to go in and check themselves, though – he was a tricky bastard, after all. And there was the matter of his reputation…


Reputation or not, the Governor knew just how important this prisoner was to certain people in the Ministry. Backed by three huge guards armed to the teeth, he eventually steeled himself to enter the cell and investigate the matter – or at least to find out whether the bastard was truly dead or not.


Moving in with extreme caution, he noted the chaotic state of the cell – obviously, there’d been some sort of struggle – and the unmistakable smell of blood, fear and human waste. Malfoy was lying, unmoving, in a pool of sticky, congealed blood, his face so battered and bruised as to be almost unrecognisable. In fact, the only familiar features were the prison robes and the white hair, and the ancient, battered silver signet ring that he had always refused to take off, despite prison regulations. There was a narrow, vicious looking implement driven right through his heart and it was fairly obvious, even to those who didn’t have the Governor’s experience, that he was dead.


Well. Someone had finally worked up the courage to get rid of him, and in quite spectacular fashion, too. That looked like a hatpin, a ladies’ hatpin – a sign? A last message? When the Governor, going through the motions for form’s sake, found out that Malfoy’s last visitors had been Narcissa Nott and a cloaked, hooded man who called himself ‘John Smith’, his mind slowly but surely made the obvious connections and began to formulate tenuous – and occasionally uncomfortable – conclusions…


After the official confirmation of death, the word went out, as it always did in such cases, with baffling speed – jumping from the island to the mainland to Diagon Alley and from there to the rest of the wizarding world in a manner that had nothing to do with physical laws of science and everything to do with a strange, uniquely human kind of mass osmosis.


Lucius Malfoy is dead.


The recipients of the news were left to come to their own conclusions.



***************************************



Tonks wondered what she had done to deserve messenger duty twice in one day. It had been bad enough, taking news of young Ginny’s injuries to her parents – they were ordinary people with ordinary, understandable emotions and reactions – but, on the return trip, having to bear news of his father’s death to Draco Malfoy was another thing entirely. He was High Clan, and she made it a policy to avoid the High Clan and her mother’s legacy whenever possible. Tonks liked her life just the way it was, and suspected that if she went in search of her mother’s family, everything would change: she feared that she, herself, would change.


She did not want to be pulled into the shadows, where predators like Lucius Malfoy and Alexander Nott were so at home…


Passing through the loose periphery of Aurors, Order members and villagers milling around, waiting for news of Ginny and further orders from Moody, she spied a familiar fair head over near the healer’s enclosure, and made her way towards him. He looked up as she approached; his face guarded, his body tensed, as if for a blow – did he…could he already suspect?


Half-believing in the myth of House Malfoy’s uncanny omniscience – certainly the boy’s father had possessed it, and in spades – she made a terrible mistake.


She fixed a sympathetic smile on her face, and, despite her discomfort, forced herself to say, “I’m so sorry, Malfoy…” When his face changed from merely guarded to absolute impassivity, when he stiffened, and made an unmistakable, instinctive gesture of denial, she realised what she had done.


But by then it was too late to take the words – and the patent artificiality of her manner – back.



********************************



He hadn’t known. He hadn’t even suspected. There had been no warning, no intuition, no darkening of the sun to give him even the merest hint that his father had been fighting for his life whilst he himself indulged in temper-driven impulse. He had been so certain that his father was invulnerable, that not even Azkaban could defeat him…


Well.


And yet, he was so tired now that it seemed the news of his father’s death was nothing more than the crowning moment of a thoroughly awful day. He looked down at Ginny, still and pale on the stretcher, limbs arranged sprightly for her own safety, and knew that the day could, indeed, become much worse…


Slowly, almost reluctantly, he reached out and took her hands – cool, utterly limp, with only the faintest of pulses – in his; now that there was no one else about to watch, judge, evaluate and analyse, he could give into the temptation to reassure himself that she was alive, and allow himself to be relieved.


As long as she was still alive, he had not fucked up unforgivably.


Logically, coolly, he knew that Ginny had made her own choice when she had followed him, when she had thrown herself in front of him, but he was not, at the moment, a creature of intellect – and nor were the Weasleys.


For the last half an hour he had forced himself to ignore the presence of the Weasley brothers and Potter – who might as well be a Weasley, for all he did not fancy himself as Ginny’s brother – while they glared at him fiercely, no doubt resenting the role he had played in their sister’s injury. To be fair, it was really only those who had had personal contact with him at his worst; the two oldest brothers were merely scowling.


And then, Ron Weasley’s evil genius prompted him to attack. Stalking over – stalking, not strolling, or sauntering – he stood on the other side of Ginny’s stretcher, forcing Draco to look at him. Tired, disheartened, and with very little patience left at the moment, Draco sighed. Considering the volatility of his current mood, and the unfortunate consequences of their last confrontation, he could only wonder at Weasley’s truly terrible sense of timing…


“What is it, Weasley?” He was too tired to impart any true insolence or challenge into his expected lines.


On cue, Ron bristled. “What have you done to my sister?” The demand burst out with real feeling, fuelled by very real distress. He was genuinely worried about Ginny – oddly, Draco thought that he might be just as stressed as he was. For the barest moment, he felt a jot of fellow feeling for him. And then, as Weasley once again pushed his luck beyond the line and grabbed him by the shirt, hauling him up and half strangling, the surreal moment passed.


Breaking the grip with a short, sharp movement, he jerked free and rose fully to his feet, emptiness momentarily overridden by the impulsive flush of temper. They stood there, glaring at each other, separated only by Ginny’s limp form, neither willing to concede or back down to the other – Ron too stubborn in his beliefs, and Draco still too numb.


“For God’s sake,” Bill Weasley hissed, hurrying over to break it up. “This is neither the time nor the place.” He placed a hand on their chests and insistently pushed them apart, further away from Ginny. “We can all have it out later, in a bloody great knock-down brawl if you like, but just not here, and not now. Have you both forgotten Ginny?”


Ron flushed a particularly virulent scarlet, looking away, and Draco lowered his eyes, veiling his expression. They had, indeed, forgotten Ginny… Who was frowning, her pale forehead creased, making distressed, whimpering sounds as she moved slightly, turning her head from side to side. Both of them – Weasley and Malfoy – sank down to their knees and gripped one of her hands tightly, watching breathlessly, willing her to awake, to open her eyes, look at them and smile, or glare, or give any reaction that she would be all right…


And then she opened her eyes.



*********************************



The Weasley brothers remembered the first time they had ever seen their little sister, newly arrived from the hospital, so small and vulnerable and somehow miraculous. So innocent, and so in need of big brothers to protect her from everything and anything that would ever hurt her…


Harry remembered the way she had looked at him when she had awakened from her ordeal in the Chamber of Secrets. So much trust…


When she turned her eyes to Draco, first, it broke their hearts.



********************************



Sensation returned slowly; a mercy, considering the fierce pounding in her temples, the dull, pervasive ache that seemed to radiate from her very bones.


And then came memory, in a vivid technicolour rush, and, shocked, she opened her eyes.


He was the first thing she saw. His eyes, dull grey, flat and so, so tired...growing lighter now, more brilliant, as if he were smiling. His face was impassive – perhaps too carefully so – but those eyes gave him away, that and the unmistakable way he was holding onto her hand. It was a strong grip, a comforting grip, as if he would never falter, never, ever let go.


A shadow fell on her face, and she looked up to see the rest of her brothers gathered round, watching, encasing them all – yes, even Malfoy, by default – in a solid ring of concern, love and hope. A family.


Before the darkness swirled up to claim her again, she smiled, conscious of a feeling that everything was now right in her world…



**************************************



Alastor Moody scowled balefully down at the mess on the ground. ‘Mess’ was the only word he could think of to describe it – all other adjectives seemed inadequate in the face of what had been done to Alexander Nott. Personally, Moody was all for Death Eaters paying the ultimate price for their crimes, but this – this seemed, even to him, to be just a little excessive.


They had found it – Shacklebolt, Moody himself, Lupin, and Harcourt – in a small clearing, some hundred metres from the centre of the action in the Grove. Shacklebolt had taken one look and bolted for the bushes, Lupin went dead white, and even Harcourt looked shaken. But Snape, coming to investigate the source of the swearing, had started to laugh; had laughed, and laughed, grinning maniacally, until he slowly sat down and buried his face in his hands, his shoulders still shaking spasmodically…


That was when all the disparate and random impressions that Moody had been receiving all day – the fuzzy familiarity of the kills at the edge of the Veil, the sense of being watched, of someone else – finally coalesced into a flash of intuition, and he kicked himself for not thinking of it before.


“Somebody get Malfoy here to see this,” he barked, vaguely noticing one of the younger trainees jumping to fulfil his order.


“What is it?” Tonks asked, coming over to look at what he was doing with wary curiosity.


“Take a look,” Moody said bluntly, indicating the corpse.


There was an expensive ladies’ silk scarf stuffed inside the dead man’s mouth, and livid bruises on his throat. It was a rich, particularly deep shade of blue – although he was by no means a connoisseur of women’s fashion, Moody thought he recognised that scarf. It had been splashed across the front page of the tabloids often enough: Narcissa Malfoy had been wearing it on the day she became Narcissa Nott…



******************************



One of the trainee Aurors – a young, idealistic fool, looking decidedly ill and not so shiny anymore – cleared his throat nervously, trying to get his attention. Ignoring him, ignoring the Weasleys who were still – perhaps even more fiercely now, after the way Ginny had smiled at him – watching him, Draco fixed his gaze on Ginny, willing her to wake again.


No, he didn’t want to consult with Moody and the others on the best way to deal with the aftermath of the invasion. No, he didn’t want to talk about it – and they should know better than to even ask. No, he didn’t want a drink of water, or a healer, or to lie down and rest for a while.


The rest of the world could wait until he was sure she would live. And then he would walk away, and make damned sure that she didn’t follow him, this time.


But the intruder would not be deterred. Clearing his throat again, louder this time, he repeated his message. “Ah…Auror Moody wants you to come and see something, Malfoy…” He trailed off, profoundly uncomfortable under one of Draco’s blankest, most neutral looks, but didn’t back down. “Er…right now? It’s very important.”


All the other gentle suggestions had been very important too, but he had ignored them – why should he dance to Moody’s tune? But his father had taught him better than that – his sense of responsibility was too well ingrained. Resigning himself to the inevitable, Draco put his trust in the Lady – in this, Her holy place – and in the mediwitch, and got up to see what all the fuss was about. No matter how badly he wanted to, he could not shut the world out forever.


When he saw the body – or rather, what was left of it – he understood why.


It had taken him a while to actually see, to understand what it was he had been looking at. But slowly, the true picture had come into focus, and he began to understand something of the mysteries of this day, of his attack – he had been so wrapped in his own determination that he had missed much of what was going on around him, he knew that much – and something of himself, as well.


“Well?” the old man growled, scowling at him, at Snape and at Harcourt, who were maintaining blank, defensive faces. “Are you going to deny it?”


Draco raised an eyebrow, waited a beat, but no one was brave enough to make the obvious – but very foolish, in the circumstances – rejoinder. So he cleared his throat, tried for diplomacy. “I’m afraid I’m not quite sure…”


Moody didn’t even bother blustering. “Are you going to look me in the eye, and tell me you don’t know who did this.”


Draco stared at him just as blankly, just as impassively as the other two High Clan scions. “When Tonks came back from Hogwarts,” he said, “she told me of my father’s death, sir.”


At least it had been Tonks, and not any of the others. She at least had some idea of respect, of compassion – she had not broken the news smugly, or even gleefully, as some others would have done. For that, he would be forever grateful. When he’d heard Tonks say the words, he’d felt the last vestiges of his childish innocence die… But here was a miracle. His mother’s pretty scarf, and the look of shock and betrayal on Nott’s face, carefully – if not cynically – preserved for posterity.


Keeping his face solemn and suitably grave, he matched Moody look for look, and volunteered nothing more.



*******************************



Moody, who had run head first against the wall of High Clan solidarity, knew better than to ask any more. Draco’s non reaction had told him more than enough – although such evidence was in no way admissible in court, it was more than enough for him. Swearing viciously, he turned around to scan the tree line, searching for an elusive silhouette, a ghost he had been chasing for nearly twenty years, but there was nothing – of course there was nothing.


He would be long gone, by now.



*******************************



Christmas day was indeed a day for fairy tales, Blaise discovered to his own secret amusement that afternoon. Just as Millicent had said, his own disillusionment with his father’s deceptions was not the only shocking revelation of the day; two pieces of news somehow appeared – as all truly astounding news does – and made themselves known throughout the whole world in what seemed to be an improbably short time, and with them came the inevitable tide of speculation and change.


The first news was that Draco had, against all odds, despite everything that had been marshalled against him, somehow managed to overcome Nott and his supporters and retake his land, and in the process had managed to enlist the help and support of the Order of the Phoenix as well. To Blaise, it was no surprise. But to others, to all those who had doubted a sixteen-year-old boy’s abilities, his strength and his will, it was astounding. He watched them with newly cynical – or at least more cynical than ever – eyes, watched the initial shock, then the anger, or the slow amusement, and then the calculation and the shift and readjustment of their personal worldviews…


An acknowledgement that the Malfoy were still a major player, and a repudiation of any possible ties to House Nott in the past, present or future. A reassessment of his abilities, an adjustment of their view of him, from a weak puppet who could be easily controlled to a strong Lord and a dangerous enemy, and a resolve to pay court to the boy they had previously – and so summarily – dismissed.


Those who had been so very confident of Nott’s eventual success that they had burned their bridges and committed everything to his support were suddenly either very worried, or very defiant – or very seriously contemplating heading overseas for some time, until the inevitable upheaval should finally die down.


On the other hand, those who had always supported Malfoy – depressingly few of them – were quietly satisfied, and eyed their less fortunate fellow intriguers quite speculatively, with predatory eyes and questioning minds: the gratitude of a Malfoy was no small thing.


However, the Order’s appearance in the Game had quite thrown it out of balance. What price had they put on their involvement in Malfoy matters? Cool, calculating minds all, they did not believe that Dumbledore had helped Draco out of the simple goodness of his heart. Did their support mean that Draco had thrown in with them? If so, how far and how much would he support them now, and how and when would they stand behind him? If he had indeed joined with them, did that mean that he would take their self-proclaimed goal of defeating the Dark Lord seriously?


The second piece of news was, in its way, just as unsettling – unlike the news of Draco’s success, which spelled the beginning of a new, unknown era, the news of Lucius’ death signalled the final end of the last one.


Apparently, so the rumour went, he had been found in his cell, stabbed to death; the very last visitor he had entertained had been his so-dear ex-wife, and an anonymous friend. They said that she had watched as the anonymous assassin had killed him. Watching Narcissa’s face as that rumour was whispered – and he used the word ‘whispered’ lightly – just out of earshot, Blaise could easily believe it. There was no expression on that cold, lovely face – just a sense of…satisfaction. Vindication. Lucius was dead, Nott was dead, and so – tragically – was young Theodore. There being no other close relations – not after Alexander had risen so zealously through the ranks of his family members – Narcissa became the nominal ruler of House Nott. His father had always warned him never to underestimate women, especially beautiful, ostensibly ornamental ones.


And speaking of underestimation – Blaise wondered just how Millicent had known that today would be so momentous. Turning to face her, he saw to his surprise – and perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised, after all – that she was sitting close by the former Lady Nott, close enough, in fact, that it was quite clear that she had been taken under Narcissa’s wing…


An odd combination, those two – beautiful, elegant Narcissa and plain, awkward Millicent – but, somehow, there was something very similar about them. They both came from intensely patriarchal families, with no route to power other than the traditional feminine way – that is, through the bedroom – and they both wanted more. Narcissa had got hers, now – perhaps she was teaching Millicent how to gain her own power. Thinking of Lucius Malfoy, of Alexander and Theodore Nott, and of how they had been so neatly taken out of the picture, Blaise wished her all the luck in the world, and sincerely hoped that he would never be forced to stand in her way.



*************************************

A/N – Here it is, the epilogue, finally ending the tale of Draco’s forced maturity, Ginny’s intellectual awakening, Nott’s grand ambition and even grander folly, Lucius’ release from the Game, Narcissa’s scheming and Snape’s quiet faith. Not to mention a whole host of other characters with motivations of their own that also played a part.




Chapter 25 – Epilogue.




**********




“…Ground Control to Major Tom:

Your circuit’s dead, there’s something wrong.

Can you hear me, Major Tom?

Can you hear me, Major Tom?

Can you hear me, Major Tom…”



David Bowie, “Space Oddity”




**********



Even the stars were strange.


The man who had once been Lucius Malfoy thought on this, staring up at the unfamiliar night sky – so subtly different to the sky he had seen every night from his home – of this new land to which he had fled. Or perhaps not fled; perhaps it was better to say that he had chosen to remove himself from the futile situation that had faced him in England.


The Game…for so long has it dominated my entire life. I do not wish to play it any longer…


He had run out of choices, and so had made his own, unthinkable choice. He’d turned his back on everything that he’d known, loved and valued, and had left it all behind. But not without making sure that his affairs were satisfactorily resolved…


Oh, and Lucius… Tell him who sent you.


Beautiful Narcissa. Ruthless, ambitious, venomous Narcissa who cared for nothing and no one but herself…but who nevertheless had an exquisite sense of irony. He would forever treasure the look on Alexander Nott’s face as he produced Narcissa’s tell tale scarf – the incomprehension, then shock, then fury, then fear, as he finally realised who had engineered his downfall.


It had been the perfect time to bow out: his son had found his own strength and had gained powerful allies; his lands and people were safe, and his wife – his dangerous wife – had what she had always wanted, and was more than happy to see the last of him and his knowledge of her activities. And Lucius had always had an excellent sense of timing.


“Mr. Montfort?” The woman’s voice jolted him out of his reverie, and he turned to face her – one of those sleek, efficient professional women the muggles seemed to pride themselves on so. She was looking at him inquiringly, too well trained to be openly puzzled, but curious about his hesitation.


He wondered what she saw: a dark haired, dark eyed man, some forty years old, the very image of a successful muggle businessman; Lucas Montfort, an upper class Englishman with no hint of wizardry or anything even remotely strange marring his conventional, staid image and his spotless reputation. Certainly he had expended enough time and money to be sure of it…


Summoning a smile, he nodded graciously and slid into the back of the car, into the smell of new leather and an abundance of money.


“Welcome to Switzerland, sir,” she said politely, and then gently closed his door.


He allowed himself one, quiet laugh, before the limo pulled away from the curb, and bore him into the anonymous stream of traffic.



********************************



Draco tugged at the collar of his robes, unaccountably nervous. It was ridiculous, really: he had faced far greater perils than this – his fellow Slytherins, for one, and Nott and his Death Eater friends – but for some reason, the thought of dinner with the entire Weasley family was incredibly intimidating.


Perhaps it was the thought of Ron, who still hated him and probably always would – but hatred had never bothered him before – or Bill Weasley, who had looked at him with those considering, measuring eyes. He had liked Bill, actually – more worldly than his father, more cynical than most of his family – and perhaps the thought that Bill might think him contemptible – as so many still did – was exerting a stronger influence on him than it should. Perhaps it was the thought of finally meeting Molly Weasley, of whom he had heard so much, and most of it terrifying…


But he rather thought it was the thought of what the evening might represent, and what it might mean for the future. Because tonight was the night that Ginny Weasley introduced him to her family, and he was not sure where the consequences would lead…


He had tried to walk away from her, but she had followed, insisting on knowing why he was reneging on their bargain. He had tried to drive her away, the memory of her pale, still face still haunting him; she had not believed his words, seeing them for the falsehoods they were – seeing far too much, and far too deeply.


She saw him. Him.


And that was the most terrifying thing of all, because he didn’t understand her. He didn’t know what she wanted from him. Before she had come to support him against Nott, he had thought that all she wanted was his knowledge, and he had known where they stood and been comfortable with it. But now, he sensed that her rational, logical view of him as a tutor had been changed into something quite, quite different…


Just as – reluctant as he was to admit it – his rational, logical view of her as a student had transformed into something else, something far more dangerous. Because it was ridiculous, of course it was. A Malfoy and a Weasley? What could they possibly have in common, other than their mutual hatred of the Dark Lord?


Nevertheless, he owed it to her to give her at least this much – Arthur Weasley had done much for him, in the first days of his father’s absence, and Ginny herself had stood beside him through the worst of his recklessness. In acknowledgement of services rendered, and in remembrance of the friendship they had shared – and perhaps still did – he would dine with them this once, and let events take their course.



*******************************



Severus Snape and Dane Harcourt, reluctant partners in their concern for Draco Malfoy, watched him step out of his room – dressed in normal everyday robes, rather than formal evening wear – and laughed softly at the thought of him dining as amicably as he could with the Weasleys. They had watched and approved of his growing friendship with Ginny Weasley, and had been even more intrigued as the friendship looked to deepen into something more…


And both of them spared a thought for Lucius Malfoy – wherever he was, whatever he was doing – who would surely be pleased at the way his son had turned out. No matter which way Draco turned after this, whether he joined the Order – and Dane would do his best to ensure that he did – or remained outside, working from within the High Clan without being too visibly affiliated with the Ministry and Dumbledore – personally, Snape was all for this option – they knew he had the strength to support his convictions, and the ability to back them up.


The strength to stand alone, but enough allies that he need never do so…


Once again, the Malfoy were the centre of the High Clan, the Lords and Ladies deciding it was best to gloss over their recent loss of faith. Over the past few weeks, the ranks of those who had always believed in him but had been coerced by Nott grew steadily – but that was only to be expected. However, Draco had also cemented other, less conventional alliances – alliances that may, in truth, prove to be more lasting and trustworthy than the ancient bonds of the High Clan. In this, at least, he could say he had stepped out of his father’s shadow, and perhaps even exceeded Lucius’ achievements.


When Draco realised this, when he stopped idolising his father and saw him as a real, flesh and blood man who could and did make mistakes, he would gain even more confidence in himself, would finally become everything he was meant to be. But there was time enough yet for that – he was only sixteen, after all…


Well pleased with themselves and their protégée, the two men smiled indulgently and wished him well. They too had been young once, after all…



*********************************



He was due at any minute, and she was nowhere near ready. Her hair was not cooperating with her, despite the application of a number of grooming charms, and she could not – absolutely could not – decide what to wear. She had told him to come in ordinary clothes, not the formal robes that cost more than her father made in a whole year – she didn’t care if it offended his High Clan sensibilities – but that meant that she too had to wear relatively normal clothes to keep up the pretence of informality, no matter how she might be drawn to the green silk dress, sleek and elegant and extremely flattering…


Of course, such thoughts were utterly frivolous, she knew, but they served to distract her from the true problem she faced tonight. Would her brothers accept him? She had threatened them with dire punishments if this evening degenerated into a firefight, but since her…illness…they had become extremely protective, and were more than happy to blame Malfoy for getting her into the whole mess in the first place. At least Ron and the twins were; she rather thought Bill and, to a lesser extent, Charlie, had recognised that he was no longer the nasty git of his younger years. Percy, of course – newly returned and repentant, now that their father had grown in influence, after Nott’s fall – was willing to do anything to be noticed by the Lord of Clan Malfoy. Ginny thought she understood Percy now, a little, but it was not a comfortable thought, by any means.


And her parents? Her father, of course, had supported Draco before Nott had driven the stakes up ridiculously high; she suspected that he was ashamed of withdrawing his help, and that he had a fledgling respect for the way Draco had refused to leave her side when she’d been sick. Anyway, with Harcourt’s urging, her dad could be – indeed, had been – persuaded to help Malfoy, if it was a matter of opposing the Dark Lord…


Finally, giving up all thought of the green silk, she settled on a nice robe – not too ordinary and not too formal – and threw it on, quickly brushing her hair and applying last minute touches. There was a gentle knock on the door, and she turned to see her mother coming in, an indulgent look on her lined face as she saw Ginny’s embarrassment. Coming over to stand behind her, looking into the mirror at their shared reflection, she gave her a quick, warm hug.


“Is this what you want, dear?” she asked, quietly.


Ginny paused, thought before she spoke. Molly saw the gesture, recognised it for what it was – a sign that her baby girl was growing up. It was good that she thought long and hard before setting her mind and heart on Draco Malfoy…


Finally Ginny straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and looked her mother in the eye. “Yes, Mum. This is what I want.” She stopped, flushed, a little flustered. “I mean…not now, of course, but in a few years, maybe…”


Molly only nodded. She knew. She understood. Giving her daughter one last hug, she left her to her preparations and went downstairs, to tell her husband and sons that she fully expected them to behave, tonight, and make sure that Malfoy felt welcome – or at least to make them promise not to injure him too badly.



*******************************



The knock at the door came, and Arthur Weasley drew himself to his full height, so that when he opened the door he stood at least a head taller than Malfoy, who was still growing into his body. The usual guarded civilities were exchanged, and the protective father finally let him into the house, to run the gauntlet of six just as protective brothers.


They sat in the living room making awkward, stilted small talk, before an upstairs door opened and closed, and footsteps came down the stairs. Draco half turned to see Ginny arrive – no Scarlett O’Hara grand entrance, here, because Ginny was not and never had been the type – with almost all her usual verve and enthusiasm, and quite unconsciously rose to greet her, in the manner that he had been taught from birth.


Holding his hands out to her, his eyes were serious and faintly questioning, amused and slightly wary all at once, but underneath – always underneath – was the confidence and strength that had grown so much in the short time since she had come to truly know him. Reaching out, she took his hands, noting the silver seal ring on the right, and felt the quiet, tensile strength of them, the latent power and the potential threat that was inherent in his flesh and blood and bone.


She smiled.


Yes. This is what I want.




********************************



THE END



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