Chapter 7
He lay flat on his back on the hillside above Malfoy Manor, head pillowed on his arms, looking up at the aching blue vault of the sky. It was perfect summer day, of the kind one only ever found in childhood; the air was still, and heady with the scent of crushed grass and lavender.
Somewhere, deep down inside of him, Draco was aware of the easing of an old, old pain. Once, he had taken days like this for granted, thinking that childhood dreams and perfect summers could last forever –
Now, he knew how fragile they truly were.
He had been exiled from his home, his childhood, and from this perfect sense of peace for ten years. And he hadn’t known how much he’d missed it until now.
“Draco?” Ginny’s footsteps were light on the thick grass, as she walked up the hill to sit beside him. “What do you see?”
He said nothing.
Unlike almost every other woman he had ever known, she did not take his silence as a personal challenge, but was content to respect his privacy. They remained there like that for some time longer, until Draco adjusted to the shock of her presence.
“This was my place,” he said finally, not taking his eyes from the sky. “No one else knew of it.” He fell silent again, recalling memories of his childhood – the good times and the bad – before continuing. “My father showed it to me when I was about six or seven, old enough to trail behind him on my own. It was his place, when he was a child.”
Ginny put a hand on his sleeve, applying only the slightest pressure.
“The day before I left for my first year at Hogwarts, we stood here, with the estate spread out before us in all directions. Father said Hogwarts would open my eyes to a completely new world, but that I must never lose sight of this, my true home…
“I loved him, you know.” The familiar mix of shame and pain and anger was closer now than it had been for years, in this place that had belonged to them and them alone. “I built my whole life around him, turning myself into a son he could be proud of. Even after he was arrested.” His mouth twisted, bitterness lashing him now. “When I turned, they tried to tell me he was evil, a monster; but it wasn’t a lie. It couldn’t have all been a lie.”
Ginny’s hand squeezed, letting him know she was there, and that she felt for him. He relaxed his tense muscles, soothed by her presence despite himself.
*************
The Manor had seen many different gatherings over the years: ragged rebels against Roman, Saxon, or Norman invasion; hugely influential cabals of noblemen determined to curtail the king’s power, or to restore it; smooth-tongued courtiers and politicians intent on gaining favour and influence; ruthless Death Eaters bent on terrorism and destruction, and equally ruthless Aurors determined to stop them…
Now Arthur Weasley walked up to the famous entrance, with its weathered stone lintel incised, deeply, with the Malfoy sigil. It was said that Brandon, himself, had carved it into the rock of a far, far older sacred stone he had plundered from the original inhabitants of the island.
From all that Arthur had heard of the original Malfoy, he could well believe it. Old Brandon sounded like a first class ruthless bastard.
“Well?” Blaise Zabini asked. “What do you think?” The former Slytherin had proved to be an invaluable advisor on matters relating to the former Death Eater families; it had been his suggestion to bring Draco Malfoy back from Europe. Arthur appreciated the help, but did not make the mistake of thinking him completely trustworthy. As with all politicians, not just Slytherin ones, he had his own agenda; Arthur suspected that Blaise had his own vision of the future of wizarding Britain, and was willing to be extremely patient in order to see it come to fruition.
There were serious questions about his past allegiances: he had almost certainly seen some Death Eater activity in his adolescence, and he had been right beside Draco during the infamous post-war pureblood secession attempt. However, all had been forgiven in return for his current cooperation, and all would be forgiven again, because he was rich, and charismatic, and could make people overlook his suspicious past through sheer force of presence.
All in all, Arthur would rather have him at his side than opposing him.
“It’s certainly very imposing,” he answered rather dryly, looking around with great interest. Lucius must be turning in his grave to see a Weasley granted freedom of the Manor. “A reflection of the great power and influence of House Malfoy, the last of the great pureblooded families. For what it’s worth.”
Blaise grinned. “That’s right; you’ve been here before, haven’t you? All those raids trying to catch Lucius out. Did you ever find anything?”
“No. Our search warrants were incredibly restricted – Malfoy had the judge in his pocket – and we were only allowed in certain areas, always under constant supervision. It was a bloody farce.” He looked suddenly fierce. “You don’t know how much I wanted to be here with the confiscating party to take possession, Zabini. To turn this cursed place upside down and inside out, exposing all its horrors to the light of day, walking freely here just to spite that malicious bastard…”
Blaise looked at him in interest, in sudden reassessment. “Why didn’t you join them, then?”
Arthur shrugged, suddenly embarrassed by his vehemence. “It was enough that I knew he was going to Azkaban, and that the estate would be confiscated. I didn’t need to be there, to take part in it myself.”
“You’re a better man than I, Minister. I’d have been the first man through the door.” His smile was crooked and rueful.
Despite himself, Arthur made a point to remember that self-assessment, and filed it away for future reference. The talk became more pleasant for a time, as Blaise guided him down the rich corridors, pointing out points of interest and recounting a number of mildly scandalous anecdotes. It was all done with smooth, urbane expertise; he doubted that even Draco could top such a performance.
But then Draco had other skills, and his expertise lay in a different area.
“Where is Draco?” he asked as they came to the main drawing room, where the family used to gather just before dinner. “I thought he was to meet us here.”
“Hmm? Oh, he and Ginny came down early,” Blaise answered absently, absorbed in the view of the thick, lush lawn from the full-length glass windows. The late afternoon light bathed the grounds in an antique, fading illumination. “They probably arrived early this morning.”
Arthur looked at him sharply. “You seem to be quite well informed of their movements.”
Blaise turned back towards him, brows raised. “I thought you wanted them thrown together. I merely prepared the ground; it’s up to them to take advantage of the opportunity or not, as the case may be.” A flash of movement caught the corner of his eye; he turned back to the window and smiled, almost indulgently. “Look.”
Two figures were crossing the lawn, arm in arm. Even from this distance Arthur and Blaise could identify them, could see the tentative trust newly born between them, as the taller, white haired figure placed a hand on the woman’s back and leaned in, lowering his head to talk to her, or to listen…
*************************
After Voldemort’s death, the most influential figures of the Resistance had gathered in Hogsmeade to decide the future course of wizarding Britain. There, in a conference that lasted all of a week, they sealed the fate of all those who had had the misfortune to be on the other side of a vicious, intensely personal war…
Draco, who’d had the sense to pick the winning side, had been one of the favoured ones; as a faithful member of the Order of the Phoenix he could have asked for anything – anything, except an amnesty for the innocent families of pureblooded Death Eaters that would have helped ease the long, bitter rifts that crippled wizarding society.
Moody and his fellow fanatics had pushed for more prosecutions, harsher penalties, more stringent restrictions, and always, increased Auror powers. It had been a witch-hunt, pure and simple, aimed more at the old pureblood families than at ‘normal’ wizards.
Draco saw everything that he had fought so hard to combat – prejudice, intolerance, and hatred – creeping back with Moody’s words, with Ron Weasley’s sneers, with the blank, veiled faces of the vilified faces of the families of convicted Death Eaters. He saw the terrifying cycle begin again, and knew that one day the ‘Hogsmeade Accord’ would come back to haunt them all.
And so he had taken matters into his own hands. He, and other likeminded pureblooded scions, had shown the Ministry that they were still a force to be reckoned with, that they could be pushed only so far before they would push back…
When the crunch came – as they all knew it would – it had been he, and he alone, who had taken the responsibility and the blame. He’d been exiled from Britain for life, and had left knowing that he’d made his point, that he had been heard –
And now he was back.
And there was a new gathering, much smaller and more…moderate, if that was the word, eager to ensure his continued presence in Britain, and his continued cooperation with the present government. He had a real chance to make a difference – Zabini would support him, Weasley was a reasonable man, and together they had enough influence to sway the rest of the gathering and, afterwards, the Ministry. As long as he bowed his head to the expectations of society, settled down into his allotted place, became a good citizen, a good husband and, no doubt later on, a good father, he could make more progress working with the system than any Death Eater could ever have hoped to achieve.
All he had to do was let go of his old, old resentment, forget the memory of his father’s slack, mindless eyes and drooling mouth, and bring an end to the myth of High Clan Malfoy and pureblooded supremacy. Fate had even provided him with the perfect wife, to whom he was forever bound whether he willed it or not.
But truly, was it so bad?
Ginny walked beside him in the fading light, a tall woman, strong and courageous, willing to fight like a lion for her friends and loved ones. She was beautiful, and sophisticated, and perfectly at ease in all circles of society. And she was willing to become his wife in truth as well as name – but he did not think it was an entirely emotional decision.
He had had his fill of impersonal alliances characterized by hypocrisy and icy silences. He did not want to spend his life tied to a woman who resented him, or one who married him only to fulfill a contract and then spent the rest of her life pursuing her own completely divergent interests. He knew that she was not completely indifferent to him, he had seen the flare of desire in her eyes, felt the quickening of her pulse beneath him on the night of Blaise’s party. But physical desire was not enough on which to base a lifetime of enforced contact…
“What are you concentrating on so hard, Malfoy?” she asked him, half-humorously. There was a greater ease between them, now, as if the intimacy of his confession on the hill had bound them tighter together. Physical intimacy was a pale shadow of emotional intimacy. He knew it, but he didn’t think she did.
“Your proposition,” he said, heading over to a stone bench in front of his mother’s tea roses.
“Ah.” She looked at him warily. “Have you come to a decision?”
Draco paused. There did not seem any way to say this without sounding completely foolish. He looked away, out over the darkening gardens. “Why did you make it, Ginny?”
“I told you. I want you to stay in Britain.”
“And that’s it? You want me to stay in Britain. You want me to use my influence, my skills, and my money for the good of the country, to help heal the scars left behind by the fighting.”
“Yes.” She sounded puzzled. “I thought I explained all this before. Isn’t that enough?”
He laughed. A bitter, harsh laugh, completely uncharacteristic of him, and he could feel her puzzlement turn to shock as she turned, her hand automatically reaching out to him. He shook her off and stood up.
Enough was enough.
He would no longer allow himself to be used and manipulated.
Turning his back on her, on all of them, he walked away.
He lay flat on his back on the hillside above Malfoy Manor, head pillowed on his arms, looking up at the aching blue vault of the sky. It was perfect summer day, of the kind one only ever found in childhood; the air was still, and heady with the scent of crushed grass and lavender.
Somewhere, deep down inside of him, Draco was aware of the easing of an old, old pain. Once, he had taken days like this for granted, thinking that childhood dreams and perfect summers could last forever –
Now, he knew how fragile they truly were.
He had been exiled from his home, his childhood, and from this perfect sense of peace for ten years. And he hadn’t known how much he’d missed it until now.
“Draco?” Ginny’s footsteps were light on the thick grass, as she walked up the hill to sit beside him. “What do you see?”
He said nothing.
Unlike almost every other woman he had ever known, she did not take his silence as a personal challenge, but was content to respect his privacy. They remained there like that for some time longer, until Draco adjusted to the shock of her presence.
“This was my place,” he said finally, not taking his eyes from the sky. “No one else knew of it.” He fell silent again, recalling memories of his childhood – the good times and the bad – before continuing. “My father showed it to me when I was about six or seven, old enough to trail behind him on my own. It was his place, when he was a child.”
Ginny put a hand on his sleeve, applying only the slightest pressure.
“The day before I left for my first year at Hogwarts, we stood here, with the estate spread out before us in all directions. Father said Hogwarts would open my eyes to a completely new world, but that I must never lose sight of this, my true home…
“I loved him, you know.” The familiar mix of shame and pain and anger was closer now than it had been for years, in this place that had belonged to them and them alone. “I built my whole life around him, turning myself into a son he could be proud of. Even after he was arrested.” His mouth twisted, bitterness lashing him now. “When I turned, they tried to tell me he was evil, a monster; but it wasn’t a lie. It couldn’t have all been a lie.”
Ginny’s hand squeezed, letting him know she was there, and that she felt for him. He relaxed his tense muscles, soothed by her presence despite himself.
*************
The Manor had seen many different gatherings over the years: ragged rebels against Roman, Saxon, or Norman invasion; hugely influential cabals of noblemen determined to curtail the king’s power, or to restore it; smooth-tongued courtiers and politicians intent on gaining favour and influence; ruthless Death Eaters bent on terrorism and destruction, and equally ruthless Aurors determined to stop them…
Now Arthur Weasley walked up to the famous entrance, with its weathered stone lintel incised, deeply, with the Malfoy sigil. It was said that Brandon, himself, had carved it into the rock of a far, far older sacred stone he had plundered from the original inhabitants of the island.
From all that Arthur had heard of the original Malfoy, he could well believe it. Old Brandon sounded like a first class ruthless bastard.
“Well?” Blaise Zabini asked. “What do you think?” The former Slytherin had proved to be an invaluable advisor on matters relating to the former Death Eater families; it had been his suggestion to bring Draco Malfoy back from Europe. Arthur appreciated the help, but did not make the mistake of thinking him completely trustworthy. As with all politicians, not just Slytherin ones, he had his own agenda; Arthur suspected that Blaise had his own vision of the future of wizarding Britain, and was willing to be extremely patient in order to see it come to fruition.
There were serious questions about his past allegiances: he had almost certainly seen some Death Eater activity in his adolescence, and he had been right beside Draco during the infamous post-war pureblood secession attempt. However, all had been forgiven in return for his current cooperation, and all would be forgiven again, because he was rich, and charismatic, and could make people overlook his suspicious past through sheer force of presence.
All in all, Arthur would rather have him at his side than opposing him.
“It’s certainly very imposing,” he answered rather dryly, looking around with great interest. Lucius must be turning in his grave to see a Weasley granted freedom of the Manor. “A reflection of the great power and influence of House Malfoy, the last of the great pureblooded families. For what it’s worth.”
Blaise grinned. “That’s right; you’ve been here before, haven’t you? All those raids trying to catch Lucius out. Did you ever find anything?”
“No. Our search warrants were incredibly restricted – Malfoy had the judge in his pocket – and we were only allowed in certain areas, always under constant supervision. It was a bloody farce.” He looked suddenly fierce. “You don’t know how much I wanted to be here with the confiscating party to take possession, Zabini. To turn this cursed place upside down and inside out, exposing all its horrors to the light of day, walking freely here just to spite that malicious bastard…”
Blaise looked at him in interest, in sudden reassessment. “Why didn’t you join them, then?”
Arthur shrugged, suddenly embarrassed by his vehemence. “It was enough that I knew he was going to Azkaban, and that the estate would be confiscated. I didn’t need to be there, to take part in it myself.”
“You’re a better man than I, Minister. I’d have been the first man through the door.” His smile was crooked and rueful.
Despite himself, Arthur made a point to remember that self-assessment, and filed it away for future reference. The talk became more pleasant for a time, as Blaise guided him down the rich corridors, pointing out points of interest and recounting a number of mildly scandalous anecdotes. It was all done with smooth, urbane expertise; he doubted that even Draco could top such a performance.
But then Draco had other skills, and his expertise lay in a different area.
“Where is Draco?” he asked as they came to the main drawing room, where the family used to gather just before dinner. “I thought he was to meet us here.”
“Hmm? Oh, he and Ginny came down early,” Blaise answered absently, absorbed in the view of the thick, lush lawn from the full-length glass windows. The late afternoon light bathed the grounds in an antique, fading illumination. “They probably arrived early this morning.”
Arthur looked at him sharply. “You seem to be quite well informed of their movements.”
Blaise turned back towards him, brows raised. “I thought you wanted them thrown together. I merely prepared the ground; it’s up to them to take advantage of the opportunity or not, as the case may be.” A flash of movement caught the corner of his eye; he turned back to the window and smiled, almost indulgently. “Look.”
Two figures were crossing the lawn, arm in arm. Even from this distance Arthur and Blaise could identify them, could see the tentative trust newly born between them, as the taller, white haired figure placed a hand on the woman’s back and leaned in, lowering his head to talk to her, or to listen…
*************************
After Voldemort’s death, the most influential figures of the Resistance had gathered in Hogsmeade to decide the future course of wizarding Britain. There, in a conference that lasted all of a week, they sealed the fate of all those who had had the misfortune to be on the other side of a vicious, intensely personal war…
Draco, who’d had the sense to pick the winning side, had been one of the favoured ones; as a faithful member of the Order of the Phoenix he could have asked for anything – anything, except an amnesty for the innocent families of pureblooded Death Eaters that would have helped ease the long, bitter rifts that crippled wizarding society.
Moody and his fellow fanatics had pushed for more prosecutions, harsher penalties, more stringent restrictions, and always, increased Auror powers. It had been a witch-hunt, pure and simple, aimed more at the old pureblood families than at ‘normal’ wizards.
Draco saw everything that he had fought so hard to combat – prejudice, intolerance, and hatred – creeping back with Moody’s words, with Ron Weasley’s sneers, with the blank, veiled faces of the vilified faces of the families of convicted Death Eaters. He saw the terrifying cycle begin again, and knew that one day the ‘Hogsmeade Accord’ would come back to haunt them all.
And so he had taken matters into his own hands. He, and other likeminded pureblooded scions, had shown the Ministry that they were still a force to be reckoned with, that they could be pushed only so far before they would push back…
When the crunch came – as they all knew it would – it had been he, and he alone, who had taken the responsibility and the blame. He’d been exiled from Britain for life, and had left knowing that he’d made his point, that he had been heard –
And now he was back.
And there was a new gathering, much smaller and more…moderate, if that was the word, eager to ensure his continued presence in Britain, and his continued cooperation with the present government. He had a real chance to make a difference – Zabini would support him, Weasley was a reasonable man, and together they had enough influence to sway the rest of the gathering and, afterwards, the Ministry. As long as he bowed his head to the expectations of society, settled down into his allotted place, became a good citizen, a good husband and, no doubt later on, a good father, he could make more progress working with the system than any Death Eater could ever have hoped to achieve.
All he had to do was let go of his old, old resentment, forget the memory of his father’s slack, mindless eyes and drooling mouth, and bring an end to the myth of High Clan Malfoy and pureblooded supremacy. Fate had even provided him with the perfect wife, to whom he was forever bound whether he willed it or not.
But truly, was it so bad?
Ginny walked beside him in the fading light, a tall woman, strong and courageous, willing to fight like a lion for her friends and loved ones. She was beautiful, and sophisticated, and perfectly at ease in all circles of society. And she was willing to become his wife in truth as well as name – but he did not think it was an entirely emotional decision.
He had had his fill of impersonal alliances characterized by hypocrisy and icy silences. He did not want to spend his life tied to a woman who resented him, or one who married him only to fulfill a contract and then spent the rest of her life pursuing her own completely divergent interests. He knew that she was not completely indifferent to him, he had seen the flare of desire in her eyes, felt the quickening of her pulse beneath him on the night of Blaise’s party. But physical desire was not enough on which to base a lifetime of enforced contact…
“What are you concentrating on so hard, Malfoy?” she asked him, half-humorously. There was a greater ease between them, now, as if the intimacy of his confession on the hill had bound them tighter together. Physical intimacy was a pale shadow of emotional intimacy. He knew it, but he didn’t think she did.
“Your proposition,” he said, heading over to a stone bench in front of his mother’s tea roses.
“Ah.” She looked at him warily. “Have you come to a decision?”
Draco paused. There did not seem any way to say this without sounding completely foolish. He looked away, out over the darkening gardens. “Why did you make it, Ginny?”
“I told you. I want you to stay in Britain.”
“And that’s it? You want me to stay in Britain. You want me to use my influence, my skills, and my money for the good of the country, to help heal the scars left behind by the fighting.”
“Yes.” She sounded puzzled. “I thought I explained all this before. Isn’t that enough?”
He laughed. A bitter, harsh laugh, completely uncharacteristic of him, and he could feel her puzzlement turn to shock as she turned, her hand automatically reaching out to him. He shook her off and stood up.
Enough was enough.
He would no longer allow himself to be used and manipulated.
Turning his back on her, on all of them, he walked away.
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