“…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…
*******************************************
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…
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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…
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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…
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