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?”
*****************************************************
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?”
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