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…
***********************************************
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…
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