Chapter 13
Madame Pomfrey had been surprised – as much as she could be surprised, with all the years she had spent as a nurse at this school – to learn of Miss Weasley’s visit to Mr. Malfoy. Somehow she had not thought there was any potential for romance in that direction – the powerful, manipulative Malfoy saw no point and even less advantage in consorting with poor, common Weasleys, and the Weasleys, poor and common they may be, were too proud and not ambitious enough to mix with a family they saw as corrupt, and quite frankly dangerous.
But then, quite a few of the lesser families, those not of the High Clan and the higher aristocracy but the more common, bourgeois families, saw the Malfoy in that light. They were bad blood, with their bloody history and their barely veiled cruelty, with their ambitions and their constant manipulations. It didn’t matter how powerful they were, or how pure their blood was, it was simply not a good idea to become involved with them at all.
It was a common stereotype, among the bourgeois, that the Malfoy and all their associates were ‘bad’ – bad in the sense that mattered to the sensibilities of their class, not bad in the High Clan sense; hence that stereotype had bled over to include Slytherin…
Madame Pomfrey snorted. ‘Bourgeois sensibilities’ indeed… She had been listening to Severus for too long, if she was beginning to think in such old-fashioned terms. But it was true enough – the High Clan had different standards, different values, and they were in some ways almost alien to the rest of society. And another true thing – it was indeed a good idea to be very, very cautious when entering into involvement with the Malfoy, or the High Clan Slytherin families. The dark years of Voldemort’s reign of terror had only served to reinforce and crystallise this truth – at least it had been justified, and vindicated. There was nothing anyone could do or say that would excuse what had been willingly committed during that period, in the name of pure blood, or Lord Voldemort, or sheer, naked power…
And yet it seemed that Miss Weasley had thought it worth the risk to enter into some kind of partnership with young Malfoy, and Malfoy had evidently thought there was some advantage in it, to go along with it. It was certainly nothing deeper than that – when she had, as she would have done to some of the students of other Houses, teased him that he had an admirer, he had been – if one could say such a thing of Draco Malfoy – almost shocked by the insinuation.
If there was one thing that prevented her from dismissing this boy as already lost to the darkness, it was that he was more innocent than his father, less familiar with his own cruelty, his own potential for violence. It wasn’t ignorance, but it was almost as if he had theoretical knowledge, but no practical experience – he had never actually taken the last, irrevocable step that would signal the end of his innocence.
Well, this year he would come closer and closer to the edge, with every taunt, with every battle he would have to fight to establish his dominance, with every step that would take him further into the High Clan leadership, and therefore closer and closer to the Dark Lord. It would be a painful awakening, a revelation of who he really was and what he was capable of, and of the depths to which he would have to descend…
Perhaps that was why Lucius had never insisted his son gain that practical knowledge. Perhaps he knew that this time would come, one day, and if Draco were already experienced in the practical underside of the Game, the moral and ethical questions would not have such an impact, and it might be easier to justify turning to the darkness, easier to turn to violence and cruelty because he was already intimately familiar with it…
And thus Snape was explained – the mentor, the guide, who knew the temptations and the pitfalls of the road Draco would have to face, and who would do anything to see that he was not dragged into the darkness. Snape, who, despite having abandoned his own responsibilities to become Potions Master at Hogwarts, was a traditionalist in every sense of the word and would make sure Draco fulfilled his obligations…
She had not known Lucius Malfoy had such an understanding of human nature.
But there was one thing that he had not foreseen, and that was this odd involvement with Miss Ginevra Weasley – she suspected this was entirely Snape’s doing, although she could not – simply could not – imagine the dour Potions Master matchmaking out of the goodness of his heart. Doubtless there was something else behind it.
Perhaps it would do the boy a world of good, to become involved with the Weasleys, to see something of a family and a world where the Game had no purchase. The Gods only knew what Miss Weasley would get out of it, though.
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Miss Weasley knew very well what she was getting out of these impromptu lessons, and it was not exactly what she had expected it to be. She had thought he would give her tangible information, things she could touch, could grasp and understand as easily as learning a spell, or a formula that would always – every time – work out to give the same result. She had thought he would tell her about Death Eater methods, about the spells they used, about the ways they worked…
In a way, he was. One day, he said, he would. But, so far, he was giving her what he called a crash course in High Clan ideology and Slytherin beliefs – and no, they were not the same – of which Death Eater rhetoric was a corrupted, bastardised, patchwork. He had said he would tell her how the international wizarding world worked, how the British wizarding world worked, of the forces that shaped and sustained it, and of countless other seemingly unrelated subjects like wizarding history – and a very different version it was to Binns’ mind-numbing lectures – and even muggle history, which she had no idea Malfoy had ever studied.
When she pointed this out to him, he had only looked at her and raised an eyebrow. She had had the grace to flush. But when she had asked him why all this other stuff, when all she wanted was to learn how to fight Death Eaters, he had said that any fool of an Auror could kill them; if she wanted to learn how to defeat them, she would have to understand how they thought, how they fought, why they fought and why they were so successful.
And that led to discussions on the nature of power – power underlay every aspect of the Game, but what was power? Hard, tangible power such as military and economic strength, softer, more pervasive power such as the influence of an idea, a belief… There were many different types of power, and they all played a part – apart from the killing, the anonymity, the fear they inspired, the Death Eaters gained in power every time people used “You-Know-Who” instead of Voldemort.
All of these issues and questions they discussed, seated by his bedside listening to his cool voice as he led her into a world she had never, ever imagined, a world of swirling, shifting certainties, of the conflict between cold pragmatism and the power of rhetoric and ideology, of ambition and zealotry, of stark and objective realist thought and the more complex world of constructed ideas and subjective perspectives.
Hermione had begun to notice that Ginny was doing even more study than the normal revision for OWLs, and Ginny had only just managed to escape a very pointed interrogation – no fool, the older girl had begun to suspect Ginny was up to something; Hermione knew books, knew scholarship, and Ginny’s sudden interest in traditional Slytherin subjects was very suspicious…
Ginny would not be able to fob her off for much longer. Soon she would have to come up with a plausible explanation for her sneaking out, for her new knowledge, and for the change in her perspective. And it had better be good – if Ron got one tiny hint of her involvement with Malfoy, well…it would not be pretty, she knew that much.
But perhaps there was a way to circumvent that confrontation, to head it off before it could ever have a chance to occur…
Dear Dad, she wrote, late at night while no one watched, a small frown line etched between her brows. She had to remember that her mother would also demand a summary of the letter, and compose it accordingly.
Fifth year is proving to be harder than I thought it would be – so much homework! So much to study…
No doubt you have already heard of Malfoy’s misfortune, of the beating he took from his fellow Slytherins. Ron is ecstatic, as you may have guessed, but I am not so sure – somehow, the Slytherins’ actions seem wrong, even though I understand the motives behind them. I have begun to see a lot of things differently, now – like you told me earlier, after we saw Lucius sent to Azkaban; nothing is ever stark black and white.
In return for this new understanding – and no, I won’t tell you how or from whom I am gaining it – I have promised that you would gain a place on the special committee overseeing the dealings with the confiscated Malfoy property. A bit presumptuous, I know, but you can do it, can’t you? If you could possibly deal a little…leniently…with what you find…?
Please don’t be angry with me, Dad – I know what I’m doing. It’s perfectly safe, I’m not running any risks, and it’s the only real way that I can become…well, you know what I’m talking about. We talked about it before I left for Hogwarts, remember? Oh, and I also had to promise that this would be enough to fulfil the debt we are owed – that’s no problem, right?
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Arthur Weasley read the letter through one more time, sighed, and dropped his head into his hands. Used to his antics after receiving an Owl from Hogwarts, usually bearing news of one spectacular stunt after another, his co-workers merely grinned and went about their own business, quietly relieved that they did not have seven children to plague their lives. But the man sitting across from Arthur, an odd companion, watched with interest; Arthur’s dismay was greater than a standard disciplinary Owl from Hogwarts warranted.
Mr. Weasley tossed the letter across to Dane Harcourt, giving tacit permission to read it. Dark eyebrows twitched, curious at the uncharacteristic reaction, and then lowered to the parchment. Halfway through, one of his brows rose in surprise; three quarters of the way down, the other joined it, this time incredulous.
”Good Gods,” Harcourt drawled, “what kind of devil’s bargain has she made, and with whom?”
Arthur only shrugged. “Either Malfoy or Snape, I should imagine,” he said. “There is no one else who would stipulate both my appointment to the committee and the waiver of that Debt. Certainly no one else would benefit from it at all.”
“Certainly not you, Weasley,” Harcourt couldn’t resist, his quick tongue getting the best of him. It was problematic, sometimes, jesting in such a way with Gryffindors. Some of them had no sense of humour at all…
“And as for the bargain,” Arthur continued as if he had not heard the comment, “she wants to become an Auror.”
Harcourt snorted. Bright, brilliant Gryffindor children just out of Hogwarts all wanted to be Aurors, all wanted to be heroes. But once through the training, they soon found out that there was nothing heroic about the job at all…
Weasley made a dismissive gesture, waving aside Harcourt’s cynicism. “Not so much an Auror, exactly – she wants to do everything she can to bring You-Know-Who down. Perhaps she asked someone to teach her how.”
"Very expensive lessons,” Harcourt noted, “and not just in leverage. Perhaps it might have been easier to become an Auror, after all. At least then you retain something of your illusions…”
“She says she knows what she’s doing.”
Harcourt only looked at Arthur, his eyes filled with wry amusement. “We all knew exactly what we were doing, when we were fifteen…” Arthur sighed once again, reached for the letter, and tossed it into the fireplace, watching it blacken, crumple and then burn.
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A full two weeks after his injury, Draco was allowed to leave the Infirmary. Slytherin House viewed this development with gleeful anticipation, eager to see how the Malfoy would react to the new order, to the new way of things – the rest of the school viewed it with dismay. It had been a good two weeks, without Malfoy – things had been peaceful, the Slytherins seemingly waiting for him to return, so they could greet him with whatever welcome they had cooked up amongst themselves…
Certainly Nott, reasonably comfortable now in the chair nearest the fire, was waiting to see Malfoy’s face as he walked into the Common Room and saw Nott in his seat; he was also eager to see whether he had beaten the fight out of him, or whether he would be foolish enough to try and continue in his resistance. He had told his father of the example he had made of Malfoy, and had been told to make sure the lesson went home – to Malfoy, as well as to the rest of Slytherin.
If he had managed to cow Draco Malfoy, then he would have the whole of Slytherin under his thumb, and not just because they saw benefit in it…
And the Lady knew that he wanted to control Slytherin. He wanted power, he wanted control, and he wanted to rule – for far too long had he been one of Malfoy’s lesser followers, content to stand in his shadow and torment Hufflepuff first years. Well, now such mundane ambitions – so grand, so sweeping in their scope – would be replaced by something real, something worth his precious time. Instead of spying on Potter, he would destroy him; instead of playing the old fool Dumbledore’s game, he would work to bring this godsdamned school down, and he would be the one to hand it to the Dark Lord, and receive his gratitude…
He shivered at the thought of his own greatness. Malfoy had held him back for far too long, but now that he had the power, things would be very different in Slytherin, and in the High Clan…oh yes, things would be very different now. He would be the Prince, now – they would bow to him, they would respect him, they would look up to him. No longer would he suffer in comparison with Draco fucking Malfoy; no longer would they watch, and whisper, and flock around Malfoy’s silver form in droves because he was beautiful, elegant, well-dressed, and everything a High Clan aristocrat should be – with the implication that he, Theodore, was not. There were times, in the past, when he would have sold his soul to be like Malfoy…
Well, his father had always told him his time would come. And now here it was, and there was Malfoy making his entrance, face still bruised, still marked – marked by him; a fact which gave him a vicious thrill – and still moving a little gingerly, as if he were still sore. All of Slytherin looked up as he entered, cold feline eyes watching, waiting, evaluating – but this time, Malfoy refused to play by the rules.
He ignored them.
Ignored the most influential figures in Slytherin, which he should have been courting. Ignored Nott, whom he should have challenged. Ignored the whole of Slytherin House, whom he should have forced – once more, irrevocably – to acknowledge him in some way or another.
He saw them, dismissed them, and walked past them to go up to his room – or would have, if Nott, who had had a speech prepared for this occasion, had not challenged him in a rather awkward role reversal.
“Malfoy!” he called, taunting. “What are you doing associating with the Weasley girl?”
The slim blonde figure stopped, turned around, his face impassive. “I don’t see that it’s any business of yours, Teddy,” he said, smiling insolently.
Nott paused. That was not right. Malfoy was not supposed to be insolent and rude – that was not how the Game was played… Now, of course, Nott would have to punish that insolence. But because such a public insult had been made in front of a crowd watching and evaluating both of them, and because of the respect Malfoy had won by his show in the Mirrored Hall, he would have to handle it by himself, with no other help.
He stood up, unfolding his stocky, solid body from the chair that had seen generations of slim, elegant Malfoy, and prepared to face a Draco Malfoy who no longer cared about playing by the rules.
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Behind his careful indifference, Draco’s heart was beating faster than he cared to admit, as he watched Nott advance on him once more – acid edged flashes of memory taunted him with echoes of Nott’s voice intoning “Crucio” over, and over, and over again…
But nothing of that showed on his face, because if even one hint of his fear leaked out, he would be finished and there would never, ever be another chance to regain what he had lost, or to capitalise on what he had gained. By challenging Nott so publicly, so soon after he had been put in the Infirmary, he could build on the credit he had gained; but it must be done now, immediately after his discharge, or else the advantage would be lost. If he could hold his own here – he didn’t need to defeat Nott now, simply to stand up to him without being smashed down – then he would have valid face of his own.
And if he could force them to accept his association with the Weasley daughter, then other, larger concessions could also be won – but if he lost this confrontation, there would never be another chance…
All he needed to do was hold on, think clearly, and conceal his fear. Bluff, bravado, and brazen gall. And if his bluff was called…
Well, he no longer cared about niceties anymore. Two weeks in a hospital bed after being beaten within an inch of his life tended to change one’s perspective about such things.
“I can make it my business, Malfoy,” Nott warned, striding up until he was right in Draco’s face.
Draco’s lips curled into a smile. “Can you?” he drawled softly. “Somehow, I don’t think that you can…”
Nott’s hands clenched into fists, his face reddened, and the tension rose higher and higher. He seemed to be searching for something to say, and Draco could feel the hatred – and…jealousy? – radiating from him like a heatwave; for a moment, the memories threatened to overwhelm him…
But he held firm, held Nott’s eyes, held his challenging sneer. He wondered if Nott was so lost to propriety and etiquette that he would use his fists – one punch to his very tender ribs and he would be crumpled on the ground whimpering. But Nott had actually lost some credit when he had alternated the Cruciatus and vicious punches – he was obsessed enough about gaining Slytherin respect and of taking Malfoy’s place both socially and politically that he would be sensitive to such nuances, would hesitate to use them if he thought that others would view it disapprovingly, would see it as rather bad form.
Those clenched fists – just one punch, and Draco would be completely out of the game – grew almost white with suppressed tension, and Nott’s whole body seemed to vibrate, but still Draco watched him coolly, sardonically, not conceding an inch despite the phantom pain sparking along his veins, the memory of the incredible agony almost blinding him as he confronted his attacker.
They stood there, both of them, and there was not a single sound in the whole room…
Until the grandfather clock in the corner chimed the hour, and it was time for the first class of the day. They stared at each other for the duration of the nine chimes, and then by some strange mutual agreement they both looked away, breaking the deadlock.
Nott shoved past him, knocking into his shoulder on the way up to his room; the rest of the Slytherins followed him, but with more respect, and several meaningful looks – he watched them through blank eyes, accepting their hypocrisy and not despising them for it, because that was simply the way things were.
Then, when they were all gone and he was alone in the room, he closed his eyes and ran a shaky hand through his hair, breathing a deep, unsteady sigh of undiluted relief.
He smiled. Slytherin courage…
By all the Gods, he had done it.
Draco Malfoy was back.
Madame Pomfrey had been surprised – as much as she could be surprised, with all the years she had spent as a nurse at this school – to learn of Miss Weasley’s visit to Mr. Malfoy. Somehow she had not thought there was any potential for romance in that direction – the powerful, manipulative Malfoy saw no point and even less advantage in consorting with poor, common Weasleys, and the Weasleys, poor and common they may be, were too proud and not ambitious enough to mix with a family they saw as corrupt, and quite frankly dangerous.
But then, quite a few of the lesser families, those not of the High Clan and the higher aristocracy but the more common, bourgeois families, saw the Malfoy in that light. They were bad blood, with their bloody history and their barely veiled cruelty, with their ambitions and their constant manipulations. It didn’t matter how powerful they were, or how pure their blood was, it was simply not a good idea to become involved with them at all.
It was a common stereotype, among the bourgeois, that the Malfoy and all their associates were ‘bad’ – bad in the sense that mattered to the sensibilities of their class, not bad in the High Clan sense; hence that stereotype had bled over to include Slytherin…
Madame Pomfrey snorted. ‘Bourgeois sensibilities’ indeed… She had been listening to Severus for too long, if she was beginning to think in such old-fashioned terms. But it was true enough – the High Clan had different standards, different values, and they were in some ways almost alien to the rest of society. And another true thing – it was indeed a good idea to be very, very cautious when entering into involvement with the Malfoy, or the High Clan Slytherin families. The dark years of Voldemort’s reign of terror had only served to reinforce and crystallise this truth – at least it had been justified, and vindicated. There was nothing anyone could do or say that would excuse what had been willingly committed during that period, in the name of pure blood, or Lord Voldemort, or sheer, naked power…
And yet it seemed that Miss Weasley had thought it worth the risk to enter into some kind of partnership with young Malfoy, and Malfoy had evidently thought there was some advantage in it, to go along with it. It was certainly nothing deeper than that – when she had, as she would have done to some of the students of other Houses, teased him that he had an admirer, he had been – if one could say such a thing of Draco Malfoy – almost shocked by the insinuation.
If there was one thing that prevented her from dismissing this boy as already lost to the darkness, it was that he was more innocent than his father, less familiar with his own cruelty, his own potential for violence. It wasn’t ignorance, but it was almost as if he had theoretical knowledge, but no practical experience – he had never actually taken the last, irrevocable step that would signal the end of his innocence.
Well, this year he would come closer and closer to the edge, with every taunt, with every battle he would have to fight to establish his dominance, with every step that would take him further into the High Clan leadership, and therefore closer and closer to the Dark Lord. It would be a painful awakening, a revelation of who he really was and what he was capable of, and of the depths to which he would have to descend…
Perhaps that was why Lucius had never insisted his son gain that practical knowledge. Perhaps he knew that this time would come, one day, and if Draco were already experienced in the practical underside of the Game, the moral and ethical questions would not have such an impact, and it might be easier to justify turning to the darkness, easier to turn to violence and cruelty because he was already intimately familiar with it…
And thus Snape was explained – the mentor, the guide, who knew the temptations and the pitfalls of the road Draco would have to face, and who would do anything to see that he was not dragged into the darkness. Snape, who, despite having abandoned his own responsibilities to become Potions Master at Hogwarts, was a traditionalist in every sense of the word and would make sure Draco fulfilled his obligations…
She had not known Lucius Malfoy had such an understanding of human nature.
But there was one thing that he had not foreseen, and that was this odd involvement with Miss Ginevra Weasley – she suspected this was entirely Snape’s doing, although she could not – simply could not – imagine the dour Potions Master matchmaking out of the goodness of his heart. Doubtless there was something else behind it.
Perhaps it would do the boy a world of good, to become involved with the Weasleys, to see something of a family and a world where the Game had no purchase. The Gods only knew what Miss Weasley would get out of it, though.
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Miss Weasley knew very well what she was getting out of these impromptu lessons, and it was not exactly what she had expected it to be. She had thought he would give her tangible information, things she could touch, could grasp and understand as easily as learning a spell, or a formula that would always – every time – work out to give the same result. She had thought he would tell her about Death Eater methods, about the spells they used, about the ways they worked…
In a way, he was. One day, he said, he would. But, so far, he was giving her what he called a crash course in High Clan ideology and Slytherin beliefs – and no, they were not the same – of which Death Eater rhetoric was a corrupted, bastardised, patchwork. He had said he would tell her how the international wizarding world worked, how the British wizarding world worked, of the forces that shaped and sustained it, and of countless other seemingly unrelated subjects like wizarding history – and a very different version it was to Binns’ mind-numbing lectures – and even muggle history, which she had no idea Malfoy had ever studied.
When she pointed this out to him, he had only looked at her and raised an eyebrow. She had had the grace to flush. But when she had asked him why all this other stuff, when all she wanted was to learn how to fight Death Eaters, he had said that any fool of an Auror could kill them; if she wanted to learn how to defeat them, she would have to understand how they thought, how they fought, why they fought and why they were so successful.
And that led to discussions on the nature of power – power underlay every aspect of the Game, but what was power? Hard, tangible power such as military and economic strength, softer, more pervasive power such as the influence of an idea, a belief… There were many different types of power, and they all played a part – apart from the killing, the anonymity, the fear they inspired, the Death Eaters gained in power every time people used “You-Know-Who” instead of Voldemort.
All of these issues and questions they discussed, seated by his bedside listening to his cool voice as he led her into a world she had never, ever imagined, a world of swirling, shifting certainties, of the conflict between cold pragmatism and the power of rhetoric and ideology, of ambition and zealotry, of stark and objective realist thought and the more complex world of constructed ideas and subjective perspectives.
Hermione had begun to notice that Ginny was doing even more study than the normal revision for OWLs, and Ginny had only just managed to escape a very pointed interrogation – no fool, the older girl had begun to suspect Ginny was up to something; Hermione knew books, knew scholarship, and Ginny’s sudden interest in traditional Slytherin subjects was very suspicious…
Ginny would not be able to fob her off for much longer. Soon she would have to come up with a plausible explanation for her sneaking out, for her new knowledge, and for the change in her perspective. And it had better be good – if Ron got one tiny hint of her involvement with Malfoy, well…it would not be pretty, she knew that much.
But perhaps there was a way to circumvent that confrontation, to head it off before it could ever have a chance to occur…
Dear Dad, she wrote, late at night while no one watched, a small frown line etched between her brows. She had to remember that her mother would also demand a summary of the letter, and compose it accordingly.
Fifth year is proving to be harder than I thought it would be – so much homework! So much to study…
No doubt you have already heard of Malfoy’s misfortune, of the beating he took from his fellow Slytherins. Ron is ecstatic, as you may have guessed, but I am not so sure – somehow, the Slytherins’ actions seem wrong, even though I understand the motives behind them. I have begun to see a lot of things differently, now – like you told me earlier, after we saw Lucius sent to Azkaban; nothing is ever stark black and white.
In return for this new understanding – and no, I won’t tell you how or from whom I am gaining it – I have promised that you would gain a place on the special committee overseeing the dealings with the confiscated Malfoy property. A bit presumptuous, I know, but you can do it, can’t you? If you could possibly deal a little…leniently…with what you find…?
Please don’t be angry with me, Dad – I know what I’m doing. It’s perfectly safe, I’m not running any risks, and it’s the only real way that I can become…well, you know what I’m talking about. We talked about it before I left for Hogwarts, remember? Oh, and I also had to promise that this would be enough to fulfil the debt we are owed – that’s no problem, right?
*****************************************
Arthur Weasley read the letter through one more time, sighed, and dropped his head into his hands. Used to his antics after receiving an Owl from Hogwarts, usually bearing news of one spectacular stunt after another, his co-workers merely grinned and went about their own business, quietly relieved that they did not have seven children to plague their lives. But the man sitting across from Arthur, an odd companion, watched with interest; Arthur’s dismay was greater than a standard disciplinary Owl from Hogwarts warranted.
Mr. Weasley tossed the letter across to Dane Harcourt, giving tacit permission to read it. Dark eyebrows twitched, curious at the uncharacteristic reaction, and then lowered to the parchment. Halfway through, one of his brows rose in surprise; three quarters of the way down, the other joined it, this time incredulous.
”Good Gods,” Harcourt drawled, “what kind of devil’s bargain has she made, and with whom?”
Arthur only shrugged. “Either Malfoy or Snape, I should imagine,” he said. “There is no one else who would stipulate both my appointment to the committee and the waiver of that Debt. Certainly no one else would benefit from it at all.”
“Certainly not you, Weasley,” Harcourt couldn’t resist, his quick tongue getting the best of him. It was problematic, sometimes, jesting in such a way with Gryffindors. Some of them had no sense of humour at all…
“And as for the bargain,” Arthur continued as if he had not heard the comment, “she wants to become an Auror.”
Harcourt snorted. Bright, brilliant Gryffindor children just out of Hogwarts all wanted to be Aurors, all wanted to be heroes. But once through the training, they soon found out that there was nothing heroic about the job at all…
Weasley made a dismissive gesture, waving aside Harcourt’s cynicism. “Not so much an Auror, exactly – she wants to do everything she can to bring You-Know-Who down. Perhaps she asked someone to teach her how.”
"Very expensive lessons,” Harcourt noted, “and not just in leverage. Perhaps it might have been easier to become an Auror, after all. At least then you retain something of your illusions…”
“She says she knows what she’s doing.”
Harcourt only looked at Arthur, his eyes filled with wry amusement. “We all knew exactly what we were doing, when we were fifteen…” Arthur sighed once again, reached for the letter, and tossed it into the fireplace, watching it blacken, crumple and then burn.
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A full two weeks after his injury, Draco was allowed to leave the Infirmary. Slytherin House viewed this development with gleeful anticipation, eager to see how the Malfoy would react to the new order, to the new way of things – the rest of the school viewed it with dismay. It had been a good two weeks, without Malfoy – things had been peaceful, the Slytherins seemingly waiting for him to return, so they could greet him with whatever welcome they had cooked up amongst themselves…
Certainly Nott, reasonably comfortable now in the chair nearest the fire, was waiting to see Malfoy’s face as he walked into the Common Room and saw Nott in his seat; he was also eager to see whether he had beaten the fight out of him, or whether he would be foolish enough to try and continue in his resistance. He had told his father of the example he had made of Malfoy, and had been told to make sure the lesson went home – to Malfoy, as well as to the rest of Slytherin.
If he had managed to cow Draco Malfoy, then he would have the whole of Slytherin under his thumb, and not just because they saw benefit in it…
And the Lady knew that he wanted to control Slytherin. He wanted power, he wanted control, and he wanted to rule – for far too long had he been one of Malfoy’s lesser followers, content to stand in his shadow and torment Hufflepuff first years. Well, now such mundane ambitions – so grand, so sweeping in their scope – would be replaced by something real, something worth his precious time. Instead of spying on Potter, he would destroy him; instead of playing the old fool Dumbledore’s game, he would work to bring this godsdamned school down, and he would be the one to hand it to the Dark Lord, and receive his gratitude…
He shivered at the thought of his own greatness. Malfoy had held him back for far too long, but now that he had the power, things would be very different in Slytherin, and in the High Clan…oh yes, things would be very different now. He would be the Prince, now – they would bow to him, they would respect him, they would look up to him. No longer would he suffer in comparison with Draco fucking Malfoy; no longer would they watch, and whisper, and flock around Malfoy’s silver form in droves because he was beautiful, elegant, well-dressed, and everything a High Clan aristocrat should be – with the implication that he, Theodore, was not. There were times, in the past, when he would have sold his soul to be like Malfoy…
Well, his father had always told him his time would come. And now here it was, and there was Malfoy making his entrance, face still bruised, still marked – marked by him; a fact which gave him a vicious thrill – and still moving a little gingerly, as if he were still sore. All of Slytherin looked up as he entered, cold feline eyes watching, waiting, evaluating – but this time, Malfoy refused to play by the rules.
He ignored them.
Ignored the most influential figures in Slytherin, which he should have been courting. Ignored Nott, whom he should have challenged. Ignored the whole of Slytherin House, whom he should have forced – once more, irrevocably – to acknowledge him in some way or another.
He saw them, dismissed them, and walked past them to go up to his room – or would have, if Nott, who had had a speech prepared for this occasion, had not challenged him in a rather awkward role reversal.
“Malfoy!” he called, taunting. “What are you doing associating with the Weasley girl?”
The slim blonde figure stopped, turned around, his face impassive. “I don’t see that it’s any business of yours, Teddy,” he said, smiling insolently.
Nott paused. That was not right. Malfoy was not supposed to be insolent and rude – that was not how the Game was played… Now, of course, Nott would have to punish that insolence. But because such a public insult had been made in front of a crowd watching and evaluating both of them, and because of the respect Malfoy had won by his show in the Mirrored Hall, he would have to handle it by himself, with no other help.
He stood up, unfolding his stocky, solid body from the chair that had seen generations of slim, elegant Malfoy, and prepared to face a Draco Malfoy who no longer cared about playing by the rules.
********************************************
Behind his careful indifference, Draco’s heart was beating faster than he cared to admit, as he watched Nott advance on him once more – acid edged flashes of memory taunted him with echoes of Nott’s voice intoning “Crucio” over, and over, and over again…
But nothing of that showed on his face, because if even one hint of his fear leaked out, he would be finished and there would never, ever be another chance to regain what he had lost, or to capitalise on what he had gained. By challenging Nott so publicly, so soon after he had been put in the Infirmary, he could build on the credit he had gained; but it must be done now, immediately after his discharge, or else the advantage would be lost. If he could hold his own here – he didn’t need to defeat Nott now, simply to stand up to him without being smashed down – then he would have valid face of his own.
And if he could force them to accept his association with the Weasley daughter, then other, larger concessions could also be won – but if he lost this confrontation, there would never be another chance…
All he needed to do was hold on, think clearly, and conceal his fear. Bluff, bravado, and brazen gall. And if his bluff was called…
Well, he no longer cared about niceties anymore. Two weeks in a hospital bed after being beaten within an inch of his life tended to change one’s perspective about such things.
“I can make it my business, Malfoy,” Nott warned, striding up until he was right in Draco’s face.
Draco’s lips curled into a smile. “Can you?” he drawled softly. “Somehow, I don’t think that you can…”
Nott’s hands clenched into fists, his face reddened, and the tension rose higher and higher. He seemed to be searching for something to say, and Draco could feel the hatred – and…jealousy? – radiating from him like a heatwave; for a moment, the memories threatened to overwhelm him…
But he held firm, held Nott’s eyes, held his challenging sneer. He wondered if Nott was so lost to propriety and etiquette that he would use his fists – one punch to his very tender ribs and he would be crumpled on the ground whimpering. But Nott had actually lost some credit when he had alternated the Cruciatus and vicious punches – he was obsessed enough about gaining Slytherin respect and of taking Malfoy’s place both socially and politically that he would be sensitive to such nuances, would hesitate to use them if he thought that others would view it disapprovingly, would see it as rather bad form.
Those clenched fists – just one punch, and Draco would be completely out of the game – grew almost white with suppressed tension, and Nott’s whole body seemed to vibrate, but still Draco watched him coolly, sardonically, not conceding an inch despite the phantom pain sparking along his veins, the memory of the incredible agony almost blinding him as he confronted his attacker.
They stood there, both of them, and there was not a single sound in the whole room…
Until the grandfather clock in the corner chimed the hour, and it was time for the first class of the day. They stared at each other for the duration of the nine chimes, and then by some strange mutual agreement they both looked away, breaking the deadlock.
Nott shoved past him, knocking into his shoulder on the way up to his room; the rest of the Slytherins followed him, but with more respect, and several meaningful looks – he watched them through blank eyes, accepting their hypocrisy and not despising them for it, because that was simply the way things were.
Then, when they were all gone and he was alone in the room, he closed his eyes and ran a shaky hand through his hair, breathing a deep, unsteady sigh of undiluted relief.
He smiled. Slytherin courage…
By all the Gods, he had done it.
Draco Malfoy was back.
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