Chapter 16
The letter came at breakfast, borne by a business-like Ministry owl that efficiently discharged its duty and left immediately, full of its own importance. Recognising their father’s official owl, Ron picked the letter up, glanced at the superscription –
Miss Ginevra Weasley
and, only mildly curious, handed it over to Ginny without a word, far more interested in discussing Harry’s disturbing dream. Hermione, on hearing the description Harry had made of the land he had seen, had been busy in the library looking up atlases of magical England, searching for ancient castles, green valleys, thick forests and mountains. Unfortunately for her, there were many places in wizarding England that could fit that vague description, but Hermione was nothing if not tenacious. If anyone could find out where Harry’s dream had taken place, it would be her.
Ron hoped that they could stop the Dark Lord before he fulfilled this vision – it seemed as though the Order was always a few steps behind, always reacting, never actually acting, never actually doing anything to attack the Death Eaters. To a hot-blooded, impulsive Gryffindor (and Ron admitted it freely) it was almost unbearable, watching the guerrilla attacks, the small pinprick attacks on civilians that spread fear and hysteria without providing a real target for the Aurors or the Order to see and identify. It was as if they were chasing a will-of-the-wisp, and the only intelligence they had of it was whatever Snape managed to pick up, or Harry’s dreams.
They all found it infuriating, but their reactions to it seemed to differ, according to their personalities. Harry was withdrawing further and further into himself, agonising over every death, every attack, wishing that he could do something more, beating himself up because he was supposed to save the world and yet could still do nothing. Ron wondered how he was going to save the world on his own at sixteen years old – it seemed like there should be others involved and supporting him, if Harry was to get anything at all done. No one could do everything on their own, after all.
Hermione was delving desperately into the library, spending more and more time lost in academia and old, old books searching for something – anything – that would give them any hope at all of defeating Voldemort. She spent all her evenings in the library and came back to the Gryffindor Tower at three or four in the morning, and seemed to go about in a permanent daze, eyes glazed and concentrating on another place, another world.
It seemed as though they were all withdrawing into their own worlds, concerned with their own problems and pain, and that nothing else except the news of the latest attack was real, nothing but the Order seemed to matter anymore, and everything else seemed to be frivolous, so that they felt guilty for enjoying life when there was so much trouble in the world. And while they were absorbed by their own concerns, Ron had been ignoring his other responsibilities – he had left Ginny to herself this year, had been all but ignoring her, but it seemed as though she, too, had been off in her own world…
Ginny had been going off by herself a lot, lately. Like Hermione, she had been coming back to the dormitories late at night – or early in the morning, whichever way you wanted to look at it – and had Ron not been supremely sure that there was no one in Gryffindor, Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff who would dare become interested in her without his permission, he would have suspected her of sneaking out to meet with a boyfriend of some sort, but of course that was impossible. But somehow, since the beginning of the year, she had…changed. Oh, she was still his little sister, but sometimes there was something different in the way she spoke, the way she acted – something that was not quite right, something strange; sometimes she came out with thoughts or reasoning that was most assuredly not mainstream…
Maybe that was what this message from their father was about.
Curious now, he turned his head to watch her, noticed with surprise that his sister was fifteen years old – and when did that happen? – and quite attractive. She had begun to come out of her shell after the fight in the Ministry building last year and had become even more confident this year – whatever she was doing, late at night, it was contributing to her self-esteem in some way. He had thought, for some time, that he should have a talk to her about it, but Ginny had her own share of the Weasley temper, and since she had grown older it was becoming more and more difficult to inquire into her business without incurring her considerable wrath.
His father’s words, not his – the last time he and his father had had a solemn talk about the responsibilities of elder brothers with attractive young sisters, and how best to fulfil them. Arthur had put an arm around his shoulder, looked around before lowering his voice and whispering the words discretion and tact, and contrariness and just agree to everything…
Had Ginny or his mother overheard that conversation, there would have been trouble for sure. But Ginny was his sister, and he was her elder brother, and some things in this life were sacred. That was why he resolved to get his hands on that letter soon – discreetly, tactfully or not – and see what his father had to say. Just in case.
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Ginny gazed at the letter from her father in trepidation, wondering what he knew, how much he had deduced. Her mother often seemed to be the dominant one in her parents’ marriage – at least she was the more flamboyant – but Ginny knew that her father could be surprisingly shrewd, at often inconvenient times. Such as now.
Dear Ginny, ran her father’s familiar scrawl,
Doubtless you’ve heard of the attack on the Honourable William Harcourt and his family by now. This is a dangerous time for us all, now, so I would ask you to be on your guard and to be very careful in everything you do. In fact, perhaps it would be best if you gave up any risky classes or activities you’re taking this term, and tried to be as safe and as far out of harm’s way as possible…
Anyone and everyone who stands against the Dark Lord and his followers is a target, now. Be very, very careful…
She wondered just how much he knew of those ‘risky classes or activities’ he alluded to; whether he knew of her bargain with Malfoy, or whether he thought she had something a little risky happening on the side. But even so, it was good advice – Hogwarts had been shocked to hear of the attack on William Harcourt, the second son of an influential High Clan. Or at least the High Clan students had. Dane Harcourt had made his choice, true, but there were other scions of Clan Harcourt who had chosen differently, and William had always preferred to remain out of such conflicts. Before, during the first Rising, his neutrality had been respected, because he was High Clan, and there were informal, unwritten rules for such situations that could not be truly pinned down, but were nevertheless held to be inviolable.
Or at least, there had been such rules. Before this.
Malfoy especially had received the news very quietly, and had been grim ever since. That was never a good sign - she had noticed that he was prone to moodiness on occasion, usually after a run-in with Nott, or after thinking too much about his father.
Ginny could not say that she felt at all sorry for Lucius Malfoy. But the man had done one good thing – he had got himself thrown into Azkaban, and had forced Draco to stand up for himself, thus prompting the change from the smug arrogant git he had been last year, to the still arrogant but somewhat more humble git he was now. Now, he was almost bearable…
Yes, he was still sardonic, malicious and razor-tongued. But she rather enjoyed his odd sense of humour and his quick, cynical mind. Yes, he was prejudiced and dismissive of anyone who didn’t meet his unknown, impossible High Clan standards of gentility, or strength, or whatever the hell it was that the High Clan judged people by. But she could ignore all that – she didn’t want his respect, or his friendship, and she most definitely didn’t want to provoke any deeper, stronger feelings (good gods, what a thought!). She wanted his knowledge, and nothing more.
But as she was drawn deeper and deeper into the very different world of the High Clan, as she began to see the world through High Clan eyes, or Slytherin eyes, or Death Eater eyes, she began to see a little more of their point of view, of his point of view. It wasn’t that she was converted to their way of thinking – yes, the Gryffindors and the rest of society were prejudiced, but so were the Slytherins and the High Clan – but rather that she learned to see both views, to see the merits and drawbacks of each viewpoint.
These new insights had opened up a whole new world for her, a world that left no room for her schoolmates’ absolutism, which insisted on lumping the whole of Slytherin House together under one stereotypical label, despite the clear fact that Slytherin was a seething pit of different factions with different ambitions, or for their indifference to anything outside their own concerns of Quidditch, their OWLs, or the opposite sex. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter anymore, not when outside, in the real world, people were being murdered left and right.
She drifted away, grew apart, and somehow found herself looking forward more and more to her chats with Malfoy, and becoming more and more involved with the necessary research she had to do to keep up with him and his quicksilver thoughts. But her father’s letter brought her back to earth. William Harcourt had been murdered with impunity, random attacks had taken on sinister overtones, and the intellectual challenge of her association with Malfoy had suddenly become dangerous, not only to her, but to her whole family…
She resolved to talk to him about it, as soon as she could get the chance.
************************************
Seated against a tree in the grounds, sheltering under its low branches where he couldn’t be seen from any of the windows or by any casual passers-by, Draco reviewed the events of the last few days. Somehow it had all gone very, very wrong. Instinctively and intellectually, Draco knew it – in fact, he knew of several things that had gone wrong, but there was only one main thing, and he knew exactly what it was.
Someone, somewhere, had stopped playing by the rules. Everything else was a by-product of that.
Yes, the Game was a vicious, unending fight for supremacy, power and survival. But there were unwritten rules, principles and norms that held it all together and kept the Clans from destroying each other – norms such as reciprocity and respect for neutrality. William Harcourt shouldn’t have died.
That one murder would only encourage the Aurors to go after Death Eater’s uninvolved siblings, and with just as much savagery, if they could get away with it. It would only encourage Harcourt to pull out all the stops and declare the war he had refrained from waging years ago, because he no longer cared about the survival of the High Clan more than defeating Voldemort. And it would encourage all those others who had remained silent and on the fence to be wary of what the Death Eaters would do…and to take steps to prevent it.
But someone no longer cared about such things. And by not playing by the rules, by ignoring such little things that had kept the wheels of the Game turning smoothly for centuries, they had taken it to a whole new level, raised the stakes so high that anyone who was not prepared to play bowed out and retreated…
He had seen the Ministry owl drop off a letter to the youngest Weasley this morning, knew from whom it had come and had a very good idea of what it contained. Arthur Weasley had had only a tentative alliance with Harcourt and his mysterious other partners, and the man would be backing out of it as fast as he could, now. He had responsibilities, and seven children scattered, vulnerable, over England and Europe. He had no right to risk them, most especially not for Draco Malfoy.
It was entirely understandable. Objectively, Draco had to admire the unseen manipulator’s tactics, to strike not at him but at his supporters: if Harcourt and Weasley withdrew, if Zabini’s father and all the others who were in with him, if all who supported him because he was a Malfoy or because they hated Nott withdrew because the stakes were too high to openly prefer him, then he was left in the same situation he had been in before – with nothing and no one but himself.
Snape alone would not withdraw, he was absolutely certain of that, but Snape was vulnerable; he was being watched, and fully expected to be found out as a spy every time he went to a rendezvous. And if Snape was killed, then everything – everything – would fall. If Snape died, then who would become his guardian?
His mother, and therefore Nott?
His mother’s brother, who had walked away from everything, and would take Draco away with him too?
Others, who were not so bound to the Malfoy, who would not do everything possible to see him succeed?
Coldly, Draco wondered if Snape’s ultimate loyalties lay with him, or with the Order.
Neither of them had ever voiced the thought, of course, but the shadow of it was always there, hanging over them whenever Snape returned haggard and exhausted from a meeting. Somehow, it seemed as though to speak of it would be to make it real, and neither he nor Snape was ready for the answer. It struck too close to home, for the both of them.
Leaning his head back against the tree trunk, he closed his eyes and allowed himself, just for a moment, to relax and enjoy the sunlight. Sometimes, it seemed as though his whole life had become the Game, the power struggle between himself and Theodore Nott, the grander picture of the Malfoy versus Alexander Nott and Voldemort, even, to a smaller extent, the Ministry and all the forces of ‘good’ against an overwhelming tide of ‘evil’. There was very little time to simply sit and relax, or to find simple enjoyment – he found himself anticipating the smallest Weasley’s conversation, or questions, or even her frown as she scowled at him.
An entirely platonic pleasure, so different from the expectations Pansy had placed upon him when he had still been Slytherin’s golden child. It was surprising how reassuring he found it.
“Malfoy! Where are you?” he heard, and instinctively pulled himself further into concealment, not wanting to go back to reality right now. But then he recognised the voice, and with a small, unguarded smile that would have shocked him, had he been able to see it, he stood up and gestured her into his hiding spot.
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Ginny looked around curiously as she entered the little cave under the branches, her expression no doubt a little dubious – somehow she had not thought to find Draco Malfoy communing with nature. He just didn’t seem to be the type. But then she remembered her errand, and took her focus away from her new surroundings to fix it on him – bristling as she saw his eyes glimmer with amusement. They both sat down again, Draco with his back once more against the trunk, but she, well trained by her mother, laid her cloak on the ground so her robes didn’t get dirty.
When they were both settled, she silently held out the letter she had received this morning, and he – just as wordlessly, just as solemnly – took it from her, and read it through. His expression didn’t change, as if somehow he had known what the letter would contain. She wouldn’t put it past him; he was disconcertingly perceptive.
When he had finished, he folded it up again, handed it back and looked at her, his eyebrows raised slightly. “Well?” he asked lightly. “What are you going to do?”
For some reason, that question irritated her. She raised her own eyebrows, tossed it back at him. “What do you think I should do?”
He laughed, a little bitterly. He had become a lot more open with her, lately; had allowed her to see his normally hidden emotions. It surprised her, sometimes, to see how much he did feel… “Well, Weasley,” he said dryly, in his most irritating manner, “it looks like you have two options – you can give up your dangerous associations and risky activities, or you can keep them, and face the consequences. That’s the choice that we all face, in the end.”
“As simple as that?” she asked, just as dryly, with considerably more irony.
He nodded. “It is a simple choice, Weasley. It’s all the variables that make it complicated.”
She only sighed. “I thought that you would give me advice, Malfoy, not point out the blindingly obvious.”
His mouth curved, the bitterness returned. “No, you thought that I would tell you which way you should go. I can’t do that. Only you can make that choice.”
She scowled at him, frustrated at his refusal to make it easy for her. “Well, why don’t you lay out the variables for me, Malfoy – tell me the benefits and the drawbacks so I can consider them and make an informed choice.”
He looked at her. It was that look that saw through all the pretences, all the sarcasm, the attempts to save face and the fact that she would rather have him absolve her of the burden of having to make such a choice. She couldn’t meet that look, glanced down at her hands, at the letter, at her father’s writing that she had known all of her life. And then he began to speak, glancing away himself, so as to appear uninvolved and impassive.
“The Slytherins know that you have some association with me, Weasley. If we end it now, we can pass it off as nothing of any real significance, and you can once more fade into the background, as you were before, the baby daughter of the Weasley family. If your father ends his association with Harcourt, he, too, will have no more significance than he had before his entanglement, and no more harm will come to your family than was already heading your way before you entered the Game.” He looked back to her and shrugged gracefully, spreading his hands. “But of course, I can’t guarantee that. Things could go differently.”
She frowned. “And if I do continue with our lessons? And if my dad does continue on with Harcourt?”
“Now that,” he said softly, “is more difficult to predict. You will – both of you, and your whole family – become associated with the Malfoy and myself. You’ll become targets - even more than you are now - and the Death Eaters and the death eaters in training will come after all of you and try to kill you horribly. If I come out on top, then I’ll take you with me as far as I can, but if I lose then you’ll all share my horrible fate…and it will be horrible,” he said, fatalistically. “Of course it’s much more complicated than that, but those are the bare bones of it…”
“So we’ll be Death Eater targets either way?” she asked.
He nodded. “The difference will be the level of priority placed on your deaths.”
She frowned. “But what if I continue our association, and even support you, but my father doesn’t?”
He grinned, or rather he showed his teeth, and it wasn’t so much amused as sardonic. “Ah, that’s where it becomes interesting – unfortunately, you cannot make your father’s choice, nor he yours. And yet whatever you both choose will have a significant impact on your family…” He held up a hand before she could protest again. “Take the consequences into consideration, find out how much you're willing to lose to gain your objective. If you’re willing to pay that price, then by all means, make that decision.”
He stood up, moved to the branches and began to sweep them away, and then, before he left, he looked back. “Whichever way you choose, Weasley,” he said, voice uncharacteristically sincere, “I enjoyed our lessons. You’re a good student.” And then he grinned, and spoiled it. “For a poor, naive Gryffindoric Weasley, that is.” He laughed as she scowled at him, and then ducked under the branches and left.
*****************************************
Hours later, Ginny returned to the Common Room, her head still spinning from all the fierce thinking she had done. His words – find out how much you're willing to lose – were still echoing in her memory, as true a statement of Slytherin thought as he had ever taught her, along with the memory of how he had looked when he said he enjoyed their lessons. Somehow, that had been entirely sincere, and he had meant every word of what he said.
Another clue to the mystery that was Caius Draconis Malfoy.
As she threaded her way through the furniture and scattered heaps of books, cushions and games that littered the floor, she brushed past Ron, who was deep in conversation with Harry and Hermione about something or other, no doubt a vital issue – Dobby? Acting strangely? Didn’t he always? – but didn’t manage to get past him before he grabbed her arm.
“What did Dad’s letter say?” he asked in his best big brother interrogative tone.
She bristled. “Nothing,” she said, a little too quickly, because it occupied too much of her thoughts to be casual about it. His eyes sharpened, and she cursed her fair complexion as she flushed.
He scowled at her, and Harry and Hermione exchanged amused glances. “Don’t lie to me Ginny,” he warned, in a tone that reminded her eerily of her mother.
“Just a general letter,” she said, injecting a little indignation into her voice. Indignation always worked, and perhaps a hint of burgeoning anger… “Dad warned me to be very careful, and not to do anything…reckless…this term.”
“Reckless?” Harry laughed. “Come on, Ron, this is Ginny. I know that she’s grown up now, and more than capable of defending herself, but even so…she wouldn’t do that.”
Ginny’s face blanked of any and all expression, but only Hermione saw, and noted the trick. A frown crossed her brow, but before she could ask just where Ginny had learned to do such a thing, the younger girl had whirled around and stormed up the stairs to her dormitory, leaving the trio behind to watch in puzzlement. Ron and Harry exchanged mystified glances, then went back to their conversation, but Hermione gazed into the distance for a while longer, wondering just where she had seen someone become impassive like that, and what relation it had with Ginny’s sudden interest in ancient wizarding philosophy…
***************************************
The letter came at breakfast, borne by a business-like Ministry owl that efficiently discharged its duty and left immediately, full of its own importance. Recognising their father’s official owl, Ron picked the letter up, glanced at the superscription –
Miss Ginevra Weasley
and, only mildly curious, handed it over to Ginny without a word, far more interested in discussing Harry’s disturbing dream. Hermione, on hearing the description Harry had made of the land he had seen, had been busy in the library looking up atlases of magical England, searching for ancient castles, green valleys, thick forests and mountains. Unfortunately for her, there were many places in wizarding England that could fit that vague description, but Hermione was nothing if not tenacious. If anyone could find out where Harry’s dream had taken place, it would be her.
Ron hoped that they could stop the Dark Lord before he fulfilled this vision – it seemed as though the Order was always a few steps behind, always reacting, never actually acting, never actually doing anything to attack the Death Eaters. To a hot-blooded, impulsive Gryffindor (and Ron admitted it freely) it was almost unbearable, watching the guerrilla attacks, the small pinprick attacks on civilians that spread fear and hysteria without providing a real target for the Aurors or the Order to see and identify. It was as if they were chasing a will-of-the-wisp, and the only intelligence they had of it was whatever Snape managed to pick up, or Harry’s dreams.
They all found it infuriating, but their reactions to it seemed to differ, according to their personalities. Harry was withdrawing further and further into himself, agonising over every death, every attack, wishing that he could do something more, beating himself up because he was supposed to save the world and yet could still do nothing. Ron wondered how he was going to save the world on his own at sixteen years old – it seemed like there should be others involved and supporting him, if Harry was to get anything at all done. No one could do everything on their own, after all.
Hermione was delving desperately into the library, spending more and more time lost in academia and old, old books searching for something – anything – that would give them any hope at all of defeating Voldemort. She spent all her evenings in the library and came back to the Gryffindor Tower at three or four in the morning, and seemed to go about in a permanent daze, eyes glazed and concentrating on another place, another world.
It seemed as though they were all withdrawing into their own worlds, concerned with their own problems and pain, and that nothing else except the news of the latest attack was real, nothing but the Order seemed to matter anymore, and everything else seemed to be frivolous, so that they felt guilty for enjoying life when there was so much trouble in the world. And while they were absorbed by their own concerns, Ron had been ignoring his other responsibilities – he had left Ginny to herself this year, had been all but ignoring her, but it seemed as though she, too, had been off in her own world…
Ginny had been going off by herself a lot, lately. Like Hermione, she had been coming back to the dormitories late at night – or early in the morning, whichever way you wanted to look at it – and had Ron not been supremely sure that there was no one in Gryffindor, Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff who would dare become interested in her without his permission, he would have suspected her of sneaking out to meet with a boyfriend of some sort, but of course that was impossible. But somehow, since the beginning of the year, she had…changed. Oh, she was still his little sister, but sometimes there was something different in the way she spoke, the way she acted – something that was not quite right, something strange; sometimes she came out with thoughts or reasoning that was most assuredly not mainstream…
Maybe that was what this message from their father was about.
Curious now, he turned his head to watch her, noticed with surprise that his sister was fifteen years old – and when did that happen? – and quite attractive. She had begun to come out of her shell after the fight in the Ministry building last year and had become even more confident this year – whatever she was doing, late at night, it was contributing to her self-esteem in some way. He had thought, for some time, that he should have a talk to her about it, but Ginny had her own share of the Weasley temper, and since she had grown older it was becoming more and more difficult to inquire into her business without incurring her considerable wrath.
His father’s words, not his – the last time he and his father had had a solemn talk about the responsibilities of elder brothers with attractive young sisters, and how best to fulfil them. Arthur had put an arm around his shoulder, looked around before lowering his voice and whispering the words discretion and tact, and contrariness and just agree to everything…
Had Ginny or his mother overheard that conversation, there would have been trouble for sure. But Ginny was his sister, and he was her elder brother, and some things in this life were sacred. That was why he resolved to get his hands on that letter soon – discreetly, tactfully or not – and see what his father had to say. Just in case.
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Ginny gazed at the letter from her father in trepidation, wondering what he knew, how much he had deduced. Her mother often seemed to be the dominant one in her parents’ marriage – at least she was the more flamboyant – but Ginny knew that her father could be surprisingly shrewd, at often inconvenient times. Such as now.
Dear Ginny, ran her father’s familiar scrawl,
Doubtless you’ve heard of the attack on the Honourable William Harcourt and his family by now. This is a dangerous time for us all, now, so I would ask you to be on your guard and to be very careful in everything you do. In fact, perhaps it would be best if you gave up any risky classes or activities you’re taking this term, and tried to be as safe and as far out of harm’s way as possible…
Anyone and everyone who stands against the Dark Lord and his followers is a target, now. Be very, very careful…
She wondered just how much he knew of those ‘risky classes or activities’ he alluded to; whether he knew of her bargain with Malfoy, or whether he thought she had something a little risky happening on the side. But even so, it was good advice – Hogwarts had been shocked to hear of the attack on William Harcourt, the second son of an influential High Clan. Or at least the High Clan students had. Dane Harcourt had made his choice, true, but there were other scions of Clan Harcourt who had chosen differently, and William had always preferred to remain out of such conflicts. Before, during the first Rising, his neutrality had been respected, because he was High Clan, and there were informal, unwritten rules for such situations that could not be truly pinned down, but were nevertheless held to be inviolable.
Or at least, there had been such rules. Before this.
Malfoy especially had received the news very quietly, and had been grim ever since. That was never a good sign - she had noticed that he was prone to moodiness on occasion, usually after a run-in with Nott, or after thinking too much about his father.
Ginny could not say that she felt at all sorry for Lucius Malfoy. But the man had done one good thing – he had got himself thrown into Azkaban, and had forced Draco to stand up for himself, thus prompting the change from the smug arrogant git he had been last year, to the still arrogant but somewhat more humble git he was now. Now, he was almost bearable…
Yes, he was still sardonic, malicious and razor-tongued. But she rather enjoyed his odd sense of humour and his quick, cynical mind. Yes, he was prejudiced and dismissive of anyone who didn’t meet his unknown, impossible High Clan standards of gentility, or strength, or whatever the hell it was that the High Clan judged people by. But she could ignore all that – she didn’t want his respect, or his friendship, and she most definitely didn’t want to provoke any deeper, stronger feelings (good gods, what a thought!). She wanted his knowledge, and nothing more.
But as she was drawn deeper and deeper into the very different world of the High Clan, as she began to see the world through High Clan eyes, or Slytherin eyes, or Death Eater eyes, she began to see a little more of their point of view, of his point of view. It wasn’t that she was converted to their way of thinking – yes, the Gryffindors and the rest of society were prejudiced, but so were the Slytherins and the High Clan – but rather that she learned to see both views, to see the merits and drawbacks of each viewpoint.
These new insights had opened up a whole new world for her, a world that left no room for her schoolmates’ absolutism, which insisted on lumping the whole of Slytherin House together under one stereotypical label, despite the clear fact that Slytherin was a seething pit of different factions with different ambitions, or for their indifference to anything outside their own concerns of Quidditch, their OWLs, or the opposite sex. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter anymore, not when outside, in the real world, people were being murdered left and right.
She drifted away, grew apart, and somehow found herself looking forward more and more to her chats with Malfoy, and becoming more and more involved with the necessary research she had to do to keep up with him and his quicksilver thoughts. But her father’s letter brought her back to earth. William Harcourt had been murdered with impunity, random attacks had taken on sinister overtones, and the intellectual challenge of her association with Malfoy had suddenly become dangerous, not only to her, but to her whole family…
She resolved to talk to him about it, as soon as she could get the chance.
************************************
Seated against a tree in the grounds, sheltering under its low branches where he couldn’t be seen from any of the windows or by any casual passers-by, Draco reviewed the events of the last few days. Somehow it had all gone very, very wrong. Instinctively and intellectually, Draco knew it – in fact, he knew of several things that had gone wrong, but there was only one main thing, and he knew exactly what it was.
Someone, somewhere, had stopped playing by the rules. Everything else was a by-product of that.
Yes, the Game was a vicious, unending fight for supremacy, power and survival. But there were unwritten rules, principles and norms that held it all together and kept the Clans from destroying each other – norms such as reciprocity and respect for neutrality. William Harcourt shouldn’t have died.
That one murder would only encourage the Aurors to go after Death Eater’s uninvolved siblings, and with just as much savagery, if they could get away with it. It would only encourage Harcourt to pull out all the stops and declare the war he had refrained from waging years ago, because he no longer cared about the survival of the High Clan more than defeating Voldemort. And it would encourage all those others who had remained silent and on the fence to be wary of what the Death Eaters would do…and to take steps to prevent it.
But someone no longer cared about such things. And by not playing by the rules, by ignoring such little things that had kept the wheels of the Game turning smoothly for centuries, they had taken it to a whole new level, raised the stakes so high that anyone who was not prepared to play bowed out and retreated…
He had seen the Ministry owl drop off a letter to the youngest Weasley this morning, knew from whom it had come and had a very good idea of what it contained. Arthur Weasley had had only a tentative alliance with Harcourt and his mysterious other partners, and the man would be backing out of it as fast as he could, now. He had responsibilities, and seven children scattered, vulnerable, over England and Europe. He had no right to risk them, most especially not for Draco Malfoy.
It was entirely understandable. Objectively, Draco had to admire the unseen manipulator’s tactics, to strike not at him but at his supporters: if Harcourt and Weasley withdrew, if Zabini’s father and all the others who were in with him, if all who supported him because he was a Malfoy or because they hated Nott withdrew because the stakes were too high to openly prefer him, then he was left in the same situation he had been in before – with nothing and no one but himself.
Snape alone would not withdraw, he was absolutely certain of that, but Snape was vulnerable; he was being watched, and fully expected to be found out as a spy every time he went to a rendezvous. And if Snape was killed, then everything – everything – would fall. If Snape died, then who would become his guardian?
His mother, and therefore Nott?
His mother’s brother, who had walked away from everything, and would take Draco away with him too?
Others, who were not so bound to the Malfoy, who would not do everything possible to see him succeed?
Coldly, Draco wondered if Snape’s ultimate loyalties lay with him, or with the Order.
Neither of them had ever voiced the thought, of course, but the shadow of it was always there, hanging over them whenever Snape returned haggard and exhausted from a meeting. Somehow, it seemed as though to speak of it would be to make it real, and neither he nor Snape was ready for the answer. It struck too close to home, for the both of them.
Leaning his head back against the tree trunk, he closed his eyes and allowed himself, just for a moment, to relax and enjoy the sunlight. Sometimes, it seemed as though his whole life had become the Game, the power struggle between himself and Theodore Nott, the grander picture of the Malfoy versus Alexander Nott and Voldemort, even, to a smaller extent, the Ministry and all the forces of ‘good’ against an overwhelming tide of ‘evil’. There was very little time to simply sit and relax, or to find simple enjoyment – he found himself anticipating the smallest Weasley’s conversation, or questions, or even her frown as she scowled at him.
An entirely platonic pleasure, so different from the expectations Pansy had placed upon him when he had still been Slytherin’s golden child. It was surprising how reassuring he found it.
“Malfoy! Where are you?” he heard, and instinctively pulled himself further into concealment, not wanting to go back to reality right now. But then he recognised the voice, and with a small, unguarded smile that would have shocked him, had he been able to see it, he stood up and gestured her into his hiding spot.
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Ginny looked around curiously as she entered the little cave under the branches, her expression no doubt a little dubious – somehow she had not thought to find Draco Malfoy communing with nature. He just didn’t seem to be the type. But then she remembered her errand, and took her focus away from her new surroundings to fix it on him – bristling as she saw his eyes glimmer with amusement. They both sat down again, Draco with his back once more against the trunk, but she, well trained by her mother, laid her cloak on the ground so her robes didn’t get dirty.
When they were both settled, she silently held out the letter she had received this morning, and he – just as wordlessly, just as solemnly – took it from her, and read it through. His expression didn’t change, as if somehow he had known what the letter would contain. She wouldn’t put it past him; he was disconcertingly perceptive.
When he had finished, he folded it up again, handed it back and looked at her, his eyebrows raised slightly. “Well?” he asked lightly. “What are you going to do?”
For some reason, that question irritated her. She raised her own eyebrows, tossed it back at him. “What do you think I should do?”
He laughed, a little bitterly. He had become a lot more open with her, lately; had allowed her to see his normally hidden emotions. It surprised her, sometimes, to see how much he did feel… “Well, Weasley,” he said dryly, in his most irritating manner, “it looks like you have two options – you can give up your dangerous associations and risky activities, or you can keep them, and face the consequences. That’s the choice that we all face, in the end.”
“As simple as that?” she asked, just as dryly, with considerably more irony.
He nodded. “It is a simple choice, Weasley. It’s all the variables that make it complicated.”
She only sighed. “I thought that you would give me advice, Malfoy, not point out the blindingly obvious.”
His mouth curved, the bitterness returned. “No, you thought that I would tell you which way you should go. I can’t do that. Only you can make that choice.”
She scowled at him, frustrated at his refusal to make it easy for her. “Well, why don’t you lay out the variables for me, Malfoy – tell me the benefits and the drawbacks so I can consider them and make an informed choice.”
He looked at her. It was that look that saw through all the pretences, all the sarcasm, the attempts to save face and the fact that she would rather have him absolve her of the burden of having to make such a choice. She couldn’t meet that look, glanced down at her hands, at the letter, at her father’s writing that she had known all of her life. And then he began to speak, glancing away himself, so as to appear uninvolved and impassive.
“The Slytherins know that you have some association with me, Weasley. If we end it now, we can pass it off as nothing of any real significance, and you can once more fade into the background, as you were before, the baby daughter of the Weasley family. If your father ends his association with Harcourt, he, too, will have no more significance than he had before his entanglement, and no more harm will come to your family than was already heading your way before you entered the Game.” He looked back to her and shrugged gracefully, spreading his hands. “But of course, I can’t guarantee that. Things could go differently.”
She frowned. “And if I do continue with our lessons? And if my dad does continue on with Harcourt?”
“Now that,” he said softly, “is more difficult to predict. You will – both of you, and your whole family – become associated with the Malfoy and myself. You’ll become targets - even more than you are now - and the Death Eaters and the death eaters in training will come after all of you and try to kill you horribly. If I come out on top, then I’ll take you with me as far as I can, but if I lose then you’ll all share my horrible fate…and it will be horrible,” he said, fatalistically. “Of course it’s much more complicated than that, but those are the bare bones of it…”
“So we’ll be Death Eater targets either way?” she asked.
He nodded. “The difference will be the level of priority placed on your deaths.”
She frowned. “But what if I continue our association, and even support you, but my father doesn’t?”
He grinned, or rather he showed his teeth, and it wasn’t so much amused as sardonic. “Ah, that’s where it becomes interesting – unfortunately, you cannot make your father’s choice, nor he yours. And yet whatever you both choose will have a significant impact on your family…” He held up a hand before she could protest again. “Take the consequences into consideration, find out how much you're willing to lose to gain your objective. If you’re willing to pay that price, then by all means, make that decision.”
He stood up, moved to the branches and began to sweep them away, and then, before he left, he looked back. “Whichever way you choose, Weasley,” he said, voice uncharacteristically sincere, “I enjoyed our lessons. You’re a good student.” And then he grinned, and spoiled it. “For a poor, naive Gryffindoric Weasley, that is.” He laughed as she scowled at him, and then ducked under the branches and left.
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Hours later, Ginny returned to the Common Room, her head still spinning from all the fierce thinking she had done. His words – find out how much you're willing to lose – were still echoing in her memory, as true a statement of Slytherin thought as he had ever taught her, along with the memory of how he had looked when he said he enjoyed their lessons. Somehow, that had been entirely sincere, and he had meant every word of what he said.
Another clue to the mystery that was Caius Draconis Malfoy.
As she threaded her way through the furniture and scattered heaps of books, cushions and games that littered the floor, she brushed past Ron, who was deep in conversation with Harry and Hermione about something or other, no doubt a vital issue – Dobby? Acting strangely? Didn’t he always? – but didn’t manage to get past him before he grabbed her arm.
“What did Dad’s letter say?” he asked in his best big brother interrogative tone.
She bristled. “Nothing,” she said, a little too quickly, because it occupied too much of her thoughts to be casual about it. His eyes sharpened, and she cursed her fair complexion as she flushed.
He scowled at her, and Harry and Hermione exchanged amused glances. “Don’t lie to me Ginny,” he warned, in a tone that reminded her eerily of her mother.
“Just a general letter,” she said, injecting a little indignation into her voice. Indignation always worked, and perhaps a hint of burgeoning anger… “Dad warned me to be very careful, and not to do anything…reckless…this term.”
“Reckless?” Harry laughed. “Come on, Ron, this is Ginny. I know that she’s grown up now, and more than capable of defending herself, but even so…she wouldn’t do that.”
Ginny’s face blanked of any and all expression, but only Hermione saw, and noted the trick. A frown crossed her brow, but before she could ask just where Ginny had learned to do such a thing, the younger girl had whirled around and stormed up the stairs to her dormitory, leaving the trio behind to watch in puzzlement. Ron and Harry exchanged mystified glances, then went back to their conversation, but Hermione gazed into the distance for a while longer, wondering just where she had seen someone become impassive like that, and what relation it had with Ginny’s sudden interest in ancient wizarding philosophy…
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