CHAPTER 18
Very soon the days became shorter, the temperature dropped, and the students were infected with the restless excitement that always preceded Christmas. But Ginny noticed that this year the anticipation seemed to be a little more subdued, a little less innocent – they had all been touched by death, had been made aware of their own mortality, and it was hard to regain the childlike wonder of earlier years, when everything had been so happy and carefree. Nevertheless, the teachers made a determined effort to create an atmosphere of Christmas cheer, and if it was somewhat forced, then none of the students were inconsiderate enough to say so out loud.
Even the Slytherins, so cynical and jaded – whether it was real or not – seemed to be affected by the excitement, although to a somewhat lesser extent. It showed in their increased restlessness, a few unguarded moments of anticipation, and a completely spontaneous snowball fight behind the quidditch pitch, when Blaise and Draco, after making sure no one was watching, had pelted each other with snowballs until they were both covered in powder and had then wrestled and fought and scrambled in the snow like…
Well, like Harry and Ron.
Ginny had made a point to twit Draco about it, on their last rendezvous before the holidays. He hadn’t reacted, but his mouth had twitched, formed into that small, intriguingly crooked half-smile that was devastating simply because it was genuine…
“We can’t be serious all the time, Weasley,” was all he had said.
*************************************
Finally, the day came. It had been a very long while since Dane Harcourt had set foot inside Hogwarts – not since the end of Voldemort’s first rising, in fact – and it had been even longer since he had found himself celebrating Christmas within its walls. But Dumbledore thought that, even with a higher number of students than usual staying at the school over the holidays – their parents considering it safer to do so – the informal, holiday atmosphere would be a perfect backdrop for a meeting of the Order of the Phoenix. And the significance of the date was unavoidable – hope emerging even in the depths of midwinter…
Dane had no objections to the plan: usually he spent the holiday with his family on the Harcourt family estate, but he would not be able to face it this year, not with William’s absence creating such a tangible void…
And it would give him an unparalleled opportunity to bring Draco into the fold. He had failed with Lucius, but he would not fail with his son.
***********************************
“I have often wondered,” said Severus Snape, “just why Dumbledore has never asked you to be the Defence teacher, Harcourt.”
The two of them sat in one corner of the staff room, warming their hands at the fire and sipping cups of fragrant tea – the comfort and cosiness of the scene not lost on either of them. Both of them had learned to take and appreciate such luxuries when they could, given the uncertainties of their chosen careers.
Harcourt considered Snape’s question. “Perhaps he thinks that I am too practical,” he said at last.
Snape cocked a brow. “Lupin seemed to be quite successful utilising the hands on approach,” he mused softly, “but I don’t believe that is what you meant.”
“No,” came the sardonic reply. “You know very well what I meant. And don’t say that Moody – or the fake Moody – also taught quite practical lessons. I use the word in quite another sense – a Slytherin sense that I don’t think Dumbledore wishes the children to learn quite yet.”
“Yes, you have ever been a true Slytherin, despite your political leanings. Practical, as you say, and quite ruthless when you think it necessary…”
Harcourt looked up from his tea at the tone in Snape’s voice, searching his face for indications of his true meaning. His own face hardened imperceptibly. “You speak of Malfoy,” he said bluntly.
Snape said nothing, but stared into the fire, apparently rapt in the flames.
“You know that he must join the Order,” Harcourt said, voice still conversational, not insistent yet.
Still Snape said nothing, but his very silence was damning. Finally he looked up. “It is not my place,” he said softly, “to determine what the Malfoy must.”
Harcourt refused to back down, and their eyes clashed in a silent struggle of wills. “And what of must not? How far does your non-interference stretch?”
What, indeed, if Malfoy wished to join with the Dark Lord? The unasked question hung, with all its unvoiced implications, in the air between them, stretched back to the words Lucius Malfoy had spoken to Snape what seemed so long ago, when he had handed his son into the other man’s care.
Guide him, Severus… Support and protect him, and above all, keep him away from the Dark…
Snape lowered his eyes. “I do not believe that it will come to that.” He smiled grimly. “The rest of Slytherin do not believe it will come to that.”
“All the more reason then, to join with us and gain the greatest possible support.” He spoke casually, but watching carefully he could see Snape stiffen as the full import of his words struck home.
“Is your support conditional, Lord Harcourt?” asked the Lord of High Clan Snape.
“In these times, we cannot afford to be less than completely committed.” And with that pronouncement he drained the rest of his tea, set it down precisely in its saucer, and gracefully stood up and walked out, leaving Snape staring after him with dark, frowning eyes.
When Draco came in some time after, all signs of turmoil and trepidation had been ruthlessly banished, and Snape was his normal self again.
************************************
Seated in the darkest corner of the staff room, Draco had an unimpeded view of the door and of everyone who came in through it. Snape had told him of the Order’s meeting today, and he was curious to find out who made up the infamous secret society. Snape had been no surprise, and nor had McGonnagall or Potter, Weasley and the mudblood, but Harcourt – cool, Slytherin Harcourt – had been, although on second thought, it was not such an improbability. And nor was it improbable to envision the entire Weasley family – reckless, stubborn, and idealistic to the bone – at the heart and forefront of the Order, either.
The Weasleys had arrived in full force; well, not quite in full force – one of the brothers was missing, the third son, Percy. Draco remembered him as a prissy, tight-mouthed prig who embodied most of Gryffindor’s worst qualities – rock hard stubbornness, extreme self-righteousness and all the sensitivity and insight of an elephant. But the Weasley was obviously upset by her brother’s defection, despite the way she and the rest of her family had disparaged Percy amongst themselves before. Blood kin stood together against outsiders, no matter how viciously they might fight amongst themselves – and so it should be. This Percy’s rejection of his family was contemptible, especially because he had rejected them to follow Fudge.
He watched as the four Weasley brothers not at school, all tall, gangling and redheaded – although the elder two (Bill and Charlie?) were fully mature – walked in as if it were home, and were greeted by most of the professors as if they were family. Golden Gryffindors…
He also noticed that they all found time to glare viciously at him – evidently his attack on Ron was still very much at the forefront of their minds. Well, he had acknowledged and offered his debt to them, and it had been accepted and discharged, whether Weasley had informed them of the fact or not. Certainly she had told her father, and Arthur should have told his sons, but Arthur Weasley, walking in behind them, looked at him with his faded blue eyes – shrewd, despite the certain naïve innocence behind them – as if he were trying to measure him, as if he could measure him, and judge him, with his Gryffindoric, middle class standards…
He put a fatherly, approving hand on Ron’s shoulder – a habitual gesture, by the looks of it – and hugged Ginny, looking at her intently, silently promising a very important discussion later on. Lucius had gripped his shoulder like that, once – and only once – and it was one of Draco’s most treasured memories of his father.
Suddenly he missed him so much it hurt.
Distracted by his memories, by the unaccustomed stab of homesickness, he had missed the arrival of the other members of the Order – Lupin, their former Defence teacher, a few Aurors and Ministry officials he knew through his father, a few civilians he had neither seen nor heard of before – some of whom were suspected of sharing Dumbledore’s sympathies, others of whom nothing at all had been said…
Every single one of them – every single one – without exception, started when they saw him, recognition flashing into their eyes followed by suspicion followed by condemnation, and then the inevitable glance towards Dumbledore, and the reluctant, extremely dubious acceptance of the old man’s approval of his presence. And then, the dire warning stare focused in his direction.
And then there was Moody. Alastor ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody, whose doppelganger had once turned him into a ferret. Doppelganger or no, Draco had conceived a very healthy fear of the man during the year they had suffered under him – or the man who had pretended to be him, and he had absolutely no desire to find himself on the man’s bad side. Unfortunately, it seemed that he was already there, without any effort at all, simply because he was Lucius Malfoy’s son, because he was Snape’s protégé, because he was High Clan, because he epitomised everything the man despised, and no doubt a whole host of other reasons as well.
Moody made this all too clear, by being the first person to bring up the subject of his presence. “What the hell is he doing here?”
All eyes turned to Dumbledore, who cleared his throat. “Mr. Malfoy is here,” he said slowly, “because of our mutual goal – the downfall of Lord Voldemort.”
Moody sneered, but Harcourt held up his hand, staying the old man’s scorn. It was said that the Slytherin had actually done his training under Moody’s constant vigilance and suspicion, and that, although he never said it, Moody regarded Harcourt as the best of all his apprentices…
“With respect, Headmaster,” Harcourt said, far more smoothly than Dumbledore, “he is here because he has nowhere else to go. Is that not so, Mr. Malfoy?”
Draco raised a brow. “I am afraid that I don’t understand, Mr. Harcourt,” he stalled.
“Your High Clan Slytherin colleagues, while influential within the closed world of the High Clan, are not so committed to your cause that they will defy the others of their class, all of whom believe you are already an opponent of the Dark…yet. And yet, your need for their help draws ever nearer, as Nott seeks to destroy you before you become a real threat…”
Draco looked to Snape, who refused to meet his eyes. So, that was how Harcourt had gained his information.
“If you wish to see your next birthday, Mr Malfoy, you need friends with real influence…”
“Oh?” Draco asked quietly. “And these ‘friends’, what price their influence?”
Harcourt didn’t bother to answer that.
Ron spoke up, shattering the undercurrents. “Why should we help Malfoy? And how do we know that he’s really against Voldemort?”
Yes, that was what Draco wanted to know himself. How did everyone else know what he himself wasn’t certain of? The Weasley’s brown eyes, so filled with inexplicable faith, even though she knew exactly what he was and most especially what he wasn’t, Snape’s black eyes, and Harcourt’s steady, calculating, measuring grey ones…
They all seemed certain he would fight.
“He will fight,” said Harcourt, feline cruelty in his eyes as he watched and measured, “because it is in his best interest, at the moment.”
“And that’s it?” growled Moody. “Because it is in his best interests?”
Harcourt looked surprised. “But of course…is that not enough?”
*************************************
Put that way, it hadn’t sounded very convincing. But then, there had never been anything certain about what her instinct said about Malfoy. She knew he would fight, that he would much rather have Voldemort out of the way than hanging about plotting to bring him into the fold. He was proud, and he had no wish to bend knee to a half-blood, and had no real desire to go around wantonly killing muggles and muggle-lovers.
And there was Nott, who was trying to kill him – that was a good enough motivation.
But, all up, it wasn’t very convincing evidence, when weighed against Harry’s dead parents, or Harcourt’s murdered brother and father, or anyone else in the Order who had lost family and friends to the Death Eaters. She could see how they would doubt, how Draco himself would be reluctant to commit himself fully to such a Cause.
For the Malfoy to throw everything he had – body, mind and soul – into the Order, he would need incentive…
And Ginny would not wish ‘incentive’ on anyone. Least of all on Draco, whom she had come to know very well. Perhaps it would be enough that he committed intellectually to the Order? Because it was in ‘his best interests at the moment’?
But it was by no means a foregone conclusion that he would even be allowed in at the moment, let alone that he would commit himself in any way. The discussion carried on later that night at the Weasley family gathering, where Arthur finally put before his family the question he had been fretting over for weeks.
Were they willing to support Malfoy against Nott?
Ron, predictably, was vehemently against it. “What business is it of ours if Nott and Malfoy destroy each other? It’ll get rid of the two leaders of Slytherin and the High Clan without any effort at all on our part…”
Arthur cleared his throat. “And yet, the enemy of our enemy…”
Molly snorted. “Are you saying that you trust him? This is Draco Malfoy, Arthur…”
There was a general growl of consensus, and Ginny looked around at her family, whom she loved, and saw them united in a hatred that she no longer shared. It was a very disorienting thought, taking her further and further away from the girl she had once been.
“But, just think, if we could get him wholly on our side, he could be a great asset to us…”
“That’s the problem, Dad,” said Charlie, sober and experienced. “Getting him wholly on our side – you heard Harcourt, he’s only in it for himself. What if the wind suddenly shifts?”
“They’re not going to suddenly stop hating each other,” Ginny heard herself piping up. “The only way Malfoy will profit in the Death Eaters is over Nott’s dead body, and he’s a more ruthless right hand than Lucius Malfoy ever was.” She stopped, blushing at her family’s surprised looks. “They say that Nott was behind Malfoy’s arrest in the first place…”
Hermione, now an honorary member of the Weasley family, gave her a very odd look. Ginny avoided her eyes, sure that the other girl suspected something. Fred and George were openly surprised, but laughed and joked, as if she had done something terribly clever.
“Harcourt seems to think that we should make the support against Nott conditional on Draco’s joining the Order,” Bill said thoughtfully. “It seems like a good idea.”
Harry snorted. “Malfoy’s too proud to ask for help from anyone or anything, let alone from muggle-loving Gryffindors…”
“It’s not a matter of pride,” Ginny said again. “It’s a matter of indebtedness.”
“Arthur,” Molly said suddenly, “Whose idea was it, that we support Malfoy?”
They all looked to their father, who fidgeted uncomfortably. He never could hide anything from his family. “Well,” he said, hesitant under his wife’s gaze, “Harcourt’s.”
“And what do we get out of it, Dad?” Ginny asked, suddenly wary. Speaking of indebtedness…
He shrugged. “Influence,” he said with conviction. “The chance for a greater say in Ministry affairs, the power to make things better…”
Good intentions. Gryffindor idealism. Slytherin politics. The road to Hell.
And was Ginny herself any better?
**************************************
“Oh, by the way, Lucius,” Dane paused before exiting the cell, “I have been authorised to make you an offer…”
A white brow lifted, and Lucius did not even pretend to misunderstand. “Have you? Is it going that badly, then?”
“No.” Dane could not meet the other’s penetrating eyes. “But I believe you could be a great asset to the Order.”
Lucius only laughed. “And what could you offer me in return? Power? Riches? True freedom, not a gilded cage to replace this true one?”
“Self-respect,” Dane said flatly, “and the chance to once more take a leading part in this Game.”
“The Game,” Lucius mused. “For so long has it dominated my entire life…” He looked up at Harcourt, eyes bright and uncharacteristically reckless. “I do not wish to play it any longer.”
Harcourt looked at him, frustration and the oddest feeling of compassion welling up in his throat. “You cannot simply decide to bow out.”
Lucius smiled. “Watch me.”
******************************************
Later that night, congregated around a huge wooden table, they put the proposal to him – join the Order, give his all to the fight against Voldemort, and they would do everything they could to bring Nott down. But of course he could not back out once Nott had fallen – of course not.
To Draco, it did not sound like much of a bargain, and the reactions of the main instigators as they watched him making up his mind – Harcourt’s quiet feline satisfaction, Weasley’s earnest eagerness, Dumbledore’s approving nod – did nothing to endear him to it.
Harcourt in particular seemed certain that Draco would put aside his pride and acquiesce to common sense and necessity, and somehow it rubbed him the wrong way. Perhaps it was Harcourt’s similarity to his father – something neither of them would appreciate, he was sure – that aroused such resentment in him; perhaps it was that he was sixteen years old and tired of being pushed around and manipulated.
Whatever the reason, he did not relish the thought of falling in with Harcourt’s schemes, whether they were for his benefit or not. It was not entirely a matter of pride – as Ginny had said earlier that night, it was a matter of indebtedness. He did not know the Order. He didn’t know what they would ask from him in return for their help, didn’t know what, precisely, they wanted from him and therefore if they had any bargaining points where he could apply leverage…
Finally, they lost patience with waiting for his answer. Or at least one of them did. “You cannot sit on the fence in this, boy,” barked Moody. “You can’t deal and you can’t play your godsdamned Game. This is real life – you have to make a choice.”
Draco stiffened, bowed his head curtly, and said, disconcerted by the interruption, “Unfortunately, I must refuse your offer…”
“Balls!” shouted Moody. Dumbledore and Snape winced, and Draco stiffened even further. “Your father is rotting in prison, boy! You can’t rely on him to save you anymore! And who else will help you if you refuse us? There’s no one else…”
His spine poker straight, nostrils flared, Draco bowed one last time to the rest of the room – not looking at Snape, Harcourt or Ginny – and marched out, closing the door with a click behind him, cutting off the rest of Moody’s tirade.
The old man had not been entirely correct – there were others, but those others didn’t have one fraction of the Order’s clout… Was committing himself, making a choice, such a bad thing if it gained him real, official support? No, it wasn’t – but Draco wasn’t ready, wasn’t free, to commit himself in such a reckless manner, as his father had done when he’d joined Voldemort. The only grand Cause he had any right to embrace was that of Clan Malfoy and the land Beyond the Veil – and that was all that he had ever wanted, really.
Soft footsteps padded on the stone behind him, and he slowed and turned to wait for the Weasley to catch up with him.
“Why did you refuse, Malfoy?” she demanded, gasping for breath. She had sprinted after him, slipping out under cover of the uproar in the room as the Order reeled from his rejection.
He scowled at her. “You know why I refused, Weasley. I don’t believe in anything but the Malfoy.”
“Not even High Clan Malfoy is invulnerable,” she said softly.
“No,” he said, still fired up on the pride and anger of his confrontation with Moody, “but it’s damn near to it…”
He hesitated, remembering something received and dismissed days ago, but then banished the memory and the doubts engendered by it. No, he was still safe; there was no one else…
“They’re not going to go away, Draco,” she put the tips of her fingers against her arm, felt it tense at the contact, then relax as he forced himself to accept her touch. “You’ll have to make a choice one day.”
He looked down at her, shook his head. “No, Weasley,” he said. “I can do this myself, I can keep this going for as long as I need to…”
Can you? She asked silently. Merlin, I wish I could believe you…
*****************************************
Alone in the depths of the castle, the small figure writhed in the knowledge of its own guilt, and of its complicity in a terrible wrong… Different somehow, stronger than the rest of its kindred, it had faced hard choices and contrasting instincts before, but even though it had left every part of its previous life behind, some things never changed…
Some gifts and abilities given, especially to his kind, were never retracted…
“Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!”
But even knocking itself against the wall so hard that it all but cracked its skull did not exorcise the guilt…
Very soon the days became shorter, the temperature dropped, and the students were infected with the restless excitement that always preceded Christmas. But Ginny noticed that this year the anticipation seemed to be a little more subdued, a little less innocent – they had all been touched by death, had been made aware of their own mortality, and it was hard to regain the childlike wonder of earlier years, when everything had been so happy and carefree. Nevertheless, the teachers made a determined effort to create an atmosphere of Christmas cheer, and if it was somewhat forced, then none of the students were inconsiderate enough to say so out loud.
Even the Slytherins, so cynical and jaded – whether it was real or not – seemed to be affected by the excitement, although to a somewhat lesser extent. It showed in their increased restlessness, a few unguarded moments of anticipation, and a completely spontaneous snowball fight behind the quidditch pitch, when Blaise and Draco, after making sure no one was watching, had pelted each other with snowballs until they were both covered in powder and had then wrestled and fought and scrambled in the snow like…
Well, like Harry and Ron.
Ginny had made a point to twit Draco about it, on their last rendezvous before the holidays. He hadn’t reacted, but his mouth had twitched, formed into that small, intriguingly crooked half-smile that was devastating simply because it was genuine…
“We can’t be serious all the time, Weasley,” was all he had said.
*************************************
Finally, the day came. It had been a very long while since Dane Harcourt had set foot inside Hogwarts – not since the end of Voldemort’s first rising, in fact – and it had been even longer since he had found himself celebrating Christmas within its walls. But Dumbledore thought that, even with a higher number of students than usual staying at the school over the holidays – their parents considering it safer to do so – the informal, holiday atmosphere would be a perfect backdrop for a meeting of the Order of the Phoenix. And the significance of the date was unavoidable – hope emerging even in the depths of midwinter…
Dane had no objections to the plan: usually he spent the holiday with his family on the Harcourt family estate, but he would not be able to face it this year, not with William’s absence creating such a tangible void…
And it would give him an unparalleled opportunity to bring Draco into the fold. He had failed with Lucius, but he would not fail with his son.
***********************************
“I have often wondered,” said Severus Snape, “just why Dumbledore has never asked you to be the Defence teacher, Harcourt.”
The two of them sat in one corner of the staff room, warming their hands at the fire and sipping cups of fragrant tea – the comfort and cosiness of the scene not lost on either of them. Both of them had learned to take and appreciate such luxuries when they could, given the uncertainties of their chosen careers.
Harcourt considered Snape’s question. “Perhaps he thinks that I am too practical,” he said at last.
Snape cocked a brow. “Lupin seemed to be quite successful utilising the hands on approach,” he mused softly, “but I don’t believe that is what you meant.”
“No,” came the sardonic reply. “You know very well what I meant. And don’t say that Moody – or the fake Moody – also taught quite practical lessons. I use the word in quite another sense – a Slytherin sense that I don’t think Dumbledore wishes the children to learn quite yet.”
“Yes, you have ever been a true Slytherin, despite your political leanings. Practical, as you say, and quite ruthless when you think it necessary…”
Harcourt looked up from his tea at the tone in Snape’s voice, searching his face for indications of his true meaning. His own face hardened imperceptibly. “You speak of Malfoy,” he said bluntly.
Snape said nothing, but stared into the fire, apparently rapt in the flames.
“You know that he must join the Order,” Harcourt said, voice still conversational, not insistent yet.
Still Snape said nothing, but his very silence was damning. Finally he looked up. “It is not my place,” he said softly, “to determine what the Malfoy must.”
Harcourt refused to back down, and their eyes clashed in a silent struggle of wills. “And what of must not? How far does your non-interference stretch?”
What, indeed, if Malfoy wished to join with the Dark Lord? The unasked question hung, with all its unvoiced implications, in the air between them, stretched back to the words Lucius Malfoy had spoken to Snape what seemed so long ago, when he had handed his son into the other man’s care.
Guide him, Severus… Support and protect him, and above all, keep him away from the Dark…
Snape lowered his eyes. “I do not believe that it will come to that.” He smiled grimly. “The rest of Slytherin do not believe it will come to that.”
“All the more reason then, to join with us and gain the greatest possible support.” He spoke casually, but watching carefully he could see Snape stiffen as the full import of his words struck home.
“Is your support conditional, Lord Harcourt?” asked the Lord of High Clan Snape.
“In these times, we cannot afford to be less than completely committed.” And with that pronouncement he drained the rest of his tea, set it down precisely in its saucer, and gracefully stood up and walked out, leaving Snape staring after him with dark, frowning eyes.
When Draco came in some time after, all signs of turmoil and trepidation had been ruthlessly banished, and Snape was his normal self again.
************************************
Seated in the darkest corner of the staff room, Draco had an unimpeded view of the door and of everyone who came in through it. Snape had told him of the Order’s meeting today, and he was curious to find out who made up the infamous secret society. Snape had been no surprise, and nor had McGonnagall or Potter, Weasley and the mudblood, but Harcourt – cool, Slytherin Harcourt – had been, although on second thought, it was not such an improbability. And nor was it improbable to envision the entire Weasley family – reckless, stubborn, and idealistic to the bone – at the heart and forefront of the Order, either.
The Weasleys had arrived in full force; well, not quite in full force – one of the brothers was missing, the third son, Percy. Draco remembered him as a prissy, tight-mouthed prig who embodied most of Gryffindor’s worst qualities – rock hard stubbornness, extreme self-righteousness and all the sensitivity and insight of an elephant. But the Weasley was obviously upset by her brother’s defection, despite the way she and the rest of her family had disparaged Percy amongst themselves before. Blood kin stood together against outsiders, no matter how viciously they might fight amongst themselves – and so it should be. This Percy’s rejection of his family was contemptible, especially because he had rejected them to follow Fudge.
He watched as the four Weasley brothers not at school, all tall, gangling and redheaded – although the elder two (Bill and Charlie?) were fully mature – walked in as if it were home, and were greeted by most of the professors as if they were family. Golden Gryffindors…
He also noticed that they all found time to glare viciously at him – evidently his attack on Ron was still very much at the forefront of their minds. Well, he had acknowledged and offered his debt to them, and it had been accepted and discharged, whether Weasley had informed them of the fact or not. Certainly she had told her father, and Arthur should have told his sons, but Arthur Weasley, walking in behind them, looked at him with his faded blue eyes – shrewd, despite the certain naïve innocence behind them – as if he were trying to measure him, as if he could measure him, and judge him, with his Gryffindoric, middle class standards…
He put a fatherly, approving hand on Ron’s shoulder – a habitual gesture, by the looks of it – and hugged Ginny, looking at her intently, silently promising a very important discussion later on. Lucius had gripped his shoulder like that, once – and only once – and it was one of Draco’s most treasured memories of his father.
Suddenly he missed him so much it hurt.
Distracted by his memories, by the unaccustomed stab of homesickness, he had missed the arrival of the other members of the Order – Lupin, their former Defence teacher, a few Aurors and Ministry officials he knew through his father, a few civilians he had neither seen nor heard of before – some of whom were suspected of sharing Dumbledore’s sympathies, others of whom nothing at all had been said…
Every single one of them – every single one – without exception, started when they saw him, recognition flashing into their eyes followed by suspicion followed by condemnation, and then the inevitable glance towards Dumbledore, and the reluctant, extremely dubious acceptance of the old man’s approval of his presence. And then, the dire warning stare focused in his direction.
And then there was Moody. Alastor ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody, whose doppelganger had once turned him into a ferret. Doppelganger or no, Draco had conceived a very healthy fear of the man during the year they had suffered under him – or the man who had pretended to be him, and he had absolutely no desire to find himself on the man’s bad side. Unfortunately, it seemed that he was already there, without any effort at all, simply because he was Lucius Malfoy’s son, because he was Snape’s protégé, because he was High Clan, because he epitomised everything the man despised, and no doubt a whole host of other reasons as well.
Moody made this all too clear, by being the first person to bring up the subject of his presence. “What the hell is he doing here?”
All eyes turned to Dumbledore, who cleared his throat. “Mr. Malfoy is here,” he said slowly, “because of our mutual goal – the downfall of Lord Voldemort.”
Moody sneered, but Harcourt held up his hand, staying the old man’s scorn. It was said that the Slytherin had actually done his training under Moody’s constant vigilance and suspicion, and that, although he never said it, Moody regarded Harcourt as the best of all his apprentices…
“With respect, Headmaster,” Harcourt said, far more smoothly than Dumbledore, “he is here because he has nowhere else to go. Is that not so, Mr. Malfoy?”
Draco raised a brow. “I am afraid that I don’t understand, Mr. Harcourt,” he stalled.
“Your High Clan Slytherin colleagues, while influential within the closed world of the High Clan, are not so committed to your cause that they will defy the others of their class, all of whom believe you are already an opponent of the Dark…yet. And yet, your need for their help draws ever nearer, as Nott seeks to destroy you before you become a real threat…”
Draco looked to Snape, who refused to meet his eyes. So, that was how Harcourt had gained his information.
“If you wish to see your next birthday, Mr Malfoy, you need friends with real influence…”
“Oh?” Draco asked quietly. “And these ‘friends’, what price their influence?”
Harcourt didn’t bother to answer that.
Ron spoke up, shattering the undercurrents. “Why should we help Malfoy? And how do we know that he’s really against Voldemort?”
Yes, that was what Draco wanted to know himself. How did everyone else know what he himself wasn’t certain of? The Weasley’s brown eyes, so filled with inexplicable faith, even though she knew exactly what he was and most especially what he wasn’t, Snape’s black eyes, and Harcourt’s steady, calculating, measuring grey ones…
They all seemed certain he would fight.
“He will fight,” said Harcourt, feline cruelty in his eyes as he watched and measured, “because it is in his best interest, at the moment.”
“And that’s it?” growled Moody. “Because it is in his best interests?”
Harcourt looked surprised. “But of course…is that not enough?”
*************************************
Put that way, it hadn’t sounded very convincing. But then, there had never been anything certain about what her instinct said about Malfoy. She knew he would fight, that he would much rather have Voldemort out of the way than hanging about plotting to bring him into the fold. He was proud, and he had no wish to bend knee to a half-blood, and had no real desire to go around wantonly killing muggles and muggle-lovers.
And there was Nott, who was trying to kill him – that was a good enough motivation.
But, all up, it wasn’t very convincing evidence, when weighed against Harry’s dead parents, or Harcourt’s murdered brother and father, or anyone else in the Order who had lost family and friends to the Death Eaters. She could see how they would doubt, how Draco himself would be reluctant to commit himself fully to such a Cause.
For the Malfoy to throw everything he had – body, mind and soul – into the Order, he would need incentive…
And Ginny would not wish ‘incentive’ on anyone. Least of all on Draco, whom she had come to know very well. Perhaps it would be enough that he committed intellectually to the Order? Because it was in ‘his best interests at the moment’?
But it was by no means a foregone conclusion that he would even be allowed in at the moment, let alone that he would commit himself in any way. The discussion carried on later that night at the Weasley family gathering, where Arthur finally put before his family the question he had been fretting over for weeks.
Were they willing to support Malfoy against Nott?
Ron, predictably, was vehemently against it. “What business is it of ours if Nott and Malfoy destroy each other? It’ll get rid of the two leaders of Slytherin and the High Clan without any effort at all on our part…”
Arthur cleared his throat. “And yet, the enemy of our enemy…”
Molly snorted. “Are you saying that you trust him? This is Draco Malfoy, Arthur…”
There was a general growl of consensus, and Ginny looked around at her family, whom she loved, and saw them united in a hatred that she no longer shared. It was a very disorienting thought, taking her further and further away from the girl she had once been.
“But, just think, if we could get him wholly on our side, he could be a great asset to us…”
“That’s the problem, Dad,” said Charlie, sober and experienced. “Getting him wholly on our side – you heard Harcourt, he’s only in it for himself. What if the wind suddenly shifts?”
“They’re not going to suddenly stop hating each other,” Ginny heard herself piping up. “The only way Malfoy will profit in the Death Eaters is over Nott’s dead body, and he’s a more ruthless right hand than Lucius Malfoy ever was.” She stopped, blushing at her family’s surprised looks. “They say that Nott was behind Malfoy’s arrest in the first place…”
Hermione, now an honorary member of the Weasley family, gave her a very odd look. Ginny avoided her eyes, sure that the other girl suspected something. Fred and George were openly surprised, but laughed and joked, as if she had done something terribly clever.
“Harcourt seems to think that we should make the support against Nott conditional on Draco’s joining the Order,” Bill said thoughtfully. “It seems like a good idea.”
Harry snorted. “Malfoy’s too proud to ask for help from anyone or anything, let alone from muggle-loving Gryffindors…”
“It’s not a matter of pride,” Ginny said again. “It’s a matter of indebtedness.”
“Arthur,” Molly said suddenly, “Whose idea was it, that we support Malfoy?”
They all looked to their father, who fidgeted uncomfortably. He never could hide anything from his family. “Well,” he said, hesitant under his wife’s gaze, “Harcourt’s.”
“And what do we get out of it, Dad?” Ginny asked, suddenly wary. Speaking of indebtedness…
He shrugged. “Influence,” he said with conviction. “The chance for a greater say in Ministry affairs, the power to make things better…”
Good intentions. Gryffindor idealism. Slytherin politics. The road to Hell.
And was Ginny herself any better?
**************************************
“Oh, by the way, Lucius,” Dane paused before exiting the cell, “I have been authorised to make you an offer…”
A white brow lifted, and Lucius did not even pretend to misunderstand. “Have you? Is it going that badly, then?”
“No.” Dane could not meet the other’s penetrating eyes. “But I believe you could be a great asset to the Order.”
Lucius only laughed. “And what could you offer me in return? Power? Riches? True freedom, not a gilded cage to replace this true one?”
“Self-respect,” Dane said flatly, “and the chance to once more take a leading part in this Game.”
“The Game,” Lucius mused. “For so long has it dominated my entire life…” He looked up at Harcourt, eyes bright and uncharacteristically reckless. “I do not wish to play it any longer.”
Harcourt looked at him, frustration and the oddest feeling of compassion welling up in his throat. “You cannot simply decide to bow out.”
Lucius smiled. “Watch me.”
******************************************
Later that night, congregated around a huge wooden table, they put the proposal to him – join the Order, give his all to the fight against Voldemort, and they would do everything they could to bring Nott down. But of course he could not back out once Nott had fallen – of course not.
To Draco, it did not sound like much of a bargain, and the reactions of the main instigators as they watched him making up his mind – Harcourt’s quiet feline satisfaction, Weasley’s earnest eagerness, Dumbledore’s approving nod – did nothing to endear him to it.
Harcourt in particular seemed certain that Draco would put aside his pride and acquiesce to common sense and necessity, and somehow it rubbed him the wrong way. Perhaps it was Harcourt’s similarity to his father – something neither of them would appreciate, he was sure – that aroused such resentment in him; perhaps it was that he was sixteen years old and tired of being pushed around and manipulated.
Whatever the reason, he did not relish the thought of falling in with Harcourt’s schemes, whether they were for his benefit or not. It was not entirely a matter of pride – as Ginny had said earlier that night, it was a matter of indebtedness. He did not know the Order. He didn’t know what they would ask from him in return for their help, didn’t know what, precisely, they wanted from him and therefore if they had any bargaining points where he could apply leverage…
Finally, they lost patience with waiting for his answer. Or at least one of them did. “You cannot sit on the fence in this, boy,” barked Moody. “You can’t deal and you can’t play your godsdamned Game. This is real life – you have to make a choice.”
Draco stiffened, bowed his head curtly, and said, disconcerted by the interruption, “Unfortunately, I must refuse your offer…”
“Balls!” shouted Moody. Dumbledore and Snape winced, and Draco stiffened even further. “Your father is rotting in prison, boy! You can’t rely on him to save you anymore! And who else will help you if you refuse us? There’s no one else…”
His spine poker straight, nostrils flared, Draco bowed one last time to the rest of the room – not looking at Snape, Harcourt or Ginny – and marched out, closing the door with a click behind him, cutting off the rest of Moody’s tirade.
The old man had not been entirely correct – there were others, but those others didn’t have one fraction of the Order’s clout… Was committing himself, making a choice, such a bad thing if it gained him real, official support? No, it wasn’t – but Draco wasn’t ready, wasn’t free, to commit himself in such a reckless manner, as his father had done when he’d joined Voldemort. The only grand Cause he had any right to embrace was that of Clan Malfoy and the land Beyond the Veil – and that was all that he had ever wanted, really.
Soft footsteps padded on the stone behind him, and he slowed and turned to wait for the Weasley to catch up with him.
“Why did you refuse, Malfoy?” she demanded, gasping for breath. She had sprinted after him, slipping out under cover of the uproar in the room as the Order reeled from his rejection.
He scowled at her. “You know why I refused, Weasley. I don’t believe in anything but the Malfoy.”
“Not even High Clan Malfoy is invulnerable,” she said softly.
“No,” he said, still fired up on the pride and anger of his confrontation with Moody, “but it’s damn near to it…”
He hesitated, remembering something received and dismissed days ago, but then banished the memory and the doubts engendered by it. No, he was still safe; there was no one else…
“They’re not going to go away, Draco,” she put the tips of her fingers against her arm, felt it tense at the contact, then relax as he forced himself to accept her touch. “You’ll have to make a choice one day.”
He looked down at her, shook his head. “No, Weasley,” he said. “I can do this myself, I can keep this going for as long as I need to…”
Can you? She asked silently. Merlin, I wish I could believe you…
*****************************************
Alone in the depths of the castle, the small figure writhed in the knowledge of its own guilt, and of its complicity in a terrible wrong… Different somehow, stronger than the rest of its kindred, it had faced hard choices and contrasting instincts before, but even though it had left every part of its previous life behind, some things never changed…
Some gifts and abilities given, especially to his kind, were never retracted…
“Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!”
But even knocking itself against the wall so hard that it all but cracked its skull did not exorcise the guilt…
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