CHAPTER 2 - Loyalty and Precautions
As he stepped back into the familiar environs of the Burrow, of the house where he had lived his whole life, the subtle tension in Arthur Weasley’s shoulders eased, and the nagging headache just behind his eyes disappeared.
He was home. And here, in the Burrow, there were no pretences, no intrigues, and most of all – for which he was most grateful – no politics. Only the honesty of family, and love, and familiarity; this was the life he loved, the one he truly considered real.
His job at the Ministry – that was the dream, the illusion.
He had never been a powerful man, or a particularly ambitious one, but nevertheless he had some influence and respect in certain circles – mostly due to his known affiliation with Dumbledore. And when it became apparent that the Headmaster’s star was now in the ascendant – and that he had been right all along – Arthur had suddenly become more popular than ever. A fairly modest man, with no delusions of grandeur, he had not let it go to his head, but nevertheless...it had gratified him, somewhat, to be allowed closer to the centre of power.
And it had scared him, even more than it gratified him, when he found out just how deep and swift the undercurrents ran. The closer one came to the centre, the more treacherous things became – and the stakes of the Game were driven higher and higher, and deeper and deeper.
Because there were layers and layers within this Game that he had been forced to learn when he came into the centre. The surface layer of the Ministry against the Death Eaters overlay deeper feuds, hatreds, ambitions, vendettas, and subtle designs…
And nowhere was it more evident than in the most controversial matter of the last decade – Lucius Malfoy’s trial.
For Fudge to condemn the man who had all but engineered his election, who had been keeping him afloat and out of serious trouble ever since he became Minister, and who knew all of his secrets and skeletons and knew where everyone else’s skeletons were buried…it was a radical move, and one Arthur would have regarded dubiously even if it had sprung from more than a convenient political campaign against the newly re-emergent Death Eaters.
Putting Malfoy away would certainly demoralise the Death Eaters, but it would also throw the whole High Clan into chaos, depriving it of the one man who had been able to keep it centred and relatively stable over the last twenty years. And while some may think that a good thing, the resulting struggle for power could not be good for society in any way.
Ambition and opportunism had led more than one man down the road to darkness…
Oh, Percy…
How would Percy cope, in the struggle to fill the power vacuum? If even the most experienced of players could fall…
Clattering footsteps sounded on the stairs, as Ron and Ginny – the last of his children still living at home – ran down to greet him and to find out the latest news.
“Dad!” shouted Ron, exuberant in his affection and his curiosity. “Have they decided what they’re going to do with the Death Eaters yet?” Oh, he was fierce in his hatred and his love, and still young enough to think in stark black and white, good and evil. There had been a time, once, when he too thought the same way.
Ginny, more dignified, less emotionally innocent – and that was one thing he could blame Malfoy for – stopped and watched him with big, curious dark eyes.
He shrugged out of his over robes and slumped tiredly into a chair, closing his eyes momentarily. When he opened them again, he had himself under control and was ready to fill his children in.
“There’s no doubt whatsoever that they’re Death Eaters,” he said slowly, “and that in itself means an automatic life sentence in Azkaban.” He stopped as Ron whooped and cheered. “However, with the current public sentiment running high against anyone involved with – with You-Know-Who – I would say they would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law…and that means they’ll be stripped of everything they own – and I mean everything…”
Molly looked fiercely satisfied; content that justice would finally be done. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”
Arthur looked at her, a most uncharacteristically sardonic smile tugging at his mouth – but then, he had been in an odd mood all day. “Is it?” he asked softly, more of himself than of her. Because he was no longer so sure.
*************************************************
There were times, thought Lucius Malfoy, when he wondered why family tradition had such a hold on him. Why centuries long tradition could still influence his behaviour today, and why, when there were so many other options available, the Malfoy still, after nearly six hundred years, exclusively patronised the legal firm of Finch and Son.
In these ancient chambers above Knockturn Alley, shabby and cramped, like the worst kind of Dickensian stereotype, various Finches had passed the role of Malfoy solicitors down from father to son, as Malfoy Lord after Malfoy Lord retained their part of the bargain. And now, composed and elegant, the latest Lord (apparently unaware of the Aurors standing guard outside the door) sat across the overflowing desk from the latest Finch, who was at least eighty years old, wild haired but keen eyed over his rimless spectacles that rested half-way down his long, sensitive nose.
Finch had seemed ancient when Lucius had been a boy…he should have retired by now, and passed the senior partnership down to his eldest son, but unfortunately, the younger Finch had taken off to America in the seventies, and refused to return and take up what he called a ‘feudal master-servant relationship’ with a man who was an unrepentant evildoer.
Lucius' morals, or lack thereof, had never been an issue with the elder Finch. He - and his father before him - were the Malfoy, and they were his patrons, and therefore he would serve them to the best of his ability, as long as he was able to, and take pride in the act of service.
And that was why, despite a number of up-and-coming, far more ambitious and competent firms all competing for his patronage, Lucius had never even considered withdrawing his services from Finch and Son. It was simply not done. And there were times when complete loyalty was far more valuable than any amount of competence.
Such as now.
Loyalty, and not ambition or ego, was what was driving Finch as he looked across at the current Lord Malfoy. The Goddess knew that Lucius had not had an easy life – especially not after his father had been forced to join the Death Eaters – but he had thought that he would have been allowed to live his life in peace, after You-Know-Who had finally been defeated. When he’d heard rumours that the Dark Lord was active again, he had shaken his head, sorrowing that his patron (not his master, no, but his patron) would once more be dragged back into the shadow game.
And this time he’d slipped, and he would have to pay the price.
He said as much, always scrupulously honest in his dealings with Lucius, never afraid to be frank and open. If you couldn’t be frank with your lawyer, who could you be open with? “I’m afraid,” he said, polishing his glasses self-effacingly, despite his brave thoughts, “that I can’t see any real way to avoid Azkaban this time, my lord…”
And although he looked for it, looked quite closely, he couldn’t see a single sign of a reaction from the man sitting across from him, utterly composed and aristocratically elegant. He didn’t even blink – but Finch knew that it had to have been a severe blow. Conviction now of all times would be a disaster, and there was the slight matter of Master Draco, who was…well, who presented a somewhat less than inspiring image. Whether he was really like that…Finch didn’t like to dabble in things that weren’t his concern, but he did have his suspicions.
Finally, Lucius spoke. “If I go to Azkaban,” he said, his voice casual and detached, “what else will the Ministry be able to do to us?” By ‘us’ he meant his family, the Malfoy, and everyone who depended on them – and that included the people who lived on Malfoy land, and others who had a similar patron-client to the one Finch and Son did with the Clan. Finch knew, from his long involvement with Lucius’ affairs, that there were far more than was at first glance apparent.
In two and a half thousand years, High Clan Malfoy had built up quite a lot of influence in Britain…
Clearing his throat, fighting not to let his sympathy show in his voice, nor his worry for his own matters, if they no longer had the Malfoy to rely on, Finch retreated into the safety of dry legal details.
Lucius heard the sympathy, and the concealed worry, and felt again the helpless rage and frustration at the turn Fate had taken. He had been so close…so, so close to getting away with it, to finding his balance again, finding the right platform from which he could play the Death Eaters against Dumbledore and the Ministry, play both sides against the middle so that no matter who won, he would benefit – but Voldemort no longer trusted him as he used to, suspicious of why Lucius had not spent the last fifteen years scheming night and day for his return, and had sent him to the Ministry to test his competence and his loyalty.
He had gambled all, and he had lost. And now he would pay the price, and so would his whole Clan and everyone who depended on him. Unless Draco was everything he thought he was, everything he could be…and unless he could gain the strength and the cunning to hold it all together. Having lost the gamble on himself, he would now gamble everything on Draco…
He forced his attention back to Finch. “As well as imprisoning you, sir, the Ministry is within its rights, because you are a confirmed Death Eater, to arbitrarily search the premises of every one of your properties for anything it deems illegal or connected in any way to the Dark Arts, and then confiscate it…” Lucius spared a thought for the collection of fascinating artefacts that his ancestors had built up over the years, and wondered how he could conceal it. Some of those things were far too dangerous to let fall into the inexpert hands of the Ministry…
Finch droned on, his voice precise, pedantic and monotonous. “Given a warrant – and I don’t think there will be any trouble gaining one – they will be authorised to investigate your financial affairs, and to confiscate any illegal accounts or funds they find therein…” Lucius was sure there would be no trouble finding any illegalities – Fudge was always happy to get his hands on Malfoy money, no matter how it was acquired. There was no use wasting anger on the man, because he was exactly as Lucius had made him – a supremely political animal, well aware of where his best interests lay and which was the hand that fed him.
That didn’t make it any better, though.
“And finally,” Finch said, voice supremely didactic in defence of what he was saying, “if there is enough support, the Ministry may even be authorised to confiscate all your lands and all your properties, to take them away from High Clan Malfoy and present them to someone else…”
Lucius stilled.
Finch flinched involuntarily.
Finally, the set face relaxed, the silver eyes lost their frightening chill, and Lucius spoke softly, with only the very slightest hint of sibilance, “Malfoy lands are not theirs to give, nor to take away…”
Finch clasped his hands, wracked with fine tremours, together in his lap. “Yes, sir, but…” he wet his lips, “there are precedents…ancient ones, to be sure, most dealing with cases of vassals unsuccessfully rebelling against their rulers…” he rushed on when he saw Lucius’ eyes, “and although that doesn’t quite apply in this case, it can be made to apply, especially with the political and social protest against Death Eaters right now…they’ll be out to strip you of anything and everything you have, and will stretch the law as far as it can go and even further…”
For a moment, the mask cracked, and sheer frustration and ice-cold anger shone through with frightening clarity. The air in the room chilled noticeably, and Lucius’ body thrummed with pent up, barely controlled tension just waiting to be let out – backed by an enormous well of power honed and disciplined by a formidable will…Finch’s ears popped as the air pressure thickened, and his hands were white where he gripped them together to stop the shaking.
And then, Lucius calmed, the mask descending again, the frightening pressure simply vanishing as he realised the truth of Finch’s last statement. And as he accepted it, he rose from his chair to walk over to the window, his robes falling perfectly around him, and stared blankly into the distance as he thought.
And plotted.
“Do everything you can to conceal the extent of my client network,” he said finally, still with his back to the room. “And where identification is unavoidable, make sure that they suffer as little as possible because of it.”
Finch nodded, relieved beyond measure to see that his patron was not going to lose control, and was once more his manipulative, Machiavellian self. That brief trip into passion had been most unsettling, to a man who preferred not to think of what truly lay beneath the calm Malfoy exterior – and to a man whose livelihood relied on Lucius keeping that calm façade.
“Clear out the Malfoy vault in Gringott’s,” he said, turning around to smile in sardonic amusement at Finch’s goggling look. “Yes, it will indeed be under Ministry impoundment, but the goblins consider our custom far more important…show them my token, and then take the money and distribute it among these overseas accounts…” he rattled off a string of account numbers, some of them wizarding, some of them Muggle Swiss accounts, “and do as much as you can to make it as difficult as possible for Fudge to get his hands on any of my money.” He smiled grimly. “This is the end of enough, Finch – I will not play their game anymore…”
And he gave a bewildering array of instructions, on a bewildering array of subjects, which Finch, recognising true genius when he saw it, took down faithfully and without question. Finally, Lucius came to the very last and most important instructions. Crossing over to the desk, he stared down into Finch’s eyes, into an old man who had served his House faithfully for all of his life, and entrusted him with the most precious of all his possessions.
“Make sure,” he said with almost dangerous intensity, “that once I am in Azkaban, Draco is given into the care of Severus Andronicus Snape, and of no one else. Do you understand me, Finch? Into Professor Snape’s care alone, and with no Ministry supervision, no monitoring, no interference even by Dumbledore.”
Finch cleared his throat delicately. “It is customary, in these cases, for the child’s mother –“
“No.” It was almost a whip-crack. “Not to Narcissa, and not to the Beauforts, and not to anyone else who might offer for him. Snape, and only Snape.” He made a sharp, uncharacteristic movement. “On your blood, and the blood of your ancestors, swear it.”
Finch gazed at him without speaking for an endless moment, and then slowly, solemnly nodded. “On my blood, and the blood of my ancestors,” he began, speaking the words of Blood Vow, the most solemn and terrible of High Clan oaths, “I do so swear it. Severus Snape, and no one else.”
The eye contact held for a few more heartbeats, and then Lucius broke away, his shoulders slumping with something like relief. But only for a moment, and then it was gone. “Good,” he said, and with a final nod, “Thank you, Finch.” A last, almost reluctant look back, and Finch smiled slightly, as if he were not used to it, especially not with Lucius Malfoy, and then Lucius opened the door and was gone.
Leaving Phineas Finch, who was sore and tired and far, far too old to still be the senior partner of Finch and Son, to do everything he could to ensure that the Malfoy survived this coming disaster. Another, more ambitious, more competent firm might have cut their losses and refused to put everything they had into reviving an almost certainly sinking ship – but not this one.
Six hundred years they had served the Malfoy. They would not abandon them now in their hour of need.
******************************************************
You stupid fool, she thought. How could you be this careless?
I thought you were good enough to avoid this – I only married you because I thought you were powerful enough to be beyond the law. I thought you would be invulnerable.
But now that you’re going down, don’t expect me to stand by you – if you’re not strong or ruthless enough to stay on top, then I’ll find someone who is.
And I’ll take your precious, beloved son with me.
***************************************************
A/N - In this story I have kept to my old idea of Narcissa coming from a fictional French pureblood House, despite canon evidence to the contrary. This was because I wanted her to have a powerful, fully intact family behind her, not just the remnants of the Blacks.
As he stepped back into the familiar environs of the Burrow, of the house where he had lived his whole life, the subtle tension in Arthur Weasley’s shoulders eased, and the nagging headache just behind his eyes disappeared.
He was home. And here, in the Burrow, there were no pretences, no intrigues, and most of all – for which he was most grateful – no politics. Only the honesty of family, and love, and familiarity; this was the life he loved, the one he truly considered real.
His job at the Ministry – that was the dream, the illusion.
He had never been a powerful man, or a particularly ambitious one, but nevertheless he had some influence and respect in certain circles – mostly due to his known affiliation with Dumbledore. And when it became apparent that the Headmaster’s star was now in the ascendant – and that he had been right all along – Arthur had suddenly become more popular than ever. A fairly modest man, with no delusions of grandeur, he had not let it go to his head, but nevertheless...it had gratified him, somewhat, to be allowed closer to the centre of power.
And it had scared him, even more than it gratified him, when he found out just how deep and swift the undercurrents ran. The closer one came to the centre, the more treacherous things became – and the stakes of the Game were driven higher and higher, and deeper and deeper.
Because there were layers and layers within this Game that he had been forced to learn when he came into the centre. The surface layer of the Ministry against the Death Eaters overlay deeper feuds, hatreds, ambitions, vendettas, and subtle designs…
And nowhere was it more evident than in the most controversial matter of the last decade – Lucius Malfoy’s trial.
For Fudge to condemn the man who had all but engineered his election, who had been keeping him afloat and out of serious trouble ever since he became Minister, and who knew all of his secrets and skeletons and knew where everyone else’s skeletons were buried…it was a radical move, and one Arthur would have regarded dubiously even if it had sprung from more than a convenient political campaign against the newly re-emergent Death Eaters.
Putting Malfoy away would certainly demoralise the Death Eaters, but it would also throw the whole High Clan into chaos, depriving it of the one man who had been able to keep it centred and relatively stable over the last twenty years. And while some may think that a good thing, the resulting struggle for power could not be good for society in any way.
Ambition and opportunism had led more than one man down the road to darkness…
Oh, Percy…
How would Percy cope, in the struggle to fill the power vacuum? If even the most experienced of players could fall…
Clattering footsteps sounded on the stairs, as Ron and Ginny – the last of his children still living at home – ran down to greet him and to find out the latest news.
“Dad!” shouted Ron, exuberant in his affection and his curiosity. “Have they decided what they’re going to do with the Death Eaters yet?” Oh, he was fierce in his hatred and his love, and still young enough to think in stark black and white, good and evil. There had been a time, once, when he too thought the same way.
Ginny, more dignified, less emotionally innocent – and that was one thing he could blame Malfoy for – stopped and watched him with big, curious dark eyes.
He shrugged out of his over robes and slumped tiredly into a chair, closing his eyes momentarily. When he opened them again, he had himself under control and was ready to fill his children in.
“There’s no doubt whatsoever that they’re Death Eaters,” he said slowly, “and that in itself means an automatic life sentence in Azkaban.” He stopped as Ron whooped and cheered. “However, with the current public sentiment running high against anyone involved with – with You-Know-Who – I would say they would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law…and that means they’ll be stripped of everything they own – and I mean everything…”
Molly looked fiercely satisfied; content that justice would finally be done. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”
Arthur looked at her, a most uncharacteristically sardonic smile tugging at his mouth – but then, he had been in an odd mood all day. “Is it?” he asked softly, more of himself than of her. Because he was no longer so sure.
*************************************************
There were times, thought Lucius Malfoy, when he wondered why family tradition had such a hold on him. Why centuries long tradition could still influence his behaviour today, and why, when there were so many other options available, the Malfoy still, after nearly six hundred years, exclusively patronised the legal firm of Finch and Son.
In these ancient chambers above Knockturn Alley, shabby and cramped, like the worst kind of Dickensian stereotype, various Finches had passed the role of Malfoy solicitors down from father to son, as Malfoy Lord after Malfoy Lord retained their part of the bargain. And now, composed and elegant, the latest Lord (apparently unaware of the Aurors standing guard outside the door) sat across the overflowing desk from the latest Finch, who was at least eighty years old, wild haired but keen eyed over his rimless spectacles that rested half-way down his long, sensitive nose.
Finch had seemed ancient when Lucius had been a boy…he should have retired by now, and passed the senior partnership down to his eldest son, but unfortunately, the younger Finch had taken off to America in the seventies, and refused to return and take up what he called a ‘feudal master-servant relationship’ with a man who was an unrepentant evildoer.
Lucius' morals, or lack thereof, had never been an issue with the elder Finch. He - and his father before him - were the Malfoy, and they were his patrons, and therefore he would serve them to the best of his ability, as long as he was able to, and take pride in the act of service.
And that was why, despite a number of up-and-coming, far more ambitious and competent firms all competing for his patronage, Lucius had never even considered withdrawing his services from Finch and Son. It was simply not done. And there were times when complete loyalty was far more valuable than any amount of competence.
Such as now.
Loyalty, and not ambition or ego, was what was driving Finch as he looked across at the current Lord Malfoy. The Goddess knew that Lucius had not had an easy life – especially not after his father had been forced to join the Death Eaters – but he had thought that he would have been allowed to live his life in peace, after You-Know-Who had finally been defeated. When he’d heard rumours that the Dark Lord was active again, he had shaken his head, sorrowing that his patron (not his master, no, but his patron) would once more be dragged back into the shadow game.
And this time he’d slipped, and he would have to pay the price.
He said as much, always scrupulously honest in his dealings with Lucius, never afraid to be frank and open. If you couldn’t be frank with your lawyer, who could you be open with? “I’m afraid,” he said, polishing his glasses self-effacingly, despite his brave thoughts, “that I can’t see any real way to avoid Azkaban this time, my lord…”
And although he looked for it, looked quite closely, he couldn’t see a single sign of a reaction from the man sitting across from him, utterly composed and aristocratically elegant. He didn’t even blink – but Finch knew that it had to have been a severe blow. Conviction now of all times would be a disaster, and there was the slight matter of Master Draco, who was…well, who presented a somewhat less than inspiring image. Whether he was really like that…Finch didn’t like to dabble in things that weren’t his concern, but he did have his suspicions.
Finally, Lucius spoke. “If I go to Azkaban,” he said, his voice casual and detached, “what else will the Ministry be able to do to us?” By ‘us’ he meant his family, the Malfoy, and everyone who depended on them – and that included the people who lived on Malfoy land, and others who had a similar patron-client to the one Finch and Son did with the Clan. Finch knew, from his long involvement with Lucius’ affairs, that there were far more than was at first glance apparent.
In two and a half thousand years, High Clan Malfoy had built up quite a lot of influence in Britain…
Clearing his throat, fighting not to let his sympathy show in his voice, nor his worry for his own matters, if they no longer had the Malfoy to rely on, Finch retreated into the safety of dry legal details.
Lucius heard the sympathy, and the concealed worry, and felt again the helpless rage and frustration at the turn Fate had taken. He had been so close…so, so close to getting away with it, to finding his balance again, finding the right platform from which he could play the Death Eaters against Dumbledore and the Ministry, play both sides against the middle so that no matter who won, he would benefit – but Voldemort no longer trusted him as he used to, suspicious of why Lucius had not spent the last fifteen years scheming night and day for his return, and had sent him to the Ministry to test his competence and his loyalty.
He had gambled all, and he had lost. And now he would pay the price, and so would his whole Clan and everyone who depended on him. Unless Draco was everything he thought he was, everything he could be…and unless he could gain the strength and the cunning to hold it all together. Having lost the gamble on himself, he would now gamble everything on Draco…
He forced his attention back to Finch. “As well as imprisoning you, sir, the Ministry is within its rights, because you are a confirmed Death Eater, to arbitrarily search the premises of every one of your properties for anything it deems illegal or connected in any way to the Dark Arts, and then confiscate it…” Lucius spared a thought for the collection of fascinating artefacts that his ancestors had built up over the years, and wondered how he could conceal it. Some of those things were far too dangerous to let fall into the inexpert hands of the Ministry…
Finch droned on, his voice precise, pedantic and monotonous. “Given a warrant – and I don’t think there will be any trouble gaining one – they will be authorised to investigate your financial affairs, and to confiscate any illegal accounts or funds they find therein…” Lucius was sure there would be no trouble finding any illegalities – Fudge was always happy to get his hands on Malfoy money, no matter how it was acquired. There was no use wasting anger on the man, because he was exactly as Lucius had made him – a supremely political animal, well aware of where his best interests lay and which was the hand that fed him.
That didn’t make it any better, though.
“And finally,” Finch said, voice supremely didactic in defence of what he was saying, “if there is enough support, the Ministry may even be authorised to confiscate all your lands and all your properties, to take them away from High Clan Malfoy and present them to someone else…”
Lucius stilled.
Finch flinched involuntarily.
Finally, the set face relaxed, the silver eyes lost their frightening chill, and Lucius spoke softly, with only the very slightest hint of sibilance, “Malfoy lands are not theirs to give, nor to take away…”
Finch clasped his hands, wracked with fine tremours, together in his lap. “Yes, sir, but…” he wet his lips, “there are precedents…ancient ones, to be sure, most dealing with cases of vassals unsuccessfully rebelling against their rulers…” he rushed on when he saw Lucius’ eyes, “and although that doesn’t quite apply in this case, it can be made to apply, especially with the political and social protest against Death Eaters right now…they’ll be out to strip you of anything and everything you have, and will stretch the law as far as it can go and even further…”
For a moment, the mask cracked, and sheer frustration and ice-cold anger shone through with frightening clarity. The air in the room chilled noticeably, and Lucius’ body thrummed with pent up, barely controlled tension just waiting to be let out – backed by an enormous well of power honed and disciplined by a formidable will…Finch’s ears popped as the air pressure thickened, and his hands were white where he gripped them together to stop the shaking.
And then, Lucius calmed, the mask descending again, the frightening pressure simply vanishing as he realised the truth of Finch’s last statement. And as he accepted it, he rose from his chair to walk over to the window, his robes falling perfectly around him, and stared blankly into the distance as he thought.
And plotted.
“Do everything you can to conceal the extent of my client network,” he said finally, still with his back to the room. “And where identification is unavoidable, make sure that they suffer as little as possible because of it.”
Finch nodded, relieved beyond measure to see that his patron was not going to lose control, and was once more his manipulative, Machiavellian self. That brief trip into passion had been most unsettling, to a man who preferred not to think of what truly lay beneath the calm Malfoy exterior – and to a man whose livelihood relied on Lucius keeping that calm façade.
“Clear out the Malfoy vault in Gringott’s,” he said, turning around to smile in sardonic amusement at Finch’s goggling look. “Yes, it will indeed be under Ministry impoundment, but the goblins consider our custom far more important…show them my token, and then take the money and distribute it among these overseas accounts…” he rattled off a string of account numbers, some of them wizarding, some of them Muggle Swiss accounts, “and do as much as you can to make it as difficult as possible for Fudge to get his hands on any of my money.” He smiled grimly. “This is the end of enough, Finch – I will not play their game anymore…”
And he gave a bewildering array of instructions, on a bewildering array of subjects, which Finch, recognising true genius when he saw it, took down faithfully and without question. Finally, Lucius came to the very last and most important instructions. Crossing over to the desk, he stared down into Finch’s eyes, into an old man who had served his House faithfully for all of his life, and entrusted him with the most precious of all his possessions.
“Make sure,” he said with almost dangerous intensity, “that once I am in Azkaban, Draco is given into the care of Severus Andronicus Snape, and of no one else. Do you understand me, Finch? Into Professor Snape’s care alone, and with no Ministry supervision, no monitoring, no interference even by Dumbledore.”
Finch cleared his throat delicately. “It is customary, in these cases, for the child’s mother –“
“No.” It was almost a whip-crack. “Not to Narcissa, and not to the Beauforts, and not to anyone else who might offer for him. Snape, and only Snape.” He made a sharp, uncharacteristic movement. “On your blood, and the blood of your ancestors, swear it.”
Finch gazed at him without speaking for an endless moment, and then slowly, solemnly nodded. “On my blood, and the blood of my ancestors,” he began, speaking the words of Blood Vow, the most solemn and terrible of High Clan oaths, “I do so swear it. Severus Snape, and no one else.”
The eye contact held for a few more heartbeats, and then Lucius broke away, his shoulders slumping with something like relief. But only for a moment, and then it was gone. “Good,” he said, and with a final nod, “Thank you, Finch.” A last, almost reluctant look back, and Finch smiled slightly, as if he were not used to it, especially not with Lucius Malfoy, and then Lucius opened the door and was gone.
Leaving Phineas Finch, who was sore and tired and far, far too old to still be the senior partner of Finch and Son, to do everything he could to ensure that the Malfoy survived this coming disaster. Another, more ambitious, more competent firm might have cut their losses and refused to put everything they had into reviving an almost certainly sinking ship – but not this one.
Six hundred years they had served the Malfoy. They would not abandon them now in their hour of need.
******************************************************
You stupid fool, she thought. How could you be this careless?
I thought you were good enough to avoid this – I only married you because I thought you were powerful enough to be beyond the law. I thought you would be invulnerable.
But now that you’re going down, don’t expect me to stand by you – if you’re not strong or ruthless enough to stay on top, then I’ll find someone who is.
And I’ll take your precious, beloved son with me.
***************************************************
A/N - In this story I have kept to my old idea of Narcissa coming from a fictional French pureblood House, despite canon evidence to the contrary. This was because I wanted her to have a powerful, fully intact family behind her, not just the remnants of the Blacks.
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