Chapter 21
“What the hell is going on, Weasley?” Moody shouted, lumbering down the stairs just as the three Slytherins disappeared. “Where are they going?”
Arthur looked at the old, formidable Auror. “Draco’s gone off to save his people,” he said slowly, still not believing it himself, “and the others have gone to make sure he doesn’t get killed.”
Lupin looked incredulous. “Draco charged off? Are you sure?”
Arthur nodded. “Oh yes.” He spread his hands out wide, and laughed helplessly. “Snape and Harcourt weren’t pleased…”
No one said anything.
“Well then,” Dumbledore said quietly, the voice of reason. “Let’s get ready, and follow after them.”
“It’s a trap,” Moody growled warningly.
“Then we will spring it with full knowledge of what we are entering into,” Dumbledore said, with great assurance.
Arthur, Lupin and Moody exchanged dubious looks. “Snape and Harcourt seemed extremely concerned,” Arthur said diplomatically. “They advised Draco to stay here and wait, that Nott would not stay on Malfoy land if no one came to challenge him.”
“Do you feel that Alexander Nott has the requisite self-control for such delicacy?” Dumbledore asked gently. “He has not Lucius Malfoy’s…” he paused, searching, “discipline. I don’t believe he will be able to restrain himself.”
“We can’t go into a situation and a location of which we have no concrete knowledge,” Lupin argued. “It would be madness.”
“We shouldn’t go into the situation at all,” Moody grumbled. “It’s Malfoy’s problem, and he’s seen fit to reject us. Let him and his two puppet masters look after their own problems.”
Arthur did not usually like to contradict Moody, being more than a little intimidated by the man, but this time he was compelled to speak up. “It is not just Malfoy’s problem, or even the High Clan’s,” he said, not very convincingly. “If Nott succeeds in killing the last scion of House Malfoy and conquering his land, in suborning his Grove, it will be a huge symbolic victory. All the fence sitters will flock to him. If we can prevent that, and show Malfoy that he can’t do everything on his own…”
“Why?” Lupin asked with devastating simplicity.
Dumbledore looked at Arthur with great interest, as if he was very interested in how he would answer that question… “Because the Malfoy are the focal point of the High Clan and the old families. And because, as Lucius has been flaunting all these years, they truly are very, very powerful – it’s not just Slytherin prejudice. If we can strip away all Draco Malfoy’s pride, all his arrogance, and convince him that it’s not just a matter of best interests, but survival and absolute necessity to join with us…”
“I thought best interests were all that Slytherins cared about,” Moody sneered. “It’s certainly all Draco cares about.”
Arthur smiled a little ruefully. “But Malfoy are not conventional Slytherins. I’m sure Snape has told you of their tendency to be…emotional…at the most inconvenient times…” And then he turned to Moody. “Harcourt misjudged him.”
“Why are you doing this, Arthur?” Dumbledore asked. “I have never known you to be a Malfoy fan.”
“Yes, Weasley. Why the sudden about face?” Moody stalked closer, suspicious that Arthur had suddenly turned coat. “What did they offer you?”
Arthur’s rueful smile twisted. Good old Moody. Constant
vigilance.
There was a clattering of footsteps, and they looked up to see Harry come down the stairs in a rush, his hair sticking everywhere, glasses askew and face worried. “Where’s Ginny?” he demanded, frantic. “We can’t find her anywhere…
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Ginny had been practicing Apparating over the holidays, on the sly; she was glad for it now, crouching in the underbrush and watching Draco and his two – advisors? mentors? she didn’t really know what to call them – as they themselves crouched, and watched the Death Eaters on guard over what she assumed was the border to Malfoy land. She had seen astonishment, dismay and rage pass in quick succession over Draco’s face as they approached, and wondered what it was he saw – or rather, what he didn’t see.
She remembered his words – there is no Veil anymore; he has destroyed it – and remembered the spectacular display of temper and passion in the argument in the Great Hall, where it seemed as though Draco had willingly stripped off his impassive mask to show the very deep, very dangerous currents underneath.
That show of emotion, more than anything, convinced her that she needed to follow him, to witness whatever action it was he was rushing into – she had to see whether Slytherin ideals such as logic, reason, and calculation actually stood up in the real world of blood, mud and adrenaline, or whether it was solely reserved for drawing rooms and discussions over brandy and cigars.
She had to see whether Draco himself practiced what he was teaching her.
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Curious, earnest Ginny overlooked one small, vitally important fact – Draco was sixteen years old, and he had never, ever had to play the Game on a practical level, in the mud, blood, and adrenaline. All he knew was what his father and mentors had taught him, and he was already beginning to doubt the infallibility of that advice…
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“This is madness,” Snape hissed in Draco’s ear. “You’ll kill us all.” On his other side, Harcourt nodded in agreement. They had apparated to the thick, old forest that ran all the way up to the edge of the Veil – or rather, where the Veil used to be. Because, as he had said, as he had known, it was no longer there – the barrier that had maintained the illusion of a wide, endless abyss was gone, and land that had been hidden away for thousands of years was now indisputably there, for all to see. To Draco, it was a shocking violation of his view of the world, as if some basic, fundamental fact had suddenly been disproved.
It spurred his temper, inflamed the strange, alien streak of recklessness he had discovered within himself.
It was not right.
Draco ignored his two would-be advisors. He knew they were right, but… “I don’t care,” he hissed. “I’m going through with it anyway.” He was getting tired of them telling him that he was being foolish; he knew damn well that this was reckless, impulsive and entirely stupid. But it was also necessary, in a way that he simply could not put into words. It fell into the category of things the Malfoy must do. “You can stay behind, if you want,” he said, knowing full well they were obliged to come along, if only to protect the splendid achievement of everything they had spent so long working towards…
He was not the fulfilment of Slytherin High Clan hopes and dreams. He was not a saviour, or a prophet, or the Boy who Lived.
He was the Lord of the Malfoy: nothing more, and nothing less.
And as the Lord of the Malfoy, he had certain responsibilities, certain duties that were inviolable; Nott knew this, he was sure, and planned to use them to trap him. But he could not, would not allow the invasion of his lands, the desecration of his Grove and of his Covenant. Generations of his ancestors would turn their backs on him in shame and condemnation…
He would take back his lands and his Covenant, no matter what the cost.
But Snape – stubborn, determined Snape – was not so accepting of the realities of being a Malfoy. As Draco shifted his weight, preparing to move, Snape grabbed his wrist, holding him back, pulling him down. Slowly, Draco turned his head, nostrils flaring, to gaze blankly down at the long, strong fingers; he turned his eyes back to Snape, no longer blank –
“Let go of me.”
Slowly – oh so slowly – Snape released his grip.
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Alexander Nott was a triumphant man. His ingenious plan to get through the Veil had worked, and so had his – relatively peaceful – conquest of the Malfoy land and people. Even the spell, given to him by the Dark Lord with great and malicious glee had done exactly what it was supposed to do – that is, it had broken the bond between land and lord and laymen; smashed the Covenant that had sustained this land for so many centuries.
It was sure to bring young Draco running.
Now all he had to do was wait, and everything he had ever wanted would fall into his fingers. Lucius was rotting in Azkaban, and he, Alexander Nott, whom the golden child of Slytherin had always thought of as not good enough, held onto everything that Lucius had ever owned, had ever valued. He controlled it. He had the power, the intoxicating power of life and death, destruction and complete devastation over these people Malfoy so loved.
And it was taking everything he had, every single ounce of patience he had ever possessed, to keep things relatively light, for now. Even his eager, bloodthirsty minions were anxious for a little action, but he kept them under control, until afterwards, when they could do exactly as they liked. Because by then, it wouldn’t matter a single jot what happened to the weak, helpless people of a leaderless land…
He chuckled as he watched the magical fire slowly consume the great, towering stone Castle, reducing two and a half millennia of rule into ashes and rubble.
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Of course, not all of the invading Death Eaters shared Nott’s views – what was his grand, subtle plan to them? All they knew was that he had told them no one was to be harmed or killed, and nothing but the Castle was to be destroyed. That was all well and good, but did he really think that they would accept those restrictions? They were the Death Eaters, the chosen soldiers of the Dark Lord’s cause, and by all the gods they deserved to have some recompense for their efforts.
And, well, there were some things Nott didn’t need to know.
Walden McNair had partaken of Lucius Malfoy’s hospitality
before – once or twice, and on sufferance, he knew – and had heated memories of a woman of whom he had once caught a fleeting glimpse, in one of those villages Malfoy guarded from outsiders as if they were actually precious, and as if he actually took his position as Lord seriously.
If McNair had had control of villages of peasant women that looked like that, you could be sure that he would take his rights very seriously…
When Nott had first attacked, the villagers had reacted extremely quickly, fleeing into the forest, almost as if they had been expecting this – ridiculous, of course, but this was Malfoy land they were talking of – and McNair had been given the thankless chance of retrieving them peacefully, or at least without causing too much harm. They were to be hostages, Nott said grandly – but even so, would it not be better to kill them all, or at least some of them, to push the Malfoy boy into hasty action?
It was ridiculous. And McNair, chosen soldier of the Dark Lord’s cause, was very good at denigrating and ignoring that which he found ridiculous. So, when faced with another glimpse of the nubile peasant, fleeing headlong through the woods, he gave chase, his black-cloaked brothers following, and ran her down to earth in the best sport he had had in years…
Only to come face to face with another, infinitely more deadly predator.
“Avada Kedavra,” spoke a cool, remorseless voice, and again, “Avada Kedavra,” as the next Death Eater after him stumbled into the ambush, and again, and again, and again, merciless, unyielding, and fatal, every single time.
The girl, trembling but exultant, now that her faith had been justified, turned to face her rescuer and smiled fiercely. “I knew you would come,” she said.
Lucius smiled crookedly.
*****************************
The Death Eaters left to guard the entrance were not, contrary to what Snape and Harcourt thought, concealed in the trees, nor were they hiding behind invisibility cloaks ready to capture them all and drag them before Nott and the Dark Lord. Rather, they were slumped motionless on the grassy slope, limbs twisted and tumbled, stiff and waxen in the after affects of a fatal Dark curse.
With analytical, detached interest, Snape nudged one of the corpses with his boot, turning it over onto its back, flicking his wand to remove the featureless, anonymous mask and reveal the face underneath, contorted and hideous in its expression of mingled astonishment and fear.
Marcus Flint.
He sighed. Coming up beside him, Draco looked down at the man – boy – he had known, before, as a passable Keeper, an enthusiastic captain and a clumsy intriguer. He had been no match for his opponent; that much was sure. Seeing his look of inquiry, interpreting it correctly, Snape shrugged and said, “This has the look of your father’s work, were it possible…”
Harcourt made a noise deep in the back of his throat, perhaps agreement, perhaps disgust, perhaps disapproval. It was hard to tell. “He will never get out of Azkaban alive. He knew it, when he chose to turn.”
Draco scowled, stung by the mention of his father. “Whoever it was, they opened the way for us…” He stopped.
Stiffened.
Turned around.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
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The taste of her own fear and revulsion was acrid in her mouth, but she would not – would not – reveal just how horrified she had been by the two corpses, even if she had no doubt that Harcourt and Snape, at least, could tell. Draco, for once, looked to be wrapped up in his own concerns, too preoccupied to notice the small signs of her distress. She wondered how he had noticed her, despite his other worries.
“I’ve come to help you,” she said, defensively. She didn’t see the way that Snape and Harcourt exchanged looks, and nor did Draco.
“Help me?” he repeated, incredulous. “How could you possibly help me? Go home, Weasley.”
She scowled. “No. I will not be sent home like some…child!” She had not come all this way, been frightened almost out of her wits, to turn around and go home now.
Harcourt’s voice was calm and logical. “Be reasonable, Miss Weasley. It will help us more to know that you are safe.” Wise and experienced in the ways of Gryffindors, he did not bring emotion or gender into the issue.
“I want to learn about Death Eaters,” she protested. “Where and how else will I get a better chance? You know that eventually I have to go beyond the theoretical.”
“This is too close, and too real. It is too dangerous.” Snape was beginning to regret his impulsive decision to throw Draco and the girl together. Mutual support and companionship had grown just as he imagined it would, but Miss Weasley was, unfortunately, still all too eager to rush out and put herself in danger. If she died…
But Ginny had had enough of others allowing her space and room. “All my life, people have been telling me to stay out of harm’s way. I have just as much right to my own decisions, my own choices, and if necessary my own mistakes as anyone else. You can’t deny me that…” She turned, unconsciously imploring, to Draco. “You’re always talking about strength, about making my own decisions and sticking by them. Don’t you understand? Strength of will, strength of mind, standing on my own – this is what I want, and I am prepared to pay for it.”
Once more, Snape and Harcourt exchanged glances. Yes, ‘take what you want, and pay for it’ was one of Slytherin’s central teachings. But they had lived long enough, seen enough loss and pain and revenge to know that, sometimes, the price was paid by somebody else…
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It was Hermione, surprisingly, who provided the answer to the puzzle. Certainly, she had been given enough clues over the last term – Ginny’s new interest in subjects that were definitely not standard Gryffindor fare, her new confidence in herself and her own abilities, and the disturbing similarities in behaviour she displayed, from time to time, to Draco Malfoy – more than enough to figure it out.
Ginny hadn’t been sneaking out to meet a boyfriend without Ron’s knowledge, she’d been learning from Malfoy. That was why she’d seemed so comfortable with him before – they must have been meeting for weeks, at least. And that was why she had been so distressed when Malfoy had collapsed so suddenly.
She’d followed him.
This revelation – confirmed by subsequent evidence – caused consternation among the various members of the Order: only Dumbledore and, oddly, Mr. Weasley seemed unsurprised. But that did not mean that they were unaffected.
“That confirms it,” Mr. Weasley said glumly. “We must go in after them, now.”
Mrs. Weasley agreed, glaring fiercely around at the others, red faced and adamant in defence of her youngest child. “I don’t care what quarrel you have with Snape or Malfoy, but we’re talking about my daughter now. We can’t abandon her.”
“I’d like to know what the silly chit was thinking, following him in the first place.” Moody growled under his breath. “The Malfoy are nothing but trouble.”
Harry, Ron and the rest of the Weasley children scowled. Usually, they would have been more than happy to let Malfoy handle his own troubles – a sentiment no doubt shared by all of those present at the meeting – but this time it was different. Despite her deception, whatever foolish choices she had made, Ginny was their sister…
Professor Lupin sighed and wearily massaged the bridge of his nose. “I understand the necessity of rescuing Ginny, but even so…” he seemed embarrassed, “it will be a very delicate operation…”
“My dear friends,” said Dumbledore gently, “why are we arguing? Surely Miss Weasley’s life comes before all other considerations? If you must have another reason to be convinced, think of it this way – we now have a completely valid, utterly inarguable reason to go and confront Nott; one that has nothing at all to do with the High Clan. Is that not enough?”
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Eventually, Draco, Snape and Harcourt capitulated, and allowed Ginny to accompany them – on the understanding that she did exactly as they ordered, when they ordered it, and that she would seek safety at even the slightest sign of danger. Harcourt had no wish to face Arthur Weasley with the news that his beloved daughter was dead, and he was responsible for her death, and Snape had no wish to see her die, and Draco’s innocence with her.
So much rode on this one young girl’s shoulders…
Unerringly, Draco led them towards the centre of his land, towards Nott. The black, billowing smoke from the burning Castle was impossible to miss, and yet Draco did not look at it; the clouded shadowy miasma that crept through the forests, radiating out from the Grove was everywhere, and yet Draco pointedly ignored it. He was focused, single-mindedly – perhaps obsessively – on his target, on the instigator of all this chaos and ruin, and would not deviate from his path, no matter what arguments his advisors put forwards. They saw the girl frown as she observed Draco’s behaviour, and watched as she came to her own conclusions.
Young or not, Gryffindor or not, she was no fool.
Every so often, Draco clutched at his chest, breathing hoarsely, his face pale and glistening with beads of sweat. He refused to stop, pushing them onwards as fast as they could go, but they could all see the damage that the Grove’s violation had done. He was tiring, his strength waning – but still he pushed on.
This whole situation had escalated far beyond their control. The political machinations they had spun so delicately, so carefully, had been torn apart by Nott’s sudden, premature strike – it had come to action, to violence far earlier than they had thought, far earlier than they had ever imagined in their worst nightmares. Draco was in no way ready for the role he had been forced to play – he was not ready to kill, was still young and innocent enough to have ideals, to harbour dreams and secret inclinations towards heroics.
That had been perfectly well, when they had been trying to restore his place as the rightful centre of the High Clan. But now that it had come to this, to the point where all the plotting and careful manipulation in the world can be destroyed by brute, animal violence…
This was the very reason Lucius had appointed Snape Draco’s guardian, and manipulated Harcourt into taking up his cause. Because Draco was not yet ready for extreme, hands on pragmatism…
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“This way, my lord,” the girl beckoned, moving through the forest with the greatest of ease. “The invaders are heading this way…”
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Malfoy was coming – walking straight into his father’s clutches, as Theodore had known he would. Really, the Malfoy were so easy to predict, once one knew the way they thought, the secrets they kept so secret from the rest of the world. It was as his father had said – they were not invulnerable, they had weaknesses and foibles just like other, supposedly lesser men.
And if Theodore had failed to find Draco’s weak spots earlier in the year, well, he had not been ready then, had not perfectly understood the nature and stakes of the Game they were playing. Back then, he had not fully understood that niceties didn’t matter; what really counted was victory, no matter the methods or the cost.
Take what you want, and pay for it.
But his father had taught him the error of his ways. Oh, yes, he knew better now…
And Draco Malfoy, who knew all the niceties, all the fine points, who had such impeccable manners and was such a perfect example of the High Clan, would learn the true meaning of power – that the finest façade was nothing, absolutely nothing, unless there was something backing it up. Today, very, very soon, his father would teach him the last and most important lesson of his life – and he would watch, and laugh…
And then no one – no one – would sneer at Theodore Nott, son of Alexander Nott, ever again.
An insistent voice broke into his thoughts, interrupting his reverie, and he turned around to see his father’s face turn thunderous as he talked to one of his scouts. There was a knot of Death Eaters surrounding them, and suddenly there was an air of tension, of worry in the air.
“Father?” Theodore asked. “What is it?”
His father rounded on him with a snarl, but subsided when he shrank back instinctively. “Don’t worry, boy. A little bit of local resistance, a little stronger than we expected…”
But even Theodore could see that it was more than that – the scout was genuinely worried, and his father was far angrier than ‘a little local resistance’ warranted. Nott, seeing his dissatisfaction with the answer, sighed exaggeratedly and ruffled his hair, all condescension in front of his followers. “Malfoy evidently has some sense – he brought his two puppet masters with him.”
“Dumbledore and Harcourt, Father?”
Nott’s mouth twisted. “No, boy, Harcourt and Snape.”
The boy was stunned. Evidently, he had not had even the slightest inkling of Snape’s true allegiance – well, today’s developments would make it abundantly clear where and with whom he stood. But that had not been the disquieting news that had upset him so much that even his blockheaded son had noticed it.
There was indeed local resistance – quite effective, devastating local resistance, to be precise. And the signature and style of the attacks – their devastating, merciless efficiency – all pointed to one undeniable fact.
Lucius Malfoy.
Gods damn it all, the bastard was still alive! How in all hells had he managed it?
For a moment, a primitive thrill ran down his spine, lifting the hair on the back of his neck, but then he brought himself firmly back under control. He was a man like any other men. He could bleed, and he could die, and most of all, he was not invincible. He had fallen before, and he could fall again, permanently this time.
And if, as he knew deep down in his bones, Malfoy was coming straight for him just as unerringly – if a little less recklessly – as his son was, it was nothing to worry about. It would make everything easier – two birds with one stone.
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As they came closer and closer to the desecrated Grove where Nott – in the worst possible insult – had set up his headquarters, Draco could feel the watchers in the trees, feel their eyes measuring and evaluating him and everything about him. Only this time it wasn’t the detached analysis of High Clan eyes searching for weakness or strength – these eyes were his, concerned only with his ability to protect and defend them and theirs…
And despite their searching quality, there was no real doubt that he could.
He was the Malfoy, and they were his people, and he had come to protect them instead of staying safe at Hogwarts; it reinforced the magic, reaffirmed the faith and fixed him firmly in their eyes as the Lord. And, buoyed by their faith, driven by the strong, unfettered emotion that was the curse and strength of Clan Malfoy, he was not thinking of politics, or best interests, or even the Game…
He would do what he had to do. And he would let nothing stand in his way.
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“What the hell is going on, Weasley?” Moody shouted, lumbering down the stairs just as the three Slytherins disappeared. “Where are they going?”
Arthur looked at the old, formidable Auror. “Draco’s gone off to save his people,” he said slowly, still not believing it himself, “and the others have gone to make sure he doesn’t get killed.”
Lupin looked incredulous. “Draco charged off? Are you sure?”
Arthur nodded. “Oh yes.” He spread his hands out wide, and laughed helplessly. “Snape and Harcourt weren’t pleased…”
No one said anything.
“Well then,” Dumbledore said quietly, the voice of reason. “Let’s get ready, and follow after them.”
“It’s a trap,” Moody growled warningly.
“Then we will spring it with full knowledge of what we are entering into,” Dumbledore said, with great assurance.
Arthur, Lupin and Moody exchanged dubious looks. “Snape and Harcourt seemed extremely concerned,” Arthur said diplomatically. “They advised Draco to stay here and wait, that Nott would not stay on Malfoy land if no one came to challenge him.”
“Do you feel that Alexander Nott has the requisite self-control for such delicacy?” Dumbledore asked gently. “He has not Lucius Malfoy’s…” he paused, searching, “discipline. I don’t believe he will be able to restrain himself.”
“We can’t go into a situation and a location of which we have no concrete knowledge,” Lupin argued. “It would be madness.”
“We shouldn’t go into the situation at all,” Moody grumbled. “It’s Malfoy’s problem, and he’s seen fit to reject us. Let him and his two puppet masters look after their own problems.”
Arthur did not usually like to contradict Moody, being more than a little intimidated by the man, but this time he was compelled to speak up. “It is not just Malfoy’s problem, or even the High Clan’s,” he said, not very convincingly. “If Nott succeeds in killing the last scion of House Malfoy and conquering his land, in suborning his Grove, it will be a huge symbolic victory. All the fence sitters will flock to him. If we can prevent that, and show Malfoy that he can’t do everything on his own…”
“Why?” Lupin asked with devastating simplicity.
Dumbledore looked at Arthur with great interest, as if he was very interested in how he would answer that question… “Because the Malfoy are the focal point of the High Clan and the old families. And because, as Lucius has been flaunting all these years, they truly are very, very powerful – it’s not just Slytherin prejudice. If we can strip away all Draco Malfoy’s pride, all his arrogance, and convince him that it’s not just a matter of best interests, but survival and absolute necessity to join with us…”
“I thought best interests were all that Slytherins cared about,” Moody sneered. “It’s certainly all Draco cares about.”
Arthur smiled a little ruefully. “But Malfoy are not conventional Slytherins. I’m sure Snape has told you of their tendency to be…emotional…at the most inconvenient times…” And then he turned to Moody. “Harcourt misjudged him.”
“Why are you doing this, Arthur?” Dumbledore asked. “I have never known you to be a Malfoy fan.”
“Yes, Weasley. Why the sudden about face?” Moody stalked closer, suspicious that Arthur had suddenly turned coat. “What did they offer you?”
Arthur’s rueful smile twisted. Good old Moody. Constant
vigilance.
There was a clattering of footsteps, and they looked up to see Harry come down the stairs in a rush, his hair sticking everywhere, glasses askew and face worried. “Where’s Ginny?” he demanded, frantic. “We can’t find her anywhere…
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Ginny had been practicing Apparating over the holidays, on the sly; she was glad for it now, crouching in the underbrush and watching Draco and his two – advisors? mentors? she didn’t really know what to call them – as they themselves crouched, and watched the Death Eaters on guard over what she assumed was the border to Malfoy land. She had seen astonishment, dismay and rage pass in quick succession over Draco’s face as they approached, and wondered what it was he saw – or rather, what he didn’t see.
She remembered his words – there is no Veil anymore; he has destroyed it – and remembered the spectacular display of temper and passion in the argument in the Great Hall, where it seemed as though Draco had willingly stripped off his impassive mask to show the very deep, very dangerous currents underneath.
That show of emotion, more than anything, convinced her that she needed to follow him, to witness whatever action it was he was rushing into – she had to see whether Slytherin ideals such as logic, reason, and calculation actually stood up in the real world of blood, mud and adrenaline, or whether it was solely reserved for drawing rooms and discussions over brandy and cigars.
She had to see whether Draco himself practiced what he was teaching her.
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Curious, earnest Ginny overlooked one small, vitally important fact – Draco was sixteen years old, and he had never, ever had to play the Game on a practical level, in the mud, blood, and adrenaline. All he knew was what his father and mentors had taught him, and he was already beginning to doubt the infallibility of that advice…
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“This is madness,” Snape hissed in Draco’s ear. “You’ll kill us all.” On his other side, Harcourt nodded in agreement. They had apparated to the thick, old forest that ran all the way up to the edge of the Veil – or rather, where the Veil used to be. Because, as he had said, as he had known, it was no longer there – the barrier that had maintained the illusion of a wide, endless abyss was gone, and land that had been hidden away for thousands of years was now indisputably there, for all to see. To Draco, it was a shocking violation of his view of the world, as if some basic, fundamental fact had suddenly been disproved.
It spurred his temper, inflamed the strange, alien streak of recklessness he had discovered within himself.
It was not right.
Draco ignored his two would-be advisors. He knew they were right, but… “I don’t care,” he hissed. “I’m going through with it anyway.” He was getting tired of them telling him that he was being foolish; he knew damn well that this was reckless, impulsive and entirely stupid. But it was also necessary, in a way that he simply could not put into words. It fell into the category of things the Malfoy must do. “You can stay behind, if you want,” he said, knowing full well they were obliged to come along, if only to protect the splendid achievement of everything they had spent so long working towards…
He was not the fulfilment of Slytherin High Clan hopes and dreams. He was not a saviour, or a prophet, or the Boy who Lived.
He was the Lord of the Malfoy: nothing more, and nothing less.
And as the Lord of the Malfoy, he had certain responsibilities, certain duties that were inviolable; Nott knew this, he was sure, and planned to use them to trap him. But he could not, would not allow the invasion of his lands, the desecration of his Grove and of his Covenant. Generations of his ancestors would turn their backs on him in shame and condemnation…
He would take back his lands and his Covenant, no matter what the cost.
But Snape – stubborn, determined Snape – was not so accepting of the realities of being a Malfoy. As Draco shifted his weight, preparing to move, Snape grabbed his wrist, holding him back, pulling him down. Slowly, Draco turned his head, nostrils flaring, to gaze blankly down at the long, strong fingers; he turned his eyes back to Snape, no longer blank –
“Let go of me.”
Slowly – oh so slowly – Snape released his grip.
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Alexander Nott was a triumphant man. His ingenious plan to get through the Veil had worked, and so had his – relatively peaceful – conquest of the Malfoy land and people. Even the spell, given to him by the Dark Lord with great and malicious glee had done exactly what it was supposed to do – that is, it had broken the bond between land and lord and laymen; smashed the Covenant that had sustained this land for so many centuries.
It was sure to bring young Draco running.
Now all he had to do was wait, and everything he had ever wanted would fall into his fingers. Lucius was rotting in Azkaban, and he, Alexander Nott, whom the golden child of Slytherin had always thought of as not good enough, held onto everything that Lucius had ever owned, had ever valued. He controlled it. He had the power, the intoxicating power of life and death, destruction and complete devastation over these people Malfoy so loved.
And it was taking everything he had, every single ounce of patience he had ever possessed, to keep things relatively light, for now. Even his eager, bloodthirsty minions were anxious for a little action, but he kept them under control, until afterwards, when they could do exactly as they liked. Because by then, it wouldn’t matter a single jot what happened to the weak, helpless people of a leaderless land…
He chuckled as he watched the magical fire slowly consume the great, towering stone Castle, reducing two and a half millennia of rule into ashes and rubble.
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Of course, not all of the invading Death Eaters shared Nott’s views – what was his grand, subtle plan to them? All they knew was that he had told them no one was to be harmed or killed, and nothing but the Castle was to be destroyed. That was all well and good, but did he really think that they would accept those restrictions? They were the Death Eaters, the chosen soldiers of the Dark Lord’s cause, and by all the gods they deserved to have some recompense for their efforts.
And, well, there were some things Nott didn’t need to know.
Walden McNair had partaken of Lucius Malfoy’s hospitality
before – once or twice, and on sufferance, he knew – and had heated memories of a woman of whom he had once caught a fleeting glimpse, in one of those villages Malfoy guarded from outsiders as if they were actually precious, and as if he actually took his position as Lord seriously.
If McNair had had control of villages of peasant women that looked like that, you could be sure that he would take his rights very seriously…
When Nott had first attacked, the villagers had reacted extremely quickly, fleeing into the forest, almost as if they had been expecting this – ridiculous, of course, but this was Malfoy land they were talking of – and McNair had been given the thankless chance of retrieving them peacefully, or at least without causing too much harm. They were to be hostages, Nott said grandly – but even so, would it not be better to kill them all, or at least some of them, to push the Malfoy boy into hasty action?
It was ridiculous. And McNair, chosen soldier of the Dark Lord’s cause, was very good at denigrating and ignoring that which he found ridiculous. So, when faced with another glimpse of the nubile peasant, fleeing headlong through the woods, he gave chase, his black-cloaked brothers following, and ran her down to earth in the best sport he had had in years…
Only to come face to face with another, infinitely more deadly predator.
“Avada Kedavra,” spoke a cool, remorseless voice, and again, “Avada Kedavra,” as the next Death Eater after him stumbled into the ambush, and again, and again, and again, merciless, unyielding, and fatal, every single time.
The girl, trembling but exultant, now that her faith had been justified, turned to face her rescuer and smiled fiercely. “I knew you would come,” she said.
Lucius smiled crookedly.
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The Death Eaters left to guard the entrance were not, contrary to what Snape and Harcourt thought, concealed in the trees, nor were they hiding behind invisibility cloaks ready to capture them all and drag them before Nott and the Dark Lord. Rather, they were slumped motionless on the grassy slope, limbs twisted and tumbled, stiff and waxen in the after affects of a fatal Dark curse.
With analytical, detached interest, Snape nudged one of the corpses with his boot, turning it over onto its back, flicking his wand to remove the featureless, anonymous mask and reveal the face underneath, contorted and hideous in its expression of mingled astonishment and fear.
Marcus Flint.
He sighed. Coming up beside him, Draco looked down at the man – boy – he had known, before, as a passable Keeper, an enthusiastic captain and a clumsy intriguer. He had been no match for his opponent; that much was sure. Seeing his look of inquiry, interpreting it correctly, Snape shrugged and said, “This has the look of your father’s work, were it possible…”
Harcourt made a noise deep in the back of his throat, perhaps agreement, perhaps disgust, perhaps disapproval. It was hard to tell. “He will never get out of Azkaban alive. He knew it, when he chose to turn.”
Draco scowled, stung by the mention of his father. “Whoever it was, they opened the way for us…” He stopped.
Stiffened.
Turned around.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
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The taste of her own fear and revulsion was acrid in her mouth, but she would not – would not – reveal just how horrified she had been by the two corpses, even if she had no doubt that Harcourt and Snape, at least, could tell. Draco, for once, looked to be wrapped up in his own concerns, too preoccupied to notice the small signs of her distress. She wondered how he had noticed her, despite his other worries.
“I’ve come to help you,” she said, defensively. She didn’t see the way that Snape and Harcourt exchanged looks, and nor did Draco.
“Help me?” he repeated, incredulous. “How could you possibly help me? Go home, Weasley.”
She scowled. “No. I will not be sent home like some…child!” She had not come all this way, been frightened almost out of her wits, to turn around and go home now.
Harcourt’s voice was calm and logical. “Be reasonable, Miss Weasley. It will help us more to know that you are safe.” Wise and experienced in the ways of Gryffindors, he did not bring emotion or gender into the issue.
“I want to learn about Death Eaters,” she protested. “Where and how else will I get a better chance? You know that eventually I have to go beyond the theoretical.”
“This is too close, and too real. It is too dangerous.” Snape was beginning to regret his impulsive decision to throw Draco and the girl together. Mutual support and companionship had grown just as he imagined it would, but Miss Weasley was, unfortunately, still all too eager to rush out and put herself in danger. If she died…
But Ginny had had enough of others allowing her space and room. “All my life, people have been telling me to stay out of harm’s way. I have just as much right to my own decisions, my own choices, and if necessary my own mistakes as anyone else. You can’t deny me that…” She turned, unconsciously imploring, to Draco. “You’re always talking about strength, about making my own decisions and sticking by them. Don’t you understand? Strength of will, strength of mind, standing on my own – this is what I want, and I am prepared to pay for it.”
Once more, Snape and Harcourt exchanged glances. Yes, ‘take what you want, and pay for it’ was one of Slytherin’s central teachings. But they had lived long enough, seen enough loss and pain and revenge to know that, sometimes, the price was paid by somebody else…
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It was Hermione, surprisingly, who provided the answer to the puzzle. Certainly, she had been given enough clues over the last term – Ginny’s new interest in subjects that were definitely not standard Gryffindor fare, her new confidence in herself and her own abilities, and the disturbing similarities in behaviour she displayed, from time to time, to Draco Malfoy – more than enough to figure it out.
Ginny hadn’t been sneaking out to meet a boyfriend without Ron’s knowledge, she’d been learning from Malfoy. That was why she’d seemed so comfortable with him before – they must have been meeting for weeks, at least. And that was why she had been so distressed when Malfoy had collapsed so suddenly.
She’d followed him.
This revelation – confirmed by subsequent evidence – caused consternation among the various members of the Order: only Dumbledore and, oddly, Mr. Weasley seemed unsurprised. But that did not mean that they were unaffected.
“That confirms it,” Mr. Weasley said glumly. “We must go in after them, now.”
Mrs. Weasley agreed, glaring fiercely around at the others, red faced and adamant in defence of her youngest child. “I don’t care what quarrel you have with Snape or Malfoy, but we’re talking about my daughter now. We can’t abandon her.”
“I’d like to know what the silly chit was thinking, following him in the first place.” Moody growled under his breath. “The Malfoy are nothing but trouble.”
Harry, Ron and the rest of the Weasley children scowled. Usually, they would have been more than happy to let Malfoy handle his own troubles – a sentiment no doubt shared by all of those present at the meeting – but this time it was different. Despite her deception, whatever foolish choices she had made, Ginny was their sister…
Professor Lupin sighed and wearily massaged the bridge of his nose. “I understand the necessity of rescuing Ginny, but even so…” he seemed embarrassed, “it will be a very delicate operation…”
“My dear friends,” said Dumbledore gently, “why are we arguing? Surely Miss Weasley’s life comes before all other considerations? If you must have another reason to be convinced, think of it this way – we now have a completely valid, utterly inarguable reason to go and confront Nott; one that has nothing at all to do with the High Clan. Is that not enough?”
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Eventually, Draco, Snape and Harcourt capitulated, and allowed Ginny to accompany them – on the understanding that she did exactly as they ordered, when they ordered it, and that she would seek safety at even the slightest sign of danger. Harcourt had no wish to face Arthur Weasley with the news that his beloved daughter was dead, and he was responsible for her death, and Snape had no wish to see her die, and Draco’s innocence with her.
So much rode on this one young girl’s shoulders…
Unerringly, Draco led them towards the centre of his land, towards Nott. The black, billowing smoke from the burning Castle was impossible to miss, and yet Draco did not look at it; the clouded shadowy miasma that crept through the forests, radiating out from the Grove was everywhere, and yet Draco pointedly ignored it. He was focused, single-mindedly – perhaps obsessively – on his target, on the instigator of all this chaos and ruin, and would not deviate from his path, no matter what arguments his advisors put forwards. They saw the girl frown as she observed Draco’s behaviour, and watched as she came to her own conclusions.
Young or not, Gryffindor or not, she was no fool.
Every so often, Draco clutched at his chest, breathing hoarsely, his face pale and glistening with beads of sweat. He refused to stop, pushing them onwards as fast as they could go, but they could all see the damage that the Grove’s violation had done. He was tiring, his strength waning – but still he pushed on.
This whole situation had escalated far beyond their control. The political machinations they had spun so delicately, so carefully, had been torn apart by Nott’s sudden, premature strike – it had come to action, to violence far earlier than they had thought, far earlier than they had ever imagined in their worst nightmares. Draco was in no way ready for the role he had been forced to play – he was not ready to kill, was still young and innocent enough to have ideals, to harbour dreams and secret inclinations towards heroics.
That had been perfectly well, when they had been trying to restore his place as the rightful centre of the High Clan. But now that it had come to this, to the point where all the plotting and careful manipulation in the world can be destroyed by brute, animal violence…
This was the very reason Lucius had appointed Snape Draco’s guardian, and manipulated Harcourt into taking up his cause. Because Draco was not yet ready for extreme, hands on pragmatism…
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“This way, my lord,” the girl beckoned, moving through the forest with the greatest of ease. “The invaders are heading this way…”
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Malfoy was coming – walking straight into his father’s clutches, as Theodore had known he would. Really, the Malfoy were so easy to predict, once one knew the way they thought, the secrets they kept so secret from the rest of the world. It was as his father had said – they were not invulnerable, they had weaknesses and foibles just like other, supposedly lesser men.
And if Theodore had failed to find Draco’s weak spots earlier in the year, well, he had not been ready then, had not perfectly understood the nature and stakes of the Game they were playing. Back then, he had not fully understood that niceties didn’t matter; what really counted was victory, no matter the methods or the cost.
Take what you want, and pay for it.
But his father had taught him the error of his ways. Oh, yes, he knew better now…
And Draco Malfoy, who knew all the niceties, all the fine points, who had such impeccable manners and was such a perfect example of the High Clan, would learn the true meaning of power – that the finest façade was nothing, absolutely nothing, unless there was something backing it up. Today, very, very soon, his father would teach him the last and most important lesson of his life – and he would watch, and laugh…
And then no one – no one – would sneer at Theodore Nott, son of Alexander Nott, ever again.
An insistent voice broke into his thoughts, interrupting his reverie, and he turned around to see his father’s face turn thunderous as he talked to one of his scouts. There was a knot of Death Eaters surrounding them, and suddenly there was an air of tension, of worry in the air.
“Father?” Theodore asked. “What is it?”
His father rounded on him with a snarl, but subsided when he shrank back instinctively. “Don’t worry, boy. A little bit of local resistance, a little stronger than we expected…”
But even Theodore could see that it was more than that – the scout was genuinely worried, and his father was far angrier than ‘a little local resistance’ warranted. Nott, seeing his dissatisfaction with the answer, sighed exaggeratedly and ruffled his hair, all condescension in front of his followers. “Malfoy evidently has some sense – he brought his two puppet masters with him.”
“Dumbledore and Harcourt, Father?”
Nott’s mouth twisted. “No, boy, Harcourt and Snape.”
The boy was stunned. Evidently, he had not had even the slightest inkling of Snape’s true allegiance – well, today’s developments would make it abundantly clear where and with whom he stood. But that had not been the disquieting news that had upset him so much that even his blockheaded son had noticed it.
There was indeed local resistance – quite effective, devastating local resistance, to be precise. And the signature and style of the attacks – their devastating, merciless efficiency – all pointed to one undeniable fact.
Lucius Malfoy.
Gods damn it all, the bastard was still alive! How in all hells had he managed it?
For a moment, a primitive thrill ran down his spine, lifting the hair on the back of his neck, but then he brought himself firmly back under control. He was a man like any other men. He could bleed, and he could die, and most of all, he was not invincible. He had fallen before, and he could fall again, permanently this time.
And if, as he knew deep down in his bones, Malfoy was coming straight for him just as unerringly – if a little less recklessly – as his son was, it was nothing to worry about. It would make everything easier – two birds with one stone.
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As they came closer and closer to the desecrated Grove where Nott – in the worst possible insult – had set up his headquarters, Draco could feel the watchers in the trees, feel their eyes measuring and evaluating him and everything about him. Only this time it wasn’t the detached analysis of High Clan eyes searching for weakness or strength – these eyes were his, concerned only with his ability to protect and defend them and theirs…
And despite their searching quality, there was no real doubt that he could.
He was the Malfoy, and they were his people, and he had come to protect them instead of staying safe at Hogwarts; it reinforced the magic, reaffirmed the faith and fixed him firmly in their eyes as the Lord. And, buoyed by their faith, driven by the strong, unfettered emotion that was the curse and strength of Clan Malfoy, he was not thinking of politics, or best interests, or even the Game…
He would do what he had to do. And he would let nothing stand in his way.
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