A/N - The quote 'Take what you want, and pay for it' is from Robert Jordan's 'The Shadow Rising'.
Chapter 22
Finally, the Order of the Phoenix agreed to take action.
Their first priority would, of course, be Miss Weasley’s safety, and only after that would they tackle Alexander Nott and his band of Death Eaters, supporting Messrs Harcourt, Malfoy and Snape in liberating the villagers and the land that had been so unlawfully taken over. The only reason Moody was persuaded to take such drastic action was that, for the first time, the Dark Lord had moved towards actually conquering tangible territory, rather than the usual terrorist, guerrilla tactics – if, Dumbledore argued, he managed to somehow rebuild the Veil, then nothing and no one would be able to follow him behind the magical barrier to his new land and stronghold…
In the hopes of preventing that, they assembled – Moody, Tonks, Shacklebolt, Lupin, Bill, Charlie, Fred and George Weasley, Ron and Harry and all others who could be spared – and, after a cursory examination of the map, apparated to the edge of Malfoy land.
Moody was the first to see the tumbled, discarded corpses. He made a guttural, disapproving grunt at the sight of Marcus Flint’s upturned, blind face, but then looked deeper, looked at the actual kill itself…
And swore savagely under his breath.
“What is it?” Charlie asked, curious.
Moody scowled and shook his head. “Nothing,” he said curtly, and continued on, muttering under his breath. The others followed, exchanging dubious looks; Shacklebolt frowned as he walked past the corpses, as if he had glimpsed something of what Moody had seen, but whatever he saw he kept to himself.
Crossing cautiously over the border, they walked through a deep, thickly wooded forest, silent and still – but it was not a quiet, peaceful stillness. This was a deeply uneasy, unquiet silence that marked very, very deep anger…
“The trees,” whispered Bill. “They’re…they’re angry…”
Tonks nodded, looking about her with wide eyes. “The land itself is rebelling…” her voice dropped. “It won’t accept Nott’s presence…”
And it was easy to understand why – even if you didn’t believe in sentient forests and magical Covenants. Though they walked through silent winter greenery, they could smell smoke in the distance, and a darker, more terrible smell; through a small gap in the tree trunks they could see some of the damage the invaders – who had purported to be non-violent – had done to those few that they had been able to find…
Lupin remembered Dumbledore’s words earlier that day. “He has not Lucius Malfoy’s…discipline. I don’t think he will be able to restrain himself…”
Or others, apparently. Even if Nott himself believed in his own course of non-violence, it was apparent that others under his command did not. Luckily, the damage was – relatively – small.
Even so, this did not bode well at all.
“Can you find any traces of them?” Moody asked.
Lupin, who had learned over the years to accept and even occasionally embrace his lycanthropy, turned to look back at his leader wryly. “Of whom, sir? Both parties are headed straight towards the middle of the forest.”
“You’re sure?” He looked sceptical, and his magical eye whirled, searching the trees. “Both parties?”
Lupin nodded. He had known Moody for a very long time: the old man was cantankerous, rude and utterly paranoid, but he was a professional – there was no one better. Oh, there were younger, stronger, more agile Aurors, some of whom were more magically skilled, or even more ruthless, but none who had his experience, or his instincts. And right now, those instincts were twitching…
But whatever it was, he wasn’t ready to reveal it yet. “Let’s go.” And with that, they moved out, following everyone else to the centre, where all the action would take place.
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Some fifteen peasants sat on the grass of their own sacred grove, huddled into a pathetic group under the cruel, malicious eyes of their Death Eater captors. Nott enjoyed the sight far more than he should have – enjoyed the wariness and the fear, poorly hidden under bravado and defiance – but was still infuriated by the irrational faith these villagers had in their Lords. They knew that Draco was coming, and probably some of them knew of Lucius’ covert activities – an irritant, but a dangerous one, when ten – ten! – of his twenty men had been killed already.
That was why the remaining ten were gathered here, where it was all but certain they would come – both of them. Five to guard and threaten the hostages, five to rid young Master Malfoy of his guard dogs, and, most of all, to watch for Lucius. The man was a renegade, and therefore dangerous, but he had one weakness which he shared with his son – he cared about his people, and he wanted to preserve and uphold that ridiculous faith.
Nott was determined that this time, there would be no mistakes. He was old enough, experienced enough, and had learned from enough of his – and others’ – mistakes to know that simple, ruthless efficiency was the best route. There would be no grandstanding, no gloating, and no stereotypical self-aggrandisement. He was not Voldemort.
He would simply kill them.
Only afterwards, when he looked down at their cold, stiff corpses, would he let himself bask in his triumph.
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Even through his unwavering, single-minded determination he could see the damage around him, could sense, with senses still raw from the desecration, the scars the Death Eaters left in their wake; no doubt it was no more than had been done in other places, to other people, but this was his place, and his people…
It was hypocritical in the extreme, of course. But Draco cared nothing for hypocrisy at the moment – all he felt was a driving determination to confront Nott, to punish him, to kill him for his crimes against the Malfoy. Yes, Draco was prepared to kill. The hot, pounding rush of his blood was primitive and unsophisticated, instinctive and intoxicating; he felt more alive now than he ever had in his whole life.
Because he had a Purpose.
Because he had left all the suffocating intrigue behind, and now was the time for action; it was…it was pure. There were no considerations beyond that of his Purpose, no thought of consequences, or repercussions, or how to capitulate on the aftermath, no matter which way it went.
And then, in the next moment, he found himself face down on the ground, winded and wheezing, the breath knocked out of him by a sudden weight…
“What the hell…?” he tried to croak, but Snape – yes, it was Snape – pushed his head further down into the forest floor, with a hissed admonition to be silent, and to stay down if he wanted to live. It was only then that he realised the ground where he had been standing was now black and scorching, and that Snape had thrown himself bodily at Draco, knocking him over and undoubtedly saving his life…
Somebody had tried to incinerate him.
He didn’t have time to be indignant. Ginny landed beside him with an undignified grunt and a muffled curse, and then there was a great deal of shouting and flashing lights, smoke and noise and hair-raising magic; it was so confusing that he could take very little in, but he thought he could see five shadowy outlines through the trees – he assumed they were the Death Eaters.
Snape and Harcourt, however, seemed to have no doubts about what was going on – as soon as they had realised the threat, they had reacted immediately; first by getting Ginny and himself out of danger, and then by turning to fight, throwing curses and dodging the ones thrown at them with an expertise and surety that spoke of both the highest training and a great deal of bitterly earned experience…
But even so, they were two against five, and hampered by the fact that they had two non-combatants to protect – slowly, but surely, they would be pushed farther back, and farther in, until they were back to back and could retreat no more, and then they would be slaughtered. Even with his ears ringing, his extra senses – those instincts that made him a wizard, that allowed him to sense and manipulate magic – overloading from all the input and his eyes misled and confused by the distortions, he could see that. And suddenly, he saw himself, face down on the icy ground, shivering, quivering, sheltering while two men faced almost certain death to protect him as he did nothing…
It was not how he wanted to die.
And nor was it how he wanted to live.
Forcing himself up on his hands and knees, and then onto his own legs, he gripped his wand as hard as he could in his suddenly sweaty palm, tried to ignore the fact that his hand was shaking and his knuckles white –
And stepped forward to into real, life-threatening danger, for perhaps the first time in his life.
*************************************
Ginny tried, too late, to hold him back. Before she could react, he had forced himself up and towards Snape’s side – the older man was tiring, his reflexes slowing, but Draco was young, strong, fresh, and above all, he was angry… She had never thought to see Draco Malfoy fired up. It was something she expected of her brothers, or Harry, but most certainly not of smooth, cool, manipulative, Slytherin Draco. But hadn’t he told her, during one of their first encounters?
All the bravado in the world was useless, unless there was something behind it to back it up. Was this not another type of strength? When all else – all the cold, sophisticated High Clan logic – was gone, and there was nothing of substance left, not even a façade, the only thing to fall back on was force. As Snape had so sneeringly put it once: brute, animal force. He had been sneering at Nott and the Death Eaters at the time, she knew, but, as a curse whizzed over her head and smashed into a tree just behind her, showering her with snow and fragments of bark and leaf, she had to admit that at the moment, animal force seemed to be very powerful…
Gryffindor to the bone, she screwed up her courage and resolve, clenching her fists, and crawled out of the sheltering bushes to see what was going on. With Draco at their side, Snape and Harcourt seemed to be prevailing – the number of curses and hexes sent their way seemed to be decreasing, and they were advancing and gaining ground on their enemies – at least, that was what Ginny thought was happening.
She had no real experience with such actions, and her one experience of a battle comparable to this one had been utterly chaotic. With hindsight, she had realised that she had been very, very lucky to come out of that battle at the Ministry alive. And that conflict, hide and seek in the cluttered, confusing surroundings of the Ministry, had been very different from this direct, brutal forest ambush where the only – rather dubious – cover was behind trees and bushes and snowdrifts.
There was a last flurry of curses exchanged, and then, suddenly, it was all over. The silence was eerie after the horrifying din of the battle, broken only by low moans and whimpers, and the ringing in her ears; emotionless, Snape and Harcourt strode across the devastated clearing to the fallen forms of the five Death Eaters as if they had done this a thousand times before – and perhaps they had – to make sure they were dead, and put them out of their misery if they weren’t.
They were professionals. They had seen and done things like this before, were accustomed to it, had become jaded and hardened by their experiences. But Draco… Draco was standing over the body of one of the Death Eaters, his face pale and colourless as he stared blankly at it, as if he couldn’t quite understand what had just happened. Harcourt, concerned by his silence, walked over to him and asked a quiet question, but he only tossed his head, an oddly jerky motion, and stumbled – stumbled – away, to lean against a tree and retch violently, throwing up the entire contents of his stomach.
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“Your first kill, Malfoy? Don’t worry, it’ll become easier…”
***************************************
Moody held up a hand, calling for a halt. His eyes were distant as he listened to the faint, distant clamour on the wind.
“What’s going on, sir?” Ron asked nervously.
Bill’s forehead was creased, his eyes narrowed. “Sounds like a skirmish,” he said, deliberately casual. He looked at Charlie, who had always been his closest brother. “Local resistance, do you think?”
Charlie knew him well enough to read between the lines. Ron was no fool, but he did tend to be very protective of their sister; he blamed himself for not seeing what was going on with Ginny and Malfoy, for not suspecting how far she was straying from the conventional Gryffindor path. He didn’t need to believe that she was probably in the middle of a firefight right now…
Moody gave them both a narrow, sceptical look, but didn’t contradict them. “Right. From all I’ve heard of Malfoy’s people, they’re not helpless; some of them would have fought back. They’re probably fighting all the harder because they know he’s here…”
“How would they know he’s here?” That was George, ever curious.
Tonks laughed shortly. “Weasley, these people have been here for generations beyond number. You can’t live in a place for so long without developing some kind of awareness of it. If they’re paying any attention at all, they’ll most certainly have detected Malfoy’s presence; I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re aware of us, too.”
“How do you know so much about the Malfoy, Tonks?” Ron
was scowling belligerently. He didn’t like talk of strange bonds and mystic covenants, or, at the moment, anything that had to do with Malfoy.
Tonks looked briefly uncomfortable. “My mum was a Black before she married my dad. She might have thrown over her High Clan origins, but she made sure I learned something of it…” she grimaced. “And Harcourt has taken it upon himself to try and teach me what I missed out on…”
Fred grinned. “It doesn’t look like it’s working.”
“No.” Tonks laughed out loud. “No, it’s not; and I’m determined it won’t. I like being a Gryffindoric half-blood, and not even Dane Harcourt himself can make me change my mind.”
“Come on, enough talk,” Moody growled. “Let’s keep going.”
Grumbling good naturedly, the others continued walking.
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Malfoy’s villagers were indeed aware of their presence. Glittering silver eyes, cold and set, observed them as they made their way towards the Grove – their intervention was not entirely unexpected, now that he had seen Miss Weasley travelling with his son, and indeed, their presence might prove to be quite convenient, in the end…
As for the Order’s continued interest in Malfoy affairs after this incident – well, that was an entirely different thing.
Draco would have to work that out on his own.
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“Welcome, welcome,” Alexander Nott said, opening his arms wide in a mockery of effusive welcome. “We knew you would come.”
Behind him, Draco could feel Snape and Harcourt stiffen as their eyes tracked the circle of ancient, twisted oaks that surrounded them, nerves strung to breaking point as they could feel the guards stationed all around them. But he himself was more interested in the fifteen villagers huddled on the ground, men, women and children he had known all his life, whose eyes held both defiance and hope as they saw him. Theodore Nott hovered behind them ostentatiously fingering his wand, a feral smile twisting his lips.
Draco recognised that smile. He had been afraid of it, before, in the Mirrored Hall, a whole lifetime ago. Now there was only anger, and a determination so strong it was almost suicidal… Oh yes, he knew exactly what he was doing. He had walked into the Grove, allowing himself to be surrounded on all sides, putting himself, his two guardians and Ginny Weasley into danger, but that was the extent of it – he had no intention of playing this according to Nott’s rules.
“Throw down your wands,” Nott ordered, not bothering to gloat anymore.
They threw down their wands, Ginny scowling furiously, but Snape and Harcourt impassive. None of them had truly expected to be allowed to keep them. Nott gestured, and the wands on the ground flew up into his hands. “I won’t play any foolish games,” he said quietly. “Give me the secrets of this land and the Veil, pass the Covenant to me, and I’ll let you and your people – yes, even your traitorous uncles – walk out of here alive. Refuse, and I’ll kill you all.”
************************************
They had used the noise of the Death Eaters’ preparations for Malfoy’s arrival to cover their own approach, and were now spread out in a loose net around the Grove, with each of the five guards in their sights. They were ready to attack now, but thanks to Dumbledore’s scruples, they could not simply attack in cold blood, they had to wait until it looked as though the enemy were going to strike – apparently, this restriction was the all important distinction between a justified strike and cold blooded murder…
Jus Bellum. The Just War. There was nothing just about this war, when you got down to the mud and the blood, but Lupin knew that there had to be something that separated us from them, the ‘good’ side from the ‘bad’ side…
They would wait. And when they saw their chance, they would attack.
Wait…
What was that?
************************************
Draco took a deep, deep breath, drawing into his lungs air that smelled of sweat, fear and excitement, of snow, rotting leaves and damp earth, and underneath it all, the familiar neck ruffling smell of old blood and deep magic that was unique to this Place, in all of Britain. He drew it all in, while slowly raising his eyes to meet Nott’s, seeing the reptilian flatness of the other man’s gaze, and understanding that there would be no place for error – if he failed, Nott would kill them all.
He closed his eyes to hide their glow, their power as he called upon the magic of the Grove, of the Malfoy heartland; closed them tighter as he reached out to it, Calling it despite the corruption, despite the way Nott had…twisted…it –
By all the Gods, he was the Lord of the Malfoy…
Smiled, as it finally answered, and his eyes snapped open, opaque and vague as he struggled to breathe over the blinding pain of a snapped bond recoiling, of a broken promise rebounding. But Nott saw nothing but a boy, backed by two very dangerous men and a young girl – granted, a boy who had successfully defied him before, but a boy nevertheless, just like Potter – smiling idiotically in the face of almost certain death.
Caius Draconis Malfoy laughed.
“No,” he said, once again.
And then all hell broke loose.
************************************
Several things happened all at once.
Ginny dropped to the ground, extended her hand and tried desperately to call the wands in Nott’s hand towards her.
Theodore, who had been anticipating this moment all night, snarled delightedly and pointed his wand at the hostages, all too happy to slaughter them. Before he could mouth the first few syllables of the Killing Curse, however, he was knocked backwards by a blast of pure, raw magic that Draco launched at him in desperation. Not being used to such power, and especially unused pain when trying to control it, Draco miscalculated the blow and merely bowled him over…
Snape and Harcourt, professionals to the bone, had been carrying hold out wands – the gods only knew why Nott hadn’t taken those, too, but they were bloody grateful for it – and whipped them out, diving low before shooting in different directions; Snape aiming at the guards in the trees and Harcourt going for Nott senior, both of them rolling and trying desperately to provide some kind of shelter for Draco and Ginny…
Nott and his five guards tossed simultaneous curses, and the four in the middle of the Grove would have been caught right in the crossfire, had it not been for the Order of the Phoenix, now free to act, who provided a shield strong enough to protect them, and then threw their own curses at the guards…
The hostages, now free to act, dove into the fray, swarming the trees, heading straight for either of the two Notts, and attacks came from the trees beyond even the Order, adding to the chaos, the noise, the smoke, the subliminal humming and the blinding lights.
In the midst of the chaos, no one saw the slim, elegant wand take careful aim at a struggling, desperate figure, or hear the softly voiced “Petrificus Totalus” that froze it, and the further spell that turned it invisible and allowed the other to spirit it away unnoticed, paralysed muscles working desperately, eyes rolling frantically.
And that was the way the other liked it.
***************************************
Draco had thought the aftermath of the first skirmish was terrible, but this… this was something entirely different. Of course he had known that the Order was waiting all around them in support, but that didn’t make the battle any less terrifying, nor its aftermath any less traumatising.
Harcourt had been right. It did get easier.
At least it was all for a good cause. For the only real good cause in this world...
Ears still ringing, senses still overloaded, he walked over to the spilled pile of wands on the ground, picked up his own and absently noted that Ginny’s was gone – she must have gotten a few shots of her own in too – before turning to face Moody, and even worse, Ginny’s five brothers who all looked utterly furious with him for dragging their sister into this.
For once, he couldn’t say he blamed them.
But first…
“Where’s Nott?” he asked, dully. Right now he couldn’t care less, he only wanted to make damned sure the bastard was dead.
“Which one?” Harcourt asked, ironically. Looking around, Draco noticed they were both gone. A low, insistent feeling of alarm tugged at his gut, his heart sped up again and he turned on them, about to demand an answer, when the high-pitched scream echoed shrilly through the forest, shattering his fragile composure…
Ginny!
He bolted off, following the sound, racing against his screaming instincts.
**********************************
At Hogwarts, seated in a deep, overstuffed armchair, Arthur Weasley worried. Had he been right to trust Malfoy to such an extent? Was the boy worthy of such trust?
He remembered Harcourt’s reassurances.
He remembered the way his daughter had held on to Draco when he had collapsed to the floor, as if she would protect him against any and all comers, and the casual, natural way he had helped her up off the floor, his strength easily supporting her weight.
He also remembered William Harcourt’s horrific death, and that of his family…
I want to be an Auror, Father…
I have begun to see things a little differently, now; nothing is ever stark black and white…
He remembered Lucius Malfoy, and the lengths he had gone to in order to protect his only son. Surely he would have taught Draco that same protective instinct? There was nothing he could do but wait, and believe that his children – his daughter especially, oh gods his baby – would come home safely.
He had to believe it.
********************************************
When he caught up with them, Theodore was dragging Ginny across the forest floor, struggling with her as she kicked and screamed and fought desperately for freedom. There was a spreading bruise on the side of her face, and she was bleeding from a split lip – something deep and dark snarled inside of him at the sight of that bruise and the blood – but Nott himself was limping, and there were deep furrows raked across his arms and his face.
He burst into the clearing – lungs heaving – and headed straight for Nott, forgetting about his wand in the heat of the moment and intending, instead, to tackle him and beat him unconscious. But then Nott sealed his own fate – he grabbed Ginny’s hair, wound it round his fist and hauled her up, placing a viciously sharp knife to her throat.
She froze, and so did Draco, but crackling and crashing behind him told of five brothers in hot pursuit, and Theodore looked panicked as he realised that the Weasleys were not just shabby, poor Gryffindors – outside of Hogwarts they were tall, strong, powerful wizards and above all, they were extremely protective of their baby sister…
Draco smiled.
The knife wavered, just a bit, but Nott called out, taunting and insolent, “Are you going to risk it, Malfoy? Don’t want her pretty face marked up, do you? Or even worse, a little slit in her throat…”
There was a terrible freedom in giving into his anger. He had been angry for what seemed a lifetime – ever since his father had been imprisoned, since he had been beaten into the ground, since he had seen the devastation Nott had brought to his lands – and he had been keeping it bottled up, rigidly controlled ever since the incident with Ron Weasley. Well, if he would be judged for that loss of temper, then he would be judged for this one, too – and this time, the verdict would be very, very different…
This time, he had his wand. It was all too easy – the knife suddenly burned white hot in Nott’s grip and he reacted instinctively, tossing it aside in his panic. Ginny tore herself out of his grasp and got the hell out of the way, and Draco let his temper go, purposely disregarding magic in favour of his bare hands – a sure indication of just how far gone he was. Rolling around on the leafy floor, his entire world shrank to the desire to punish Theodore Nott, to crush him, to kill him – he was on top, now, his hands wrapped firmly around the other’s throat as he squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed until his face was blue –
And then there were arms firmly wrapped around his chest, and Ginny Weasley’s brothers pulled him off his prey, denying him his retribution. Regaining a little of his composure, he staggered drunkenly as he tried to stand up, shook off all offers of – reluctant – assistance, and tried to regulate his breathing, turning just in time to see Theodore’s fingers grip the knife one last time, in a very familiar hold…
As the knife came flashing end over end towards him he could all but feel his life – such as it was – unravel before him, because there was no way he could avoid that knife, no matter how quickly he moved…
Ginny screamed.
And threw herself in front of him.
Someone yelled out “NO!” There was a blindingly bright flash of light, an implosion of sound, and then there was nothing.
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Chapter 22
Finally, the Order of the Phoenix agreed to take action.
Their first priority would, of course, be Miss Weasley’s safety, and only after that would they tackle Alexander Nott and his band of Death Eaters, supporting Messrs Harcourt, Malfoy and Snape in liberating the villagers and the land that had been so unlawfully taken over. The only reason Moody was persuaded to take such drastic action was that, for the first time, the Dark Lord had moved towards actually conquering tangible territory, rather than the usual terrorist, guerrilla tactics – if, Dumbledore argued, he managed to somehow rebuild the Veil, then nothing and no one would be able to follow him behind the magical barrier to his new land and stronghold…
In the hopes of preventing that, they assembled – Moody, Tonks, Shacklebolt, Lupin, Bill, Charlie, Fred and George Weasley, Ron and Harry and all others who could be spared – and, after a cursory examination of the map, apparated to the edge of Malfoy land.
Moody was the first to see the tumbled, discarded corpses. He made a guttural, disapproving grunt at the sight of Marcus Flint’s upturned, blind face, but then looked deeper, looked at the actual kill itself…
And swore savagely under his breath.
“What is it?” Charlie asked, curious.
Moody scowled and shook his head. “Nothing,” he said curtly, and continued on, muttering under his breath. The others followed, exchanging dubious looks; Shacklebolt frowned as he walked past the corpses, as if he had glimpsed something of what Moody had seen, but whatever he saw he kept to himself.
Crossing cautiously over the border, they walked through a deep, thickly wooded forest, silent and still – but it was not a quiet, peaceful stillness. This was a deeply uneasy, unquiet silence that marked very, very deep anger…
“The trees,” whispered Bill. “They’re…they’re angry…”
Tonks nodded, looking about her with wide eyes. “The land itself is rebelling…” her voice dropped. “It won’t accept Nott’s presence…”
And it was easy to understand why – even if you didn’t believe in sentient forests and magical Covenants. Though they walked through silent winter greenery, they could smell smoke in the distance, and a darker, more terrible smell; through a small gap in the tree trunks they could see some of the damage the invaders – who had purported to be non-violent – had done to those few that they had been able to find…
Lupin remembered Dumbledore’s words earlier that day. “He has not Lucius Malfoy’s…discipline. I don’t think he will be able to restrain himself…”
Or others, apparently. Even if Nott himself believed in his own course of non-violence, it was apparent that others under his command did not. Luckily, the damage was – relatively – small.
Even so, this did not bode well at all.
“Can you find any traces of them?” Moody asked.
Lupin, who had learned over the years to accept and even occasionally embrace his lycanthropy, turned to look back at his leader wryly. “Of whom, sir? Both parties are headed straight towards the middle of the forest.”
“You’re sure?” He looked sceptical, and his magical eye whirled, searching the trees. “Both parties?”
Lupin nodded. He had known Moody for a very long time: the old man was cantankerous, rude and utterly paranoid, but he was a professional – there was no one better. Oh, there were younger, stronger, more agile Aurors, some of whom were more magically skilled, or even more ruthless, but none who had his experience, or his instincts. And right now, those instincts were twitching…
But whatever it was, he wasn’t ready to reveal it yet. “Let’s go.” And with that, they moved out, following everyone else to the centre, where all the action would take place.
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Some fifteen peasants sat on the grass of their own sacred grove, huddled into a pathetic group under the cruel, malicious eyes of their Death Eater captors. Nott enjoyed the sight far more than he should have – enjoyed the wariness and the fear, poorly hidden under bravado and defiance – but was still infuriated by the irrational faith these villagers had in their Lords. They knew that Draco was coming, and probably some of them knew of Lucius’ covert activities – an irritant, but a dangerous one, when ten – ten! – of his twenty men had been killed already.
That was why the remaining ten were gathered here, where it was all but certain they would come – both of them. Five to guard and threaten the hostages, five to rid young Master Malfoy of his guard dogs, and, most of all, to watch for Lucius. The man was a renegade, and therefore dangerous, but he had one weakness which he shared with his son – he cared about his people, and he wanted to preserve and uphold that ridiculous faith.
Nott was determined that this time, there would be no mistakes. He was old enough, experienced enough, and had learned from enough of his – and others’ – mistakes to know that simple, ruthless efficiency was the best route. There would be no grandstanding, no gloating, and no stereotypical self-aggrandisement. He was not Voldemort.
He would simply kill them.
Only afterwards, when he looked down at their cold, stiff corpses, would he let himself bask in his triumph.
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Even through his unwavering, single-minded determination he could see the damage around him, could sense, with senses still raw from the desecration, the scars the Death Eaters left in their wake; no doubt it was no more than had been done in other places, to other people, but this was his place, and his people…
It was hypocritical in the extreme, of course. But Draco cared nothing for hypocrisy at the moment – all he felt was a driving determination to confront Nott, to punish him, to kill him for his crimes against the Malfoy. Yes, Draco was prepared to kill. The hot, pounding rush of his blood was primitive and unsophisticated, instinctive and intoxicating; he felt more alive now than he ever had in his whole life.
Because he had a Purpose.
Because he had left all the suffocating intrigue behind, and now was the time for action; it was…it was pure. There were no considerations beyond that of his Purpose, no thought of consequences, or repercussions, or how to capitulate on the aftermath, no matter which way it went.
And then, in the next moment, he found himself face down on the ground, winded and wheezing, the breath knocked out of him by a sudden weight…
“What the hell…?” he tried to croak, but Snape – yes, it was Snape – pushed his head further down into the forest floor, with a hissed admonition to be silent, and to stay down if he wanted to live. It was only then that he realised the ground where he had been standing was now black and scorching, and that Snape had thrown himself bodily at Draco, knocking him over and undoubtedly saving his life…
Somebody had tried to incinerate him.
He didn’t have time to be indignant. Ginny landed beside him with an undignified grunt and a muffled curse, and then there was a great deal of shouting and flashing lights, smoke and noise and hair-raising magic; it was so confusing that he could take very little in, but he thought he could see five shadowy outlines through the trees – he assumed they were the Death Eaters.
Snape and Harcourt, however, seemed to have no doubts about what was going on – as soon as they had realised the threat, they had reacted immediately; first by getting Ginny and himself out of danger, and then by turning to fight, throwing curses and dodging the ones thrown at them with an expertise and surety that spoke of both the highest training and a great deal of bitterly earned experience…
But even so, they were two against five, and hampered by the fact that they had two non-combatants to protect – slowly, but surely, they would be pushed farther back, and farther in, until they were back to back and could retreat no more, and then they would be slaughtered. Even with his ears ringing, his extra senses – those instincts that made him a wizard, that allowed him to sense and manipulate magic – overloading from all the input and his eyes misled and confused by the distortions, he could see that. And suddenly, he saw himself, face down on the icy ground, shivering, quivering, sheltering while two men faced almost certain death to protect him as he did nothing…
It was not how he wanted to die.
And nor was it how he wanted to live.
Forcing himself up on his hands and knees, and then onto his own legs, he gripped his wand as hard as he could in his suddenly sweaty palm, tried to ignore the fact that his hand was shaking and his knuckles white –
And stepped forward to into real, life-threatening danger, for perhaps the first time in his life.
*************************************
Ginny tried, too late, to hold him back. Before she could react, he had forced himself up and towards Snape’s side – the older man was tiring, his reflexes slowing, but Draco was young, strong, fresh, and above all, he was angry… She had never thought to see Draco Malfoy fired up. It was something she expected of her brothers, or Harry, but most certainly not of smooth, cool, manipulative, Slytherin Draco. But hadn’t he told her, during one of their first encounters?
All the bravado in the world was useless, unless there was something behind it to back it up. Was this not another type of strength? When all else – all the cold, sophisticated High Clan logic – was gone, and there was nothing of substance left, not even a façade, the only thing to fall back on was force. As Snape had so sneeringly put it once: brute, animal force. He had been sneering at Nott and the Death Eaters at the time, she knew, but, as a curse whizzed over her head and smashed into a tree just behind her, showering her with snow and fragments of bark and leaf, she had to admit that at the moment, animal force seemed to be very powerful…
Gryffindor to the bone, she screwed up her courage and resolve, clenching her fists, and crawled out of the sheltering bushes to see what was going on. With Draco at their side, Snape and Harcourt seemed to be prevailing – the number of curses and hexes sent their way seemed to be decreasing, and they were advancing and gaining ground on their enemies – at least, that was what Ginny thought was happening.
She had no real experience with such actions, and her one experience of a battle comparable to this one had been utterly chaotic. With hindsight, she had realised that she had been very, very lucky to come out of that battle at the Ministry alive. And that conflict, hide and seek in the cluttered, confusing surroundings of the Ministry, had been very different from this direct, brutal forest ambush where the only – rather dubious – cover was behind trees and bushes and snowdrifts.
There was a last flurry of curses exchanged, and then, suddenly, it was all over. The silence was eerie after the horrifying din of the battle, broken only by low moans and whimpers, and the ringing in her ears; emotionless, Snape and Harcourt strode across the devastated clearing to the fallen forms of the five Death Eaters as if they had done this a thousand times before – and perhaps they had – to make sure they were dead, and put them out of their misery if they weren’t.
They were professionals. They had seen and done things like this before, were accustomed to it, had become jaded and hardened by their experiences. But Draco… Draco was standing over the body of one of the Death Eaters, his face pale and colourless as he stared blankly at it, as if he couldn’t quite understand what had just happened. Harcourt, concerned by his silence, walked over to him and asked a quiet question, but he only tossed his head, an oddly jerky motion, and stumbled – stumbled – away, to lean against a tree and retch violently, throwing up the entire contents of his stomach.
***************************************
“Your first kill, Malfoy? Don’t worry, it’ll become easier…”
***************************************
Moody held up a hand, calling for a halt. His eyes were distant as he listened to the faint, distant clamour on the wind.
“What’s going on, sir?” Ron asked nervously.
Bill’s forehead was creased, his eyes narrowed. “Sounds like a skirmish,” he said, deliberately casual. He looked at Charlie, who had always been his closest brother. “Local resistance, do you think?”
Charlie knew him well enough to read between the lines. Ron was no fool, but he did tend to be very protective of their sister; he blamed himself for not seeing what was going on with Ginny and Malfoy, for not suspecting how far she was straying from the conventional Gryffindor path. He didn’t need to believe that she was probably in the middle of a firefight right now…
Moody gave them both a narrow, sceptical look, but didn’t contradict them. “Right. From all I’ve heard of Malfoy’s people, they’re not helpless; some of them would have fought back. They’re probably fighting all the harder because they know he’s here…”
“How would they know he’s here?” That was George, ever curious.
Tonks laughed shortly. “Weasley, these people have been here for generations beyond number. You can’t live in a place for so long without developing some kind of awareness of it. If they’re paying any attention at all, they’ll most certainly have detected Malfoy’s presence; I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re aware of us, too.”
“How do you know so much about the Malfoy, Tonks?” Ron
was scowling belligerently. He didn’t like talk of strange bonds and mystic covenants, or, at the moment, anything that had to do with Malfoy.
Tonks looked briefly uncomfortable. “My mum was a Black before she married my dad. She might have thrown over her High Clan origins, but she made sure I learned something of it…” she grimaced. “And Harcourt has taken it upon himself to try and teach me what I missed out on…”
Fred grinned. “It doesn’t look like it’s working.”
“No.” Tonks laughed out loud. “No, it’s not; and I’m determined it won’t. I like being a Gryffindoric half-blood, and not even Dane Harcourt himself can make me change my mind.”
“Come on, enough talk,” Moody growled. “Let’s keep going.”
Grumbling good naturedly, the others continued walking.
******************************
Malfoy’s villagers were indeed aware of their presence. Glittering silver eyes, cold and set, observed them as they made their way towards the Grove – their intervention was not entirely unexpected, now that he had seen Miss Weasley travelling with his son, and indeed, their presence might prove to be quite convenient, in the end…
As for the Order’s continued interest in Malfoy affairs after this incident – well, that was an entirely different thing.
Draco would have to work that out on his own.
****************************
“Welcome, welcome,” Alexander Nott said, opening his arms wide in a mockery of effusive welcome. “We knew you would come.”
Behind him, Draco could feel Snape and Harcourt stiffen as their eyes tracked the circle of ancient, twisted oaks that surrounded them, nerves strung to breaking point as they could feel the guards stationed all around them. But he himself was more interested in the fifteen villagers huddled on the ground, men, women and children he had known all his life, whose eyes held both defiance and hope as they saw him. Theodore Nott hovered behind them ostentatiously fingering his wand, a feral smile twisting his lips.
Draco recognised that smile. He had been afraid of it, before, in the Mirrored Hall, a whole lifetime ago. Now there was only anger, and a determination so strong it was almost suicidal… Oh yes, he knew exactly what he was doing. He had walked into the Grove, allowing himself to be surrounded on all sides, putting himself, his two guardians and Ginny Weasley into danger, but that was the extent of it – he had no intention of playing this according to Nott’s rules.
“Throw down your wands,” Nott ordered, not bothering to gloat anymore.
They threw down their wands, Ginny scowling furiously, but Snape and Harcourt impassive. None of them had truly expected to be allowed to keep them. Nott gestured, and the wands on the ground flew up into his hands. “I won’t play any foolish games,” he said quietly. “Give me the secrets of this land and the Veil, pass the Covenant to me, and I’ll let you and your people – yes, even your traitorous uncles – walk out of here alive. Refuse, and I’ll kill you all.”
************************************
They had used the noise of the Death Eaters’ preparations for Malfoy’s arrival to cover their own approach, and were now spread out in a loose net around the Grove, with each of the five guards in their sights. They were ready to attack now, but thanks to Dumbledore’s scruples, they could not simply attack in cold blood, they had to wait until it looked as though the enemy were going to strike – apparently, this restriction was the all important distinction between a justified strike and cold blooded murder…
Jus Bellum. The Just War. There was nothing just about this war, when you got down to the mud and the blood, but Lupin knew that there had to be something that separated us from them, the ‘good’ side from the ‘bad’ side…
They would wait. And when they saw their chance, they would attack.
Wait…
What was that?
************************************
Draco took a deep, deep breath, drawing into his lungs air that smelled of sweat, fear and excitement, of snow, rotting leaves and damp earth, and underneath it all, the familiar neck ruffling smell of old blood and deep magic that was unique to this Place, in all of Britain. He drew it all in, while slowly raising his eyes to meet Nott’s, seeing the reptilian flatness of the other man’s gaze, and understanding that there would be no place for error – if he failed, Nott would kill them all.
He closed his eyes to hide their glow, their power as he called upon the magic of the Grove, of the Malfoy heartland; closed them tighter as he reached out to it, Calling it despite the corruption, despite the way Nott had…twisted…it –
By all the Gods, he was the Lord of the Malfoy…
Smiled, as it finally answered, and his eyes snapped open, opaque and vague as he struggled to breathe over the blinding pain of a snapped bond recoiling, of a broken promise rebounding. But Nott saw nothing but a boy, backed by two very dangerous men and a young girl – granted, a boy who had successfully defied him before, but a boy nevertheless, just like Potter – smiling idiotically in the face of almost certain death.
Caius Draconis Malfoy laughed.
“No,” he said, once again.
And then all hell broke loose.
************************************
Several things happened all at once.
Ginny dropped to the ground, extended her hand and tried desperately to call the wands in Nott’s hand towards her.
Theodore, who had been anticipating this moment all night, snarled delightedly and pointed his wand at the hostages, all too happy to slaughter them. Before he could mouth the first few syllables of the Killing Curse, however, he was knocked backwards by a blast of pure, raw magic that Draco launched at him in desperation. Not being used to such power, and especially unused pain when trying to control it, Draco miscalculated the blow and merely bowled him over…
Snape and Harcourt, professionals to the bone, had been carrying hold out wands – the gods only knew why Nott hadn’t taken those, too, but they were bloody grateful for it – and whipped them out, diving low before shooting in different directions; Snape aiming at the guards in the trees and Harcourt going for Nott senior, both of them rolling and trying desperately to provide some kind of shelter for Draco and Ginny…
Nott and his five guards tossed simultaneous curses, and the four in the middle of the Grove would have been caught right in the crossfire, had it not been for the Order of the Phoenix, now free to act, who provided a shield strong enough to protect them, and then threw their own curses at the guards…
The hostages, now free to act, dove into the fray, swarming the trees, heading straight for either of the two Notts, and attacks came from the trees beyond even the Order, adding to the chaos, the noise, the smoke, the subliminal humming and the blinding lights.
In the midst of the chaos, no one saw the slim, elegant wand take careful aim at a struggling, desperate figure, or hear the softly voiced “Petrificus Totalus” that froze it, and the further spell that turned it invisible and allowed the other to spirit it away unnoticed, paralysed muscles working desperately, eyes rolling frantically.
And that was the way the other liked it.
***************************************
Draco had thought the aftermath of the first skirmish was terrible, but this… this was something entirely different. Of course he had known that the Order was waiting all around them in support, but that didn’t make the battle any less terrifying, nor its aftermath any less traumatising.
Harcourt had been right. It did get easier.
At least it was all for a good cause. For the only real good cause in this world...
Ears still ringing, senses still overloaded, he walked over to the spilled pile of wands on the ground, picked up his own and absently noted that Ginny’s was gone – she must have gotten a few shots of her own in too – before turning to face Moody, and even worse, Ginny’s five brothers who all looked utterly furious with him for dragging their sister into this.
For once, he couldn’t say he blamed them.
But first…
“Where’s Nott?” he asked, dully. Right now he couldn’t care less, he only wanted to make damned sure the bastard was dead.
“Which one?” Harcourt asked, ironically. Looking around, Draco noticed they were both gone. A low, insistent feeling of alarm tugged at his gut, his heart sped up again and he turned on them, about to demand an answer, when the high-pitched scream echoed shrilly through the forest, shattering his fragile composure…
Ginny!
He bolted off, following the sound, racing against his screaming instincts.
**********************************
At Hogwarts, seated in a deep, overstuffed armchair, Arthur Weasley worried. Had he been right to trust Malfoy to such an extent? Was the boy worthy of such trust?
He remembered Harcourt’s reassurances.
He remembered the way his daughter had held on to Draco when he had collapsed to the floor, as if she would protect him against any and all comers, and the casual, natural way he had helped her up off the floor, his strength easily supporting her weight.
He also remembered William Harcourt’s horrific death, and that of his family…
I want to be an Auror, Father…
I have begun to see things a little differently, now; nothing is ever stark black and white…
He remembered Lucius Malfoy, and the lengths he had gone to in order to protect his only son. Surely he would have taught Draco that same protective instinct? There was nothing he could do but wait, and believe that his children – his daughter especially, oh gods his baby – would come home safely.
He had to believe it.
********************************************
When he caught up with them, Theodore was dragging Ginny across the forest floor, struggling with her as she kicked and screamed and fought desperately for freedom. There was a spreading bruise on the side of her face, and she was bleeding from a split lip – something deep and dark snarled inside of him at the sight of that bruise and the blood – but Nott himself was limping, and there were deep furrows raked across his arms and his face.
He burst into the clearing – lungs heaving – and headed straight for Nott, forgetting about his wand in the heat of the moment and intending, instead, to tackle him and beat him unconscious. But then Nott sealed his own fate – he grabbed Ginny’s hair, wound it round his fist and hauled her up, placing a viciously sharp knife to her throat.
She froze, and so did Draco, but crackling and crashing behind him told of five brothers in hot pursuit, and Theodore looked panicked as he realised that the Weasleys were not just shabby, poor Gryffindors – outside of Hogwarts they were tall, strong, powerful wizards and above all, they were extremely protective of their baby sister…
Draco smiled.
The knife wavered, just a bit, but Nott called out, taunting and insolent, “Are you going to risk it, Malfoy? Don’t want her pretty face marked up, do you? Or even worse, a little slit in her throat…”
There was a terrible freedom in giving into his anger. He had been angry for what seemed a lifetime – ever since his father had been imprisoned, since he had been beaten into the ground, since he had seen the devastation Nott had brought to his lands – and he had been keeping it bottled up, rigidly controlled ever since the incident with Ron Weasley. Well, if he would be judged for that loss of temper, then he would be judged for this one, too – and this time, the verdict would be very, very different…
This time, he had his wand. It was all too easy – the knife suddenly burned white hot in Nott’s grip and he reacted instinctively, tossing it aside in his panic. Ginny tore herself out of his grasp and got the hell out of the way, and Draco let his temper go, purposely disregarding magic in favour of his bare hands – a sure indication of just how far gone he was. Rolling around on the leafy floor, his entire world shrank to the desire to punish Theodore Nott, to crush him, to kill him – he was on top, now, his hands wrapped firmly around the other’s throat as he squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed until his face was blue –
And then there were arms firmly wrapped around his chest, and Ginny Weasley’s brothers pulled him off his prey, denying him his retribution. Regaining a little of his composure, he staggered drunkenly as he tried to stand up, shook off all offers of – reluctant – assistance, and tried to regulate his breathing, turning just in time to see Theodore’s fingers grip the knife one last time, in a very familiar hold…
As the knife came flashing end over end towards him he could all but feel his life – such as it was – unravel before him, because there was no way he could avoid that knife, no matter how quickly he moved…
Ginny screamed.
And threw herself in front of him.
Someone yelled out “NO!” There was a blindingly bright flash of light, an implosion of sound, and then there was nothing.
*****************************************
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