CHAPTER 23
Blaise Zabini had always liked Christmas. It was one of the very few days when his father was guaranteed to be at home, rather than at the Ministry or, as was becoming more and more common lately, off somewhere on Death Eater business. It was perhaps the only day that he, his mother, and his father would always spend together, as a family. And now, after the events of the last few months, he appreciated it even more; there were others, he knew, who would not be so lucky…
He wondered how Draco was coping, without his father.
And so, apparently, did others – it seemed that the rest of the High Clan had descended en masse to the Zabini estate, ostensibly to celebrate Christmas, but in reality with a far different agenda in mind. They told his father in quiet, confidential tones that they wished to wait for news – news? What had his father been keeping from him? – in a relatively safe place, one that they could vacate quickly, should such a quick escape become necessary.
Blaise watched them with puzzled eyes, wondering what was going on – and then he realised. Nott had made his move. And his father had known of it, and deliberately kept it from him. His father had lied to him, knowingly manipulated him – he had allowed Blaise to secretly support Malfoy, while he himself had secretly gone along with Nott, so House Zabini had a foot in both camps…
Furious with the deception, he moved forward to confront his father with his accusations, but was stopped by a caustic, taunting voice. “What’s the problem, Zabini? Disillusioned?”
He turned his head to see Millicent Bulstrode watching him, her eyes direct and dangerously perceptive despite the lacy, flounced pink and white dress that looked utterly ridiculous on her solid frame. Her mother’s choice, of course. Briefly, he quashed any thought of sympathy; fiercely proud, she would reject and turn aside even the most tactful references to her appearance.
“No. Perhaps a little surprised.” He, too, had his pride.
Her lips lifted wryly. “You didn’t think your father would play both sides? You’re slipping.”
Blaise scowled. “He swore he would help me gather support for Malfoy. I thought I could trust him.” And then, hearing his own words, he winced.
She laughed. “Poor, innocent Blaise… Surely you’re too old to believe in such fairy tales?”
He paused. There had been something in her voice, some emphasis in the way she said ‘fairy tales’. “What do you mean? What do you know?”
Suddenly the hideous pink lace was utterly irrelevant. “Know? Nothing. But I suspect…” she paused, drawing it out. Too experienced to be drawn in, Blaise merely waited. Eventually, smiling cruelly, she continued. “Today is going to be a day for fairy tales. Perhaps you weren’t so naïve, after all…”
***********************************************
Thud-thud.
(She’s not breathing! Somebody get a mediwizard here!)
Thud-thud.
Thud-thud.
(Make way! There’s a healer coming…)
Thud-thud.
(Malfoy’s breathing – he’ll be all right)
Thud-thud.
(But what about the girl?)
Thud-thud.
(Pulse rate slowing, temperature dropping – whatever it was that hit them, she took the full impact of it…)
Thud-thud.
(What the hell was she thinking, throwing herself in front of him like that?)
Thud-thud. Thud-thud.
Thud-thud-Thud-thud. Thud-thud-Thud-thud.
(What’s going on? His heartbeat’s racing, his magic surging – looks like he’s reacting to some kind of threat…)
Thud-thud-Thud-thud-Thud-thud-Thud-Thud…
(He’s going into shock –)
(Don’t touch him…!)
******************************************
“Malfoy.”
“Malfoy, wake up.” Snape shook Draco’s shoulder, trying to wake him up.
The mediwitch frowned worriedly down at the writhing, twisting boy, her old eyes dark with concern and old, old pain. Snape stood by, an imposing figure in his torn, bloody black robes, and Harcourt and Moody flanked him, their faces hard and grim.
“What’s wrong with him?” Moody growled.
The healer shrugged. “He’s just been through a major battle, drawing on incredible amounts of power for most of it. And that shielding spell didn’t help – there was enough power in that to stop a nuclear explosion, let alone a small knife.”
Just for a moment, Snape’s face blanked and Harcourt frowned, truly puzzled. Realising that she was facing two genuine purebloods with no idea what a nuclear explosion was, the woman scowled. “Never mind. The shield may have stopped the knife, but the force of that much energy unleashed caused enough damage of its own.”
They all carefully avoided looking at Ginny Weasley, whose heart had so suddenly stopped after the shield spell had literally slammed into place, displacing a huge amount of air and creating a backlash of its own. For that reason, shield spells of such magnitude were usually crafted with infinite care and patience over a space of hours – they were not meant to be created instantaneously, and most certainly not by the pooled strength of five Weasley brothers. Right now, the only thing keeping Miss Weasley’s heart beating was a particularly delicate spell; hopefully her body would soon recover to the point where it could resume its normal functions, but until then, the healer’s magic kept her alive.
At the moment, they were all deliberately not thinking of Miss Weasley. It was better that way – for all of them – if they did not reflect on the way she had fallen. Deep within their psyches – yes, all three of them, Auror and Death Eater alike – was a fundamental aversion to innocents (especially female ones) paying the price of their power games…
So they blocked out the uncertainty, the guilt. There would be time enough for recriminations later, after the job was done, after all the practical considerations taken care of…
And they quickly glanced away from each other’s eyes; turning back to the one thing they could safely focus on.
The backlash had affected Draco too, knocking him unconscious. Or at least, they had thought it was only unconsciousness – the rapid rise of his temperature, his heartbeat and his magic had caught them all by surprise. Neither of them being particularly acquainted with the details of Malfoy magic, they couldn’t be sure that this was not a natural reaction to his harnessing the Grove’s power – as far as they could remember, Lucius hadn’t had such an extreme reaction when he first called on the true power of his position.
But then Lucius had not had such an…unusual introduction to his power.
Once again, Snape bent down to shake his young charge’s shoulder. But before he could make contact, Draco’s body heaved and an incredible surge of power welled up – thankfully undirected and uncontrolled – and knocked Snape’s hand away, delivering a nasty shock in the process. His eyes snapped open, wide and unseeing, and he took a heaving, gasping breath –
*******************************
The world snapped back into focus.
Draco’s first impression, his first rather clinical observation, was that he was lying on the ground just outside the Grove, flat on his back looking up at the cloudless, gloriously blue sky. The second thing that occurred to him was that he was in some considerable discomfort. His hands hurt, and so did his head and his chest and even his eyes – in fact, he ached all over. But it was more than that – his entire body felt strange, somehow…stretched, as if there was something else inside him, something more. He thought, absently, that it had something to do with the Grove, but that assumption covered a very large area…
Not for the first time – and, he suspected, not nearly the last – Draco wished that he could speak with his father again. No doubt Lucius would know what was going on, and just how to turn it to his advantage - but Draco was old enough, and hopefully mature enough, to have finally accepted that such wishes were futile. His father would die in Azkaban, if not now then tomorrow, or the next day; quite simply, he was too dangerous to be allowed to live.
Focusing once more on the world around him, he forced himself to sit up, ignoring the increased aches and pains. Snape, and to a lesser extent Harcourt, hovered over him protectively; Moody stood further away with sceptical crossed arms, and a woman in medical robes watched him like a hawk, measuring his reactions.
“So,” Snape said dryly, as he saw Draco suppress a wince. “You are alive. Despite your best efforts to get yourself killed.”
Draco scowled, looked beyond them to the silent crowd of villagers who watched him with great, dark eyes full of faith, and relief to see that he was well. So, he had managed to save the villagers, after all. “I take it Nott is finished, then?”
Something queer moved through Snape’s eyes at that question. “You could say that.” He looked suddenly sick.
A feeling of relief rushed over Draco, but something else was nagging at his instincts, something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something important, perhaps even vital…
His eyes narrowed. Slowly, he said, “There’s something else you aren’t telling me…”
There was silence. Only the old mediwitch would meet his eyes, and in them he could only sadness, and a compassion that quite took him aback. Concerned now, Draco suddenly wondered why the Order would send for such a highly qualified mediwitch to deal with his relatively minor injuries, and just why she was using so much magic…
And then, even before she told him, eyes still squarely meeting his, he guessed.
Oh, no…
But the truth – and the memory – hit him with all the force of inevitability, shattering his calm complacency.
Oh, Lady no…
Ginny lay, pale and motionless, on a bed of cloaks spread out over the forest floor. Somehow, he could not quite believe the reality of what his eyes told him – it did not seem real, in the solid, concrete sense.
It could not be real. Should not be real.
But it was.
Whatever the price, he had said. No matter who or what stood in his way. He had not meant Ginny to be hurt, had not planned on it, had not even thought that it would be possible. She was…she was not part of his plans at all. All the others – Snape, Harcourt, Moody, Arthur Weasley and the rest of the Order – they were all pawns, all expendable, but Ginny…
Ginny was not meant to be included in the Game, but he had forced her into it. She was not supposed to be here at all, but hadn’t he fostered her curiosity, shaping her, manipulating her, tempting her with talk of strength and ambition and power? And now here she was, pale, bruised, silent and still, all her vitality quenched; it was as if the indefinable thing that made her ‘Ginny’ and therefore worthy of consideration despite her name, her brothers and her House was somehow gone.
It was not supposed to be this way.
Find out how much you're willing to lose in order to gain whatever it is you want.
He had wanted Nott – father and son – dead. He had wanted his estate back. He had wanted respect in Slytherin. And he had been willing to pay an extremely high price for it.
But Ginny’s life? That was too much: far, far too much.
Oblivious of the onlookers, of all the disapproving glares and the wary glances from the members of the Order, he reached out a shaking hand and pressed it against her cheek – cold! – and managed, through a massive effort of will, not to turn and bolt because somehow, all her warmth was gone and it was his fault…
****************************************
Some of the older members of the Order coughed and turned away, slightly uncomfortable at the highly charged intimacy implicit in that gesture, that touch; in the intensity of his eyes as he watched her, as if he would keep her alive through force of will alone…
It was as if Draco Malfoy was being born again, right before their eyes. The newly emerging man-child was strong, yes, but it was a strength born of painful experience and a sudden, horrifying introduction to his own limitations. One day, he would be a force to be reckoned with – even the blindest of them could recognise that. But now, the understanding was so new, so fragile that he was brittle; the slightest mishandling and he would shatter…
**************************************
Some two hours after the Order left, Molly Weasley was knitting almost desperately, trying to rein in her instinctive and overwhelming fear for her family, and her husband was slumped in a chair, his white-knuckled grip on the armrests belying his apparent calm. Dumbledore was standing by the window of the staff room, where he could keep an eye on both of them while still seeming to be staring outside at the garden, or the grounds, or whatever it was; he was too preoccupied to notice.
They were carrying on a desultory conversation, keeping up the façade of bravery, but their hearts weren’t in it; too many times their eyes turned southwest, gazing out over the distance towards a land none of them had ever seen. Little wonder – there had been so much to lose in this hastily planned mission, and only ambiguous symbols and dubious allies to gain.
And Arthur and Dumbledore were the ones who had advocated it. Forced to wait behind, to worry while others fought and faced a terrible death, they themselves fought the doubts and regrets and second thoughts in their own hearts…
As she entered, still a little flushed from the speed with which she had come from Wales, Tonks took in the scene with one comprehensive glance, and her heart sank as she saw the desperate question in Molly Weasley’s eyes. Too many times had she delivered unfortunate news to desperately hoping family – she was only glad that she had not been old enough to have been an Auror in the first Rising. Nearly sixteen years on, the scars were still unhealed, and now there would be new ones to add onto the weight of the old.
At least this time, she did not bear the worst possible news.
Their eyes were all too transparent – the hope and fear that shone through was almost painful. “What news do you bring, Miss Tonks?” Dumbledore asked gently, taking the first step. The Weasleys looked as though they were too fragile.
She took a moment to collect herself, searching for the best way to tell them. “First of all, sir, there were no fatalities.” She paused, to allow audible sighs of relief, “and no one in the Order sustained more than superficial cuts and bruises. But,” once again she stopped, swallowed uncomfortably, “but Ginny was seriously injured…”
Molly Weasley made a strangled sound of shock and fear, and Arthur reached for her hand, gripping it convulsively. Tonks wondered if it could get any worse, but Arthur rallied. “Did…did we defeat Nott?”
Finally, she smiled weakly; at least there was still some relief. “Yes. Yes, we did, Mr. Weasley. He and his son will not be bothering us anymore – and nor will twenty other Death Eaters…”
But somehow, the good news paled beside the thought of Ginny, lying pale and still, her life force dim because she had stepped – instinctively, and without question or hesitation – in front of a knife meant for Draco Malfoy…
****************************************
Blaise Zabini had always liked Christmas. It was one of the very few days when his father was guaranteed to be at home, rather than at the Ministry or, as was becoming more and more common lately, off somewhere on Death Eater business. It was perhaps the only day that he, his mother, and his father would always spend together, as a family. And now, after the events of the last few months, he appreciated it even more; there were others, he knew, who would not be so lucky…
He wondered how Draco was coping, without his father.
And so, apparently, did others – it seemed that the rest of the High Clan had descended en masse to the Zabini estate, ostensibly to celebrate Christmas, but in reality with a far different agenda in mind. They told his father in quiet, confidential tones that they wished to wait for news – news? What had his father been keeping from him? – in a relatively safe place, one that they could vacate quickly, should such a quick escape become necessary.
Blaise watched them with puzzled eyes, wondering what was going on – and then he realised. Nott had made his move. And his father had known of it, and deliberately kept it from him. His father had lied to him, knowingly manipulated him – he had allowed Blaise to secretly support Malfoy, while he himself had secretly gone along with Nott, so House Zabini had a foot in both camps…
Furious with the deception, he moved forward to confront his father with his accusations, but was stopped by a caustic, taunting voice. “What’s the problem, Zabini? Disillusioned?”
He turned his head to see Millicent Bulstrode watching him, her eyes direct and dangerously perceptive despite the lacy, flounced pink and white dress that looked utterly ridiculous on her solid frame. Her mother’s choice, of course. Briefly, he quashed any thought of sympathy; fiercely proud, she would reject and turn aside even the most tactful references to her appearance.
“No. Perhaps a little surprised.” He, too, had his pride.
Her lips lifted wryly. “You didn’t think your father would play both sides? You’re slipping.”
Blaise scowled. “He swore he would help me gather support for Malfoy. I thought I could trust him.” And then, hearing his own words, he winced.
She laughed. “Poor, innocent Blaise… Surely you’re too old to believe in such fairy tales?”
He paused. There had been something in her voice, some emphasis in the way she said ‘fairy tales’. “What do you mean? What do you know?”
Suddenly the hideous pink lace was utterly irrelevant. “Know? Nothing. But I suspect…” she paused, drawing it out. Too experienced to be drawn in, Blaise merely waited. Eventually, smiling cruelly, she continued. “Today is going to be a day for fairy tales. Perhaps you weren’t so naïve, after all…”
***********************************************
Thud-thud.
(She’s not breathing! Somebody get a mediwizard here!)
Thud-thud.
Thud-thud.
(Make way! There’s a healer coming…)
Thud-thud.
(Malfoy’s breathing – he’ll be all right)
Thud-thud.
(But what about the girl?)
Thud-thud.
(Pulse rate slowing, temperature dropping – whatever it was that hit them, she took the full impact of it…)
Thud-thud.
(What the hell was she thinking, throwing herself in front of him like that?)
Thud-thud. Thud-thud.
Thud-thud-Thud-thud. Thud-thud-Thud-thud.
(What’s going on? His heartbeat’s racing, his magic surging – looks like he’s reacting to some kind of threat…)
Thud-thud-Thud-thud-Thud-thud-Thud-Thud…
(He’s going into shock –)
(Don’t touch him…!)
******************************************
“Malfoy.”
“Malfoy, wake up.” Snape shook Draco’s shoulder, trying to wake him up.
The mediwitch frowned worriedly down at the writhing, twisting boy, her old eyes dark with concern and old, old pain. Snape stood by, an imposing figure in his torn, bloody black robes, and Harcourt and Moody flanked him, their faces hard and grim.
“What’s wrong with him?” Moody growled.
The healer shrugged. “He’s just been through a major battle, drawing on incredible amounts of power for most of it. And that shielding spell didn’t help – there was enough power in that to stop a nuclear explosion, let alone a small knife.”
Just for a moment, Snape’s face blanked and Harcourt frowned, truly puzzled. Realising that she was facing two genuine purebloods with no idea what a nuclear explosion was, the woman scowled. “Never mind. The shield may have stopped the knife, but the force of that much energy unleashed caused enough damage of its own.”
They all carefully avoided looking at Ginny Weasley, whose heart had so suddenly stopped after the shield spell had literally slammed into place, displacing a huge amount of air and creating a backlash of its own. For that reason, shield spells of such magnitude were usually crafted with infinite care and patience over a space of hours – they were not meant to be created instantaneously, and most certainly not by the pooled strength of five Weasley brothers. Right now, the only thing keeping Miss Weasley’s heart beating was a particularly delicate spell; hopefully her body would soon recover to the point where it could resume its normal functions, but until then, the healer’s magic kept her alive.
At the moment, they were all deliberately not thinking of Miss Weasley. It was better that way – for all of them – if they did not reflect on the way she had fallen. Deep within their psyches – yes, all three of them, Auror and Death Eater alike – was a fundamental aversion to innocents (especially female ones) paying the price of their power games…
So they blocked out the uncertainty, the guilt. There would be time enough for recriminations later, after the job was done, after all the practical considerations taken care of…
And they quickly glanced away from each other’s eyes; turning back to the one thing they could safely focus on.
The backlash had affected Draco too, knocking him unconscious. Or at least, they had thought it was only unconsciousness – the rapid rise of his temperature, his heartbeat and his magic had caught them all by surprise. Neither of them being particularly acquainted with the details of Malfoy magic, they couldn’t be sure that this was not a natural reaction to his harnessing the Grove’s power – as far as they could remember, Lucius hadn’t had such an extreme reaction when he first called on the true power of his position.
But then Lucius had not had such an…unusual introduction to his power.
Once again, Snape bent down to shake his young charge’s shoulder. But before he could make contact, Draco’s body heaved and an incredible surge of power welled up – thankfully undirected and uncontrolled – and knocked Snape’s hand away, delivering a nasty shock in the process. His eyes snapped open, wide and unseeing, and he took a heaving, gasping breath –
*******************************
The world snapped back into focus.
Draco’s first impression, his first rather clinical observation, was that he was lying on the ground just outside the Grove, flat on his back looking up at the cloudless, gloriously blue sky. The second thing that occurred to him was that he was in some considerable discomfort. His hands hurt, and so did his head and his chest and even his eyes – in fact, he ached all over. But it was more than that – his entire body felt strange, somehow…stretched, as if there was something else inside him, something more. He thought, absently, that it had something to do with the Grove, but that assumption covered a very large area…
Not for the first time – and, he suspected, not nearly the last – Draco wished that he could speak with his father again. No doubt Lucius would know what was going on, and just how to turn it to his advantage - but Draco was old enough, and hopefully mature enough, to have finally accepted that such wishes were futile. His father would die in Azkaban, if not now then tomorrow, or the next day; quite simply, he was too dangerous to be allowed to live.
Focusing once more on the world around him, he forced himself to sit up, ignoring the increased aches and pains. Snape, and to a lesser extent Harcourt, hovered over him protectively; Moody stood further away with sceptical crossed arms, and a woman in medical robes watched him like a hawk, measuring his reactions.
“So,” Snape said dryly, as he saw Draco suppress a wince. “You are alive. Despite your best efforts to get yourself killed.”
Draco scowled, looked beyond them to the silent crowd of villagers who watched him with great, dark eyes full of faith, and relief to see that he was well. So, he had managed to save the villagers, after all. “I take it Nott is finished, then?”
Something queer moved through Snape’s eyes at that question. “You could say that.” He looked suddenly sick.
A feeling of relief rushed over Draco, but something else was nagging at his instincts, something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something important, perhaps even vital…
His eyes narrowed. Slowly, he said, “There’s something else you aren’t telling me…”
There was silence. Only the old mediwitch would meet his eyes, and in them he could only sadness, and a compassion that quite took him aback. Concerned now, Draco suddenly wondered why the Order would send for such a highly qualified mediwitch to deal with his relatively minor injuries, and just why she was using so much magic…
And then, even before she told him, eyes still squarely meeting his, he guessed.
Oh, no…
But the truth – and the memory – hit him with all the force of inevitability, shattering his calm complacency.
Oh, Lady no…
Ginny lay, pale and motionless, on a bed of cloaks spread out over the forest floor. Somehow, he could not quite believe the reality of what his eyes told him – it did not seem real, in the solid, concrete sense.
It could not be real. Should not be real.
But it was.
Whatever the price, he had said. No matter who or what stood in his way. He had not meant Ginny to be hurt, had not planned on it, had not even thought that it would be possible. She was…she was not part of his plans at all. All the others – Snape, Harcourt, Moody, Arthur Weasley and the rest of the Order – they were all pawns, all expendable, but Ginny…
Ginny was not meant to be included in the Game, but he had forced her into it. She was not supposed to be here at all, but hadn’t he fostered her curiosity, shaping her, manipulating her, tempting her with talk of strength and ambition and power? And now here she was, pale, bruised, silent and still, all her vitality quenched; it was as if the indefinable thing that made her ‘Ginny’ and therefore worthy of consideration despite her name, her brothers and her House was somehow gone.
It was not supposed to be this way.
Find out how much you're willing to lose in order to gain whatever it is you want.
He had wanted Nott – father and son – dead. He had wanted his estate back. He had wanted respect in Slytherin. And he had been willing to pay an extremely high price for it.
But Ginny’s life? That was too much: far, far too much.
Oblivious of the onlookers, of all the disapproving glares and the wary glances from the members of the Order, he reached out a shaking hand and pressed it against her cheek – cold! – and managed, through a massive effort of will, not to turn and bolt because somehow, all her warmth was gone and it was his fault…
****************************************
Some of the older members of the Order coughed and turned away, slightly uncomfortable at the highly charged intimacy implicit in that gesture, that touch; in the intensity of his eyes as he watched her, as if he would keep her alive through force of will alone…
It was as if Draco Malfoy was being born again, right before their eyes. The newly emerging man-child was strong, yes, but it was a strength born of painful experience and a sudden, horrifying introduction to his own limitations. One day, he would be a force to be reckoned with – even the blindest of them could recognise that. But now, the understanding was so new, so fragile that he was brittle; the slightest mishandling and he would shatter…
**************************************
Some two hours after the Order left, Molly Weasley was knitting almost desperately, trying to rein in her instinctive and overwhelming fear for her family, and her husband was slumped in a chair, his white-knuckled grip on the armrests belying his apparent calm. Dumbledore was standing by the window of the staff room, where he could keep an eye on both of them while still seeming to be staring outside at the garden, or the grounds, or whatever it was; he was too preoccupied to notice.
They were carrying on a desultory conversation, keeping up the façade of bravery, but their hearts weren’t in it; too many times their eyes turned southwest, gazing out over the distance towards a land none of them had ever seen. Little wonder – there had been so much to lose in this hastily planned mission, and only ambiguous symbols and dubious allies to gain.
And Arthur and Dumbledore were the ones who had advocated it. Forced to wait behind, to worry while others fought and faced a terrible death, they themselves fought the doubts and regrets and second thoughts in their own hearts…
As she entered, still a little flushed from the speed with which she had come from Wales, Tonks took in the scene with one comprehensive glance, and her heart sank as she saw the desperate question in Molly Weasley’s eyes. Too many times had she delivered unfortunate news to desperately hoping family – she was only glad that she had not been old enough to have been an Auror in the first Rising. Nearly sixteen years on, the scars were still unhealed, and now there would be new ones to add onto the weight of the old.
At least this time, she did not bear the worst possible news.
Their eyes were all too transparent – the hope and fear that shone through was almost painful. “What news do you bring, Miss Tonks?” Dumbledore asked gently, taking the first step. The Weasleys looked as though they were too fragile.
She took a moment to collect herself, searching for the best way to tell them. “First of all, sir, there were no fatalities.” She paused, to allow audible sighs of relief, “and no one in the Order sustained more than superficial cuts and bruises. But,” once again she stopped, swallowed uncomfortably, “but Ginny was seriously injured…”
Molly Weasley made a strangled sound of shock and fear, and Arthur reached for her hand, gripping it convulsively. Tonks wondered if it could get any worse, but Arthur rallied. “Did…did we defeat Nott?”
Finally, she smiled weakly; at least there was still some relief. “Yes. Yes, we did, Mr. Weasley. He and his son will not be bothering us anymore – and nor will twenty other Death Eaters…”
But somehow, the good news paled beside the thought of Ginny, lying pale and still, her life force dim because she had stepped – instinctively, and without question or hesitation – in front of a knife meant for Draco Malfoy…
****************************************
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