Chapter 24
Ever since Sirius Black had pulled off the impossible, vanishing from a heavily guarded and strongly warded cell, and ever since the Dementors had deserted their posts, the Governor of Azkaban Prison had made a point, every evening, to check on his prisoners and make sure that they were, indeed, still secure. He especially enjoyed visiting Lucius Malfoy, who, before his imprisonment, had always looked down his pure-blooded nose at him, disdaining his extremely humble origins. It was one of the highlights of his day, to see that once-proud and arrogant bastard humbled – and an even more intoxicating treat to exercise his prerogatives and take an active hand in the humbling process.
But not too often – underneath that cool control, he sometimes thought he saw something feral, something that raised the hairs on the back of his neck…
However, today there was something different about Malfoy – instead of sitting on the bed, meditating and maddeningly composed, he was lying – slumping – sprawled on the floor, and the guards swore that he hadn’t moved at all since they’d first noticed the strange phenomenon a few hours ago. None of them were quite game to go in and check themselves, though – he was a tricky bastard, after all. And there was the matter of his reputation…
Reputation or not, the Governor knew just how important this prisoner was to certain people in the Ministry. Backed by three huge guards armed to the teeth, he eventually steeled himself to enter the cell and investigate the matter – or at least to find out whether the bastard was truly dead or not.
Moving in with extreme caution, he noted the chaotic state of the cell – obviously, there’d been some sort of struggle – and the unmistakable smell of blood, fear and human waste. Malfoy was lying, unmoving, in a pool of sticky, congealed blood, his face so battered and bruised as to be almost unrecognisable. In fact, the only familiar features were the prison robes and the white hair, and the ancient, battered silver signet ring that he had always refused to take off, despite prison regulations. There was a narrow, vicious looking implement driven right through his heart and it was fairly obvious, even to those who didn’t have the Governor’s experience, that he was dead.
Well. Someone had finally worked up the courage to get rid of him, and in quite spectacular fashion, too. That looked like a hatpin, a ladies’ hatpin – a sign? A last message? When the Governor, going through the motions for form’s sake, found out that Malfoy’s last visitors had been Narcissa Nott and a cloaked, hooded man who called himself ‘John Smith’, his mind slowly but surely made the obvious connections and began to formulate tenuous – and occasionally uncomfortable – conclusions…
After the official confirmation of death, the word went out, as it always did in such cases, with baffling speed – jumping from the island to the mainland to Diagon Alley and from there to the rest of the wizarding world in a manner that had nothing to do with physical laws of science and everything to do with a strange, uniquely human kind of mass osmosis.
Lucius Malfoy is dead.
The recipients of the news were left to come to their own conclusions.
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Tonks wondered what she had done to deserve messenger duty twice in one day. It had been bad enough, taking news of young Ginny’s injuries to her parents – they were ordinary people with ordinary, understandable emotions and reactions – but, on the return trip, having to bear news of his father’s death to Draco Malfoy was another thing entirely. He was High Clan, and she made it a policy to avoid the High Clan and her mother’s legacy whenever possible. Tonks liked her life just the way it was, and suspected that if she went in search of her mother’s family, everything would change: she feared that she, herself, would change.
She did not want to be pulled into the shadows, where predators like Lucius Malfoy and Alexander Nott were so at home…
Passing through the loose periphery of Aurors, Order members and villagers milling around, waiting for news of Ginny and further orders from Moody, she spied a familiar fair head over near the healer’s enclosure, and made her way towards him. He looked up as she approached; his face guarded, his body tensed, as if for a blow – did he…could he already suspect?
Half-believing in the myth of House Malfoy’s uncanny omniscience – certainly the boy’s father had possessed it, and in spades – she made a terrible mistake.
She fixed a sympathetic smile on her face, and, despite her discomfort, forced herself to say, “I’m so sorry, Malfoy…” When his face changed from merely guarded to absolute impassivity, when he stiffened, and made an unmistakable, instinctive gesture of denial, she realised what she had done.
But by then it was too late to take the words – and the patent artificiality of her manner – back.
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He hadn’t known. He hadn’t even suspected. There had been no warning, no intuition, no darkening of the sun to give him even the merest hint that his father had been fighting for his life whilst he himself indulged in temper-driven impulse. He had been so certain that his father was invulnerable, that not even Azkaban could defeat him…
Well.
And yet, he was so tired now that it seemed the news of his father’s death was nothing more than the crowning moment of a thoroughly awful day. He looked down at Ginny, still and pale on the stretcher, limbs arranged sprightly for her own safety, and knew that the day could, indeed, become much worse…
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he reached out and took her hands – cool, utterly limp, with only the faintest of pulses – in his; now that there was no one else about to watch, judge, evaluate and analyse, he could give into the temptation to reassure himself that she was alive, and allow himself to be relieved.
As long as she was still alive, he had not fucked up unforgivably.
Logically, coolly, he knew that Ginny had made her own choice when she had followed him, when she had thrown herself in front of him, but he was not, at the moment, a creature of intellect – and nor were the Weasleys.
For the last half an hour he had forced himself to ignore the presence of the Weasley brothers and Potter – who might as well be a Weasley, for all he did not fancy himself as Ginny’s brother – while they glared at him fiercely, no doubt resenting the role he had played in their sister’s injury. To be fair, it was really only those who had had personal contact with him at his worst; the two oldest brothers were merely scowling.
And then, Ron Weasley’s evil genius prompted him to attack. Stalking over – stalking, not strolling, or sauntering – he stood on the other side of Ginny’s stretcher, forcing Draco to look at him. Tired, disheartened, and with very little patience left at the moment, Draco sighed. Considering the volatility of his current mood, and the unfortunate consequences of their last confrontation, he could only wonder at Weasley’s truly terrible sense of timing…
“What is it, Weasley?” He was too tired to impart any true insolence or challenge into his expected lines.
On cue, Ron bristled. “What have you done to my sister?” The demand burst out with real feeling, fuelled by very real distress. He was genuinely worried about Ginny – oddly, Draco thought that he might be just as stressed as he was. For the barest moment, he felt a jot of fellow feeling for him. And then, as Weasley once again pushed his luck beyond the line and grabbed him by the shirt, hauling him up and half strangling, the surreal moment passed.
Breaking the grip with a short, sharp movement, he jerked free and rose fully to his feet, emptiness momentarily overridden by the impulsive flush of temper. They stood there, glaring at each other, separated only by Ginny’s limp form, neither willing to concede or back down to the other – Ron too stubborn in his beliefs, and Draco still too numb.
“For God’s sake,” Bill Weasley hissed, hurrying over to break it up. “This is neither the time nor the place.” He placed a hand on their chests and insistently pushed them apart, further away from Ginny. “We can all have it out later, in a bloody great knock-down brawl if you like, but just not here, and not now. Have you both forgotten Ginny?”
Ron flushed a particularly virulent scarlet, looking away, and Draco lowered his eyes, veiling his expression. They had, indeed, forgotten Ginny… Who was frowning, her pale forehead creased, making distressed, whimpering sounds as she moved slightly, turning her head from side to side. Both of them – Weasley and Malfoy – sank down to their knees and gripped one of her hands tightly, watching breathlessly, willing her to awake, to open her eyes, look at them and smile, or glare, or give any reaction that she would be all right…
And then she opened her eyes.
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The Weasley brothers remembered the first time they had ever seen their little sister, newly arrived from the hospital, so small and vulnerable and somehow miraculous. So innocent, and so in need of big brothers to protect her from everything and anything that would ever hurt her…
Harry remembered the way she had looked at him when she had awakened from her ordeal in the Chamber of Secrets. So much trust…
When she turned her eyes to Draco, first, it broke their hearts.
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Sensation returned slowly; a mercy, considering the fierce pounding in her temples, the dull, pervasive ache that seemed to radiate from her very bones.
And then came memory, in a vivid technicolour rush, and, shocked, she opened her eyes.
He was the first thing she saw. His eyes, dull grey, flat and so, so tired...growing lighter now, more brilliant, as if he were smiling. His face was impassive – perhaps too carefully so – but those eyes gave him away, that and the unmistakable way he was holding onto her hand. It was a strong grip, a comforting grip, as if he would never falter, never, ever let go.
A shadow fell on her face, and she looked up to see the rest of her brothers gathered round, watching, encasing them all – yes, even Malfoy, by default – in a solid ring of concern, love and hope. A family.
Before the darkness swirled up to claim her again, she smiled, conscious of a feeling that everything was now right in her world…
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Alastor Moody scowled balefully down at the mess on the ground. ‘Mess’ was the only word he could think of to describe it – all other adjectives seemed inadequate in the face of what had been done to Alexander Nott. Personally, Moody was all for Death Eaters paying the ultimate price for their crimes, but this – this seemed, even to him, to be just a little excessive.
They had found it – Shacklebolt, Moody himself, Lupin, and Harcourt – in a small clearing, some hundred metres from the centre of the action in the Grove. Shacklebolt had taken one look and bolted for the bushes, Lupin went dead white, and even Harcourt looked shaken. But Snape, coming to investigate the source of the swearing, had started to laugh; had laughed, and laughed, grinning maniacally, until he slowly sat down and buried his face in his hands, his shoulders still shaking spasmodically…
That was when all the disparate and random impressions that Moody had been receiving all day – the fuzzy familiarity of the kills at the edge of the Veil, the sense of being watched, of someone else – finally coalesced into a flash of intuition, and he kicked himself for not thinking of it before.
“Somebody get Malfoy here to see this,” he barked, vaguely noticing one of the younger trainees jumping to fulfil his order.
“What is it?” Tonks asked, coming over to look at what he was doing with wary curiosity.
“Take a look,” Moody said bluntly, indicating the corpse.
There was an expensive ladies’ silk scarf stuffed inside the dead man’s mouth, and livid bruises on his throat. It was a rich, particularly deep shade of blue – although he was by no means a connoisseur of women’s fashion, Moody thought he recognised that scarf. It had been splashed across the front page of the tabloids often enough: Narcissa Malfoy had been wearing it on the day she became Narcissa Nott…
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One of the trainee Aurors – a young, idealistic fool, looking decidedly ill and not so shiny anymore – cleared his throat nervously, trying to get his attention. Ignoring him, ignoring the Weasleys who were still – perhaps even more fiercely now, after the way Ginny had smiled at him – watching him, Draco fixed his gaze on Ginny, willing her to wake again.
No, he didn’t want to consult with Moody and the others on the best way to deal with the aftermath of the invasion. No, he didn’t want to talk about it – and they should know better than to even ask. No, he didn’t want a drink of water, or a healer, or to lie down and rest for a while.
The rest of the world could wait until he was sure she would live. And then he would walk away, and make damned sure that she didn’t follow him, this time.
But the intruder would not be deterred. Clearing his throat again, louder this time, he repeated his message. “Ah…Auror Moody wants you to come and see something, Malfoy…” He trailed off, profoundly uncomfortable under one of Draco’s blankest, most neutral looks, but didn’t back down. “Er…right now? It’s very important.”
All the other gentle suggestions had been very important too, but he had ignored them – why should he dance to Moody’s tune? But his father had taught him better than that – his sense of responsibility was too well ingrained. Resigning himself to the inevitable, Draco put his trust in the Lady – in this, Her holy place – and in the mediwitch, and got up to see what all the fuss was about. No matter how badly he wanted to, he could not shut the world out forever.
When he saw the body – or rather, what was left of it – he understood why.
It had taken him a while to actually see, to understand what it was he had been looking at. But slowly, the true picture had come into focus, and he began to understand something of the mysteries of this day, of his attack – he had been so wrapped in his own determination that he had missed much of what was going on around him, he knew that much – and something of himself, as well.
“Well?” the old man growled, scowling at him, at Snape and at Harcourt, who were maintaining blank, defensive faces. “Are you going to deny it?”
Draco raised an eyebrow, waited a beat, but no one was brave enough to make the obvious – but very foolish, in the circumstances – rejoinder. So he cleared his throat, tried for diplomacy. “I’m afraid I’m not quite sure…”
Moody didn’t even bother blustering. “Are you going to look me in the eye, and tell me you don’t know who did this.”
Draco stared at him just as blankly, just as impassively as the other two High Clan scions. “When Tonks came back from Hogwarts,” he said, “she told me of my father’s death, sir.”
At least it had been Tonks, and not any of the others. She at least had some idea of respect, of compassion – she had not broken the news smugly, or even gleefully, as some others would have done. For that, he would be forever grateful. When he’d heard Tonks say the words, he’d felt the last vestiges of his childish innocence die… But here was a miracle. His mother’s pretty scarf, and the look of shock and betrayal on Nott’s face, carefully – if not cynically – preserved for posterity.
Keeping his face solemn and suitably grave, he matched Moody look for look, and volunteered nothing more.
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Moody, who had run head first against the wall of High Clan solidarity, knew better than to ask any more. Draco’s non reaction had told him more than enough – although such evidence was in no way admissible in court, it was more than enough for him. Swearing viciously, he turned around to scan the tree line, searching for an elusive silhouette, a ghost he had been chasing for nearly twenty years, but there was nothing – of course there was nothing.
He would be long gone, by now.
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Christmas day was indeed a day for fairy tales, Blaise discovered to his own secret amusement that afternoon. Just as Millicent had said, his own disillusionment with his father’s deceptions was not the only shocking revelation of the day; two pieces of news somehow appeared – as all truly astounding news does – and made themselves known throughout the whole world in what seemed to be an improbably short time, and with them came the inevitable tide of speculation and change.
The first news was that Draco had, against all odds, despite everything that had been marshalled against him, somehow managed to overcome Nott and his supporters and retake his land, and in the process had managed to enlist the help and support of the Order of the Phoenix as well. To Blaise, it was no surprise. But to others, to all those who had doubted a sixteen-year-old boy’s abilities, his strength and his will, it was astounding. He watched them with newly cynical – or at least more cynical than ever – eyes, watched the initial shock, then the anger, or the slow amusement, and then the calculation and the shift and readjustment of their personal worldviews…
An acknowledgement that the Malfoy were still a major player, and a repudiation of any possible ties to House Nott in the past, present or future. A reassessment of his abilities, an adjustment of their view of him, from a weak puppet who could be easily controlled to a strong Lord and a dangerous enemy, and a resolve to pay court to the boy they had previously – and so summarily – dismissed.
Those who had been so very confident of Nott’s eventual success that they had burned their bridges and committed everything to his support were suddenly either very worried, or very defiant – or very seriously contemplating heading overseas for some time, until the inevitable upheaval should finally die down.
On the other hand, those who had always supported Malfoy – depressingly few of them – were quietly satisfied, and eyed their less fortunate fellow intriguers quite speculatively, with predatory eyes and questioning minds: the gratitude of a Malfoy was no small thing.
However, the Order’s appearance in the Game had quite thrown it out of balance. What price had they put on their involvement in Malfoy matters? Cool, calculating minds all, they did not believe that Dumbledore had helped Draco out of the simple goodness of his heart. Did their support mean that Draco had thrown in with them? If so, how far and how much would he support them now, and how and when would they stand behind him? If he had indeed joined with them, did that mean that he would take their self-proclaimed goal of defeating the Dark Lord seriously?
The second piece of news was, in its way, just as unsettling – unlike the news of Draco’s success, which spelled the beginning of a new, unknown era, the news of Lucius’ death signalled the final end of the last one.
Apparently, so the rumour went, he had been found in his cell, stabbed to death; the very last visitor he had entertained had been his so-dear ex-wife, and an anonymous friend. They said that she had watched as the anonymous assassin had killed him. Watching Narcissa’s face as that rumour was whispered – and he used the word ‘whispered’ lightly – just out of earshot, Blaise could easily believe it. There was no expression on that cold, lovely face – just a sense of…satisfaction. Vindication. Lucius was dead, Nott was dead, and so – tragically – was young Theodore. There being no other close relations – not after Alexander had risen so zealously through the ranks of his family members – Narcissa became the nominal ruler of House Nott. His father had always warned him never to underestimate women, especially beautiful, ostensibly ornamental ones.
And speaking of underestimation – Blaise wondered just how Millicent had known that today would be so momentous. Turning to face her, he saw to his surprise – and perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised, after all – that she was sitting close by the former Lady Nott, close enough, in fact, that it was quite clear that she had been taken under Narcissa’s wing…
An odd combination, those two – beautiful, elegant Narcissa and plain, awkward Millicent – but, somehow, there was something very similar about them. They both came from intensely patriarchal families, with no route to power other than the traditional feminine way – that is, through the bedroom – and they both wanted more. Narcissa had got hers, now – perhaps she was teaching Millicent how to gain her own power. Thinking of Lucius Malfoy, of Alexander and Theodore Nott, and of how they had been so neatly taken out of the picture, Blaise wished her all the luck in the world, and sincerely hoped that he would never be forced to stand in her way.
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Ever since Sirius Black had pulled off the impossible, vanishing from a heavily guarded and strongly warded cell, and ever since the Dementors had deserted their posts, the Governor of Azkaban Prison had made a point, every evening, to check on his prisoners and make sure that they were, indeed, still secure. He especially enjoyed visiting Lucius Malfoy, who, before his imprisonment, had always looked down his pure-blooded nose at him, disdaining his extremely humble origins. It was one of the highlights of his day, to see that once-proud and arrogant bastard humbled – and an even more intoxicating treat to exercise his prerogatives and take an active hand in the humbling process.
But not too often – underneath that cool control, he sometimes thought he saw something feral, something that raised the hairs on the back of his neck…
However, today there was something different about Malfoy – instead of sitting on the bed, meditating and maddeningly composed, he was lying – slumping – sprawled on the floor, and the guards swore that he hadn’t moved at all since they’d first noticed the strange phenomenon a few hours ago. None of them were quite game to go in and check themselves, though – he was a tricky bastard, after all. And there was the matter of his reputation…
Reputation or not, the Governor knew just how important this prisoner was to certain people in the Ministry. Backed by three huge guards armed to the teeth, he eventually steeled himself to enter the cell and investigate the matter – or at least to find out whether the bastard was truly dead or not.
Moving in with extreme caution, he noted the chaotic state of the cell – obviously, there’d been some sort of struggle – and the unmistakable smell of blood, fear and human waste. Malfoy was lying, unmoving, in a pool of sticky, congealed blood, his face so battered and bruised as to be almost unrecognisable. In fact, the only familiar features were the prison robes and the white hair, and the ancient, battered silver signet ring that he had always refused to take off, despite prison regulations. There was a narrow, vicious looking implement driven right through his heart and it was fairly obvious, even to those who didn’t have the Governor’s experience, that he was dead.
Well. Someone had finally worked up the courage to get rid of him, and in quite spectacular fashion, too. That looked like a hatpin, a ladies’ hatpin – a sign? A last message? When the Governor, going through the motions for form’s sake, found out that Malfoy’s last visitors had been Narcissa Nott and a cloaked, hooded man who called himself ‘John Smith’, his mind slowly but surely made the obvious connections and began to formulate tenuous – and occasionally uncomfortable – conclusions…
After the official confirmation of death, the word went out, as it always did in such cases, with baffling speed – jumping from the island to the mainland to Diagon Alley and from there to the rest of the wizarding world in a manner that had nothing to do with physical laws of science and everything to do with a strange, uniquely human kind of mass osmosis.
Lucius Malfoy is dead.
The recipients of the news were left to come to their own conclusions.
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Tonks wondered what she had done to deserve messenger duty twice in one day. It had been bad enough, taking news of young Ginny’s injuries to her parents – they were ordinary people with ordinary, understandable emotions and reactions – but, on the return trip, having to bear news of his father’s death to Draco Malfoy was another thing entirely. He was High Clan, and she made it a policy to avoid the High Clan and her mother’s legacy whenever possible. Tonks liked her life just the way it was, and suspected that if she went in search of her mother’s family, everything would change: she feared that she, herself, would change.
She did not want to be pulled into the shadows, where predators like Lucius Malfoy and Alexander Nott were so at home…
Passing through the loose periphery of Aurors, Order members and villagers milling around, waiting for news of Ginny and further orders from Moody, she spied a familiar fair head over near the healer’s enclosure, and made her way towards him. He looked up as she approached; his face guarded, his body tensed, as if for a blow – did he…could he already suspect?
Half-believing in the myth of House Malfoy’s uncanny omniscience – certainly the boy’s father had possessed it, and in spades – she made a terrible mistake.
She fixed a sympathetic smile on her face, and, despite her discomfort, forced herself to say, “I’m so sorry, Malfoy…” When his face changed from merely guarded to absolute impassivity, when he stiffened, and made an unmistakable, instinctive gesture of denial, she realised what she had done.
But by then it was too late to take the words – and the patent artificiality of her manner – back.
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He hadn’t known. He hadn’t even suspected. There had been no warning, no intuition, no darkening of the sun to give him even the merest hint that his father had been fighting for his life whilst he himself indulged in temper-driven impulse. He had been so certain that his father was invulnerable, that not even Azkaban could defeat him…
Well.
And yet, he was so tired now that it seemed the news of his father’s death was nothing more than the crowning moment of a thoroughly awful day. He looked down at Ginny, still and pale on the stretcher, limbs arranged sprightly for her own safety, and knew that the day could, indeed, become much worse…
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he reached out and took her hands – cool, utterly limp, with only the faintest of pulses – in his; now that there was no one else about to watch, judge, evaluate and analyse, he could give into the temptation to reassure himself that she was alive, and allow himself to be relieved.
As long as she was still alive, he had not fucked up unforgivably.
Logically, coolly, he knew that Ginny had made her own choice when she had followed him, when she had thrown herself in front of him, but he was not, at the moment, a creature of intellect – and nor were the Weasleys.
For the last half an hour he had forced himself to ignore the presence of the Weasley brothers and Potter – who might as well be a Weasley, for all he did not fancy himself as Ginny’s brother – while they glared at him fiercely, no doubt resenting the role he had played in their sister’s injury. To be fair, it was really only those who had had personal contact with him at his worst; the two oldest brothers were merely scowling.
And then, Ron Weasley’s evil genius prompted him to attack. Stalking over – stalking, not strolling, or sauntering – he stood on the other side of Ginny’s stretcher, forcing Draco to look at him. Tired, disheartened, and with very little patience left at the moment, Draco sighed. Considering the volatility of his current mood, and the unfortunate consequences of their last confrontation, he could only wonder at Weasley’s truly terrible sense of timing…
“What is it, Weasley?” He was too tired to impart any true insolence or challenge into his expected lines.
On cue, Ron bristled. “What have you done to my sister?” The demand burst out with real feeling, fuelled by very real distress. He was genuinely worried about Ginny – oddly, Draco thought that he might be just as stressed as he was. For the barest moment, he felt a jot of fellow feeling for him. And then, as Weasley once again pushed his luck beyond the line and grabbed him by the shirt, hauling him up and half strangling, the surreal moment passed.
Breaking the grip with a short, sharp movement, he jerked free and rose fully to his feet, emptiness momentarily overridden by the impulsive flush of temper. They stood there, glaring at each other, separated only by Ginny’s limp form, neither willing to concede or back down to the other – Ron too stubborn in his beliefs, and Draco still too numb.
“For God’s sake,” Bill Weasley hissed, hurrying over to break it up. “This is neither the time nor the place.” He placed a hand on their chests and insistently pushed them apart, further away from Ginny. “We can all have it out later, in a bloody great knock-down brawl if you like, but just not here, and not now. Have you both forgotten Ginny?”
Ron flushed a particularly virulent scarlet, looking away, and Draco lowered his eyes, veiling his expression. They had, indeed, forgotten Ginny… Who was frowning, her pale forehead creased, making distressed, whimpering sounds as she moved slightly, turning her head from side to side. Both of them – Weasley and Malfoy – sank down to their knees and gripped one of her hands tightly, watching breathlessly, willing her to awake, to open her eyes, look at them and smile, or glare, or give any reaction that she would be all right…
And then she opened her eyes.
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The Weasley brothers remembered the first time they had ever seen their little sister, newly arrived from the hospital, so small and vulnerable and somehow miraculous. So innocent, and so in need of big brothers to protect her from everything and anything that would ever hurt her…
Harry remembered the way she had looked at him when she had awakened from her ordeal in the Chamber of Secrets. So much trust…
When she turned her eyes to Draco, first, it broke their hearts.
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Sensation returned slowly; a mercy, considering the fierce pounding in her temples, the dull, pervasive ache that seemed to radiate from her very bones.
And then came memory, in a vivid technicolour rush, and, shocked, she opened her eyes.
He was the first thing she saw. His eyes, dull grey, flat and so, so tired...growing lighter now, more brilliant, as if he were smiling. His face was impassive – perhaps too carefully so – but those eyes gave him away, that and the unmistakable way he was holding onto her hand. It was a strong grip, a comforting grip, as if he would never falter, never, ever let go.
A shadow fell on her face, and she looked up to see the rest of her brothers gathered round, watching, encasing them all – yes, even Malfoy, by default – in a solid ring of concern, love and hope. A family.
Before the darkness swirled up to claim her again, she smiled, conscious of a feeling that everything was now right in her world…
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Alastor Moody scowled balefully down at the mess on the ground. ‘Mess’ was the only word he could think of to describe it – all other adjectives seemed inadequate in the face of what had been done to Alexander Nott. Personally, Moody was all for Death Eaters paying the ultimate price for their crimes, but this – this seemed, even to him, to be just a little excessive.
They had found it – Shacklebolt, Moody himself, Lupin, and Harcourt – in a small clearing, some hundred metres from the centre of the action in the Grove. Shacklebolt had taken one look and bolted for the bushes, Lupin went dead white, and even Harcourt looked shaken. But Snape, coming to investigate the source of the swearing, had started to laugh; had laughed, and laughed, grinning maniacally, until he slowly sat down and buried his face in his hands, his shoulders still shaking spasmodically…
That was when all the disparate and random impressions that Moody had been receiving all day – the fuzzy familiarity of the kills at the edge of the Veil, the sense of being watched, of someone else – finally coalesced into a flash of intuition, and he kicked himself for not thinking of it before.
“Somebody get Malfoy here to see this,” he barked, vaguely noticing one of the younger trainees jumping to fulfil his order.
“What is it?” Tonks asked, coming over to look at what he was doing with wary curiosity.
“Take a look,” Moody said bluntly, indicating the corpse.
There was an expensive ladies’ silk scarf stuffed inside the dead man’s mouth, and livid bruises on his throat. It was a rich, particularly deep shade of blue – although he was by no means a connoisseur of women’s fashion, Moody thought he recognised that scarf. It had been splashed across the front page of the tabloids often enough: Narcissa Malfoy had been wearing it on the day she became Narcissa Nott…
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One of the trainee Aurors – a young, idealistic fool, looking decidedly ill and not so shiny anymore – cleared his throat nervously, trying to get his attention. Ignoring him, ignoring the Weasleys who were still – perhaps even more fiercely now, after the way Ginny had smiled at him – watching him, Draco fixed his gaze on Ginny, willing her to wake again.
No, he didn’t want to consult with Moody and the others on the best way to deal with the aftermath of the invasion. No, he didn’t want to talk about it – and they should know better than to even ask. No, he didn’t want a drink of water, or a healer, or to lie down and rest for a while.
The rest of the world could wait until he was sure she would live. And then he would walk away, and make damned sure that she didn’t follow him, this time.
But the intruder would not be deterred. Clearing his throat again, louder this time, he repeated his message. “Ah…Auror Moody wants you to come and see something, Malfoy…” He trailed off, profoundly uncomfortable under one of Draco’s blankest, most neutral looks, but didn’t back down. “Er…right now? It’s very important.”
All the other gentle suggestions had been very important too, but he had ignored them – why should he dance to Moody’s tune? But his father had taught him better than that – his sense of responsibility was too well ingrained. Resigning himself to the inevitable, Draco put his trust in the Lady – in this, Her holy place – and in the mediwitch, and got up to see what all the fuss was about. No matter how badly he wanted to, he could not shut the world out forever.
When he saw the body – or rather, what was left of it – he understood why.
It had taken him a while to actually see, to understand what it was he had been looking at. But slowly, the true picture had come into focus, and he began to understand something of the mysteries of this day, of his attack – he had been so wrapped in his own determination that he had missed much of what was going on around him, he knew that much – and something of himself, as well.
“Well?” the old man growled, scowling at him, at Snape and at Harcourt, who were maintaining blank, defensive faces. “Are you going to deny it?”
Draco raised an eyebrow, waited a beat, but no one was brave enough to make the obvious – but very foolish, in the circumstances – rejoinder. So he cleared his throat, tried for diplomacy. “I’m afraid I’m not quite sure…”
Moody didn’t even bother blustering. “Are you going to look me in the eye, and tell me you don’t know who did this.”
Draco stared at him just as blankly, just as impassively as the other two High Clan scions. “When Tonks came back from Hogwarts,” he said, “she told me of my father’s death, sir.”
At least it had been Tonks, and not any of the others. She at least had some idea of respect, of compassion – she had not broken the news smugly, or even gleefully, as some others would have done. For that, he would be forever grateful. When he’d heard Tonks say the words, he’d felt the last vestiges of his childish innocence die… But here was a miracle. His mother’s pretty scarf, and the look of shock and betrayal on Nott’s face, carefully – if not cynically – preserved for posterity.
Keeping his face solemn and suitably grave, he matched Moody look for look, and volunteered nothing more.
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Moody, who had run head first against the wall of High Clan solidarity, knew better than to ask any more. Draco’s non reaction had told him more than enough – although such evidence was in no way admissible in court, it was more than enough for him. Swearing viciously, he turned around to scan the tree line, searching for an elusive silhouette, a ghost he had been chasing for nearly twenty years, but there was nothing – of course there was nothing.
He would be long gone, by now.
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Christmas day was indeed a day for fairy tales, Blaise discovered to his own secret amusement that afternoon. Just as Millicent had said, his own disillusionment with his father’s deceptions was not the only shocking revelation of the day; two pieces of news somehow appeared – as all truly astounding news does – and made themselves known throughout the whole world in what seemed to be an improbably short time, and with them came the inevitable tide of speculation and change.
The first news was that Draco had, against all odds, despite everything that had been marshalled against him, somehow managed to overcome Nott and his supporters and retake his land, and in the process had managed to enlist the help and support of the Order of the Phoenix as well. To Blaise, it was no surprise. But to others, to all those who had doubted a sixteen-year-old boy’s abilities, his strength and his will, it was astounding. He watched them with newly cynical – or at least more cynical than ever – eyes, watched the initial shock, then the anger, or the slow amusement, and then the calculation and the shift and readjustment of their personal worldviews…
An acknowledgement that the Malfoy were still a major player, and a repudiation of any possible ties to House Nott in the past, present or future. A reassessment of his abilities, an adjustment of their view of him, from a weak puppet who could be easily controlled to a strong Lord and a dangerous enemy, and a resolve to pay court to the boy they had previously – and so summarily – dismissed.
Those who had been so very confident of Nott’s eventual success that they had burned their bridges and committed everything to his support were suddenly either very worried, or very defiant – or very seriously contemplating heading overseas for some time, until the inevitable upheaval should finally die down.
On the other hand, those who had always supported Malfoy – depressingly few of them – were quietly satisfied, and eyed their less fortunate fellow intriguers quite speculatively, with predatory eyes and questioning minds: the gratitude of a Malfoy was no small thing.
However, the Order’s appearance in the Game had quite thrown it out of balance. What price had they put on their involvement in Malfoy matters? Cool, calculating minds all, they did not believe that Dumbledore had helped Draco out of the simple goodness of his heart. Did their support mean that Draco had thrown in with them? If so, how far and how much would he support them now, and how and when would they stand behind him? If he had indeed joined with them, did that mean that he would take their self-proclaimed goal of defeating the Dark Lord seriously?
The second piece of news was, in its way, just as unsettling – unlike the news of Draco’s success, which spelled the beginning of a new, unknown era, the news of Lucius’ death signalled the final end of the last one.
Apparently, so the rumour went, he had been found in his cell, stabbed to death; the very last visitor he had entertained had been his so-dear ex-wife, and an anonymous friend. They said that she had watched as the anonymous assassin had killed him. Watching Narcissa’s face as that rumour was whispered – and he used the word ‘whispered’ lightly – just out of earshot, Blaise could easily believe it. There was no expression on that cold, lovely face – just a sense of…satisfaction. Vindication. Lucius was dead, Nott was dead, and so – tragically – was young Theodore. There being no other close relations – not after Alexander had risen so zealously through the ranks of his family members – Narcissa became the nominal ruler of House Nott. His father had always warned him never to underestimate women, especially beautiful, ostensibly ornamental ones.
And speaking of underestimation – Blaise wondered just how Millicent had known that today would be so momentous. Turning to face her, he saw to his surprise – and perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised, after all – that she was sitting close by the former Lady Nott, close enough, in fact, that it was quite clear that she had been taken under Narcissa’s wing…
An odd combination, those two – beautiful, elegant Narcissa and plain, awkward Millicent – but, somehow, there was something very similar about them. They both came from intensely patriarchal families, with no route to power other than the traditional feminine way – that is, through the bedroom – and they both wanted more. Narcissa had got hers, now – perhaps she was teaching Millicent how to gain her own power. Thinking of Lucius Malfoy, of Alexander and Theodore Nott, and of how they had been so neatly taken out of the picture, Blaise wished her all the luck in the world, and sincerely hoped that he would never be forced to stand in her way.
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