CHAPTER 3
The Manor seemed empty without his father; it had always seemed that Lucius was so dominant here that his very presence infused the whole house, so much so that without him, the heart had gone out of it. Where before, there had always been the comforting sense of confidence, of power and sure control, now the halls whispered of uncertainty, of upheaval, of change.
It was as if the Castle, constructed of ancient stone and wood, imbued with the power and presence of countless generations of Malfoy scions, somehow knew that he was gone, and would not be coming back. That, more than anything, told Draco that his father would not miraculously escape this time, no matter how much money he spread around, no matter how many officials he had under his thumb.
And the other, telling thing, his beautiful, elegant mother – with her faithless, calculating heart and her callous unconcern for anyone she thought below her, her slavish adoration for the Dark Lord and her voracious appetites – his lady mother had dared to bring one of her many lovers into her husband’s house. Always before, she had taken care to be discreet, both in her choice of partner and in the designations, but now…now she brought them into the very stronghold of the Malfoy itself.
And he hated her for it, if he hadn’t crossed that line long ago.
Alastair Nott, burly and powerful, arrogant and as subtle as a bull in all his dealings, was nevertheless the unquestioned leader of a rival faction within the High Clan. In his earthy, powerful manner, he was the very antithesis of Lucius – Draco was sure that his mother had chosen to cultivate him because of that, because of his influence, and because she knew it would offend her fastidious husband. And because it was rumoured that the bull-like characteristics carried over into other things…
Almost involuntarily, Draco’s lips quirked. He was by no means a stranger to sex of any kind, but that thought was going a bit far.
He watched, concealed in the shadows at the top of the stairs, as Alexander Nott strode in through the front door as if this were his house, as he laid possessive hands on his mother, in front of any and all who might be watching (he saw the house elves, concealed as he was, exchanging alarmed glances) and felt a sickness in his stomach. This was no bad dream. This was for real…
Nott’s rumbling baritone carried clearly to his ears. “Gods, this place always gives me the shivers. I always feel like there’s someone looking over my shoulder, watching everything I do and say…”
Narcissa laughed, a perfectly pitched trill of sound that she had practiced hard to perfect. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that now. There’s no one here but the servants, and Draco of course…” Her voice dismissed him as if he was nothing, and he was surprised at how much it galled him.
So he was nothing, was he? Easily dismissed, was he?
Something, some instinct made Nott look up to where he was hiding – an expression of mocking humour crossed his face, and he called out tauntingly, “Come on boy, don’t be shy – come down and greet your new step-father…”
The anger came, as Nott had intended it to, but Draco controlled it and his instinctive revulsion. He came out of the shadows slowly, with as much bravado and confidence he could muster, almost sauntering. “I wasn’t aware that I needed a step-father…”
Narcissa smiled warmly, her face angelically beautiful. “But I am divorcing your father, Draco – I couldn’t remain married to such an evil man…” she sniffed delicately as tears threatened, trembled on the brink of falling. “I was so afraid, before, to do anything about it…but I’m not afraid anymore…” She lifted her chin, the very picture of fragile courage. But the glint of triumph in her eyes made a mockery of the whole performance.
Draco stilled as he realised the implications of this – but then he forced himself to continue down the stairs. He was Caius Draconis Malfoy, the Malfoy Heir, and he would not be intimidated by these two, no matter the way Nott’s eyes were watching him, assessing him, no matter the heat that was slowly growing within them…
He stopped on the second last step, so that he was eye to eye with Nott, and then he bowed, a curt, perfunctory inclination of the head that was the absolute minimum required of him by Nott’s status. “My Lord Nott,” he said coldly.
Nott’s eyebrow went up, and he smiled. “Master Malfoy,” he drawled lazily, “or may I call you Draco? I’m sure we’ll get along well; I’m looking forward to establishing our relationship…”
I’m sure you are, Draco thought. And not just because you want the Malfoy Heir under your control…
He wondered, for the merest moment, if he should take Nott up on his offer. If he could oust Narcissa from his affections…and gain what in return? Certainly not independence or self respect…no, he wouldn’t do that. But he could certainly use it as a lever…
And by the sudden flicker of Narcissa’s eyes, she had just realised that too.
Looking back to Nott, he drew himself up, unconsciously pulling on all the arrogance he could muster. He saw the amused contempt lurking in the older man’s eyes change to speculation, to anger, and then said with his father’s voice, his father’s manner, “I think not.”
Nott’s lips smiled mirthlessly, and he tilted his head. “No?”
Draco raised one blonde, questioning brow. “Of course, no. Did you honestly think I’d say yes?”
He didn’t see it coming – but when Nott’s huge fist came out of nowhere and smashed into his chin, with all the power of his burly, muscular frame behind it, his head snapped back and he seemed to fold in on himself, collapsing, with a remarkable lack of grace, at the foot of the staircase, out stone cold. Blood trickled from his split lip, a crimson trail across his white, white skin.
Narcissa blinked, then looked into Nott’s challenging eyes, shivered once, and put it out of her mind. Lucius had never, in all the time she had known him, employed physical force in his discipline and punishment, and Nott’s all too apparent eagerness scared her, just a little.
But then, Lucius was going to Azkaban, and Nott was still free and completely without suspicion. She would just have to make sure that he never used his fists on her – she was confident, utterly confident, that she could control him. After all, hadn’t she controlled Lucius these last seventeen years?
As they moved away, leaving Draco in a heap where he had fallen, the house elves crept fearfully out of their concealment, looking around to see if anyone else was watching, and clustered around their young Master. They looked down at him with a kind of horrified fascination, and then at each other with dawning fear. If young Master Malfoy could be treated in this way, in his own home, then what else would Nott do?
They were not like the humans who lived beyond the Veil, who could leave Malfoy protection behind if they wished to, they were House Elves bound to the service of Clan Malfoy. Some of them could remember serving under Jaryd Malfoy, who was Marcus’ grandfather, and Lucius’ great-grandfather. They could not leave the Castle, unless they were freed, and unless they could successfully deal with the guilt of abandoning their sworn posts.
With tenderness, with almost love, they picked their Young Master up off the floor, and took him to his room where they laid him gently on the bed. Now that the Master was gone, they would have to take special care of his son. They, and their fathers before them, had served the Malfoy since time immemorial. None of them particularly wanted to find another position…or any other masters. They were quite content with what they had.
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The Aurors on guard regarded him with hard, suspicious eyes, inspecting him with almost insulting thoroughness, but Dumbledore’s patronage and references were enough, eventually, to get him through the very tight security. Walking through the long, tightly shielded corridor to the cells hidden in the lowest depths of the Ministry Building, he could feel his shoulders pricking as he felt their eyes boring into his back.
Did they think Dumbledore’s tame predator would turn on the hand that fed him? If he put one single foot out of line, even now, they would toss him back in Azkaban no matter what he had done to redeem himself since he first turned coat. And he would do anything – anything – to avoid going back there, sans Dementors or not.
Which was why he was going to see Lucius – he knew what Azkaban was, he knew what it could do to a person’s heart and soul and mind…perhaps, if he explained something of his experience, he would be able to convince Lucius to cooperate, to make it easier on himself.
That was the theory, anyway. And whichever genius came up with that – admittedly sound, had it been anyone else – plan had no idea of the true state of affairs between he and Lucius. Because he had no influence whatsoever over Malfoy. And if Malfoy wanted to cooperate, he would do it on his own terms, and not because Severus Snape told him horror stories about Azkaban.
As it was, he rather thought that Lucius was trying to use him, and not the other way around.
He stepped into the cell – a stark, cheerless place with its standard rock hard pallet and not much else – and his eyes were drawn to the man who effortlessly dominated it, no matter that he no longer had fine, rich robes or that he it looked as though he had been worked over by a few vindictive professionals. Lucius Malfoy, no matter his external appearance, was a man who could command attention, respect and effortless authority. Even in a stark, stone cell. Even if they had sheared the thick, long white hair that was his most noticeable and notorious affectation.
It was a small while before he noticed Lucius’ companion, an ancient, wizened man whom Snape was sure he had seen before…
Lucius smiled, his eyes amused as he saw his guest. “My dear Severus,” he purred, bowing his head to the correct degree and just a bit more, in subtle mockery. “How good of you to visit me in my new…quarters.” He swept a hand out, to indicate the cell, and Severus raised an eyebrow.
“I think you need a decorator, Lucius,” he said dryly, and Lucius chuckled.
“Ah, well…I can’t hope for the same room the second time around, can I?” Severus remembered that last time, Lucius’ cell had been considerable more comfortable…he was right, the second time round, it would be very different.
He looked into Lucius’ eyes, and saw the realisation there. He was under no illusions as to what would happen to him, so why had he asked Severus to come here, if he was resigned to Azkaban?
He asked as much. “What am I doing here, Lucius?”
One corner of the other man’s mouth kicked up wryly. “I thought that you came to see if I was willing to cooperate,” he murmured. “Weren’t you?”
Severus scowled. “If I thought that you were willing to cooperate,” he said acerbically, “I would be very surprised. I know you Lucius.”
Lucius tilted his head, raised a playful eyebrow. “Do you, Sev?” he asked, voice suddenly serious. “Do you?”
Snape looked at him, serious himself now. “Are you saying that you’ll talk?”
Lucius turned to his companion, the old man. “This, my dear Severus, is M. Finch, of Finch and Son. He is my legal representative in this matter…”
He and the old man exchanged greetings. Lucius continued. “He tells me that my chances of escaping Azkaban are all but nonexistent, especially now, since my dear wife – you do remember my dear wife, don’t you Severus? – has finally gotten up the courage to defy me, her cruel and dictatorial husband, and has asked for a divorce and the chance to tell all the deepest secrets of our marriage and my affairs.”
Severus blinked – he did indeed remember Narcissa. She had tried to work her wiles on him, once…
“In petitioning for a divorce, she has also asked for custody of Draco and for power of attorney over all my holdings and finances, on the strength of her proposed remarriage to Alexander Nott, who will, presumably, provide Draco with a proper role model.”
He remembered Alexander Nott, too – and he couldn’t reconcile his memories with anything resembling a proper role model for a teenage boy. In fact, if he remembered correctly…no, he wouldn’t do that to Draco. He wouldn’t.
“You understand my problem, here, Sev?” Lucius asked, finally.
He did indeed. “What could I possibly do to help you, Lucius?” he asked, sceptically. “I have no influence in the Game…”
Lucius shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant. What I want, what I need from you, is for you to look after my son, my estate, and my affairs. In that order.”
He gaped. “I’m sorry?”
“I am giving you – and you alone – complete and sole custody over Draco until he turns eighteen, and power of attorney over everything that I have and everything that I own, again until Draco reaches his majority.” Lucius’ voice was implacable, immovable.
Snape shook his head, bemused. “What gives you the idea that that will work, Lucius? I’m a known Death Eater, tolerated only for my usefulness, and the Dark Lord regards me with suspicion as well. How could you possibly make it practical, and make it stick?”
“And there…” said Lucius, “that is where M. Finch comes in. He will make it legal. And as for practical, well…I have knowledge that you all want, don’t you? Knowledge that you want, quite badly…”
Snape stilled. If Lucius was willing to share everything he knew…yes, quite a few favours could be granted for that information. And Dumbledore – indeed, the whole Ministry – knew it.
But there was really only one question left. “Why me?” he asked simply, spreading his arms wide, as if to show Lucius what he was. A Death Eater. A spy. A turncoat. A Clan Lord with no estate and no people and most damning of all, no real power beyond that given him by Dumbledore. He had no standing at all, in a class where standing and face were everything.
Lucius only shook his head. “Because you don’t care about money or power, or even about the Game, but you do care for my son. Because you are not part of the Game, have no money or power, but you know the ways of them. Because you are High Clan, but you have learned to cooperate with others…”
Snape looked at him. “And?” he asked softly. There was always more.
“And because you have Dumbledore’s trust and patronage…”
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Rising to stand at the window of his cell, looking out into the illusory weather, he began to talk. The three people behind him, witnesses to the veracity of his account, duly noted that he had indeed ingested Veritaserum and was relating this of his own free will, and were even now eagerly recording every single word he spoke.
Old, wily Dumbledore, pleased to see Lucius come to his senses, grateful for the gift of this intelligence. Fanatical, supremely suspicious Mad-Eye Moody, on the lookout for Slytherin stratagems and plots. And honest, eccentric Weasley, who in his honest concern felt he should take on the burden of this knowledge. Arthur Weasley, who was growing more popular and more influential the longer he stood as a sane and sensible alternative to Fudge…
Well, Draco, he thought, this is my gift to you – double-edged, as all the best gifts are. Use it wisely…
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The Manor seemed empty without his father; it had always seemed that Lucius was so dominant here that his very presence infused the whole house, so much so that without him, the heart had gone out of it. Where before, there had always been the comforting sense of confidence, of power and sure control, now the halls whispered of uncertainty, of upheaval, of change.
It was as if the Castle, constructed of ancient stone and wood, imbued with the power and presence of countless generations of Malfoy scions, somehow knew that he was gone, and would not be coming back. That, more than anything, told Draco that his father would not miraculously escape this time, no matter how much money he spread around, no matter how many officials he had under his thumb.
And the other, telling thing, his beautiful, elegant mother – with her faithless, calculating heart and her callous unconcern for anyone she thought below her, her slavish adoration for the Dark Lord and her voracious appetites – his lady mother had dared to bring one of her many lovers into her husband’s house. Always before, she had taken care to be discreet, both in her choice of partner and in the designations, but now…now she brought them into the very stronghold of the Malfoy itself.
And he hated her for it, if he hadn’t crossed that line long ago.
Alastair Nott, burly and powerful, arrogant and as subtle as a bull in all his dealings, was nevertheless the unquestioned leader of a rival faction within the High Clan. In his earthy, powerful manner, he was the very antithesis of Lucius – Draco was sure that his mother had chosen to cultivate him because of that, because of his influence, and because she knew it would offend her fastidious husband. And because it was rumoured that the bull-like characteristics carried over into other things…
Almost involuntarily, Draco’s lips quirked. He was by no means a stranger to sex of any kind, but that thought was going a bit far.
He watched, concealed in the shadows at the top of the stairs, as Alexander Nott strode in through the front door as if this were his house, as he laid possessive hands on his mother, in front of any and all who might be watching (he saw the house elves, concealed as he was, exchanging alarmed glances) and felt a sickness in his stomach. This was no bad dream. This was for real…
Nott’s rumbling baritone carried clearly to his ears. “Gods, this place always gives me the shivers. I always feel like there’s someone looking over my shoulder, watching everything I do and say…”
Narcissa laughed, a perfectly pitched trill of sound that she had practiced hard to perfect. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that now. There’s no one here but the servants, and Draco of course…” Her voice dismissed him as if he was nothing, and he was surprised at how much it galled him.
So he was nothing, was he? Easily dismissed, was he?
Something, some instinct made Nott look up to where he was hiding – an expression of mocking humour crossed his face, and he called out tauntingly, “Come on boy, don’t be shy – come down and greet your new step-father…”
The anger came, as Nott had intended it to, but Draco controlled it and his instinctive revulsion. He came out of the shadows slowly, with as much bravado and confidence he could muster, almost sauntering. “I wasn’t aware that I needed a step-father…”
Narcissa smiled warmly, her face angelically beautiful. “But I am divorcing your father, Draco – I couldn’t remain married to such an evil man…” she sniffed delicately as tears threatened, trembled on the brink of falling. “I was so afraid, before, to do anything about it…but I’m not afraid anymore…” She lifted her chin, the very picture of fragile courage. But the glint of triumph in her eyes made a mockery of the whole performance.
Draco stilled as he realised the implications of this – but then he forced himself to continue down the stairs. He was Caius Draconis Malfoy, the Malfoy Heir, and he would not be intimidated by these two, no matter the way Nott’s eyes were watching him, assessing him, no matter the heat that was slowly growing within them…
He stopped on the second last step, so that he was eye to eye with Nott, and then he bowed, a curt, perfunctory inclination of the head that was the absolute minimum required of him by Nott’s status. “My Lord Nott,” he said coldly.
Nott’s eyebrow went up, and he smiled. “Master Malfoy,” he drawled lazily, “or may I call you Draco? I’m sure we’ll get along well; I’m looking forward to establishing our relationship…”
I’m sure you are, Draco thought. And not just because you want the Malfoy Heir under your control…
He wondered, for the merest moment, if he should take Nott up on his offer. If he could oust Narcissa from his affections…and gain what in return? Certainly not independence or self respect…no, he wouldn’t do that. But he could certainly use it as a lever…
And by the sudden flicker of Narcissa’s eyes, she had just realised that too.
Looking back to Nott, he drew himself up, unconsciously pulling on all the arrogance he could muster. He saw the amused contempt lurking in the older man’s eyes change to speculation, to anger, and then said with his father’s voice, his father’s manner, “I think not.”
Nott’s lips smiled mirthlessly, and he tilted his head. “No?”
Draco raised one blonde, questioning brow. “Of course, no. Did you honestly think I’d say yes?”
He didn’t see it coming – but when Nott’s huge fist came out of nowhere and smashed into his chin, with all the power of his burly, muscular frame behind it, his head snapped back and he seemed to fold in on himself, collapsing, with a remarkable lack of grace, at the foot of the staircase, out stone cold. Blood trickled from his split lip, a crimson trail across his white, white skin.
Narcissa blinked, then looked into Nott’s challenging eyes, shivered once, and put it out of her mind. Lucius had never, in all the time she had known him, employed physical force in his discipline and punishment, and Nott’s all too apparent eagerness scared her, just a little.
But then, Lucius was going to Azkaban, and Nott was still free and completely without suspicion. She would just have to make sure that he never used his fists on her – she was confident, utterly confident, that she could control him. After all, hadn’t she controlled Lucius these last seventeen years?
As they moved away, leaving Draco in a heap where he had fallen, the house elves crept fearfully out of their concealment, looking around to see if anyone else was watching, and clustered around their young Master. They looked down at him with a kind of horrified fascination, and then at each other with dawning fear. If young Master Malfoy could be treated in this way, in his own home, then what else would Nott do?
They were not like the humans who lived beyond the Veil, who could leave Malfoy protection behind if they wished to, they were House Elves bound to the service of Clan Malfoy. Some of them could remember serving under Jaryd Malfoy, who was Marcus’ grandfather, and Lucius’ great-grandfather. They could not leave the Castle, unless they were freed, and unless they could successfully deal with the guilt of abandoning their sworn posts.
With tenderness, with almost love, they picked their Young Master up off the floor, and took him to his room where they laid him gently on the bed. Now that the Master was gone, they would have to take special care of his son. They, and their fathers before them, had served the Malfoy since time immemorial. None of them particularly wanted to find another position…or any other masters. They were quite content with what they had.
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The Aurors on guard regarded him with hard, suspicious eyes, inspecting him with almost insulting thoroughness, but Dumbledore’s patronage and references were enough, eventually, to get him through the very tight security. Walking through the long, tightly shielded corridor to the cells hidden in the lowest depths of the Ministry Building, he could feel his shoulders pricking as he felt their eyes boring into his back.
Did they think Dumbledore’s tame predator would turn on the hand that fed him? If he put one single foot out of line, even now, they would toss him back in Azkaban no matter what he had done to redeem himself since he first turned coat. And he would do anything – anything – to avoid going back there, sans Dementors or not.
Which was why he was going to see Lucius – he knew what Azkaban was, he knew what it could do to a person’s heart and soul and mind…perhaps, if he explained something of his experience, he would be able to convince Lucius to cooperate, to make it easier on himself.
That was the theory, anyway. And whichever genius came up with that – admittedly sound, had it been anyone else – plan had no idea of the true state of affairs between he and Lucius. Because he had no influence whatsoever over Malfoy. And if Malfoy wanted to cooperate, he would do it on his own terms, and not because Severus Snape told him horror stories about Azkaban.
As it was, he rather thought that Lucius was trying to use him, and not the other way around.
He stepped into the cell – a stark, cheerless place with its standard rock hard pallet and not much else – and his eyes were drawn to the man who effortlessly dominated it, no matter that he no longer had fine, rich robes or that he it looked as though he had been worked over by a few vindictive professionals. Lucius Malfoy, no matter his external appearance, was a man who could command attention, respect and effortless authority. Even in a stark, stone cell. Even if they had sheared the thick, long white hair that was his most noticeable and notorious affectation.
It was a small while before he noticed Lucius’ companion, an ancient, wizened man whom Snape was sure he had seen before…
Lucius smiled, his eyes amused as he saw his guest. “My dear Severus,” he purred, bowing his head to the correct degree and just a bit more, in subtle mockery. “How good of you to visit me in my new…quarters.” He swept a hand out, to indicate the cell, and Severus raised an eyebrow.
“I think you need a decorator, Lucius,” he said dryly, and Lucius chuckled.
“Ah, well…I can’t hope for the same room the second time around, can I?” Severus remembered that last time, Lucius’ cell had been considerable more comfortable…he was right, the second time round, it would be very different.
He looked into Lucius’ eyes, and saw the realisation there. He was under no illusions as to what would happen to him, so why had he asked Severus to come here, if he was resigned to Azkaban?
He asked as much. “What am I doing here, Lucius?”
One corner of the other man’s mouth kicked up wryly. “I thought that you came to see if I was willing to cooperate,” he murmured. “Weren’t you?”
Severus scowled. “If I thought that you were willing to cooperate,” he said acerbically, “I would be very surprised. I know you Lucius.”
Lucius tilted his head, raised a playful eyebrow. “Do you, Sev?” he asked, voice suddenly serious. “Do you?”
Snape looked at him, serious himself now. “Are you saying that you’ll talk?”
Lucius turned to his companion, the old man. “This, my dear Severus, is M. Finch, of Finch and Son. He is my legal representative in this matter…”
He and the old man exchanged greetings. Lucius continued. “He tells me that my chances of escaping Azkaban are all but nonexistent, especially now, since my dear wife – you do remember my dear wife, don’t you Severus? – has finally gotten up the courage to defy me, her cruel and dictatorial husband, and has asked for a divorce and the chance to tell all the deepest secrets of our marriage and my affairs.”
Severus blinked – he did indeed remember Narcissa. She had tried to work her wiles on him, once…
“In petitioning for a divorce, she has also asked for custody of Draco and for power of attorney over all my holdings and finances, on the strength of her proposed remarriage to Alexander Nott, who will, presumably, provide Draco with a proper role model.”
He remembered Alexander Nott, too – and he couldn’t reconcile his memories with anything resembling a proper role model for a teenage boy. In fact, if he remembered correctly…no, he wouldn’t do that to Draco. He wouldn’t.
“You understand my problem, here, Sev?” Lucius asked, finally.
He did indeed. “What could I possibly do to help you, Lucius?” he asked, sceptically. “I have no influence in the Game…”
Lucius shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant. What I want, what I need from you, is for you to look after my son, my estate, and my affairs. In that order.”
He gaped. “I’m sorry?”
“I am giving you – and you alone – complete and sole custody over Draco until he turns eighteen, and power of attorney over everything that I have and everything that I own, again until Draco reaches his majority.” Lucius’ voice was implacable, immovable.
Snape shook his head, bemused. “What gives you the idea that that will work, Lucius? I’m a known Death Eater, tolerated only for my usefulness, and the Dark Lord regards me with suspicion as well. How could you possibly make it practical, and make it stick?”
“And there…” said Lucius, “that is where M. Finch comes in. He will make it legal. And as for practical, well…I have knowledge that you all want, don’t you? Knowledge that you want, quite badly…”
Snape stilled. If Lucius was willing to share everything he knew…yes, quite a few favours could be granted for that information. And Dumbledore – indeed, the whole Ministry – knew it.
But there was really only one question left. “Why me?” he asked simply, spreading his arms wide, as if to show Lucius what he was. A Death Eater. A spy. A turncoat. A Clan Lord with no estate and no people and most damning of all, no real power beyond that given him by Dumbledore. He had no standing at all, in a class where standing and face were everything.
Lucius only shook his head. “Because you don’t care about money or power, or even about the Game, but you do care for my son. Because you are not part of the Game, have no money or power, but you know the ways of them. Because you are High Clan, but you have learned to cooperate with others…”
Snape looked at him. “And?” he asked softly. There was always more.
“And because you have Dumbledore’s trust and patronage…”
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Rising to stand at the window of his cell, looking out into the illusory weather, he began to talk. The three people behind him, witnesses to the veracity of his account, duly noted that he had indeed ingested Veritaserum and was relating this of his own free will, and were even now eagerly recording every single word he spoke.
Old, wily Dumbledore, pleased to see Lucius come to his senses, grateful for the gift of this intelligence. Fanatical, supremely suspicious Mad-Eye Moody, on the lookout for Slytherin stratagems and plots. And honest, eccentric Weasley, who in his honest concern felt he should take on the burden of this knowledge. Arthur Weasley, who was growing more popular and more influential the longer he stood as a sane and sensible alternative to Fudge…
Well, Draco, he thought, this is my gift to you – double-edged, as all the best gifts are. Use it wisely…
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