CHAPTER 4
The sight of Narcissa Malfoy going about openly with Alexander Nott was guaranteed to cause speculation, even in jaded, blasé High Clan hearts. Perhaps that was what inspired the small smile twisting Nott’s mouth; perhaps that was what caused his son to look at Draco with suddenly challenging eyes – for the first time in their lives, he no longer veiled his contempt behind lip service and polite protestations.
The new relationship/alliance – even the intended marriage, once Lucius was conveniently out of the way – was flaunted openly; as Draco trailed behind his mother and her lover, his swollen lip magically concealed, he could see their minds working, see the evaluation and the calculation as the new status quo was announced with a thoroughness that had nothing at all to do with subtlety.
Had they seen the results of Draco’s first attempt to assert his independence, known just how easily and casually Nott had quashed it, they would have been given even more food for thought. As it was, the possessive hand Nott placed on Narcissa’s waist, the half amused, half contemptuous, wholly…hungry look he had when he looked a Draco was enough, and more than enough.
Much could be inferred from such things…
The atmosphere at the Ministry Building had changed remarkably with the public announcement of the Dark Lord’s return. From a forced cheer, a half concealed tension vehemently denied and a desperate show of unity with deep, deep divides underneath, it had now been transformed into a place desperate in its zeal, manic in its determination and cheer.
As they walked into the bustling foyer – Narcissa making a grand entrance out of habit, out of a desire to show off her new lover/partner/protector – all activity slowed; no, it didn’t stop, that was too blatant…but they all watched, out of the corner of their eyes, looking up furtively from the activities they were ostensibly performing.
She took a deep breath, seemed to steel herself, and Nott’s arm tightened around her waist in support. “I have come,” she began, announcing to the foyer at large rather than discreetly enquiring at the reception, “that is, I want to see my…” she swallowed, and seemed to clutch Nott’s arm for reassurance, “my husband.”
Draco could actually see the various reactions to that speech and the affecting image she presented. The Aurors, some of them hardened veterans who had lived through the worst of the Dark Times, others younger but still with the edge of scepticism, of cynicism, exchanged glances and raised questioning eyebrows. Others, less suspicious, or at least less well acquainted with the actions of the Beauforts and the Malfoy and the Notts, seemed to take pity on this beautiful woman, so obviously scared of her husband, but willing to see justice done…
And on the man who stood by her in her hour of need, and was obviously so fond of her son already…
Draco saw more than a few speculative – and some not so neutral – looks aimed his way. With his father in Azkaban, which way would he jump? Could he be of use, would he bend, or would he have to be removed? What would be the best way to handle him, given the current situation? And how brave would he be without his daddy to back him up now?
But whatever they seemed to think, now was not the time. Nothing could be done until Lucius Malfoy was permanently out of the Game – although Nott’s presence had changed the rules, somewhat…
Nott.
Draco was growing more and more resentful of Nott’s presence, of his constant threat and subtle surveillance. It seemed he couldn’t do anything without Nott becoming aware of it, couldn’t turn around without encountering those dark, amused eyes. But outright protest would gain him nothing, and would even make the situation worse – far, far better to wait, and watch, and to plot in silence…
The Malfoy were manipulators, webspinners; Lucius had taught him patience, and discretion, and had taught him the most important lesson of all in the double life he had led because his father asked it of him – how to shrug off insults, contempt, and even humiliating defeat, and to allow the opponent to think they had won…
Draco knew how to bend, and what it meant to fall.
But he needed to talk to his father again, privately – and that was the only reason he had agreed to the humiliation of the public promenade through Diagon Alley. To see his father again, feel his cool confidence and to hear his calm, detached analysis of the situation – he needed that, even for one last time, to give him the faith that he could do this, that he really was as strong as his father believed him to be, as he needed him to be.
Because, deep down, Draco didn’t believe it himself.
**************************************************
Dane Harcourt escorted them to the cell and watched them enter, the elegant, beautiful woman and her elegant, beautiful son, and the man who simply didn’t seem to fit. Perhaps it was because he was so used to seeing Lucius with them, completing the image of three blonde angels. Perhaps it was because Nott was not – and never would be – Lucius Malfoy. Because Lucius was, for all his affectations – the aristocratic drawl, the hair, the sneering prejudice – a strong, charismatic, and above all, capable leader.
And a rational one, in his own way. He had done his best to ensure peace and a stable environment for the Malfoy and the Clans to prosper, and had no interest in murder and mayhem if it would upset the current favourable status quo. But Nott…Nott would do anything, cross any lines, in his search for superiority. If he grew to dominate the High Clan…
Surely that wouldn’t happen. Surely that couldn’t.
“I don’t know why, but this whole situation just doesn’t seem good,” came a voice from behind him. He didn’t turn around, but straightened and looked at Arthur Weasley as he came up alongside him.
“And there I agree with you,” he murmured softly. “It’s not good…in fact, it’s bad – very, very bad…”
Arthur looked at him inquiringly, silently asking an explanation. Dane made a noise deep in his throat, turned back to the cell door, as if he could see what was going on inside. “Nott is the leading contender for Malfoy’s place.”
“But you don’t like it.”
“Hmmm…” Harcourt struggled against his own High Clan, Slytherin upbringing and mindset. Weasley could be a useful ally… “We would prefer that power stay in Malfoy hands…”
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “We?” he asked sharply – curious, intrigued and more than a little wary.
The corner of Harcourt’s mouth curled in a very small smile.
“Arthur, dear,” came the warm, firm voice of Molly Weasley. “We’re ready to go…” she blinked as she saw Dane, nodded absently at him in greeting. “Mr. Harcourt.”
He bowed his head to her in turn. “Mrs. Weasley…”
She turned back to Arthur, who looked a little ashamed to be found out whispering in corners with him. “We’re ready to go when you are.” She turned back to wave at a familiar threesome, and a redheaded girl standing a little apart from them. That would be Potter and his two sidekicks, and the youngest Weasley – the only daughter, apparently.
“Right,” said Arthur absently. “Did you see Mrs Malfoy and her new beau?” he asked her, curious as to her reaction.
Molly snorted disgustedly. “Narcissa, that ice-bitch,” she all but growled. “The man isn’t even in Azkaban before she’s got a replacement for him. She’ll never be satisfied…”
Dane looked at her in renewed interest. Such depth of feeling, openly displayed…how fascinating. He wondered what had inspired it. She saw his look but refused to meet his eyes.
*************************************************
He looked up as the door to his cell opened. Ignoring the dictates of common courtesy, he remained seated, cross legged on his pallet with his back against the wall – a calculated discourtesy designed to needle, a little piece of insolence noticed only by those who knew how important such things and gestures were to the High Clan, and completely unnoticed by anyone who didn’t. A small gesture, true, but it had sufficed in its purpose, if the flickering nerve in Nott’s temple and the tightening of Narcissa’s lips were any indication.
“Hello Lucius,” Narcissa said flatly, all pretence of fear or apprehension vanishing as soon as the Aurors discreetly withdrew. There was no fear in Narcissa, at least not of him – it was drowned by her ambition and pride. He knew that much of her, and knew it well, after so many years of marriage.
“Hello, Narcissa,” he finally answered, after a small silence. Another insolence. His eyes flicked to Nott, who had abandoned protection for possessiveness, and drew Narcissa back against him, far too close for High Clan dictates. The smallest of sneers curled Lucius’ lips – but how subtle… “Nott,” he said flatly.
He met Draco’s eyes for a timeless moment, and nodded, once – and then turned back to his wife, his so-lovely wife. “To what do I owe this…pleasure?” he purred.
Narcissa ignored the taunting tone, but Nott’s fingers twitched, flexed, tightened. He opened his mouth to retort, rising eagerly to the bait even as he had always done, but Narcissa laid a restraining hand on his arm, urging caution.
“We came to wish you good luck in your upcoming trial,” she said in her most sincere tone. She held out a hand, moved as if to reach out to him – he lifted his eyes to hers, slowly, and she hastily retracted it. She knew that much of him, at least. “Our thoughts will be with you,” she finished, a little flustered.
“Is that so?” he drawled lazily.
Nott smiled gently – if such a word could be used in relation to him. “Yes, indeed,” he said genially. “I’d just like to tell you that if you are sent to…to Azkaban, I’ll look after everything while you’re gone. I think Narcissa and I will deal very well together, we should be able to take good care of the Malfoy affairs…”
Lucius said nothing.
“Oh,” Nott said, as if he had just remembered. “If you’re given the death sentence, I was going to ask for permission to look after Draco, too. Perhaps I might even go so far as to adopt him – I’ve grown quite fond of him…”
The hell you will, Lucius the father snarled. But Lucius the Clan Lord only smiled – just as gently as Nott had. “Let us not be hasty, my dear man – I am not yet done…”
~()~
After Nott and Narcissa had departed, Lucius looked at his son. Draco was nearly sixteen years old, now – nearly sixteen, and untried, unconfident in his strength and his ability to survive alone. Lucius had coddled him – he knew it, and he admitted it freely. It was bordering on criminal negligence, he knew – yes, he had taught Draco everything he needed to know to survive in Slytherin and the wider world of the High Clan and the game, but he had – quite deliberately – never given him the strength and the freedom to try his own wings, to turn that theoretical knowledge into real, practical power.
He had kept the boy from any real personal influence, but he had encouraged the image of the spoiled brat for two reasons – one, to throw any spies off the scent, and two, to make the boy stronger. To accustom him to humiliation and ridicule, hatred and contempt, to teach him how to get back on his feet after each defeat, and continue on even when he had no heart for it…
He had thought the price – the reputation Draco had as a bully, as a coward – was worth the gain of the extra time and strength it earned them both. He had gambled on Draco being strong enough to win a different reputation for himself when it became time, but he had also gambled on being there to support him, encourage him.
Well, at least he had ensured there would be someone there to support him, even if it was only Snape. And in guaranteeing that, his last gift to his son, he had also doomed himself as a traitor… Voldemort’s right hand – not in Pettigrew’s sense as chief bootlicker and fool, but the man who saw that the Lord’s wishes were followed through – did not lightly spill everything he knew. He had known, as soon as he had made that bargain, that they would come after him…
"Hello, Father,” Draco finally said, standing at ease before him, silver eyes meeting his openly, if a little guardedly. That was good. His eyes should never be completely unguarded.
“Draco,” he acknowledged. “Have you been enjoying your holidays?”
One corner of Draco’s lips lifted. It was not a smile. “No, Father. I haven’t…”
Lucius’ lip curled too – a perfect, unconscious mirror of his son’s expression. “Nott.”
Draco lowered his eyes. “I tried to stand up to him directly, Father, but he is simply too strong…” After the first few humiliating attempts, he had learned his lesson.
“And indirectly?”
The eyes came back to his, something fierce in their depths. “The house elves and I have come to an arrangement.”
Lucius’ brow went up. “Oh?”
“Small things. Irritants and pinpricks…nothing that would see his wrath turned against them. Their loyalty goes far, but I would not ask that much of them…”
“They would give it, if you asked.”
He shook his head, face grave. “I know. But it will accomplish nothing…and turn mischief into something more real, with consequences that may further enforce his authority.”
Lucius nodded slowly, his face blank but pride welling up in him at this son of his. “Very soon, Draco, he will have no authority over you or the Castle at all.”
He was supremely gratified when Draco only raised an eyebrow, no sign of surprise or speculation anywhere in his demeanour. “Oh?” he asked, a perfect echo of his father only moments ago. Lucius had to suppress a smile.
“I have,” he hesitated, wondering how to say it, “made a deal with Dumbledore…”
Draco stilled. “In return for what?” He didn’t ask what he had offered – there was only one possible thing he could have that Dumbledore wanted desperately enough to bargain for. And even that would have consequences – very dangerous consequences…
“Professor Snape,” Lucius said finally, “as guardian, caretaker and executor.”
“But what of the Castle?” He asked. “And the land beyond the Veil?”
Lucius steepled his fingers together, lowered his lashes to veil the gleam in his eyes, and smiled…
***************************************************
Someone banged on the door outside, interrupting their discussion – Draco’s lips tightened as he saw his soon-to-be stepfather step into the cell, radiating satisfaction. “Come along, Draco – it’s time to go,” he said in a syrupy-sweet voice, as condescending as possible. It was entirely designed to put Draco’s back up – he had to actually force himself not to react to it.
He made a minor production of standing up – brushing out his robes, nonchalantly feigning unconcern and complete unawareness of the other man in the cell. But when he headed towards the door, Nott was leaning against the doorjamb, blocking the entrance – he moved aside, but only enough that Draco had to physically brush past him as he walked through. What could have been an entirely innocent encounter was given a darker, more twisted bent by Nott’s smile, by the light in his eyes as he looked at Draco – and the entirely different one as he looked at Lucius, watching him through heavy-lidded, completely impassive eyes.
Turning around, looking back, Draco met his father’s eyes one last time – and nodded, understanding, accepting. Patience, my dragon. Wait, and watch, and plot in silence – bend, so he does not break you…
But sometimes it was so much harder than it might seem.
Holding on to his self-control, gripping his patience tightly, he walked quickly through the corridor leading up from the cells, aware of Nott’s silent, contemptuous laughter and the touch of his gaze behind him. Draco was by no means innocent, but Nott’s far from subtle harassment was wearing on his nerves, and fraying his temper – it made him feel helpless, and there was nothing he disliked more…and yet he couldn’t act on it. He couldn’t do anything, lest it ruin his father’s timing…
He was in one hell of a bad mood, spoiling for a fight, when he heard a voice – a familiar, hated voice he thought he would be rid of for the holidays – calling out in mockery, taunting him, laughing at him…laughing at his father. He turned around, slowly, almost in slow motion, to see them.
“Hey Malfoy, now that your daddy’s going to Azkaban, who are you going to run to?”
The golden children of Hogwarts – perfect Potter, Gryffindor’s wunderkind, Weasley, whose eccentric, crackpot father dared (dared!) to judge Lucius Malfoy, and the upstart mudblood who thought that because she knew facts, memorised textbooks, she understood the wizarding world.
“Who’s going to protect you now, Malfoy? How are you going to stay in your new daddy’s graces?”
As he struggled with himself, trying not to react, trying to ignore the taunts, slough them off as he had never had to before, a cold, eerily unfamiliar feeling welled up from the depths of his soul. It was…it was alien, and it was disturbing, and it was stronger than anything he had ever felt before. In a way, it had nothing to do with the three golden children…nothing, and everything, for they had been the ones to finally trigger it.
In that moment, listening to those taunts, Draco Malfoy finally found out about rage. Not the pallid, immature emotion of a schoolboy, but the full-blooded, ice-cold anger of the scions of House Malfoy, the uncaring, implacable cold that allowed even the most unforgivable acts to seem justified, in Malfoy eyes if not anyone else’s.
The frustration of the last few weeks, the fear and the helplessness, and the sheer anger at the situation all iced over, destroying his control and his rationality…unfortunately, it also boosted his power immeasurably and awoke in him all the latent violence and cruelty the Malfoy were all too famous for, in the whispered fireside tales of long, long ago.
In an unforgivable moment, an unacceptable lapse of self-control that he would pay dearly for, again and again and again, he lashed out – going further than he had ever dared to at Hogwarts, and brought Ron Weasley to his knees…
Crimson blood trickled down the red-headed boy’s chin as he choked, his eyes wide and panicked – through the roaring in his ears he could hear Potter’s demands to let him go, to stop it; through a detached, impartial haze he could see the two friends rushing to Weasley’s side, see Weasley senior and his wife gaze at him in horror, in fear; he could feel the outrage of the Ministry workers who had rushed to help, and the arrested interest of the High Clan Lords, the major players in the Game, as they wondered what to make of this newest development.
The Malfoy Heir had done the unforgivable – had lost control in public, had flaunted the strength of his magic and his heritage…
He looked up to meet Arthur Weasley’s eyes, but looked away when he could not hold them; his eyes flicked to Dane Harcourt, cool grey eyes faintly creased in…in mild disapproval, as if something he had seen was faintly distasteful to him.
That was it. That was enough…
To those cool grey eyes, to Nott’s amused eyes, to all the calculating High Clan eyes, to all the outraged and righteous ordinary eyes – he released his hold on Weasley, allowed him to gasp in some air and recover his breath, and whispered, softly, but with enough force that it seemed to echo dizzyingly from each corner of the room…
“You have no right…!”
************************************************
The sight of Narcissa Malfoy going about openly with Alexander Nott was guaranteed to cause speculation, even in jaded, blasé High Clan hearts. Perhaps that was what inspired the small smile twisting Nott’s mouth; perhaps that was what caused his son to look at Draco with suddenly challenging eyes – for the first time in their lives, he no longer veiled his contempt behind lip service and polite protestations.
The new relationship/alliance – even the intended marriage, once Lucius was conveniently out of the way – was flaunted openly; as Draco trailed behind his mother and her lover, his swollen lip magically concealed, he could see their minds working, see the evaluation and the calculation as the new status quo was announced with a thoroughness that had nothing at all to do with subtlety.
Had they seen the results of Draco’s first attempt to assert his independence, known just how easily and casually Nott had quashed it, they would have been given even more food for thought. As it was, the possessive hand Nott placed on Narcissa’s waist, the half amused, half contemptuous, wholly…hungry look he had when he looked a Draco was enough, and more than enough.
Much could be inferred from such things…
The atmosphere at the Ministry Building had changed remarkably with the public announcement of the Dark Lord’s return. From a forced cheer, a half concealed tension vehemently denied and a desperate show of unity with deep, deep divides underneath, it had now been transformed into a place desperate in its zeal, manic in its determination and cheer.
As they walked into the bustling foyer – Narcissa making a grand entrance out of habit, out of a desire to show off her new lover/partner/protector – all activity slowed; no, it didn’t stop, that was too blatant…but they all watched, out of the corner of their eyes, looking up furtively from the activities they were ostensibly performing.
She took a deep breath, seemed to steel herself, and Nott’s arm tightened around her waist in support. “I have come,” she began, announcing to the foyer at large rather than discreetly enquiring at the reception, “that is, I want to see my…” she swallowed, and seemed to clutch Nott’s arm for reassurance, “my husband.”
Draco could actually see the various reactions to that speech and the affecting image she presented. The Aurors, some of them hardened veterans who had lived through the worst of the Dark Times, others younger but still with the edge of scepticism, of cynicism, exchanged glances and raised questioning eyebrows. Others, less suspicious, or at least less well acquainted with the actions of the Beauforts and the Malfoy and the Notts, seemed to take pity on this beautiful woman, so obviously scared of her husband, but willing to see justice done…
And on the man who stood by her in her hour of need, and was obviously so fond of her son already…
Draco saw more than a few speculative – and some not so neutral – looks aimed his way. With his father in Azkaban, which way would he jump? Could he be of use, would he bend, or would he have to be removed? What would be the best way to handle him, given the current situation? And how brave would he be without his daddy to back him up now?
But whatever they seemed to think, now was not the time. Nothing could be done until Lucius Malfoy was permanently out of the Game – although Nott’s presence had changed the rules, somewhat…
Nott.
Draco was growing more and more resentful of Nott’s presence, of his constant threat and subtle surveillance. It seemed he couldn’t do anything without Nott becoming aware of it, couldn’t turn around without encountering those dark, amused eyes. But outright protest would gain him nothing, and would even make the situation worse – far, far better to wait, and watch, and to plot in silence…
The Malfoy were manipulators, webspinners; Lucius had taught him patience, and discretion, and had taught him the most important lesson of all in the double life he had led because his father asked it of him – how to shrug off insults, contempt, and even humiliating defeat, and to allow the opponent to think they had won…
Draco knew how to bend, and what it meant to fall.
But he needed to talk to his father again, privately – and that was the only reason he had agreed to the humiliation of the public promenade through Diagon Alley. To see his father again, feel his cool confidence and to hear his calm, detached analysis of the situation – he needed that, even for one last time, to give him the faith that he could do this, that he really was as strong as his father believed him to be, as he needed him to be.
Because, deep down, Draco didn’t believe it himself.
**************************************************
Dane Harcourt escorted them to the cell and watched them enter, the elegant, beautiful woman and her elegant, beautiful son, and the man who simply didn’t seem to fit. Perhaps it was because he was so used to seeing Lucius with them, completing the image of three blonde angels. Perhaps it was because Nott was not – and never would be – Lucius Malfoy. Because Lucius was, for all his affectations – the aristocratic drawl, the hair, the sneering prejudice – a strong, charismatic, and above all, capable leader.
And a rational one, in his own way. He had done his best to ensure peace and a stable environment for the Malfoy and the Clans to prosper, and had no interest in murder and mayhem if it would upset the current favourable status quo. But Nott…Nott would do anything, cross any lines, in his search for superiority. If he grew to dominate the High Clan…
Surely that wouldn’t happen. Surely that couldn’t.
“I don’t know why, but this whole situation just doesn’t seem good,” came a voice from behind him. He didn’t turn around, but straightened and looked at Arthur Weasley as he came up alongside him.
“And there I agree with you,” he murmured softly. “It’s not good…in fact, it’s bad – very, very bad…”
Arthur looked at him inquiringly, silently asking an explanation. Dane made a noise deep in his throat, turned back to the cell door, as if he could see what was going on inside. “Nott is the leading contender for Malfoy’s place.”
“But you don’t like it.”
“Hmmm…” Harcourt struggled against his own High Clan, Slytherin upbringing and mindset. Weasley could be a useful ally… “We would prefer that power stay in Malfoy hands…”
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “We?” he asked sharply – curious, intrigued and more than a little wary.
The corner of Harcourt’s mouth curled in a very small smile.
“Arthur, dear,” came the warm, firm voice of Molly Weasley. “We’re ready to go…” she blinked as she saw Dane, nodded absently at him in greeting. “Mr. Harcourt.”
He bowed his head to her in turn. “Mrs. Weasley…”
She turned back to Arthur, who looked a little ashamed to be found out whispering in corners with him. “We’re ready to go when you are.” She turned back to wave at a familiar threesome, and a redheaded girl standing a little apart from them. That would be Potter and his two sidekicks, and the youngest Weasley – the only daughter, apparently.
“Right,” said Arthur absently. “Did you see Mrs Malfoy and her new beau?” he asked her, curious as to her reaction.
Molly snorted disgustedly. “Narcissa, that ice-bitch,” she all but growled. “The man isn’t even in Azkaban before she’s got a replacement for him. She’ll never be satisfied…”
Dane looked at her in renewed interest. Such depth of feeling, openly displayed…how fascinating. He wondered what had inspired it. She saw his look but refused to meet his eyes.
*************************************************
He looked up as the door to his cell opened. Ignoring the dictates of common courtesy, he remained seated, cross legged on his pallet with his back against the wall – a calculated discourtesy designed to needle, a little piece of insolence noticed only by those who knew how important such things and gestures were to the High Clan, and completely unnoticed by anyone who didn’t. A small gesture, true, but it had sufficed in its purpose, if the flickering nerve in Nott’s temple and the tightening of Narcissa’s lips were any indication.
“Hello Lucius,” Narcissa said flatly, all pretence of fear or apprehension vanishing as soon as the Aurors discreetly withdrew. There was no fear in Narcissa, at least not of him – it was drowned by her ambition and pride. He knew that much of her, and knew it well, after so many years of marriage.
“Hello, Narcissa,” he finally answered, after a small silence. Another insolence. His eyes flicked to Nott, who had abandoned protection for possessiveness, and drew Narcissa back against him, far too close for High Clan dictates. The smallest of sneers curled Lucius’ lips – but how subtle… “Nott,” he said flatly.
He met Draco’s eyes for a timeless moment, and nodded, once – and then turned back to his wife, his so-lovely wife. “To what do I owe this…pleasure?” he purred.
Narcissa ignored the taunting tone, but Nott’s fingers twitched, flexed, tightened. He opened his mouth to retort, rising eagerly to the bait even as he had always done, but Narcissa laid a restraining hand on his arm, urging caution.
“We came to wish you good luck in your upcoming trial,” she said in her most sincere tone. She held out a hand, moved as if to reach out to him – he lifted his eyes to hers, slowly, and she hastily retracted it. She knew that much of him, at least. “Our thoughts will be with you,” she finished, a little flustered.
“Is that so?” he drawled lazily.
Nott smiled gently – if such a word could be used in relation to him. “Yes, indeed,” he said genially. “I’d just like to tell you that if you are sent to…to Azkaban, I’ll look after everything while you’re gone. I think Narcissa and I will deal very well together, we should be able to take good care of the Malfoy affairs…”
Lucius said nothing.
“Oh,” Nott said, as if he had just remembered. “If you’re given the death sentence, I was going to ask for permission to look after Draco, too. Perhaps I might even go so far as to adopt him – I’ve grown quite fond of him…”
The hell you will, Lucius the father snarled. But Lucius the Clan Lord only smiled – just as gently as Nott had. “Let us not be hasty, my dear man – I am not yet done…”
~()~
After Nott and Narcissa had departed, Lucius looked at his son. Draco was nearly sixteen years old, now – nearly sixteen, and untried, unconfident in his strength and his ability to survive alone. Lucius had coddled him – he knew it, and he admitted it freely. It was bordering on criminal negligence, he knew – yes, he had taught Draco everything he needed to know to survive in Slytherin and the wider world of the High Clan and the game, but he had – quite deliberately – never given him the strength and the freedom to try his own wings, to turn that theoretical knowledge into real, practical power.
He had kept the boy from any real personal influence, but he had encouraged the image of the spoiled brat for two reasons – one, to throw any spies off the scent, and two, to make the boy stronger. To accustom him to humiliation and ridicule, hatred and contempt, to teach him how to get back on his feet after each defeat, and continue on even when he had no heart for it…
He had thought the price – the reputation Draco had as a bully, as a coward – was worth the gain of the extra time and strength it earned them both. He had gambled on Draco being strong enough to win a different reputation for himself when it became time, but he had also gambled on being there to support him, encourage him.
Well, at least he had ensured there would be someone there to support him, even if it was only Snape. And in guaranteeing that, his last gift to his son, he had also doomed himself as a traitor… Voldemort’s right hand – not in Pettigrew’s sense as chief bootlicker and fool, but the man who saw that the Lord’s wishes were followed through – did not lightly spill everything he knew. He had known, as soon as he had made that bargain, that they would come after him…
"Hello, Father,” Draco finally said, standing at ease before him, silver eyes meeting his openly, if a little guardedly. That was good. His eyes should never be completely unguarded.
“Draco,” he acknowledged. “Have you been enjoying your holidays?”
One corner of Draco’s lips lifted. It was not a smile. “No, Father. I haven’t…”
Lucius’ lip curled too – a perfect, unconscious mirror of his son’s expression. “Nott.”
Draco lowered his eyes. “I tried to stand up to him directly, Father, but he is simply too strong…” After the first few humiliating attempts, he had learned his lesson.
“And indirectly?”
The eyes came back to his, something fierce in their depths. “The house elves and I have come to an arrangement.”
Lucius’ brow went up. “Oh?”
“Small things. Irritants and pinpricks…nothing that would see his wrath turned against them. Their loyalty goes far, but I would not ask that much of them…”
“They would give it, if you asked.”
He shook his head, face grave. “I know. But it will accomplish nothing…and turn mischief into something more real, with consequences that may further enforce his authority.”
Lucius nodded slowly, his face blank but pride welling up in him at this son of his. “Very soon, Draco, he will have no authority over you or the Castle at all.”
He was supremely gratified when Draco only raised an eyebrow, no sign of surprise or speculation anywhere in his demeanour. “Oh?” he asked, a perfect echo of his father only moments ago. Lucius had to suppress a smile.
“I have,” he hesitated, wondering how to say it, “made a deal with Dumbledore…”
Draco stilled. “In return for what?” He didn’t ask what he had offered – there was only one possible thing he could have that Dumbledore wanted desperately enough to bargain for. And even that would have consequences – very dangerous consequences…
“Professor Snape,” Lucius said finally, “as guardian, caretaker and executor.”
“But what of the Castle?” He asked. “And the land beyond the Veil?”
Lucius steepled his fingers together, lowered his lashes to veil the gleam in his eyes, and smiled…
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Someone banged on the door outside, interrupting their discussion – Draco’s lips tightened as he saw his soon-to-be stepfather step into the cell, radiating satisfaction. “Come along, Draco – it’s time to go,” he said in a syrupy-sweet voice, as condescending as possible. It was entirely designed to put Draco’s back up – he had to actually force himself not to react to it.
He made a minor production of standing up – brushing out his robes, nonchalantly feigning unconcern and complete unawareness of the other man in the cell. But when he headed towards the door, Nott was leaning against the doorjamb, blocking the entrance – he moved aside, but only enough that Draco had to physically brush past him as he walked through. What could have been an entirely innocent encounter was given a darker, more twisted bent by Nott’s smile, by the light in his eyes as he looked at Draco – and the entirely different one as he looked at Lucius, watching him through heavy-lidded, completely impassive eyes.
Turning around, looking back, Draco met his father’s eyes one last time – and nodded, understanding, accepting. Patience, my dragon. Wait, and watch, and plot in silence – bend, so he does not break you…
But sometimes it was so much harder than it might seem.
Holding on to his self-control, gripping his patience tightly, he walked quickly through the corridor leading up from the cells, aware of Nott’s silent, contemptuous laughter and the touch of his gaze behind him. Draco was by no means innocent, but Nott’s far from subtle harassment was wearing on his nerves, and fraying his temper – it made him feel helpless, and there was nothing he disliked more…and yet he couldn’t act on it. He couldn’t do anything, lest it ruin his father’s timing…
He was in one hell of a bad mood, spoiling for a fight, when he heard a voice – a familiar, hated voice he thought he would be rid of for the holidays – calling out in mockery, taunting him, laughing at him…laughing at his father. He turned around, slowly, almost in slow motion, to see them.
“Hey Malfoy, now that your daddy’s going to Azkaban, who are you going to run to?”
The golden children of Hogwarts – perfect Potter, Gryffindor’s wunderkind, Weasley, whose eccentric, crackpot father dared (dared!) to judge Lucius Malfoy, and the upstart mudblood who thought that because she knew facts, memorised textbooks, she understood the wizarding world.
“Who’s going to protect you now, Malfoy? How are you going to stay in your new daddy’s graces?”
As he struggled with himself, trying not to react, trying to ignore the taunts, slough them off as he had never had to before, a cold, eerily unfamiliar feeling welled up from the depths of his soul. It was…it was alien, and it was disturbing, and it was stronger than anything he had ever felt before. In a way, it had nothing to do with the three golden children…nothing, and everything, for they had been the ones to finally trigger it.
In that moment, listening to those taunts, Draco Malfoy finally found out about rage. Not the pallid, immature emotion of a schoolboy, but the full-blooded, ice-cold anger of the scions of House Malfoy, the uncaring, implacable cold that allowed even the most unforgivable acts to seem justified, in Malfoy eyes if not anyone else’s.
The frustration of the last few weeks, the fear and the helplessness, and the sheer anger at the situation all iced over, destroying his control and his rationality…unfortunately, it also boosted his power immeasurably and awoke in him all the latent violence and cruelty the Malfoy were all too famous for, in the whispered fireside tales of long, long ago.
In an unforgivable moment, an unacceptable lapse of self-control that he would pay dearly for, again and again and again, he lashed out – going further than he had ever dared to at Hogwarts, and brought Ron Weasley to his knees…
Crimson blood trickled down the red-headed boy’s chin as he choked, his eyes wide and panicked – through the roaring in his ears he could hear Potter’s demands to let him go, to stop it; through a detached, impartial haze he could see the two friends rushing to Weasley’s side, see Weasley senior and his wife gaze at him in horror, in fear; he could feel the outrage of the Ministry workers who had rushed to help, and the arrested interest of the High Clan Lords, the major players in the Game, as they wondered what to make of this newest development.
The Malfoy Heir had done the unforgivable – had lost control in public, had flaunted the strength of his magic and his heritage…
He looked up to meet Arthur Weasley’s eyes, but looked away when he could not hold them; his eyes flicked to Dane Harcourt, cool grey eyes faintly creased in…in mild disapproval, as if something he had seen was faintly distasteful to him.
That was it. That was enough…
To those cool grey eyes, to Nott’s amused eyes, to all the calculating High Clan eyes, to all the outraged and righteous ordinary eyes – he released his hold on Weasley, allowed him to gasp in some air and recover his breath, and whispered, softly, but with enough force that it seemed to echo dizzyingly from each corner of the room…
“You have no right…!”
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