CHAPTER 6
“Caius Lucius Malfoy,” intoned Minister Fudge, his round, amiable face grim and his words suitable grave as malicious triumph oozed slyly out of his every pore, “you have been found guilty of grievous and terrible crimes against the government…”
Although he knew this had been coming – indeed, that it had been all but inevitable – Albus Dumbledore felt his heart grow heavy with an old, old grief. He remembered Lucius, remembered him when he had first come to Hogwarts in 1970…
It seemed just like yesterday, really, and not just because he himself had passed the one hundred and fifty mark some time ago. That particular year had seen the admittance of some of the most memorable students Hogwarts had ever seen – the two essentially opposed…gangs, he supposed one would call them now of the Marauders and the Slytherin, High Clan students who had called themselves the Lords of Slytherin.
Malfoy, Snape, Avery, Andahni, Courtney, and Lestrange – the younger brother, not the elder who had just escaped from Azkaban. And Potter, Black, Lupin and Pettigrew. Together, the two groups had dominated the entire school - but now, more than twenty years later, what had become of the young, promising students who had been so vital, so alive that their legend endured at Hogwarts, even today?
Potter and Black were dead. Lupin was almost broken, a shadow of his former self. Pettigrew…well, he would not think of the twisted thing that the once-shy young man had become. Snape was confined to Hogwarts, bitter and crippled by his memories and his guilt. Avery, Andahni, Courtney and Lestrange were Clan Lords, locked into the Game, hiding their pasts and treading a dangerous course, balancing Voldemort and the Ministry and anything that might destroy the fragile framework of their deceptions…
And Malfoy? Lucius Malfoy had played the Game so skilfully for so long, it had seemed that he would never fall, that he would always be there, pulling strings in the shadows, disguising his own, mysterious agenda behind a thin guise of public welfare and concern, or even – although he had no evidence this was true – behind the mask of Voldemort’s right hand. Even though Albus had known – known – what Lucius was, he still felt an odd twist in his heart.
Because Lucius Malfoy had shone so brightly, once, and because he had not always been destined for the Dark. In fact, Marcus Malfoy had only sworn loyalty to Voldemort in Lucius’ seventh year – Lucius himself had held out until after his father’s murder some six months later. The day after Marcus Malfoy’s murder, there had been something different about the Malfoy, on that morning.
Oh, he’d always been ruthless and ambitious, ruling Slytherin and his peers with an iron fist, but Dumbledore had known when he finally made the decision, which finally became irrevocable once Augustus Snape had died – had been executed – so horribly. Because Lucius, in fulfilling his ancient right of vengeance, had abandoned all thoughts of any other way…
There were times, in the depths of the night, when he wished in vain that things could have unfolded differently. But what else could he have done? He had always made it clear that students could confide in him about anything, at any time, but what self-respecting, High Clan Slytherin would trust anyone with their deepest, darkest doubts, desires and secrets – especially after he had so horribly mishandled Severus.
Because he was a Gryffindor, and not even an aristocratic one – even at the most innocent of times, the High Clan were notoriously secretive and insular. But back then…back then it had been even worse. The intrigue had been vicious and the Game deadly, and the consequences for the losers fatal, as Lucius had learned all too well. And to survive in such a world, Lucius had descended down, deep down into the depths of his own personal core, and had found the strength – or perhaps the moral flaw – that had allowed him to become a Death Eater and think it justified.
That had allowed him to do what he had done, and think it justified, in the name of High Clan Malfoy.
What hold did this idea of “the Clan” have on High Clan minds that it allowed them to justify almost anything in the name of its survival, prosperity and wellbeing? What magic did the Clan hold, that they would give anything and everything for it? For surely, the history and the mythology of the High Clan was so rife with blood, sacrifice, and such blind, fanatical devotion that the Groves of the highest, oldest Clans must be running with blood…
And Lucius, who had once been the Lord, was now the Sacrifice. He would go into the shadows, the cold, brilliant man who had once been the cool, brilliant child, and his son would become the Lord, and the cycle would begin again, play out again, and finally come full circle, all in the name of the Clan. It had continued, changing only in the small details of the Lord’s life, since the inception of the Clan, long, long ago, and would continue on into the future – but hopefully, this time, Draco would not follow his father and grandfather into the Dark. Because three generations of Malfoy would put a seal on it…
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“You are sentenced to life in Azkaban prison, with no hope of parole…”
And no doubt, Draco thought sourly, if you still had control over the Dementors, you would get rid of him as soon as possible, you cowering, hypocritical fool…
Draco had known this would happen. His father had told him so. But even so, he still felt a numb sense of disbelief that this could happen to them, to the Malfoy, and to his father, of all people. Because his father was a God among men - or at least Draco had always believed so, in a small, impressionable corner of his soul. But the disbelief was passing now, as he accepted the changes, even if he didn’t like them, and accepted that soon everything would be his problem, his responsibility.
He didn’t blame his father for leaving him like this. Lucius hadn’t wanted this to happen, but once he had accepted the inevitable, he had prepared Draco for what was coming, and had done as much as he could to ensure it would go smoothly. If Draco had any feelings of resentment, he had only to think of Lucius, whose own father had been betrayed and killed by Aurors, forcing his son to take up the reins, with no warning, the morning immediately after…
Things could be worse.
He slid out of his seat, heading towards his father, but stopped short when the youngest Weasley – the daughter, Ginny? – stepped out in front of him, challenge inherent in every line of her body, her dark eyes glaring at him. He swore inwardly, not in the mood for playing games today, of all days…
It was just one more humiliation, this open trial, so that all the public could watch and gloat. He supposed he should have expected the Weasleys to be here.
“Not today, Weasley,” he said, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, fatigue plain in his voice.
She ignored him, and, red-faced, went in for the attack with as much stubborn ferocity as her brother had ever done. “You bastard! What the hell is your problem?” He winced – she had come dangerously close to shouting at him.
And the High Clan never, ever shouted in anger, or listened to anyone who did – had she actually gone so far as to shout in his face, he would have walked off, despite all the rules of courtesy…
“My problem, Weasley?” he asked softly, hoping to calm her down before anyone noticed.
“Your problem, Malfoy,” she snarled, but softer this time. “Why did you attack Ron like that?”
He stiffened imperceptibly, offended by the reminder of his foolishness. “Because he pissed me off. Why else?”
She checked, her face openly upset for one puzzling moment. Could it be that she had actually… “I thought that you were better than that, Malfoy. I thought that you could control yourself…”
Her disappointment – yes, it was disappointment – rubbed against a raw place in his conscience. “Well, you thought wrong, Weasley.” He turned on his heel to walk off, but her voice stopped him.
“Why Ron?” she asked, quietly, composedly, as if all the unseemly emotion had been banished, as all High Clan scions were taught from the cradle. “Why was it always Ron?” He responded to that dignity, to that seeming indifference, as he would not have responded to shouts, tears and accusations. Turning around, he faced her, saw for the first time the scars left by Tom Riddle, by her experience with the darker side of the wizarding world at such an early, innocent age. She went far, far deeper than was apparent on the surface.
To those eyes, to that scarred innocence, he spoke the plain truth, as he had not for a long, long time. “Because, if he ever had ambition, if he ever stepped beyond Potter’s shadow, he could be dangerous…”
She frowned, incredulous. “Ron?”
His mouth twisted cynically. “Your brother beat McGonagall at chess in his first year – if he were a Slytherin, he would be a threat, but…” he shook his head, “as a Gryffindor, as Potter’s sidekick, he’s a complete waste of the most extraordinary talent I’ve ever seen. And I intend to see he stays that way.”
Shocked, dark eyes flew up to his. “You mean…all the insults, all the put-downs…”
He nodded. “He’s entirely too loyal to Potter. And if he can’t be turned to my own use, I won’t let anyone else have him either – I’d rather break him, destroy his confidence…”
She looked sick. He only smiled bitterly, mirthlessly. “You asked for the truth, Weasley; don’t complain when you get it.”
“You and your Slytherins belittle and despise everything around you, Malfoy,” she breathed, sickened. “Just what does it take to earn your respect?”
His face went completely blank, and silver eyes lifted to hers then, cool and not entirely neutral. “Strength, Weasley. Slytherins and the High Clan respect strength of will, strength of mind, strength of personality…”
Her lips curled into an admirably vicious sneer. “Then why do they respect you?”
He flinched, and he smiled terribly. “Do they?” was all he asked. And then he turned his back on her and walked off.
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She watched him go, puzzled by something that she couldn’t define. Why had he been so upset by that last question? And why had he spoken to her so truthfully – for truth it had been, no matter how repellent.
And why did she feel even the slightest grain of sympathy for him?
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“And may the Gods have mercy on your soul…”
Lucius had had a dream, once, when he’d been very young, and still naïve enough to believe in such things. It had been a simple dream, really – he’d dreamed that he’d been one of the village children, his father a blacksmith, or a farmer, or an innkeeper, and his mother had been an ordinary village woman in an apron with floury hands. He’d had no responsibilities, no expectations, and no ambitions – he was content to live his whole life beyond the Veil, happy with what he had, secure in the knowledge that the Lord up at the Castle would take care of anything the villagers couldn’t handle themselves.
And he married the woman he loved and lived happily ever after.
He wondered if Draco had ever dreamed of similar things.
But the Malfoy blood, and the Covenant that had been sealed in it so many centuries ago, would not allow them such an easy way out. They had taken on responsibility when they first set themselves up as Lords, and so responsibility they would always carry, no matter how heavy or wearing the load…
He put his hands on his son’s shoulders one last time, savouring the feel of Draco’s warmth, of his vitality, of the youth that held so many possibilities, so much promise. This, this splendidly formed man-child, with his clear, bright eyes and his firm, strong limbs and his quicksilver, brilliant mind was his son. His flesh and blood, quickened by some divine spark – it had never before seemed so marvellous.
Some things in this life were sacred. Unfortunately, all too many of them were responsibilities.
In the name of the Clan, of High Clan Malfoy, he put a hand underneath Draco’s chin and turned his eyes up to meet his own, and whispered the last words he would ever speak to his son. “Keep them all safe through the dark times, Draco, and happy during the peaceful times. Remember, the Clan, and the Covenant, above all else – even your own life and freedom.”
Eyes dark, Draco nodded fiercely, and Lucius’ hands tightened on his shoulders in an uncharacteristic show of public affection. “I have taught you everything you need – now you must put it into practice, and stand or fall on your own.” Draco made to speak, but Lucius shook his head. “If you fall, remember that the Game is never, ever over until you are dead; as long as you live there will always be another chance to claw your way back up.”
He bent down, closed his eyes, called upon all his magic, summoned forth the bright, burning warmth of the Covenant, of the sacred trust of Clan Malfoy, and placing his mouth on his son’s, let it pour through him and into Draco, into the new, unMarked, flawless vessel…
Until he was empty, and strangely light, without the burdens he had carried since he was seventeen.
“Remember that I love you, Draco,” he whispered one last time, staring into those solemn, silver eyes for one, last time. He couldn’t be sure, but when he looked back, he thought he saw the new Lord of High Clan Malfoy smile, once, as the Aurors led him away.
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As his father moved out of sight, Draco became aware of three Aurors watching him, their faces unreadable and their eyes veiled. Beside them, watching him just as seriously – if with more malice – were his mother and Nott, no doubt puzzling over the significance of that last kiss. Was it possible they knew what it meant? Narcissa had never taken an interest in the deeper magics of the Malfoy, and Nott was notoriously contemptuous of the old ways and the old order. Of course, that was why he was so powerful – he could be persuasive when he spoke, and his opinions and rhetoric appealed to many within the High Clan, especially those of the younger, less traditionally powerful Clans.
So Lucius had known, and so he had gambled.
They walked over, approaching him warily, keeping close to the Aurors as if their presence could keep them safe if Draco decided to do something reckless. For their part, the Aurors looked a little uncomfortable themselves, mainly because they felt it a little tactless to be doing this to Draco so soon after his father’s conviction, but they had their orders. And if that meant that they had to work with the convicted man’s wife and her lover – who had clearly conspired to bring him down – then that was what they would do. But it didn’t mean they had to like it…
As well as the three Aurors, Dane Harcourt and the Minister, Cornelius Fudge, also made their way to Draco’s side. Harcourt was unreadable, but seemed a little uncomfortable and reluctant. This was, after all, a very big step, interfering with the ancient sovereignty of the Malfoy land… Fudge only looked extremely self-satisfied.
Nott smiled at Draco, a horribly insincere smile, sympathetic and understanding, and all the more disturbing for it. He put a hand on his shoulder, as Lucius had just done, but unlike Lucius it was not in the least fatherly. “Come on Draco, let’s go home…”
Draco stiffened under that hand, and drew himself away, taking a very obvious step back. Nott’s smile faded, and Narcissa looked faintly anxious – he thought he saw Harcourt’s mouth flatten in distaste. And then a very welcome voice came from behind him, wiping the smile right off his almost-stepfather’s face.
“My dear boy,” Snape purred, “I’ve been looking all over for you. Are you ready to go?”
“Oh?” Nott’s eyebrows went up in a poor imitation of Lucius. “And where are you going?”
Snape smiled blandly. “Diagon Alley,” he purred. “As Draco’s guardian, it is my responsibility to ensure he has everything he needs for school next year…”
Narcissa regained her composure, and her wits. “My dear Severus,” she cooed, turning her huge blue eyes on him, to no discernable effect. “Surely you misunderstand…Draco and Alexander and I, we are going home now.”
Almost involuntarily, Draco moved closer to Snape. “I do need my school supplies,” he said innocently.
Nott looked surprised. “So soon after your father’s trial? Surely it could wait a while longer…”
Fudge, not fond of being ignored, and a little disturbed by the ancient undercurrents he could only just sense, cleared his throat self-importantly. “I am afraid,” he began, pompous as always, “that there is something that can’t wait…”
Turning the full force of his black, sardonic eyes on Fudge, Snape raised an awful eyebrow. Watching Nott, Draco could almost sense the malicious satisfaction he could hardly contain.
“Because your father has been convicted of Death Eater activities, the Ministry now has the right to search the premises of Malfoy Manor for any forbidden magical artefacts…”
Harcourt looked at the very lack of expression on Draco’s face, and turned his eyes back to Fudge, wondering now, as he had done countless times before, just how a man could be so wilfully blind.
“By all means, Minister,” said Nott. “We would be happy to allow a team of Aurors and experts free run of the Manor, won’t we darling?” He turned to Narcissa, who simpered and smiled brilliantly at Fudge. “Only say the word, and we’ll be happy to oblige you…”
Fudge’s smile was supremely satisfied, as he indicated the three Aurors and Dane Harcourt. “We have the warrant already, and are ready to begin searching right now, actually.” He beamed at them. “If that’s all right with you…”
Despite his show of carefully concealed consternation, Nott was not in the least put out. “Of course.” He turned to them all, and to Snape, who had shown no signs of leaving, and held out an ancient ring-brooch, worn smooth with the touch of countless hands. “If you’ll all lay hand on this…”
They all touched the Portkey, and there was a dizzying, disorienting rush, and then they emerged, blinking, in the forest very near to the edge of a high, abrupt cliff. And, shimmering in the air like a heat haze, a step over the edge of the cliff, was the fabled Veil that separated Malfoy land from the rest of Britain that had kept the Clan and their people safe for two and a half thousand years.
“Open it,” Nott said to Draco, eager to go back beyond the safety and the symbolism of the Veil.
Draco looked at him…and smiled.
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Since Brandon Malfoy had first created the Veil so many long centuries ago, only those who were part of the Malfoy Covenant – that is, those who took the Blood that the Malfoy shared on Midsummer, and shared their own in return – had been able to open the Veil and move freely between the Outside world and the land Beyond the Veil. In effect, this meant that only those of Malfoy blood, or those who had been born and bred beyond the Veil, could ever open it. To all others it was impenetrable…
Narcissa had found the whole idea of a blood Covenant frankly distasteful and had refused to participate in the Midsummer rituals, and the others, Snape and Nott and Harcourt, were all Clan Lords, to whom sharing blood with Malfoy would have meant swearing allegiance. And so, out of all those gathered on the edge of the cliff, only Draco was able to open the Veil and provide the Ministry search party entrance. Somehow, the idea that he wouldn’t cooperate hadn’t occurred to Nott or Fudge – until now, when he had smiled so tauntingly.
Because whoever held the land beyond the Veil, whoever occupied the Castle, ancient, symbolic stronghold that it was, had access to the Malfoy power base – their practical power, and the power of their myth, of their reputation. And, even more importantly, they had access to the Malfoy Grove…and that was no myth, but very real, and very potent magic. Draco was adamant that Nott and Narcissa would not get their hands on any of it, and nor would the Ministry, even if it did come in the person of Dane Harcourt, who at least seemed to know what it was he tampered with. No one – no one – would fulfil their ambitions at the Malfoy’s expense, by moving in when Lucius was gone and the new Lord was a fifteen year old boy, when it seemed they were at their most vulnerable and fragile.
Such was the purpose of the Veil. Unless Draco, or someone else who had shared Malfoy blood, opened the way, no one would get in. And since, especially in these troubled times, most of those able to open the Veil were gathered beyond it, and those who weren’t were too loyal – or too afraid – to go against the express wishes of the Lord, Draco had only to refuse to open it, and the people and possessions Lucius had moved onto Malfoy land would be safe.
Until someone turned traitor – but he would deal with that if and when it became an issue.
Watching them all, pompous and puffed-up Fudge, insincere, ruthless Nott and vicious Narcissa, quiet, composed Harcourt and sardonic, protective Snape, Draco laughed inwardly as he thanked his ancestor’s ancient foresight, and his father’s more recent planning.
“No,” he said.
There was a beat of silence – and then the consternation set in.
Fudge snarled at him, blustering and threatening, in his ineffectual way, but Harcourt touched his shoulder, bent down and whispered in his ear – no doubt warning him of the consequences of pushing too far, too fast, and of alienating the High Clan (for surely he had already alienated the Malfoy far enough) when he had no real need to. There would be another day…
Nott, in his frustration, thwarted by a mere weakling, felt a mindless urge to enraged violence stirring, rising – but then caught Snape’s eye, and subsided. Wretched, almost powerless professor that he was, Snape was nevertheless the premier Potions Master in Britain, and a powerful wizard in his own right – there was also the small matter of the cruelty and inventiveness he had honed so exquisitely as one of the Dark Lord’s Inquisitors…
Not a man you wanted as an enemy. But exactly the sort of protector that Malfoy would choose for his son – strong enough to look after him, but not strong enough to reshape him, or to oust him and take control for himself…
And besides, there was nothing that he could do. Until and unless he found someone else who could open it for him, the Veil would remain closed, and all that power, all that history, all that magic, would be beyond his reach. And so would Draco, ensconced at Hogwarts with the godsdamned Potions Master and that fool Dumbledore, laughing at him for all the effort he had put into wooing Narcissa, the ice-cold, treacherous whore…
Well, Malfoy had won this round. But could he win the Game?
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The word went out, after that, that Draco Malfoy had denied Fudge and Nott entry beyond the Veil – had denied everyone entry – and those who had previously denigrated him as a weakling, as his father’s puppet, were moved to reconsider. Well, this plan had all the hallmarks of Lucius’ planning, but truly, Draco had carried it out without his father’s support…
Perhaps there was more to him than was apparent at first glance. Perhaps, if they weren’t careful, and if they didn’t take action, he might grow into something dangerous…
But as long as he remained under Snape’s protection, under Dumbledore’s nose, they could not move directly against him.
So they would be indirect.
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“Caius Lucius Malfoy,” intoned Minister Fudge, his round, amiable face grim and his words suitable grave as malicious triumph oozed slyly out of his every pore, “you have been found guilty of grievous and terrible crimes against the government…”
Although he knew this had been coming – indeed, that it had been all but inevitable – Albus Dumbledore felt his heart grow heavy with an old, old grief. He remembered Lucius, remembered him when he had first come to Hogwarts in 1970…
It seemed just like yesterday, really, and not just because he himself had passed the one hundred and fifty mark some time ago. That particular year had seen the admittance of some of the most memorable students Hogwarts had ever seen – the two essentially opposed…gangs, he supposed one would call them now of the Marauders and the Slytherin, High Clan students who had called themselves the Lords of Slytherin.
Malfoy, Snape, Avery, Andahni, Courtney, and Lestrange – the younger brother, not the elder who had just escaped from Azkaban. And Potter, Black, Lupin and Pettigrew. Together, the two groups had dominated the entire school - but now, more than twenty years later, what had become of the young, promising students who had been so vital, so alive that their legend endured at Hogwarts, even today?
Potter and Black were dead. Lupin was almost broken, a shadow of his former self. Pettigrew…well, he would not think of the twisted thing that the once-shy young man had become. Snape was confined to Hogwarts, bitter and crippled by his memories and his guilt. Avery, Andahni, Courtney and Lestrange were Clan Lords, locked into the Game, hiding their pasts and treading a dangerous course, balancing Voldemort and the Ministry and anything that might destroy the fragile framework of their deceptions…
And Malfoy? Lucius Malfoy had played the Game so skilfully for so long, it had seemed that he would never fall, that he would always be there, pulling strings in the shadows, disguising his own, mysterious agenda behind a thin guise of public welfare and concern, or even – although he had no evidence this was true – behind the mask of Voldemort’s right hand. Even though Albus had known – known – what Lucius was, he still felt an odd twist in his heart.
Because Lucius Malfoy had shone so brightly, once, and because he had not always been destined for the Dark. In fact, Marcus Malfoy had only sworn loyalty to Voldemort in Lucius’ seventh year – Lucius himself had held out until after his father’s murder some six months later. The day after Marcus Malfoy’s murder, there had been something different about the Malfoy, on that morning.
Oh, he’d always been ruthless and ambitious, ruling Slytherin and his peers with an iron fist, but Dumbledore had known when he finally made the decision, which finally became irrevocable once Augustus Snape had died – had been executed – so horribly. Because Lucius, in fulfilling his ancient right of vengeance, had abandoned all thoughts of any other way…
There were times, in the depths of the night, when he wished in vain that things could have unfolded differently. But what else could he have done? He had always made it clear that students could confide in him about anything, at any time, but what self-respecting, High Clan Slytherin would trust anyone with their deepest, darkest doubts, desires and secrets – especially after he had so horribly mishandled Severus.
Because he was a Gryffindor, and not even an aristocratic one – even at the most innocent of times, the High Clan were notoriously secretive and insular. But back then…back then it had been even worse. The intrigue had been vicious and the Game deadly, and the consequences for the losers fatal, as Lucius had learned all too well. And to survive in such a world, Lucius had descended down, deep down into the depths of his own personal core, and had found the strength – or perhaps the moral flaw – that had allowed him to become a Death Eater and think it justified.
That had allowed him to do what he had done, and think it justified, in the name of High Clan Malfoy.
What hold did this idea of “the Clan” have on High Clan minds that it allowed them to justify almost anything in the name of its survival, prosperity and wellbeing? What magic did the Clan hold, that they would give anything and everything for it? For surely, the history and the mythology of the High Clan was so rife with blood, sacrifice, and such blind, fanatical devotion that the Groves of the highest, oldest Clans must be running with blood…
And Lucius, who had once been the Lord, was now the Sacrifice. He would go into the shadows, the cold, brilliant man who had once been the cool, brilliant child, and his son would become the Lord, and the cycle would begin again, play out again, and finally come full circle, all in the name of the Clan. It had continued, changing only in the small details of the Lord’s life, since the inception of the Clan, long, long ago, and would continue on into the future – but hopefully, this time, Draco would not follow his father and grandfather into the Dark. Because three generations of Malfoy would put a seal on it…
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“You are sentenced to life in Azkaban prison, with no hope of parole…”
And no doubt, Draco thought sourly, if you still had control over the Dementors, you would get rid of him as soon as possible, you cowering, hypocritical fool…
Draco had known this would happen. His father had told him so. But even so, he still felt a numb sense of disbelief that this could happen to them, to the Malfoy, and to his father, of all people. Because his father was a God among men - or at least Draco had always believed so, in a small, impressionable corner of his soul. But the disbelief was passing now, as he accepted the changes, even if he didn’t like them, and accepted that soon everything would be his problem, his responsibility.
He didn’t blame his father for leaving him like this. Lucius hadn’t wanted this to happen, but once he had accepted the inevitable, he had prepared Draco for what was coming, and had done as much as he could to ensure it would go smoothly. If Draco had any feelings of resentment, he had only to think of Lucius, whose own father had been betrayed and killed by Aurors, forcing his son to take up the reins, with no warning, the morning immediately after…
Things could be worse.
He slid out of his seat, heading towards his father, but stopped short when the youngest Weasley – the daughter, Ginny? – stepped out in front of him, challenge inherent in every line of her body, her dark eyes glaring at him. He swore inwardly, not in the mood for playing games today, of all days…
It was just one more humiliation, this open trial, so that all the public could watch and gloat. He supposed he should have expected the Weasleys to be here.
“Not today, Weasley,” he said, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, fatigue plain in his voice.
She ignored him, and, red-faced, went in for the attack with as much stubborn ferocity as her brother had ever done. “You bastard! What the hell is your problem?” He winced – she had come dangerously close to shouting at him.
And the High Clan never, ever shouted in anger, or listened to anyone who did – had she actually gone so far as to shout in his face, he would have walked off, despite all the rules of courtesy…
“My problem, Weasley?” he asked softly, hoping to calm her down before anyone noticed.
“Your problem, Malfoy,” she snarled, but softer this time. “Why did you attack Ron like that?”
He stiffened imperceptibly, offended by the reminder of his foolishness. “Because he pissed me off. Why else?”
She checked, her face openly upset for one puzzling moment. Could it be that she had actually… “I thought that you were better than that, Malfoy. I thought that you could control yourself…”
Her disappointment – yes, it was disappointment – rubbed against a raw place in his conscience. “Well, you thought wrong, Weasley.” He turned on his heel to walk off, but her voice stopped him.
“Why Ron?” she asked, quietly, composedly, as if all the unseemly emotion had been banished, as all High Clan scions were taught from the cradle. “Why was it always Ron?” He responded to that dignity, to that seeming indifference, as he would not have responded to shouts, tears and accusations. Turning around, he faced her, saw for the first time the scars left by Tom Riddle, by her experience with the darker side of the wizarding world at such an early, innocent age. She went far, far deeper than was apparent on the surface.
To those eyes, to that scarred innocence, he spoke the plain truth, as he had not for a long, long time. “Because, if he ever had ambition, if he ever stepped beyond Potter’s shadow, he could be dangerous…”
She frowned, incredulous. “Ron?”
His mouth twisted cynically. “Your brother beat McGonagall at chess in his first year – if he were a Slytherin, he would be a threat, but…” he shook his head, “as a Gryffindor, as Potter’s sidekick, he’s a complete waste of the most extraordinary talent I’ve ever seen. And I intend to see he stays that way.”
Shocked, dark eyes flew up to his. “You mean…all the insults, all the put-downs…”
He nodded. “He’s entirely too loyal to Potter. And if he can’t be turned to my own use, I won’t let anyone else have him either – I’d rather break him, destroy his confidence…”
She looked sick. He only smiled bitterly, mirthlessly. “You asked for the truth, Weasley; don’t complain when you get it.”
“You and your Slytherins belittle and despise everything around you, Malfoy,” she breathed, sickened. “Just what does it take to earn your respect?”
His face went completely blank, and silver eyes lifted to hers then, cool and not entirely neutral. “Strength, Weasley. Slytherins and the High Clan respect strength of will, strength of mind, strength of personality…”
Her lips curled into an admirably vicious sneer. “Then why do they respect you?”
He flinched, and he smiled terribly. “Do they?” was all he asked. And then he turned his back on her and walked off.
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She watched him go, puzzled by something that she couldn’t define. Why had he been so upset by that last question? And why had he spoken to her so truthfully – for truth it had been, no matter how repellent.
And why did she feel even the slightest grain of sympathy for him?
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“And may the Gods have mercy on your soul…”
Lucius had had a dream, once, when he’d been very young, and still naïve enough to believe in such things. It had been a simple dream, really – he’d dreamed that he’d been one of the village children, his father a blacksmith, or a farmer, or an innkeeper, and his mother had been an ordinary village woman in an apron with floury hands. He’d had no responsibilities, no expectations, and no ambitions – he was content to live his whole life beyond the Veil, happy with what he had, secure in the knowledge that the Lord up at the Castle would take care of anything the villagers couldn’t handle themselves.
And he married the woman he loved and lived happily ever after.
He wondered if Draco had ever dreamed of similar things.
But the Malfoy blood, and the Covenant that had been sealed in it so many centuries ago, would not allow them such an easy way out. They had taken on responsibility when they first set themselves up as Lords, and so responsibility they would always carry, no matter how heavy or wearing the load…
He put his hands on his son’s shoulders one last time, savouring the feel of Draco’s warmth, of his vitality, of the youth that held so many possibilities, so much promise. This, this splendidly formed man-child, with his clear, bright eyes and his firm, strong limbs and his quicksilver, brilliant mind was his son. His flesh and blood, quickened by some divine spark – it had never before seemed so marvellous.
Some things in this life were sacred. Unfortunately, all too many of them were responsibilities.
In the name of the Clan, of High Clan Malfoy, he put a hand underneath Draco’s chin and turned his eyes up to meet his own, and whispered the last words he would ever speak to his son. “Keep them all safe through the dark times, Draco, and happy during the peaceful times. Remember, the Clan, and the Covenant, above all else – even your own life and freedom.”
Eyes dark, Draco nodded fiercely, and Lucius’ hands tightened on his shoulders in an uncharacteristic show of public affection. “I have taught you everything you need – now you must put it into practice, and stand or fall on your own.” Draco made to speak, but Lucius shook his head. “If you fall, remember that the Game is never, ever over until you are dead; as long as you live there will always be another chance to claw your way back up.”
He bent down, closed his eyes, called upon all his magic, summoned forth the bright, burning warmth of the Covenant, of the sacred trust of Clan Malfoy, and placing his mouth on his son’s, let it pour through him and into Draco, into the new, unMarked, flawless vessel…
Until he was empty, and strangely light, without the burdens he had carried since he was seventeen.
“Remember that I love you, Draco,” he whispered one last time, staring into those solemn, silver eyes for one, last time. He couldn’t be sure, but when he looked back, he thought he saw the new Lord of High Clan Malfoy smile, once, as the Aurors led him away.
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As his father moved out of sight, Draco became aware of three Aurors watching him, their faces unreadable and their eyes veiled. Beside them, watching him just as seriously – if with more malice – were his mother and Nott, no doubt puzzling over the significance of that last kiss. Was it possible they knew what it meant? Narcissa had never taken an interest in the deeper magics of the Malfoy, and Nott was notoriously contemptuous of the old ways and the old order. Of course, that was why he was so powerful – he could be persuasive when he spoke, and his opinions and rhetoric appealed to many within the High Clan, especially those of the younger, less traditionally powerful Clans.
So Lucius had known, and so he had gambled.
They walked over, approaching him warily, keeping close to the Aurors as if their presence could keep them safe if Draco decided to do something reckless. For their part, the Aurors looked a little uncomfortable themselves, mainly because they felt it a little tactless to be doing this to Draco so soon after his father’s conviction, but they had their orders. And if that meant that they had to work with the convicted man’s wife and her lover – who had clearly conspired to bring him down – then that was what they would do. But it didn’t mean they had to like it…
As well as the three Aurors, Dane Harcourt and the Minister, Cornelius Fudge, also made their way to Draco’s side. Harcourt was unreadable, but seemed a little uncomfortable and reluctant. This was, after all, a very big step, interfering with the ancient sovereignty of the Malfoy land… Fudge only looked extremely self-satisfied.
Nott smiled at Draco, a horribly insincere smile, sympathetic and understanding, and all the more disturbing for it. He put a hand on his shoulder, as Lucius had just done, but unlike Lucius it was not in the least fatherly. “Come on Draco, let’s go home…”
Draco stiffened under that hand, and drew himself away, taking a very obvious step back. Nott’s smile faded, and Narcissa looked faintly anxious – he thought he saw Harcourt’s mouth flatten in distaste. And then a very welcome voice came from behind him, wiping the smile right off his almost-stepfather’s face.
“My dear boy,” Snape purred, “I’ve been looking all over for you. Are you ready to go?”
“Oh?” Nott’s eyebrows went up in a poor imitation of Lucius. “And where are you going?”
Snape smiled blandly. “Diagon Alley,” he purred. “As Draco’s guardian, it is my responsibility to ensure he has everything he needs for school next year…”
Narcissa regained her composure, and her wits. “My dear Severus,” she cooed, turning her huge blue eyes on him, to no discernable effect. “Surely you misunderstand…Draco and Alexander and I, we are going home now.”
Almost involuntarily, Draco moved closer to Snape. “I do need my school supplies,” he said innocently.
Nott looked surprised. “So soon after your father’s trial? Surely it could wait a while longer…”
Fudge, not fond of being ignored, and a little disturbed by the ancient undercurrents he could only just sense, cleared his throat self-importantly. “I am afraid,” he began, pompous as always, “that there is something that can’t wait…”
Turning the full force of his black, sardonic eyes on Fudge, Snape raised an awful eyebrow. Watching Nott, Draco could almost sense the malicious satisfaction he could hardly contain.
“Because your father has been convicted of Death Eater activities, the Ministry now has the right to search the premises of Malfoy Manor for any forbidden magical artefacts…”
Harcourt looked at the very lack of expression on Draco’s face, and turned his eyes back to Fudge, wondering now, as he had done countless times before, just how a man could be so wilfully blind.
“By all means, Minister,” said Nott. “We would be happy to allow a team of Aurors and experts free run of the Manor, won’t we darling?” He turned to Narcissa, who simpered and smiled brilliantly at Fudge. “Only say the word, and we’ll be happy to oblige you…”
Fudge’s smile was supremely satisfied, as he indicated the three Aurors and Dane Harcourt. “We have the warrant already, and are ready to begin searching right now, actually.” He beamed at them. “If that’s all right with you…”
Despite his show of carefully concealed consternation, Nott was not in the least put out. “Of course.” He turned to them all, and to Snape, who had shown no signs of leaving, and held out an ancient ring-brooch, worn smooth with the touch of countless hands. “If you’ll all lay hand on this…”
They all touched the Portkey, and there was a dizzying, disorienting rush, and then they emerged, blinking, in the forest very near to the edge of a high, abrupt cliff. And, shimmering in the air like a heat haze, a step over the edge of the cliff, was the fabled Veil that separated Malfoy land from the rest of Britain that had kept the Clan and their people safe for two and a half thousand years.
“Open it,” Nott said to Draco, eager to go back beyond the safety and the symbolism of the Veil.
Draco looked at him…and smiled.
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Since Brandon Malfoy had first created the Veil so many long centuries ago, only those who were part of the Malfoy Covenant – that is, those who took the Blood that the Malfoy shared on Midsummer, and shared their own in return – had been able to open the Veil and move freely between the Outside world and the land Beyond the Veil. In effect, this meant that only those of Malfoy blood, or those who had been born and bred beyond the Veil, could ever open it. To all others it was impenetrable…
Narcissa had found the whole idea of a blood Covenant frankly distasteful and had refused to participate in the Midsummer rituals, and the others, Snape and Nott and Harcourt, were all Clan Lords, to whom sharing blood with Malfoy would have meant swearing allegiance. And so, out of all those gathered on the edge of the cliff, only Draco was able to open the Veil and provide the Ministry search party entrance. Somehow, the idea that he wouldn’t cooperate hadn’t occurred to Nott or Fudge – until now, when he had smiled so tauntingly.
Because whoever held the land beyond the Veil, whoever occupied the Castle, ancient, symbolic stronghold that it was, had access to the Malfoy power base – their practical power, and the power of their myth, of their reputation. And, even more importantly, they had access to the Malfoy Grove…and that was no myth, but very real, and very potent magic. Draco was adamant that Nott and Narcissa would not get their hands on any of it, and nor would the Ministry, even if it did come in the person of Dane Harcourt, who at least seemed to know what it was he tampered with. No one – no one – would fulfil their ambitions at the Malfoy’s expense, by moving in when Lucius was gone and the new Lord was a fifteen year old boy, when it seemed they were at their most vulnerable and fragile.
Such was the purpose of the Veil. Unless Draco, or someone else who had shared Malfoy blood, opened the way, no one would get in. And since, especially in these troubled times, most of those able to open the Veil were gathered beyond it, and those who weren’t were too loyal – or too afraid – to go against the express wishes of the Lord, Draco had only to refuse to open it, and the people and possessions Lucius had moved onto Malfoy land would be safe.
Until someone turned traitor – but he would deal with that if and when it became an issue.
Watching them all, pompous and puffed-up Fudge, insincere, ruthless Nott and vicious Narcissa, quiet, composed Harcourt and sardonic, protective Snape, Draco laughed inwardly as he thanked his ancestor’s ancient foresight, and his father’s more recent planning.
“No,” he said.
There was a beat of silence – and then the consternation set in.
Fudge snarled at him, blustering and threatening, in his ineffectual way, but Harcourt touched his shoulder, bent down and whispered in his ear – no doubt warning him of the consequences of pushing too far, too fast, and of alienating the High Clan (for surely he had already alienated the Malfoy far enough) when he had no real need to. There would be another day…
Nott, in his frustration, thwarted by a mere weakling, felt a mindless urge to enraged violence stirring, rising – but then caught Snape’s eye, and subsided. Wretched, almost powerless professor that he was, Snape was nevertheless the premier Potions Master in Britain, and a powerful wizard in his own right – there was also the small matter of the cruelty and inventiveness he had honed so exquisitely as one of the Dark Lord’s Inquisitors…
Not a man you wanted as an enemy. But exactly the sort of protector that Malfoy would choose for his son – strong enough to look after him, but not strong enough to reshape him, or to oust him and take control for himself…
And besides, there was nothing that he could do. Until and unless he found someone else who could open it for him, the Veil would remain closed, and all that power, all that history, all that magic, would be beyond his reach. And so would Draco, ensconced at Hogwarts with the godsdamned Potions Master and that fool Dumbledore, laughing at him for all the effort he had put into wooing Narcissa, the ice-cold, treacherous whore…
Well, Malfoy had won this round. But could he win the Game?
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The word went out, after that, that Draco Malfoy had denied Fudge and Nott entry beyond the Veil – had denied everyone entry – and those who had previously denigrated him as a weakling, as his father’s puppet, were moved to reconsider. Well, this plan had all the hallmarks of Lucius’ planning, but truly, Draco had carried it out without his father’s support…
Perhaps there was more to him than was apparent at first glance. Perhaps, if they weren’t careful, and if they didn’t take action, he might grow into something dangerous…
But as long as he remained under Snape’s protection, under Dumbledore’s nose, they could not move directly against him.
So they would be indirect.
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