CHAPTER 7
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The incessant dripping was enough to drive anyone mad, but that, he had found, was not the worst thing about Azkaban. The wailing and weeping of the long-term inhabitants, those who had been there for years, who had been abandoned and forgotten, was enough to give him nightmares, to drive him out of his head with the sheer mind-numbing helplessness of it all, the despair and the hopelessness.
But even that could be ignored, were it not for the whispering, the plotting, the endless footsteps he could hear in his dreams – the inexorable footprints of his executioner, the arbiter of Voldemort’s displeasure and his final punishment…
It would come one day, one night, in dreams or in waking – he knew it, he could feel it in his bones. But the question was – would he be there, waiting calmly and fatalistically for his death?
Or did Lucius Malfoy still have one last Game to play…
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Lips curving, he settled himself down, closed his eyes, blocked out the dripping and the screaming, and sustained himself – for now – on memories of another time, another place, and another life.
**************************************************
A circle of black-robed, masked figures thronged around a single focal point – a throne-like chair, and in it Abomination. A thing that had been human, once, long ago, before ambition and hatred had twisted it, before it had been corrupted beyond anything natural or even recognisable.
Alexander Nott’s flesh crawled at the sight, but he fought down the instinctive revulsion and told himself – as he had told himself so many times before – that it was worth it. That if he could only hold on long enough, gain enough power through serving this monster, he would be able to make it on his own…
He refused to acknowledge that Malfoy had tried to play the same game, and had lost. He could hold on, where Malfoy had lost control, he could stomach what Malfoy could not. He would be strong, where Malfoy had been weak – and therefore he would succeed where Lucius Malfoy, brilliant and golden, had failed.
Standing at Voldemort’s right hand, in the place that had, ever since he had first joined, belonged to Malfoy, he had the satisfaction of seeing the first of his many plans and ambitions put into action.
“Severus Snape,” came the hissing, horrible voice, calling the other man into the circle. “My dear Inquisitor – come closer, where I can see you clearly…” There was a horrifying note of amusement, of terrible glee in that voice, and Nott, standing behind him and to the right, could feel his blood chill even as his heart began to pump triumphantly.
Snape, tall and thin and disdainful, advanced into the centre of the clearing, dropped to knee and bowed his head, reaching out to kiss the hem of the Dark Lord’s robes. “My Lord…”
A pasty white, scaly hand reached out and caressed Snape’s chin, forcing his head up, forcing the mask off, until those rich, dark eyes were looking straight into Voldemort’s, and Nott could see straight into their clear, completely impassive depths. Reluctantly, he admired that steady gaze – Severus had always had balls, no matter what else he had lacked. “I hear that Malfoy has been put out of the picture, Severus…”
Snape remained completely neutral, despite what had to be terrible strain and pressure on his neck; despite the fingers biting so hard into the underside of his jaw they drew blood. Before his eyes, he could see Snape actually assume the persona of the Potions Master, the Chief Inquisitor…
“He has been sent to Azkaban, my Lord,” he said steadily, indifferently stating what every person there in the clearing knew.
“And his son? What of him?” Watching intently, Nott could hear Pettigrew’s mad giggling in the stillness of the night, feel the detached curiosity of the watching Death Eaters, watching interestedly as the predator closed in on his prey, supremely indifferent to the outcome. It was a scenario that they had all seen played out, in various circumstances, time and time again.
Snape paused, seemed almost hypnotised by those red, horribly sane eyes. “I have assumed guardianship of Draco, Lord,” he said clearly.
“Is that so.” The Dark Lord smiled horribly, and Nott’s heartbeat sped up until he could hear it drumming in his ears. Here it came…
“And how did you gain custody of the traitor’s precious son, Severus?”
Snape stilled, visibly stopped himself from flinching. Inside, Nott was almost howling with glee. Oh, watch darling Severus with his ancient pedigree and his disdainful sneer talk his way out of this one…
“Oh, yes,” Voldemort crooned, “Nott has been telling us about the bargain Malfoy made with the Ministry.” Briefly, Snape’s eyes flicked to him – he smiled a special smile, a triumphant smile he had been looking forward to for a long, long time. Voldemort continued. “And now, tell me, dear Severus, if you can, why Lucius Malfoy, who signed his own death warrant by turning against us, would then turn around and gift you, my most loyal Inquisitor, with custody of his beloved only son, his most precious Heir?”
The air quivered with expectancy, with awful intensity. Somehow, somewhere, to Nott’s disbelief and reluctant admiration, Snape found the strength to keep his face and his thoughts impassive, to resist Voldemort’s probing eyes.
And then he flicked his eyes back to Nott’s, and smiled…
*********************************************
Afterwards, after Snape had screamed himself hoarse and had exhausted his voice even further spinning his story of playing triple agent, playing spy for both sides and for Malfoy as well, and of using his childhood friendship with Malfoy to gain his trust, the amusement ended and the meeting broke up. Nott walked up behind the battered Potions Master, noting how slowly he moved and how deeply the lines on his face were graven.
Even the fierce, clear black eyes were clouded – but there was still enough life in him to glare viciously at Nott as he drew abreast and offered an arm in support. Pointedly, he refused and straightened himself out alone.
Nott smiled congenially as he spoke, withdrawing his offered hand. “That was a very nice story you spun for us there, Snape. It was almost convincing…”
Scowling, Snape refused to grant him an answer, and went to brush past him. Nott caught his arm and detained him, swinging him around for a face-to-face confrontation. Lowering his voice, he said, “Let them fall, man. Let the Malfoy fall, and let the world carry on as it always does. It won’t matter in the end…”
Snape snarled and shook him off, but Nott refused to let it go. “Why did you take on Malfoy’s burdens, Snape? It’s not worth it – don’t you have enough to carry on your own?”
Finally, he stopped and looked at Alexander Nott, at the man who wanted to dominate the High Clan, to take on the position that the Malfoy had occupied for so long. He only shook his head. “If you can’t understand, Nott, then I can’t explain it to you…”
And then he walked off.
Watching him go, Nott remembered his days at Hogwarts, looking after this same man walking off, with Lucius Malfoy and Brandon Avery and Rayden Lestrange, after one remark after another explaining that he didn’t understand, that he couldn’t understand, that he would never understand.
Because he was not one of them.
Oh, he was High Clan; the Notts had been part of the High Clan since they came over with the Conqueror. But that was not enough, because he was not one of them. He was not one of “The Thirteen”, the oldest, most powerful Clans, who could trace direct descent back to Brandon Malfoy and his twelve Companions. People talked of prejudice in the wizarding world, of the deep divisions between the High Clan and the rest of society. But they didn’t talk of the divides within the High Clan itself, of the great gulf between the Thirteen and the rest of the Clans, between the oldest and the newer, less traditional Clans, and even, farther in, the divisions among the Thirteen themselves.
It wasn’t spoken of, really, but by the Lady, the prejudice was real, and it was tangible, and it infuriated him.
He understood all right, he understood that Severus Snape – the real Severus Snape – had no liking for such games and was by no means a webspinner of the calibre necessary to pull off the elaborate scheme he had outlined to Voldemort tonight. He understood that there was something very shady going on with Snape’s involvement with Dumbledore – although surely the man would not be foolish enough to be wholly committed to the old man’s cause? And he understood that, no matter what the circumstances, Severus Snape would never, ever turn on Lucius Malfoy.
Because the Malfoy were Slytherin’s Golden Children, the centre and the balance of the High Clan, and their light and the love they inspired cast an enchantment stronger than any magic imaginable on the minds and hearts of everyone unlucky enough to experience it. They burned so brightly that fools like Snape would do absolutely anything for them, for a chance to share in that light…
He wondered if Severus thought that Draco would ever turn that love and light onto him.
**************************************************
The next day they watched him through the staffroom window as he walked, desultorily, in the gardens, his hands shoved into his pockets and his shoulders hunched, his pale hair and skin making him look almost like a wraith, lost and haunted, keeping an eternal vigil over lands that lay far to the south-west. Every morning, he stood there, in the same place, looking out in the same direction – towards the Veil and the land he had deliberately exiled from the rest of the world.
And ever since he had first come to Hogwarts, some three weeks ago, they had watched over him, watched him become more and more withdrawn, more and more removed from the boy he had once been. In some ways that was good – he had manners now, had dropped the sneering and the taunting insolence – but it was somehow disturbing, to watch all that energy diminish, all the spirit fade, and witness him falling deeper and deeper into apathy.
Concerned, Minerva McGonagall turned towards Severus, who was leaning against the windowsill, sipping tea, and watching Draco through faintly narrowed eyes. She noticed – although he made it clear that he did not want to discuss it – that Snape was moving more carefully today, that he clutched the tea cup with both hands, and even so every now and then the cup shook with imperceptible, invisible tremors. He hid it from them, but not as thoroughly as he had concealed it from Draco at the breakfast table. Why didn’t he want the boy to know? Was it pride, or was it something deeper than that? She knew just how close he and Lucius had been…
And so it had come as no surprise to her when she heard he had taken custody of Draco. What did surprise her was the way he had chosen to exercise it – why he had brought the boy here and had let him mope, let him feel sorry for himself, when she was certain most High Clan – Snape included – would look on such behaviour as foolish weakness.
If Draco Malfoy, motivated and determined, were to come over to the Order, bringing all of his strength and all of his considerable drive, and all of the weight of the Malfoy name – just think of what they could do… But they had been over this before, and would doubtless discuss it again – but what else were they to think, when he bought the boy here, of all places?
Catching her eye, reading her thoughts easily, Severus gave her a twisted smile and shook his head. “You know how devoted I am to the Order, Minerva, and how far I will go for it, but this is not about me. It’s not my decision, or even my business. I am a shield and a mentor, and despite what authority I have on paper, I have no right,” he shook his head as she opened her mouth to protest, “no right at all to impose my will on the Lord of the Malfoy.”
“I thought you were his Guardian?” she asked acerbically, still unwilling to accept this, this half measure of authority.
He raised an eyebrow. “I am. But that only means I guard him, and offer my advice if it is needed, whether he will listen or not. Authority over him?” he laughed shortly, “I am not his father, or even of Malfoy blood, to control him if he chooses to run counter to my will…”
“Besides,” he said, “I have not the strength.”
She looked down to the ghostly, frail figure in the gardens, and raised a brow.
Slowly, he shook his head. “He is mourning, now, mourning his father and the end of his innocence, but once he comes out of it, once he comes back to life…” slowly, almost reminiscently, he smiled, “he will burn, by the Lady, he will shine with all the light of the world…”
She was less than impressed – she had seen how Lucius had burned, and how he had turned out. “And what will he do, once he comes back to life? Will he stand with us?”
He turned back to her, and the light – the faith – in his eyes slowly faded. “If he wishes to.”
“And if he wishes not to?” she asked, exasperated at his descent into mysticism.
“Then he will go another way.” Snape shrugged, supremely fatalistic.
Suddenly, she eyed him suspiciously – but no, he was not winding her up. He was completely sincere. “How do you propose that we get him on our side, then?”
Snape sighed – they had also been over this before. Before he could speak, Dumbledore’s voice came from the doorway. “Mr. Malfoy’s case is…unusual. No doubt, normally he would choose the side which he thought would give him the greatest advantage, as so many High Clan scions did…”
Involuntarily, Snape winced. Albus noticed and made an apologetic gesture, briefly touching him on the shoulder. “However, in this case it is a little more…complicated than that. After Lucius told us everything he knew, the Death Eaters will be intent on the Malfoy’s destruction – however, the Ministry will be little better in their search for ‘justice’…”
“And while we might be against Voldemort, we don’t necessary support Fudge and the Ministry, if he is inclined to appreciate such a distinction,” Minerva offered, thoughtfully.
Albus cleared his throat. “There is also the matter of…Mr. Potter…”
Minerva snorted. “If Severus can learn to cooperate with Black, then Malfoy can learn to work with Potter.”
Severus shook his head. Running a hand through his hair, he closed his eyes wearily and sighed, showing that he was not as blasé about this as he pretended. It looked as if he had not slept for days, and traces of pain, stress, and, yes, even a deep sorrow were all too visible, if you knew how to look. “The strange thing about the Malfoy, my dear Minerva,” he looked up at her, bitterly amused, “is that they have a tendency – despite their pragmatism and their patience – to possess very strong emotions, and, even worse, sometimes they let those emotions influence them…”
“What are you saying?” she asked sharply, alarmed by his tone.
“I’m saying that Draco is fragile right now, and thus more likely to be thinking with his instincts and emotions than his head. He’s been taught, thoroughly, to control that, but he isn’t thinking clearly – he’s lost his balance, is reacting, controlled by events, instead of the other way around. He’s in no state to make any important decisions – and those he does make will be based on flawed reasoning.”
“I thought that High Clan scions thought of that as weakness,” Albus teased.
One corner of his mouth curled up sardonically. “It is,” he said dryly. “And that’s why Lucius gave him me. Because right now, he’s at his most vulnerable, and he needs someone to help him get through it – I could shock him out of his grief early and force him to take control before he’s ready, but that could break him.”
The smile turned bitter. “And, as Lucius knew, I would never risk breaking him…”
Albus’ eyes were dark with compassion, dark with understanding as he saw how one man’s love could be manipulated, could be turned into a chain stronger than any curse, than any compulsion. Oh, in his determination to protect his son, Lucius had spared no cruelty – Severus’ love for father and son was as double-edged as everything else in this world was.
But the offer had been made, and Severus had accepted it willingly and freely, well aware of the price he would pay.
Draco Malfoy’s guardian lifted his head and stared at them both with intent, fierce dark eyes. “He will make his own decision, and will be allowed to abide by it.”
Albus and Minerva exchanged glances, but made no promises.
********************************************
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The incessant dripping was enough to drive anyone mad, but that, he had found, was not the worst thing about Azkaban. The wailing and weeping of the long-term inhabitants, those who had been there for years, who had been abandoned and forgotten, was enough to give him nightmares, to drive him out of his head with the sheer mind-numbing helplessness of it all, the despair and the hopelessness.
But even that could be ignored, were it not for the whispering, the plotting, the endless footsteps he could hear in his dreams – the inexorable footprints of his executioner, the arbiter of Voldemort’s displeasure and his final punishment…
It would come one day, one night, in dreams or in waking – he knew it, he could feel it in his bones. But the question was – would he be there, waiting calmly and fatalistically for his death?
Or did Lucius Malfoy still have one last Game to play…
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Lips curving, he settled himself down, closed his eyes, blocked out the dripping and the screaming, and sustained himself – for now – on memories of another time, another place, and another life.
**************************************************
A circle of black-robed, masked figures thronged around a single focal point – a throne-like chair, and in it Abomination. A thing that had been human, once, long ago, before ambition and hatred had twisted it, before it had been corrupted beyond anything natural or even recognisable.
Alexander Nott’s flesh crawled at the sight, but he fought down the instinctive revulsion and told himself – as he had told himself so many times before – that it was worth it. That if he could only hold on long enough, gain enough power through serving this monster, he would be able to make it on his own…
He refused to acknowledge that Malfoy had tried to play the same game, and had lost. He could hold on, where Malfoy had lost control, he could stomach what Malfoy could not. He would be strong, where Malfoy had been weak – and therefore he would succeed where Lucius Malfoy, brilliant and golden, had failed.
Standing at Voldemort’s right hand, in the place that had, ever since he had first joined, belonged to Malfoy, he had the satisfaction of seeing the first of his many plans and ambitions put into action.
“Severus Snape,” came the hissing, horrible voice, calling the other man into the circle. “My dear Inquisitor – come closer, where I can see you clearly…” There was a horrifying note of amusement, of terrible glee in that voice, and Nott, standing behind him and to the right, could feel his blood chill even as his heart began to pump triumphantly.
Snape, tall and thin and disdainful, advanced into the centre of the clearing, dropped to knee and bowed his head, reaching out to kiss the hem of the Dark Lord’s robes. “My Lord…”
A pasty white, scaly hand reached out and caressed Snape’s chin, forcing his head up, forcing the mask off, until those rich, dark eyes were looking straight into Voldemort’s, and Nott could see straight into their clear, completely impassive depths. Reluctantly, he admired that steady gaze – Severus had always had balls, no matter what else he had lacked. “I hear that Malfoy has been put out of the picture, Severus…”
Snape remained completely neutral, despite what had to be terrible strain and pressure on his neck; despite the fingers biting so hard into the underside of his jaw they drew blood. Before his eyes, he could see Snape actually assume the persona of the Potions Master, the Chief Inquisitor…
“He has been sent to Azkaban, my Lord,” he said steadily, indifferently stating what every person there in the clearing knew.
“And his son? What of him?” Watching intently, Nott could hear Pettigrew’s mad giggling in the stillness of the night, feel the detached curiosity of the watching Death Eaters, watching interestedly as the predator closed in on his prey, supremely indifferent to the outcome. It was a scenario that they had all seen played out, in various circumstances, time and time again.
Snape paused, seemed almost hypnotised by those red, horribly sane eyes. “I have assumed guardianship of Draco, Lord,” he said clearly.
“Is that so.” The Dark Lord smiled horribly, and Nott’s heartbeat sped up until he could hear it drumming in his ears. Here it came…
“And how did you gain custody of the traitor’s precious son, Severus?”
Snape stilled, visibly stopped himself from flinching. Inside, Nott was almost howling with glee. Oh, watch darling Severus with his ancient pedigree and his disdainful sneer talk his way out of this one…
“Oh, yes,” Voldemort crooned, “Nott has been telling us about the bargain Malfoy made with the Ministry.” Briefly, Snape’s eyes flicked to him – he smiled a special smile, a triumphant smile he had been looking forward to for a long, long time. Voldemort continued. “And now, tell me, dear Severus, if you can, why Lucius Malfoy, who signed his own death warrant by turning against us, would then turn around and gift you, my most loyal Inquisitor, with custody of his beloved only son, his most precious Heir?”
The air quivered with expectancy, with awful intensity. Somehow, somewhere, to Nott’s disbelief and reluctant admiration, Snape found the strength to keep his face and his thoughts impassive, to resist Voldemort’s probing eyes.
And then he flicked his eyes back to Nott’s, and smiled…
*********************************************
Afterwards, after Snape had screamed himself hoarse and had exhausted his voice even further spinning his story of playing triple agent, playing spy for both sides and for Malfoy as well, and of using his childhood friendship with Malfoy to gain his trust, the amusement ended and the meeting broke up. Nott walked up behind the battered Potions Master, noting how slowly he moved and how deeply the lines on his face were graven.
Even the fierce, clear black eyes were clouded – but there was still enough life in him to glare viciously at Nott as he drew abreast and offered an arm in support. Pointedly, he refused and straightened himself out alone.
Nott smiled congenially as he spoke, withdrawing his offered hand. “That was a very nice story you spun for us there, Snape. It was almost convincing…”
Scowling, Snape refused to grant him an answer, and went to brush past him. Nott caught his arm and detained him, swinging him around for a face-to-face confrontation. Lowering his voice, he said, “Let them fall, man. Let the Malfoy fall, and let the world carry on as it always does. It won’t matter in the end…”
Snape snarled and shook him off, but Nott refused to let it go. “Why did you take on Malfoy’s burdens, Snape? It’s not worth it – don’t you have enough to carry on your own?”
Finally, he stopped and looked at Alexander Nott, at the man who wanted to dominate the High Clan, to take on the position that the Malfoy had occupied for so long. He only shook his head. “If you can’t understand, Nott, then I can’t explain it to you…”
And then he walked off.
Watching him go, Nott remembered his days at Hogwarts, looking after this same man walking off, with Lucius Malfoy and Brandon Avery and Rayden Lestrange, after one remark after another explaining that he didn’t understand, that he couldn’t understand, that he would never understand.
Because he was not one of them.
Oh, he was High Clan; the Notts had been part of the High Clan since they came over with the Conqueror. But that was not enough, because he was not one of them. He was not one of “The Thirteen”, the oldest, most powerful Clans, who could trace direct descent back to Brandon Malfoy and his twelve Companions. People talked of prejudice in the wizarding world, of the deep divisions between the High Clan and the rest of society. But they didn’t talk of the divides within the High Clan itself, of the great gulf between the Thirteen and the rest of the Clans, between the oldest and the newer, less traditional Clans, and even, farther in, the divisions among the Thirteen themselves.
It wasn’t spoken of, really, but by the Lady, the prejudice was real, and it was tangible, and it infuriated him.
He understood all right, he understood that Severus Snape – the real Severus Snape – had no liking for such games and was by no means a webspinner of the calibre necessary to pull off the elaborate scheme he had outlined to Voldemort tonight. He understood that there was something very shady going on with Snape’s involvement with Dumbledore – although surely the man would not be foolish enough to be wholly committed to the old man’s cause? And he understood that, no matter what the circumstances, Severus Snape would never, ever turn on Lucius Malfoy.
Because the Malfoy were Slytherin’s Golden Children, the centre and the balance of the High Clan, and their light and the love they inspired cast an enchantment stronger than any magic imaginable on the minds and hearts of everyone unlucky enough to experience it. They burned so brightly that fools like Snape would do absolutely anything for them, for a chance to share in that light…
He wondered if Severus thought that Draco would ever turn that love and light onto him.
**************************************************
The next day they watched him through the staffroom window as he walked, desultorily, in the gardens, his hands shoved into his pockets and his shoulders hunched, his pale hair and skin making him look almost like a wraith, lost and haunted, keeping an eternal vigil over lands that lay far to the south-west. Every morning, he stood there, in the same place, looking out in the same direction – towards the Veil and the land he had deliberately exiled from the rest of the world.
And ever since he had first come to Hogwarts, some three weeks ago, they had watched over him, watched him become more and more withdrawn, more and more removed from the boy he had once been. In some ways that was good – he had manners now, had dropped the sneering and the taunting insolence – but it was somehow disturbing, to watch all that energy diminish, all the spirit fade, and witness him falling deeper and deeper into apathy.
Concerned, Minerva McGonagall turned towards Severus, who was leaning against the windowsill, sipping tea, and watching Draco through faintly narrowed eyes. She noticed – although he made it clear that he did not want to discuss it – that Snape was moving more carefully today, that he clutched the tea cup with both hands, and even so every now and then the cup shook with imperceptible, invisible tremors. He hid it from them, but not as thoroughly as he had concealed it from Draco at the breakfast table. Why didn’t he want the boy to know? Was it pride, or was it something deeper than that? She knew just how close he and Lucius had been…
And so it had come as no surprise to her when she heard he had taken custody of Draco. What did surprise her was the way he had chosen to exercise it – why he had brought the boy here and had let him mope, let him feel sorry for himself, when she was certain most High Clan – Snape included – would look on such behaviour as foolish weakness.
If Draco Malfoy, motivated and determined, were to come over to the Order, bringing all of his strength and all of his considerable drive, and all of the weight of the Malfoy name – just think of what they could do… But they had been over this before, and would doubtless discuss it again – but what else were they to think, when he bought the boy here, of all places?
Catching her eye, reading her thoughts easily, Severus gave her a twisted smile and shook his head. “You know how devoted I am to the Order, Minerva, and how far I will go for it, but this is not about me. It’s not my decision, or even my business. I am a shield and a mentor, and despite what authority I have on paper, I have no right,” he shook his head as she opened her mouth to protest, “no right at all to impose my will on the Lord of the Malfoy.”
“I thought you were his Guardian?” she asked acerbically, still unwilling to accept this, this half measure of authority.
He raised an eyebrow. “I am. But that only means I guard him, and offer my advice if it is needed, whether he will listen or not. Authority over him?” he laughed shortly, “I am not his father, or even of Malfoy blood, to control him if he chooses to run counter to my will…”
“Besides,” he said, “I have not the strength.”
She looked down to the ghostly, frail figure in the gardens, and raised a brow.
Slowly, he shook his head. “He is mourning, now, mourning his father and the end of his innocence, but once he comes out of it, once he comes back to life…” slowly, almost reminiscently, he smiled, “he will burn, by the Lady, he will shine with all the light of the world…”
She was less than impressed – she had seen how Lucius had burned, and how he had turned out. “And what will he do, once he comes back to life? Will he stand with us?”
He turned back to her, and the light – the faith – in his eyes slowly faded. “If he wishes to.”
“And if he wishes not to?” she asked, exasperated at his descent into mysticism.
“Then he will go another way.” Snape shrugged, supremely fatalistic.
Suddenly, she eyed him suspiciously – but no, he was not winding her up. He was completely sincere. “How do you propose that we get him on our side, then?”
Snape sighed – they had also been over this before. Before he could speak, Dumbledore’s voice came from the doorway. “Mr. Malfoy’s case is…unusual. No doubt, normally he would choose the side which he thought would give him the greatest advantage, as so many High Clan scions did…”
Involuntarily, Snape winced. Albus noticed and made an apologetic gesture, briefly touching him on the shoulder. “However, in this case it is a little more…complicated than that. After Lucius told us everything he knew, the Death Eaters will be intent on the Malfoy’s destruction – however, the Ministry will be little better in their search for ‘justice’…”
“And while we might be against Voldemort, we don’t necessary support Fudge and the Ministry, if he is inclined to appreciate such a distinction,” Minerva offered, thoughtfully.
Albus cleared his throat. “There is also the matter of…Mr. Potter…”
Minerva snorted. “If Severus can learn to cooperate with Black, then Malfoy can learn to work with Potter.”
Severus shook his head. Running a hand through his hair, he closed his eyes wearily and sighed, showing that he was not as blasé about this as he pretended. It looked as if he had not slept for days, and traces of pain, stress, and, yes, even a deep sorrow were all too visible, if you knew how to look. “The strange thing about the Malfoy, my dear Minerva,” he looked up at her, bitterly amused, “is that they have a tendency – despite their pragmatism and their patience – to possess very strong emotions, and, even worse, sometimes they let those emotions influence them…”
“What are you saying?” she asked sharply, alarmed by his tone.
“I’m saying that Draco is fragile right now, and thus more likely to be thinking with his instincts and emotions than his head. He’s been taught, thoroughly, to control that, but he isn’t thinking clearly – he’s lost his balance, is reacting, controlled by events, instead of the other way around. He’s in no state to make any important decisions – and those he does make will be based on flawed reasoning.”
“I thought that High Clan scions thought of that as weakness,” Albus teased.
One corner of his mouth curled up sardonically. “It is,” he said dryly. “And that’s why Lucius gave him me. Because right now, he’s at his most vulnerable, and he needs someone to help him get through it – I could shock him out of his grief early and force him to take control before he’s ready, but that could break him.”
The smile turned bitter. “And, as Lucius knew, I would never risk breaking him…”
Albus’ eyes were dark with compassion, dark with understanding as he saw how one man’s love could be manipulated, could be turned into a chain stronger than any curse, than any compulsion. Oh, in his determination to protect his son, Lucius had spared no cruelty – Severus’ love for father and son was as double-edged as everything else in this world was.
But the offer had been made, and Severus had accepted it willingly and freely, well aware of the price he would pay.
Draco Malfoy’s guardian lifted his head and stared at them both with intent, fierce dark eyes. “He will make his own decision, and will be allowed to abide by it.”
Albus and Minerva exchanged glances, but made no promises.
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