Chapter 8
Finally, he knew that he couldn’t feign sleep any longer, and that he would have to wake up and face the day, and everything that would come with it.
Like the rest of the students, returning to Hogwarts for the first day of school. Like the Slytherins, returning to Hogwarts for the beginning of one of the most desperate and vicious power struggles the High Clan had ever seen.
Like the Weasleys, to whom, whether he liked it or not, he owed a very great debt.
He wasn’t sure whether he was more reluctant to face the Slytherins or the Weasleys…
Unfortunately, he was too much the pragmatist to think that he could in any way avoid what was coming. Such wishful thinking was for idealistic Gryffindors and naïve Hufflepuffs – and Draco Malfoy, whatever else he was, was neither naïve nor idealistic…
One could not afford to be either, in this world, in these times.
And so he dragged himself out of bed, out of the rich, four-poster bed hung with tapestry drapery and fitted with sinfully expensive, crisp linen sheets redolent of sandalwood – one of the benefits of his prefect’s badge and his father’s money – and staggered into the bathroom, clad only in black silk pyjama bottoms.
His body – pale, lean and smooth – gleamed dully in the half-light of the dungeons and the pre-dawn, and his face was a pale blur in the mirror, framed by thick white hair reaching almost to his shoulders that he had yet to cut since his father’s imprisonment. Perhaps he enjoyed the melodrama of such a statement…
But he didn’t spare a glance at the body he had worn for fifteen years. He was familiar with it, confident of it, and took for granted – with all the supreme arrogance of youth – that it would never let him down. No, this morning, Draco looked into his own eyes in the mirror, into the silver eyes that marked the scions of Clan Malfoy, and wandered what, exactly, others would see there.
Because all he saw were his own doubts, his own fears reflected back at him…
Was there any strength in the pale stranger he watched so closely? Anything remarkable, as they said marked the visages of the great heroes of old, to mark him as anything more than he had pretended to be for most of his life? Was there anything lurking deep inside those eyes that would stop others from seeing straight through him into the doubts, into the hesitation and the pretences…
Happily, melancholy had never been too large a part of his makeup; with a scowl, he dunked his head under ice-cold water and banished – for today at least – any inclination towards self-pity.
What would come would come. And he would be ready for it, because there was no one else, this time, to face it for him.
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It seemed strange, somehow, to think that there were only two Weasley children left, living at the Burrow – of course, her elder brothers Bill and Charlie had moved out long ago, and Percy as soon as he had graduated, but somehow she had always thought that Fred and George would never leave home.
She had also thought that they would never grow up – so far, she had been right in that, at least.
But now that only she and Ron were left out of all the seven Weasley children, it was a very strange feeling. The house seemed empty, although it was still as small and cluttered as ever; and life seemed…flatter, if a little more peaceful.
But to think of these times as peaceful…
She had only to look at Ron to see just how peaceful they were.
He had been released from hospital a few weeks ago, and had been declared fit enough to return to Hogwarts, but he was still weak, still a little shaky. In his anger, Malfoy had come so very near to causing Ron irreparable harm – any more force and he might have killed him – over a commonplace, quite frankly pitiable insult that he would not have turned a hair at, before his father had been arrested. And that was the most incomprehensible thing of all – his answer to her question.
Because he pissed me off, Weasley.
That was not, and never had been, enough justification to almost kill a man in public. Not even for the High Clan. It had been, more than anything, a sign of his discomposure, of his…of his fear.
And it was not an indication that was going to go away any time soon, either. Because too many people had witnessed it. Because incidents like that were like catalysts, changing the whole fabric of perception and reality, painting the way a man is seen throughout history and beyond.
Draco Malfoy, they would say, once let a Weasley get so under his skin – gave his words so much importance – that he tried to strangle him in public and had to be torn away from him, and in doing so, put himself and the Malfoy into the Weasleys’ debt…
Even if her father did not know or did not care, Ginny intended to make sure that she collected. Every last bit of it…
“Are you ready yet, Ginny?” her mother called, her voice a little sharper now than it had been in the past, a little more worried – but when she thought of it, it was not surprising. Things had been very bad, lately, and the Weasley family had been right in the thick of it – everyone except her. There were times when she resented her age and her gender, cursing her family’s protectiveness that had prevented her from playing a greater part in the resistance.
Of course, her experiences in her first year may have had something to do with that as well...
But she knew that it had only made her stronger, had shown her a different world, so different from anything she would ever have otherwise experienced. Yes, she had been used, yes, she had been stripped of her innocence and her naïve Gryffindor certainty, but she had found something else, something deeper…
In the depths of her despair, when she had fallen as far as she could, she had found the deepest, most fundamental reserves of her own strength – the endurance of her will, the strength and the strange, rock-stubborn courage that allowed her to go on when everything else was gone, when there was nothing left and all the world whispered, pointed fingers, watched her with those wary eyes.
And that was the true characteristic of Godric Gryffindor – not the chivalry, not the gallantry or the high spirits that the Slytherins so despised, but the strength and courage to continue, to fight on against all odds. But she supposed it was not as romantic, glorious or simple as young, innocent students might like or even understand.
On that same note, not all Slytherins were cunning, amoral and power-hungry manipulators. Salazar Slytherin, child of an ancient Clan, born and bred in the morality of the High Clan, had valued those who had the cool judgement and intelligence necessary to survive the labyrinthine politics of their world, to protect their Clan without having to resort to outright war…and yet, even so, the ruthlessness to fight if necessary, and to finish it so thoroughly it would never become an issue again.
Strength, Weasley – strength of will, strength of mind, strength of personality…
Odd how both Gryffindor and Slytherin respected strength, but saw it in such different ways…
Was she ready? She knew what she had to do, but could she really do it…?
She remembered Malfoy’s sneer. If he ever had ambition, if he ever stepped beyond Potter’s shadow, he could be dangerous…
She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, and exhaled slowly and steadily, slowly drawing herself up and straightening her shoulders. She could do this. She could step beyond her brothers’ shadows, beyond Harry Potter’s, and she could be everything she had ever dreamed she could be…
Strength, Weasley.
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He stood inside the doorway at the far end of the Great Hall, watching them as they filed in for the Feast. Still hesitant and unsure – despite his bravado this morning – he stayed to the shadows, nerving himself to face them, the comrades he had bullied and lorded it over for the last five years, who had hated him and resented him and feared him, but never liked him, never respected him as he had seen the Gryffindors respect Potter.
He had never wanted them to like him or respect him. But it would have made things easier, now…
There they were – Crabbe and Goyle, not the brightest of sparks, but more intelligent than most of the school suspected, and with enough wit to know which was the winning side and attach themselves willingly to it; they stood behind and flanking Nott Jnr, now, who was now the centre and the heart of them all, thanks to his father’s growing influence.
Pansy, whose father was no longer so eager to see his daughter betrothed to him – although, there was an intriguing opportunity to play father-in-law to a puppet Malfoy Lord – was batting her eyes at Nott, now, and doing her best to draw attention to her – admittedly abundant – assets…
He wondered if Nott would avail himself of what she was offering, and whether he thought it worth the price - because there was a price, because Pansy was not as brainless as she seemed, under the exterior. Malicious, vain and capricious, yes, but stupid, no.
He had always liked Millicent, awkward and ill favoured as she was, better than Pansy, because she was more honest, and much steadier. That didn’t mean, however, that she was any less dangerous. Pansy was more predictable, much easier to understand and manipulate; Millicent was elusive, and even now he still wasn’t quite sure how she thought, or what she wanted. The one thing he was sure of was that she was standing in the fringes of the group surrounding Nott, not in the very centre.
Blaise Zabini, cool and impartial behind the neutrality he flaunted when disputes arose in the Common Room, was nevertheless canny enough to know not to offend Nott, or to stand clearly against him – his cool, incisive intelligence had led him to become the closest thing to a friend Draco had in Slytherin, or anywhere else for that matter.
He had actually trusted Zabini – although not to the point he would expect him to remain loyal in such circumstances. He wondered, then, why the sight of his maddeningly cool smile aimed at Nott, instead of him, would cause him a slight pang…
Of course he didn’t expect any of the Slytherins to stand by him, not when he had had to play such a part. His father had allies, had friends who, despite political intelligence, had stood by him in the bad times – Snape was a prime example of this – but he was not his father. He had not acted as his father had acted in his own school days, so he should not expect any of his schoolmates to remain loyal to him…
And then there was Nott, who stood at the heart of Slytherin, just as Draco had only three months ago. Alexander Nott’s only son, just as crude as his father, with his wiry black hair, his high colour, and his stocky build. He had his father’s gift for crowd pleasing, and the same raw charisma, but Draco could see – small, subtle signs, but still telling – he was not yet entirely sure of himself in his new position. Perhaps that could be turned to his own use…
He threw back his head and laughed, and they all laughed with him, Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, Bulstrode, Zabini and all the other Slytherins – but none of it was real, none of it was sincere, as he had seen it at the Gryffindor table. None of them would stand with Nott if he or his father lost hold of their power, just as they had not stood with Draco…
He would do well to remember that.
Finally, the hubbub was starting to die down, and he could delay it no longer if he wished to enter without making himself conspicuous. Slipping out of the shadows, he ghosted through the crowd, making a conscious effort to attract no attention – not an easy thing, with his fair hair – until he reached the Slytherin table, where they had all been waiting for him. They had been anticipating this moment ever since he’d come with Snape to Hogwarts, waiting for the opportunity to test his strength, and, if they found him weak, to repay, in kind, everything he’d done to them in his quest to disguise his true self from the Dark Lord…
And they watched him, with predatory eyes, as he made to sit down – he looked them in the eye, tried to exert his will, but none of them moved aside, or made room, and not one of them looked away, or failed to meet his gaze. Finally, extremely conscious of their eyes and Nott’s amusement at his failed show of bravado, he seated himself at the far end of the table, isolated and cut off from all the others.
And then the whispers began, and he concentrated on keeping his face impassive, his head high and his back straight.
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“Damn,” hissed Snape, watching from the High Table. If Draco had won that first skirmish, it would have been much easier to gain enough momentum to swing them back his way…
But he had lost too much face.
And now Draco would have to get to the top the hard way – starting from the bottom.
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Sitting at the Gryffindor table, Ginny was eating absently, concentrating on how she could persuade her parents she was mature enough to work for the Order, when Ron, recovered and cheerful once more, elbowed her in the ribs and pointed with his chin over to the Slytherin table.
“Looks like Malfoy’s been demoted,” he said gleefully. If he had hated Malfoy before he’d been sent to hospital, it was nothing compared to what he felt now.
Dutifully, because she knew she would never get any peace until she complied, she followed his gaze over to where Malfoy was sitting, and found out that he’d been correct, for once. Because the Draco Malfoy, the Great Ferret himself, was sitting on his own, clearly excluded from the rest of the table, where once he’d been right in the midst of them.
And from the smug, triumphant looks they were shooting at him, they were relishing his change in status almost as much as Ron was.
Well, well, well. Wasn’t that interesting…
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Later that night, in the Slytherin common room, the full import of his earlier failure at the dinner table was brought home to him, if he hadn’t managed to grasp it before.
Not even the first years feared him.
Well, of course, they were wary of him, of what he could do, but that didn’t stop them from smirking at him, and from small displays of insolence and impertinence that they wouldn’t have dared contemplate, had they started here last year. Yes, they blinked a bit when he looked at them at his most impassive, yes they took a small step back, but that was not enough to scare them into submission.
And if not even the first years feared him…
Preparing for bed, he kept to himself, spoke to no one, and merely stared impassively – almost defiantly, he thought with disgust – at his dorm mates as they looked at him speculatively, calculatingly. It didn’t make them drop their eyes, but at least it was a sign that he was not finished yet.
He may have lost an enormous amount of face, his father’s support and all of his influence, but by the Gods he was still Caius Draconis Malfoy and he was still Slytherin, still dangerous.
Nevertheless, he slept lightly, clutching his wand under the pillow…
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Finally, he knew that he couldn’t feign sleep any longer, and that he would have to wake up and face the day, and everything that would come with it.
Like the rest of the students, returning to Hogwarts for the first day of school. Like the Slytherins, returning to Hogwarts for the beginning of one of the most desperate and vicious power struggles the High Clan had ever seen.
Like the Weasleys, to whom, whether he liked it or not, he owed a very great debt.
He wasn’t sure whether he was more reluctant to face the Slytherins or the Weasleys…
Unfortunately, he was too much the pragmatist to think that he could in any way avoid what was coming. Such wishful thinking was for idealistic Gryffindors and naïve Hufflepuffs – and Draco Malfoy, whatever else he was, was neither naïve nor idealistic…
One could not afford to be either, in this world, in these times.
And so he dragged himself out of bed, out of the rich, four-poster bed hung with tapestry drapery and fitted with sinfully expensive, crisp linen sheets redolent of sandalwood – one of the benefits of his prefect’s badge and his father’s money – and staggered into the bathroom, clad only in black silk pyjama bottoms.
His body – pale, lean and smooth – gleamed dully in the half-light of the dungeons and the pre-dawn, and his face was a pale blur in the mirror, framed by thick white hair reaching almost to his shoulders that he had yet to cut since his father’s imprisonment. Perhaps he enjoyed the melodrama of such a statement…
But he didn’t spare a glance at the body he had worn for fifteen years. He was familiar with it, confident of it, and took for granted – with all the supreme arrogance of youth – that it would never let him down. No, this morning, Draco looked into his own eyes in the mirror, into the silver eyes that marked the scions of Clan Malfoy, and wandered what, exactly, others would see there.
Because all he saw were his own doubts, his own fears reflected back at him…
Was there any strength in the pale stranger he watched so closely? Anything remarkable, as they said marked the visages of the great heroes of old, to mark him as anything more than he had pretended to be for most of his life? Was there anything lurking deep inside those eyes that would stop others from seeing straight through him into the doubts, into the hesitation and the pretences…
Happily, melancholy had never been too large a part of his makeup; with a scowl, he dunked his head under ice-cold water and banished – for today at least – any inclination towards self-pity.
What would come would come. And he would be ready for it, because there was no one else, this time, to face it for him.
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It seemed strange, somehow, to think that there were only two Weasley children left, living at the Burrow – of course, her elder brothers Bill and Charlie had moved out long ago, and Percy as soon as he had graduated, but somehow she had always thought that Fred and George would never leave home.
She had also thought that they would never grow up – so far, she had been right in that, at least.
But now that only she and Ron were left out of all the seven Weasley children, it was a very strange feeling. The house seemed empty, although it was still as small and cluttered as ever; and life seemed…flatter, if a little more peaceful.
But to think of these times as peaceful…
She had only to look at Ron to see just how peaceful they were.
He had been released from hospital a few weeks ago, and had been declared fit enough to return to Hogwarts, but he was still weak, still a little shaky. In his anger, Malfoy had come so very near to causing Ron irreparable harm – any more force and he might have killed him – over a commonplace, quite frankly pitiable insult that he would not have turned a hair at, before his father had been arrested. And that was the most incomprehensible thing of all – his answer to her question.
Because he pissed me off, Weasley.
That was not, and never had been, enough justification to almost kill a man in public. Not even for the High Clan. It had been, more than anything, a sign of his discomposure, of his…of his fear.
And it was not an indication that was going to go away any time soon, either. Because too many people had witnessed it. Because incidents like that were like catalysts, changing the whole fabric of perception and reality, painting the way a man is seen throughout history and beyond.
Draco Malfoy, they would say, once let a Weasley get so under his skin – gave his words so much importance – that he tried to strangle him in public and had to be torn away from him, and in doing so, put himself and the Malfoy into the Weasleys’ debt…
Even if her father did not know or did not care, Ginny intended to make sure that she collected. Every last bit of it…
“Are you ready yet, Ginny?” her mother called, her voice a little sharper now than it had been in the past, a little more worried – but when she thought of it, it was not surprising. Things had been very bad, lately, and the Weasley family had been right in the thick of it – everyone except her. There were times when she resented her age and her gender, cursing her family’s protectiveness that had prevented her from playing a greater part in the resistance.
Of course, her experiences in her first year may have had something to do with that as well...
But she knew that it had only made her stronger, had shown her a different world, so different from anything she would ever have otherwise experienced. Yes, she had been used, yes, she had been stripped of her innocence and her naïve Gryffindor certainty, but she had found something else, something deeper…
In the depths of her despair, when she had fallen as far as she could, she had found the deepest, most fundamental reserves of her own strength – the endurance of her will, the strength and the strange, rock-stubborn courage that allowed her to go on when everything else was gone, when there was nothing left and all the world whispered, pointed fingers, watched her with those wary eyes.
And that was the true characteristic of Godric Gryffindor – not the chivalry, not the gallantry or the high spirits that the Slytherins so despised, but the strength and courage to continue, to fight on against all odds. But she supposed it was not as romantic, glorious or simple as young, innocent students might like or even understand.
On that same note, not all Slytherins were cunning, amoral and power-hungry manipulators. Salazar Slytherin, child of an ancient Clan, born and bred in the morality of the High Clan, had valued those who had the cool judgement and intelligence necessary to survive the labyrinthine politics of their world, to protect their Clan without having to resort to outright war…and yet, even so, the ruthlessness to fight if necessary, and to finish it so thoroughly it would never become an issue again.
Strength, Weasley – strength of will, strength of mind, strength of personality…
Odd how both Gryffindor and Slytherin respected strength, but saw it in such different ways…
Was she ready? She knew what she had to do, but could she really do it…?
She remembered Malfoy’s sneer. If he ever had ambition, if he ever stepped beyond Potter’s shadow, he could be dangerous…
She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, and exhaled slowly and steadily, slowly drawing herself up and straightening her shoulders. She could do this. She could step beyond her brothers’ shadows, beyond Harry Potter’s, and she could be everything she had ever dreamed she could be…
Strength, Weasley.
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He stood inside the doorway at the far end of the Great Hall, watching them as they filed in for the Feast. Still hesitant and unsure – despite his bravado this morning – he stayed to the shadows, nerving himself to face them, the comrades he had bullied and lorded it over for the last five years, who had hated him and resented him and feared him, but never liked him, never respected him as he had seen the Gryffindors respect Potter.
He had never wanted them to like him or respect him. But it would have made things easier, now…
There they were – Crabbe and Goyle, not the brightest of sparks, but more intelligent than most of the school suspected, and with enough wit to know which was the winning side and attach themselves willingly to it; they stood behind and flanking Nott Jnr, now, who was now the centre and the heart of them all, thanks to his father’s growing influence.
Pansy, whose father was no longer so eager to see his daughter betrothed to him – although, there was an intriguing opportunity to play father-in-law to a puppet Malfoy Lord – was batting her eyes at Nott, now, and doing her best to draw attention to her – admittedly abundant – assets…
He wondered if Nott would avail himself of what she was offering, and whether he thought it worth the price - because there was a price, because Pansy was not as brainless as she seemed, under the exterior. Malicious, vain and capricious, yes, but stupid, no.
He had always liked Millicent, awkward and ill favoured as she was, better than Pansy, because she was more honest, and much steadier. That didn’t mean, however, that she was any less dangerous. Pansy was more predictable, much easier to understand and manipulate; Millicent was elusive, and even now he still wasn’t quite sure how she thought, or what she wanted. The one thing he was sure of was that she was standing in the fringes of the group surrounding Nott, not in the very centre.
Blaise Zabini, cool and impartial behind the neutrality he flaunted when disputes arose in the Common Room, was nevertheless canny enough to know not to offend Nott, or to stand clearly against him – his cool, incisive intelligence had led him to become the closest thing to a friend Draco had in Slytherin, or anywhere else for that matter.
He had actually trusted Zabini – although not to the point he would expect him to remain loyal in such circumstances. He wondered, then, why the sight of his maddeningly cool smile aimed at Nott, instead of him, would cause him a slight pang…
Of course he didn’t expect any of the Slytherins to stand by him, not when he had had to play such a part. His father had allies, had friends who, despite political intelligence, had stood by him in the bad times – Snape was a prime example of this – but he was not his father. He had not acted as his father had acted in his own school days, so he should not expect any of his schoolmates to remain loyal to him…
And then there was Nott, who stood at the heart of Slytherin, just as Draco had only three months ago. Alexander Nott’s only son, just as crude as his father, with his wiry black hair, his high colour, and his stocky build. He had his father’s gift for crowd pleasing, and the same raw charisma, but Draco could see – small, subtle signs, but still telling – he was not yet entirely sure of himself in his new position. Perhaps that could be turned to his own use…
He threw back his head and laughed, and they all laughed with him, Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, Bulstrode, Zabini and all the other Slytherins – but none of it was real, none of it was sincere, as he had seen it at the Gryffindor table. None of them would stand with Nott if he or his father lost hold of their power, just as they had not stood with Draco…
He would do well to remember that.
Finally, the hubbub was starting to die down, and he could delay it no longer if he wished to enter without making himself conspicuous. Slipping out of the shadows, he ghosted through the crowd, making a conscious effort to attract no attention – not an easy thing, with his fair hair – until he reached the Slytherin table, where they had all been waiting for him. They had been anticipating this moment ever since he’d come with Snape to Hogwarts, waiting for the opportunity to test his strength, and, if they found him weak, to repay, in kind, everything he’d done to them in his quest to disguise his true self from the Dark Lord…
And they watched him, with predatory eyes, as he made to sit down – he looked them in the eye, tried to exert his will, but none of them moved aside, or made room, and not one of them looked away, or failed to meet his gaze. Finally, extremely conscious of their eyes and Nott’s amusement at his failed show of bravado, he seated himself at the far end of the table, isolated and cut off from all the others.
And then the whispers began, and he concentrated on keeping his face impassive, his head high and his back straight.
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“Damn,” hissed Snape, watching from the High Table. If Draco had won that first skirmish, it would have been much easier to gain enough momentum to swing them back his way…
But he had lost too much face.
And now Draco would have to get to the top the hard way – starting from the bottom.
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Sitting at the Gryffindor table, Ginny was eating absently, concentrating on how she could persuade her parents she was mature enough to work for the Order, when Ron, recovered and cheerful once more, elbowed her in the ribs and pointed with his chin over to the Slytherin table.
“Looks like Malfoy’s been demoted,” he said gleefully. If he had hated Malfoy before he’d been sent to hospital, it was nothing compared to what he felt now.
Dutifully, because she knew she would never get any peace until she complied, she followed his gaze over to where Malfoy was sitting, and found out that he’d been correct, for once. Because the Draco Malfoy, the Great Ferret himself, was sitting on his own, clearly excluded from the rest of the table, where once he’d been right in the midst of them.
And from the smug, triumphant looks they were shooting at him, they were relishing his change in status almost as much as Ron was.
Well, well, well. Wasn’t that interesting…
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Later that night, in the Slytherin common room, the full import of his earlier failure at the dinner table was brought home to him, if he hadn’t managed to grasp it before.
Not even the first years feared him.
Well, of course, they were wary of him, of what he could do, but that didn’t stop them from smirking at him, and from small displays of insolence and impertinence that they wouldn’t have dared contemplate, had they started here last year. Yes, they blinked a bit when he looked at them at his most impassive, yes they took a small step back, but that was not enough to scare them into submission.
And if not even the first years feared him…
Preparing for bed, he kept to himself, spoke to no one, and merely stared impassively – almost defiantly, he thought with disgust – at his dorm mates as they looked at him speculatively, calculatingly. It didn’t make them drop their eyes, but at least it was a sign that he was not finished yet.
He may have lost an enormous amount of face, his father’s support and all of his influence, but by the Gods he was still Caius Draconis Malfoy and he was still Slytherin, still dangerous.
Nevertheless, he slept lightly, clutching his wand under the pillow…
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