Chapter 9
It didn’t start immediately.
There were no attacks on the first night back, or on the first day. Apparently, even though they hated him, even though they were more than eager to see him pay, they were content to bide their time, to see how strong his bluff really was – certainly it seemed they were testing his nerves, which were being strung tighter and tighter by the day.
The first day back, at breakfast, they had watched him, unblinkingly, as he ate his croissant and drank his coffee – the one and only thing in which he copied his mother – with all the unconcern and nonchalance he could summon. Theodore Nott, glaring at him over his own plate of ham and eggs (and at this time of the morning, too) was watching for any hesitations, any sign of apprehension or fear, and he was determined to show nothing, to give nothing away – other than what he had already given away last night.
He could no longer command unspoken obedience – and in Slytherin, despite whatever behaviour went on in the corridors with members of other houses, compelling obedience without threats or bullying was the only kind of power that mattered. Yes, he could probably intimidate some of the younger Slytherins if he resorted to curses and threats of dire punishment. But, after ruling for five years with only a raised brow and a lifted finger, it would be unspeakably vulgar. Even his feud with Potter – and the tactics he had employed therein – had been, by High Clan standards, rather childish and petty.
Especially when they had bested him so often.
“You’ll pay for this, Potter!” just didn’t sound very cool.
Oh, well, things were different now, and it may indeed come to the point where he would have to resort to such unpleasant tactics, if he wanted to regain his former position. But if he did that…
What would Dumbledore think if Draco abandoned his pretence – and Snape would make sure the old man knew it was pretence – and started playing dirty for real? And it would have to be even worse than anything he had ever done before, because Nott himself had no care for the niceties of appearance and show. If he resorted to Nott’s own tactics, wouldn’t that be – as his father had always said – descending to his level?
But then, Lucius had joined Voldemort and had murdered, terrorised and tortured his own way back into a secure position.
*************************************************
In the silence of the night, when the wailing had been reduced to hopeless weeping, when even the dripping seemed subdued, Lucius found it was easy to lose himself in the past, in everything he had done in the supreme arrogance of his youth and the ruthlessness of his ambition.
For the first time in his life, he allowed himself to ask whether it could have gone a different way, whether – and this was something he had never, ever asked of himself – he had done the right thing in selling his soul to save his Clan. Yes, pragmatism had dictated it was certainly the most effective way, and everything he had been taught had seemed to support the decision. Use him, his mind had whispered to him, use him to attain your goals, eliminate your enemies, and when you have what you want of him, bring him down…
No, that had been pride, and arrogance speaking.
Another perspective, then – a seventeen year old boy (and he had been a boy back then, no matter what he had thought at the time) whose beloved father had just been killed, and crucified by the media as a Death Eater. He had known – they had flaunted it! – that Augustus Snape had been behind it from the beginning, and in his grief, in his anger, in the sudden shock of new, terrifying responsibility, he had seized on the first thing that made sense, the first act that he had been entitled – and more than encouraged – to make.
Revenge.
But – short of playing kamikaze – in order to reach the elder Snape, high up in the Dark Lord’s favour as he had been, he had had to join the Death Eaters himself…
Looking back now, it was all so clear, so terrifyingly clear. Had he thought that he had been clever, even quite cunning in his scheming? Yes, he had had the pleasure of slowly destroying his father’s killer, but in order to gain what should have been his by right, he had sold his soul and told himself it was right, it was justified.
He had avenged his father, had bought short-lived security for his land and some sort of influence and power for himself – and at what price? Why, an oath sworn on his knees, when the Malfoy bowed to nothing and no one, an oath binding for now and all eternity, that he had had no intention to keep…
Unconsciously, his fingers – not so smooth and elegant, now – rubbed, over and over, along the malignancy on his left forearm. Remembering, and reassessing, and regretting…
Had it really been worth it? Could it have gone another way?
How else could you have survived? whispered a smooth, urbane, reasonable and High Clan voice – the voice of his own personal devil that could justify anything and make it acceptable. Could you have stood against the Dark on your own, had you not made that oath?
I had no right to make that oath, he responded, hesitantly, voicing things he had never dared think before. I had prior allegiances, and I had no right to compromise the Malfoy for my own fear, arrogance, and ambition…
*************************************************
After the first day, it began – the taunting, the needling, and the testing. The jostling in the hallways, the whispered taunts and insults, the sneering, the unseen blows when his back was turned. It was nothing he had not endured before – albeit from the Gryffindors – and so he ignored it, going his own way, determined not to be drawn in and down.
Then the pranks began – the stealing, the vandalism; they trashed his room, slashing his clothes to bits and burning his homework. It was juvenile stuff, if with malicious intent – once again, he ignored it, repairing his clothes and secretly glad he had made copies of everything important. He knew how to play this game.
They voted him off the Slytherin Quidditch team, and declared Nott Seeker.
Oddly enough, that had truly stung.
But then, frustrated by his lack of response, they took it up another level.
Monday morning of the third week back at school, after he had so maddeningly refused to react to anything, his owl dropped his copy of the Daily Prophet on the table before him, and flew off unconcerned by the havoc its arrival would wreak. Coolly unwrapping the paper, he saw others do the same, stop, read the front page again, still – and then look up, towards him, and towards Nott. Impassively, but with a current of tension coiling through them like muggle electricity.
Inside, Draco froze. But he forced himself to look at the front page, read the headline, and find out just what had gone so terribly wrong.
MINISTRY DECLARES MALFOY LAND AND POSSESSIONS FORFEIT!!!
After an extensive investigation into the conduct and crimes of Lucius Malfoy, the Ministry has declared all holdings, possessions, estates and accounts held by the Malfoy family to be forfeit to the government…
A special committee, headed by Mr. Alexander Nott, has been appointed to oversee the confiscation of Mr. Malfoy’s extensive and tangled affairs, and has been granted wide discretionary powers to exercise their mandate…
He lowered the paper, and looked straight into Nott’s triumphant, sneering eyes. He was making no effort at all to conceal his delight, so much so that it had to be obvious, even at the Gryffindor table. A wide, horrible smile stretched his lips, and there was something feral in his triumph – for the first time, Draco realised just how much Nott really hated him. This was not a game to Nott, this was personal – but he had no idea why.
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen…” Nott purred, and the rest of Slytherin leaned back with him, savouring the smell of blood that suddenly permeated the air.
**************************************************
Arthur Weasley, in his cramped office in the Ministry Building – he’d refused to move to another location, despite being offered a very nice corner room – read through the morning paper with a sense of weary disgust, and even deeper, a bitter sense of failure.
As much as he had wanted to see the Death Eaters brought to justice – most especially Malfoy, who had made his life as difficult as he possibly could – and as much as he approved the idea of actually punishing them rather than simply slapping them on the wrist, he could not in all conscience countenance the idea of Nott taking responsibility for investigating Malfoy’s affairs.
It was obvious Nott hated Malfoy, and so how could he be objective in his decisions?
He could almost see Lucius Malfoy’s raised brow, almost hear that lazy, amused drawl. Justice and objectivity, Weasley? Dear me, what were you thinking?
Leaning his head against the back of the chair, Arthur closed his eyes and laughed soundlessly, mirthlessly. At least the man would not expect to be treated fairly…
But he knew it would be dangerous to let Nott have too much control in this matter – he had spoken out, as vehemently as he could, against it, but had been overruled; there was a limit to how far he could go, in Malfoy’s defence, lest he himself fall. It was not fashionable to be a Malfoy fan – even such a reluctant and unenthusiastic one as he was – in the Ministry these days.
“So, you have seen today’s Prophet,” drawled a High Clan voice, momentarily jolting him out of his reverie. For a wild moment, he thought it was Malfoy – but no, it was only Harcourt.
Only Harcourt. It seemed that, compared to Malfoy, all others were reduced to ‘only’. He wondered if they resented that.
“Harcourt,” he said, eyeing the dark haired Auror curiously, if a little warily. “What do you want?” And that was blunt, more than blunt enough to bring the reflective wince he had so enjoyed provoking in Malfoy. He was not disappointed, as he saw the other man’s eyes crease momentarily, and felt a petty little satisfaction.
But, veteran Auror that he was, used to performing unpleasant jobs, Harcourt was prepared to speak plainly if he absolutely had to. “You remember what we spoke of, earlier?”
Arthur thought back to the last time they had spoken, when had that been…? Ah, yes, when Narcissa and her lover had come to visit Lucius… “Yes, I remember,” he said, cautiously. They had spoken, casually and indirectly, of Nott, and of Malfoy, and of those who would prefer not to see Nott take Malfoy’s place.
And Arthur had listened, but said nothing, made no promises, no indications of agreement or otherwise. He had always tried to steer clear of involvement in High Clan games – and what Harcourt had suggested had been entanglement on a grand scale.
Rescuing Draco Malfoy – or, perhaps, more tactfully, ensuring Draco Malfoy assumed his place in the correct scale of things in the High Clan – Merlin, what a thought. Even more ridiculous was the thought of actively opposing Nott, on Draco’s behalf…
Harcourt must have sensed his reluctance, because he only nodded, and on his way out, turned and looked back towards Arthur, slouched in his chair, red hair thinning and greying, deep shadows beneath his blue eyes. “Think on it,” he said, businesslike now. “He owes you a debt, a great one – it could be a great opportunity for you and yours.”
Arthur scowled at him, angry now, insulted. “The Weasleys do not need Malfoy charity, or handouts of any other sort. And we do not play the Game.” Even the Weasleys had their pride.
“Perhaps not,” Harcourt pointed out. “But if you are not careful, you will become part of it whether you will it or not. Far better to ensure it goes your way from the beginning…”
“Was that a threat, Harcourt?” Arthur asked softly, rising from his chair.
Amused grey eyes met his, the eyes of a veteran of twenty of the bloodiest years in history. “No, Weasley, it was not a threat, nor even a warning. Consider it advice, if you will, and take it in the spirit it was given. You are one of the few honest politicians left in this place – I would hate to see your pride let events sweep you under.”
And with that, he opened the door, and walked out, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts, and his pride.
**************************************************
She’d been watching him for the last few weeks, observing with great interest all the manoeuvrings of his housemates, all the needling and the insults, and his reactions to them. And she’d been surprised to see that he could hold his temper, that he could ignore petty insults and even malicious harassment, could keep his cool even under great provocation.
It was not something she’d have thought him capable of, once – but now, she was beginning to see a different side.
Although, quite predictably, so predictable it actually reassured her, was his reaction to the news that Slytherin had replaced him with a new Seeker. He’d been visibly upset over that – but somehow it made him seem more human, somehow, to learn that he was just as Quidditch-mad as any of the boys in Gryffindor.
It made him seem more…more familiar, more like her brothers – in this aspect, at least.
Harry and Ron had been jubilant at the news, although, after a while, Harry became a little indignant that Malfoy – a very capable seeker, had it not been for Harry himself – had been so summarily replaced. Ron spared him no sympathy, the memory of his stay in hospital too fresh in his mind.
But the article on the front page of the Prophet had actually shaken him, although it was not obvious; she could see it in his very stillness, in the perfection of his façade and mask. And the Slytherins could see it, if their glee was any indication – she could see their anticipation from the other side of the room, and so could Professor Snape, from his worried gaze at Malfoy, and Professor Dumbledore, in the concern of his regard.
But somehow she knew neither of them would interfere in whatever was going on. Looking around the Hall, at the breakfasting students, most of them watching Malfoy with interest, she knew not one of them would stand in the way of whatever was coming to him. Because they were too terrified of the Slytherins, because they were intellectually fascinated and wanted to know what was going to happen next, or because they actively hated Malfoy and wanted to see him suffer.
And he knew it.
~~()~~
At lunchtime, it happened.
She knew, as soon as she saw the Slytherins trickling through the school corridors, taking diverse routes two by two, or three and four together, that they were up to no good. Should she leave him to what he no doubt deserved?
No. He owed her family a debt – and he couldn’t pay it if he was crushed at Hogwarts, could he? Besides, she couldn’t quite forget the expression on his face that day, at his father’s trial, when she had seen something different in his eyes.
“Slytherins and High Clan respect strength, Weasley. Strength of will, strength of mind, strength of personality…”
“Then why do they respect you?”
He had flinched, and the strangest expression had crossed his face, through his eyes. “Do they?”
Did they?
They had certainly respected his father, until he had been sent to Azkaban. She had thought they respected him, but now she wasn’t so sure.
And she knew what happened to those whom Slytherins didn’t respect.
And so, prompted by determination that Malfoy wasn’t going to escape the debt he owed her family, by morbid curiosity as to whether Malfoy could face down the whole of Slytherin on his own, and by an indefinable feeling that she couldn’t name, she followed the trickles of Slytherin students, keeping to the shadows as they made their way to the old, almost abandoned corridors of the eastern part of the third floor, through dusty, cobwebby passages and musty, moth eaten rooms…
And into what looked like an old, old ballroom, the walls lined with mirrors like the room in the French muggle palace of Versailles, where Malfoy stood, confronted by Nott, who was flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, and Parkinson and Bulstrode, and Zabini, who stood a little to the side, but not enough to be considered impartial.
No one stood behind Malfoy.
Sinking into a shadow near the doorway where she could get a good view of what was going on, she watched as the rest of the Slytherins filed into the room and took up station along the walls to stand witness. Finally, when it seemed everyone had arrived, Nott spoke, his words almost echoing in the perfect acoustics of the room.
“Well, Malfoy, do you have anything to say for yourself?” It sounded rather like a ritual, as if they both had parts to play, and knew them intimately, as if there was really nothing else to say. It had finally come down to this.
Draco looked around, pale in his black robes, a slim, lone figure reflected endlessly in the mirrors, standing alone, but straight, unbowed, and insolent. He shrugged, a graceful movement of his shoulders, and decided that it was too late for talk – nothing he would say would stop this from happening. So, as always in moments of greatest danger, when all seemed lost – put a good face on it. Go down having made a statement.
He smiled. “Fuck you, Nott. And fuck your daddy too.”
***************************************************
He wondered, almost absently, whether it was possible for a human being to actually go that red in the face. And then he was too busy to worry about it, as he shielded from the first curse, and threw one of his own for good measure. But really, one against…gods, even if some students stayed out of the fray, he was still fucked.
He had been rigorously trained in the Dark Arts and Defence Against it, instructed by his father – a master, if he did say so himself – but even his father might have had difficulty with odds of this magnitude. And these were not chivalrous Gryffindors who played by rules of conduct, or Hufflepuffs who knew only mild curses; these were Slytherins, with no notions of nicety, and no shortage of dark curses to call upon. And this time, it was not a game – this time, it was real, horribly real.
He lost himself in the rhythm of combat, curse, shield, hex, shield, curse, shield, shield, shield, ouch…!
“Crucio!” Nott shouted, and his shield, battered and strained, failed and let it through, and oh gods it hurt…but he had been subjected to the Cruciatus before, and he was intimately familiar with the pain. He returned it, anything short of the Killing Curse was fair game in this battle, hex, curse, shield, curse, shield, curs- shield, damn it, shield, shield, shield, and attacks were coming from all sides, far too many to shield at once, and they got through, he could feel the pain, feel the drain on his magic…
“Crucio!” He blinked sweat from his eyes, ignored the pain.
“Crucio!” He winced for the first time.
“Crucio!” He bit down on his lip, drawing blood. His shields failed, collapsing under the weight of the whole of Slytherin House – at least those who were game enough to join in – and it took all his concentration not to react to the pain.
“Crucio!” He drew in breath, hissed in pain.
“Crucio! Crucio! Crucio!” Metallic, coppery blood filled his mouth, and his bones vibrated with the intensity of the curse, as well as the pain. Nott watched him with feline, Slytherin eyes, taking great pleasure in the pain in his eyes that he couldn’t conceal – and infuriated by that amusement, Draco smiled crookedly, and spat a mouthful of blood and saliva into that mocking, crude face. And then he laughed…
Rage suffused Nott’s face as he slowly wiped the blood off with a white linen handkerchief, and at a curt gesture, Crabbe and Goyle, protectors of his childhood, grabbed his arms and pulled them behind his back, leaving him open and vulnerable. They also seized his wand and took a grip on his hair – messing it up, for gods’ sakes – and pulled his head back at a painful angle.
Nott punched him in the stomach, and he doubled over – or would have, if he had been allowed to. And then, “Crucio!” before he had the chance to recover his breath, and then another punch, and another dose of the Cruciatus, and another punch, and another, and another…
His knees gave out, and they let him go, and Nott grabbed him by the hair and held a knife to his throat, hatred blazing in his eyes, and whispered hoarsely – Lady, he was aroused by the violence – “Had enough, pretty boy?”
The silence was deafening, the tension thick enough to cut. Draco smiled, as much as he could through his split lips. “Fuck you, Teddy…”
An audible gasp ran through the room, and Nott’s face twisted; he had finally succeeded in smashing the other’s control, by the looks of it, but the knife was descending now, a flash of silver reflected over and over and over again in the mirrors, and it looked as if he had gone just a little too far in his provocation…
“Don’t kill him, Mr. Nott,” Snape’s voice purred, his magic snaked through the air to stop the knife before it finished its descent. “It will cause me far too much paperwork…”
Draco would have laughed, if it wouldn’t have broken the spell woven by Snape’s velvet voice. So, his protector had finally decided to come out of the shadows where he had been watching all along.
Nott dropped the knife, but swung his fist anyway, connecting with a sickening thud to Draco’s temple. The world went black, in an explosion of pain and light.
*********************************************************
She watched, horrified, as his body slumped to the floor, the silver hair darkened by blood and sweat, and as Nott calmly picked up the knife – Gods, the knife, he would have killed Malfoy – and put it away, before calmly resettling his robes and walking back to his supporters, leaving Malfoy alone, unconscious on the floor.
Oh, dear Lady…
She clapped a hand over her mouth, and bolted, fleeing in a flurry of robes and red hair, running away from the terrifying truth in the violence she had just witnessed.
*********************************************************
It didn’t start immediately.
There were no attacks on the first night back, or on the first day. Apparently, even though they hated him, even though they were more than eager to see him pay, they were content to bide their time, to see how strong his bluff really was – certainly it seemed they were testing his nerves, which were being strung tighter and tighter by the day.
The first day back, at breakfast, they had watched him, unblinkingly, as he ate his croissant and drank his coffee – the one and only thing in which he copied his mother – with all the unconcern and nonchalance he could summon. Theodore Nott, glaring at him over his own plate of ham and eggs (and at this time of the morning, too) was watching for any hesitations, any sign of apprehension or fear, and he was determined to show nothing, to give nothing away – other than what he had already given away last night.
He could no longer command unspoken obedience – and in Slytherin, despite whatever behaviour went on in the corridors with members of other houses, compelling obedience without threats or bullying was the only kind of power that mattered. Yes, he could probably intimidate some of the younger Slytherins if he resorted to curses and threats of dire punishment. But, after ruling for five years with only a raised brow and a lifted finger, it would be unspeakably vulgar. Even his feud with Potter – and the tactics he had employed therein – had been, by High Clan standards, rather childish and petty.
Especially when they had bested him so often.
“You’ll pay for this, Potter!” just didn’t sound very cool.
Oh, well, things were different now, and it may indeed come to the point where he would have to resort to such unpleasant tactics, if he wanted to regain his former position. But if he did that…
What would Dumbledore think if Draco abandoned his pretence – and Snape would make sure the old man knew it was pretence – and started playing dirty for real? And it would have to be even worse than anything he had ever done before, because Nott himself had no care for the niceties of appearance and show. If he resorted to Nott’s own tactics, wouldn’t that be – as his father had always said – descending to his level?
But then, Lucius had joined Voldemort and had murdered, terrorised and tortured his own way back into a secure position.
*************************************************
In the silence of the night, when the wailing had been reduced to hopeless weeping, when even the dripping seemed subdued, Lucius found it was easy to lose himself in the past, in everything he had done in the supreme arrogance of his youth and the ruthlessness of his ambition.
For the first time in his life, he allowed himself to ask whether it could have gone a different way, whether – and this was something he had never, ever asked of himself – he had done the right thing in selling his soul to save his Clan. Yes, pragmatism had dictated it was certainly the most effective way, and everything he had been taught had seemed to support the decision. Use him, his mind had whispered to him, use him to attain your goals, eliminate your enemies, and when you have what you want of him, bring him down…
No, that had been pride, and arrogance speaking.
Another perspective, then – a seventeen year old boy (and he had been a boy back then, no matter what he had thought at the time) whose beloved father had just been killed, and crucified by the media as a Death Eater. He had known – they had flaunted it! – that Augustus Snape had been behind it from the beginning, and in his grief, in his anger, in the sudden shock of new, terrifying responsibility, he had seized on the first thing that made sense, the first act that he had been entitled – and more than encouraged – to make.
Revenge.
But – short of playing kamikaze – in order to reach the elder Snape, high up in the Dark Lord’s favour as he had been, he had had to join the Death Eaters himself…
Looking back now, it was all so clear, so terrifyingly clear. Had he thought that he had been clever, even quite cunning in his scheming? Yes, he had had the pleasure of slowly destroying his father’s killer, but in order to gain what should have been his by right, he had sold his soul and told himself it was right, it was justified.
He had avenged his father, had bought short-lived security for his land and some sort of influence and power for himself – and at what price? Why, an oath sworn on his knees, when the Malfoy bowed to nothing and no one, an oath binding for now and all eternity, that he had had no intention to keep…
Unconsciously, his fingers – not so smooth and elegant, now – rubbed, over and over, along the malignancy on his left forearm. Remembering, and reassessing, and regretting…
Had it really been worth it? Could it have gone another way?
How else could you have survived? whispered a smooth, urbane, reasonable and High Clan voice – the voice of his own personal devil that could justify anything and make it acceptable. Could you have stood against the Dark on your own, had you not made that oath?
I had no right to make that oath, he responded, hesitantly, voicing things he had never dared think before. I had prior allegiances, and I had no right to compromise the Malfoy for my own fear, arrogance, and ambition…
*************************************************
After the first day, it began – the taunting, the needling, and the testing. The jostling in the hallways, the whispered taunts and insults, the sneering, the unseen blows when his back was turned. It was nothing he had not endured before – albeit from the Gryffindors – and so he ignored it, going his own way, determined not to be drawn in and down.
Then the pranks began – the stealing, the vandalism; they trashed his room, slashing his clothes to bits and burning his homework. It was juvenile stuff, if with malicious intent – once again, he ignored it, repairing his clothes and secretly glad he had made copies of everything important. He knew how to play this game.
They voted him off the Slytherin Quidditch team, and declared Nott Seeker.
Oddly enough, that had truly stung.
But then, frustrated by his lack of response, they took it up another level.
Monday morning of the third week back at school, after he had so maddeningly refused to react to anything, his owl dropped his copy of the Daily Prophet on the table before him, and flew off unconcerned by the havoc its arrival would wreak. Coolly unwrapping the paper, he saw others do the same, stop, read the front page again, still – and then look up, towards him, and towards Nott. Impassively, but with a current of tension coiling through them like muggle electricity.
Inside, Draco froze. But he forced himself to look at the front page, read the headline, and find out just what had gone so terribly wrong.
MINISTRY DECLARES MALFOY LAND AND POSSESSIONS FORFEIT!!!
After an extensive investigation into the conduct and crimes of Lucius Malfoy, the Ministry has declared all holdings, possessions, estates and accounts held by the Malfoy family to be forfeit to the government…
A special committee, headed by Mr. Alexander Nott, has been appointed to oversee the confiscation of Mr. Malfoy’s extensive and tangled affairs, and has been granted wide discretionary powers to exercise their mandate…
He lowered the paper, and looked straight into Nott’s triumphant, sneering eyes. He was making no effort at all to conceal his delight, so much so that it had to be obvious, even at the Gryffindor table. A wide, horrible smile stretched his lips, and there was something feral in his triumph – for the first time, Draco realised just how much Nott really hated him. This was not a game to Nott, this was personal – but he had no idea why.
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen…” Nott purred, and the rest of Slytherin leaned back with him, savouring the smell of blood that suddenly permeated the air.
**************************************************
Arthur Weasley, in his cramped office in the Ministry Building – he’d refused to move to another location, despite being offered a very nice corner room – read through the morning paper with a sense of weary disgust, and even deeper, a bitter sense of failure.
As much as he had wanted to see the Death Eaters brought to justice – most especially Malfoy, who had made his life as difficult as he possibly could – and as much as he approved the idea of actually punishing them rather than simply slapping them on the wrist, he could not in all conscience countenance the idea of Nott taking responsibility for investigating Malfoy’s affairs.
It was obvious Nott hated Malfoy, and so how could he be objective in his decisions?
He could almost see Lucius Malfoy’s raised brow, almost hear that lazy, amused drawl. Justice and objectivity, Weasley? Dear me, what were you thinking?
Leaning his head against the back of the chair, Arthur closed his eyes and laughed soundlessly, mirthlessly. At least the man would not expect to be treated fairly…
But he knew it would be dangerous to let Nott have too much control in this matter – he had spoken out, as vehemently as he could, against it, but had been overruled; there was a limit to how far he could go, in Malfoy’s defence, lest he himself fall. It was not fashionable to be a Malfoy fan – even such a reluctant and unenthusiastic one as he was – in the Ministry these days.
“So, you have seen today’s Prophet,” drawled a High Clan voice, momentarily jolting him out of his reverie. For a wild moment, he thought it was Malfoy – but no, it was only Harcourt.
Only Harcourt. It seemed that, compared to Malfoy, all others were reduced to ‘only’. He wondered if they resented that.
“Harcourt,” he said, eyeing the dark haired Auror curiously, if a little warily. “What do you want?” And that was blunt, more than blunt enough to bring the reflective wince he had so enjoyed provoking in Malfoy. He was not disappointed, as he saw the other man’s eyes crease momentarily, and felt a petty little satisfaction.
But, veteran Auror that he was, used to performing unpleasant jobs, Harcourt was prepared to speak plainly if he absolutely had to. “You remember what we spoke of, earlier?”
Arthur thought back to the last time they had spoken, when had that been…? Ah, yes, when Narcissa and her lover had come to visit Lucius… “Yes, I remember,” he said, cautiously. They had spoken, casually and indirectly, of Nott, and of Malfoy, and of those who would prefer not to see Nott take Malfoy’s place.
And Arthur had listened, but said nothing, made no promises, no indications of agreement or otherwise. He had always tried to steer clear of involvement in High Clan games – and what Harcourt had suggested had been entanglement on a grand scale.
Rescuing Draco Malfoy – or, perhaps, more tactfully, ensuring Draco Malfoy assumed his place in the correct scale of things in the High Clan – Merlin, what a thought. Even more ridiculous was the thought of actively opposing Nott, on Draco’s behalf…
Harcourt must have sensed his reluctance, because he only nodded, and on his way out, turned and looked back towards Arthur, slouched in his chair, red hair thinning and greying, deep shadows beneath his blue eyes. “Think on it,” he said, businesslike now. “He owes you a debt, a great one – it could be a great opportunity for you and yours.”
Arthur scowled at him, angry now, insulted. “The Weasleys do not need Malfoy charity, or handouts of any other sort. And we do not play the Game.” Even the Weasleys had their pride.
“Perhaps not,” Harcourt pointed out. “But if you are not careful, you will become part of it whether you will it or not. Far better to ensure it goes your way from the beginning…”
“Was that a threat, Harcourt?” Arthur asked softly, rising from his chair.
Amused grey eyes met his, the eyes of a veteran of twenty of the bloodiest years in history. “No, Weasley, it was not a threat, nor even a warning. Consider it advice, if you will, and take it in the spirit it was given. You are one of the few honest politicians left in this place – I would hate to see your pride let events sweep you under.”
And with that, he opened the door, and walked out, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts, and his pride.
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She’d been watching him for the last few weeks, observing with great interest all the manoeuvrings of his housemates, all the needling and the insults, and his reactions to them. And she’d been surprised to see that he could hold his temper, that he could ignore petty insults and even malicious harassment, could keep his cool even under great provocation.
It was not something she’d have thought him capable of, once – but now, she was beginning to see a different side.
Although, quite predictably, so predictable it actually reassured her, was his reaction to the news that Slytherin had replaced him with a new Seeker. He’d been visibly upset over that – but somehow it made him seem more human, somehow, to learn that he was just as Quidditch-mad as any of the boys in Gryffindor.
It made him seem more…more familiar, more like her brothers – in this aspect, at least.
Harry and Ron had been jubilant at the news, although, after a while, Harry became a little indignant that Malfoy – a very capable seeker, had it not been for Harry himself – had been so summarily replaced. Ron spared him no sympathy, the memory of his stay in hospital too fresh in his mind.
But the article on the front page of the Prophet had actually shaken him, although it was not obvious; she could see it in his very stillness, in the perfection of his façade and mask. And the Slytherins could see it, if their glee was any indication – she could see their anticipation from the other side of the room, and so could Professor Snape, from his worried gaze at Malfoy, and Professor Dumbledore, in the concern of his regard.
But somehow she knew neither of them would interfere in whatever was going on. Looking around the Hall, at the breakfasting students, most of them watching Malfoy with interest, she knew not one of them would stand in the way of whatever was coming to him. Because they were too terrified of the Slytherins, because they were intellectually fascinated and wanted to know what was going to happen next, or because they actively hated Malfoy and wanted to see him suffer.
And he knew it.
~~()~~
At lunchtime, it happened.
She knew, as soon as she saw the Slytherins trickling through the school corridors, taking diverse routes two by two, or three and four together, that they were up to no good. Should she leave him to what he no doubt deserved?
No. He owed her family a debt – and he couldn’t pay it if he was crushed at Hogwarts, could he? Besides, she couldn’t quite forget the expression on his face that day, at his father’s trial, when she had seen something different in his eyes.
“Slytherins and High Clan respect strength, Weasley. Strength of will, strength of mind, strength of personality…”
“Then why do they respect you?”
He had flinched, and the strangest expression had crossed his face, through his eyes. “Do they?”
Did they?
They had certainly respected his father, until he had been sent to Azkaban. She had thought they respected him, but now she wasn’t so sure.
And she knew what happened to those whom Slytherins didn’t respect.
And so, prompted by determination that Malfoy wasn’t going to escape the debt he owed her family, by morbid curiosity as to whether Malfoy could face down the whole of Slytherin on his own, and by an indefinable feeling that she couldn’t name, she followed the trickles of Slytherin students, keeping to the shadows as they made their way to the old, almost abandoned corridors of the eastern part of the third floor, through dusty, cobwebby passages and musty, moth eaten rooms…
And into what looked like an old, old ballroom, the walls lined with mirrors like the room in the French muggle palace of Versailles, where Malfoy stood, confronted by Nott, who was flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, and Parkinson and Bulstrode, and Zabini, who stood a little to the side, but not enough to be considered impartial.
No one stood behind Malfoy.
Sinking into a shadow near the doorway where she could get a good view of what was going on, she watched as the rest of the Slytherins filed into the room and took up station along the walls to stand witness. Finally, when it seemed everyone had arrived, Nott spoke, his words almost echoing in the perfect acoustics of the room.
“Well, Malfoy, do you have anything to say for yourself?” It sounded rather like a ritual, as if they both had parts to play, and knew them intimately, as if there was really nothing else to say. It had finally come down to this.
Draco looked around, pale in his black robes, a slim, lone figure reflected endlessly in the mirrors, standing alone, but straight, unbowed, and insolent. He shrugged, a graceful movement of his shoulders, and decided that it was too late for talk – nothing he would say would stop this from happening. So, as always in moments of greatest danger, when all seemed lost – put a good face on it. Go down having made a statement.
He smiled. “Fuck you, Nott. And fuck your daddy too.”
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He wondered, almost absently, whether it was possible for a human being to actually go that red in the face. And then he was too busy to worry about it, as he shielded from the first curse, and threw one of his own for good measure. But really, one against…gods, even if some students stayed out of the fray, he was still fucked.
He had been rigorously trained in the Dark Arts and Defence Against it, instructed by his father – a master, if he did say so himself – but even his father might have had difficulty with odds of this magnitude. And these were not chivalrous Gryffindors who played by rules of conduct, or Hufflepuffs who knew only mild curses; these were Slytherins, with no notions of nicety, and no shortage of dark curses to call upon. And this time, it was not a game – this time, it was real, horribly real.
He lost himself in the rhythm of combat, curse, shield, hex, shield, curse, shield, shield, shield, ouch…!
“Crucio!” Nott shouted, and his shield, battered and strained, failed and let it through, and oh gods it hurt…but he had been subjected to the Cruciatus before, and he was intimately familiar with the pain. He returned it, anything short of the Killing Curse was fair game in this battle, hex, curse, shield, curse, shield, curs- shield, damn it, shield, shield, shield, and attacks were coming from all sides, far too many to shield at once, and they got through, he could feel the pain, feel the drain on his magic…
“Crucio!” He blinked sweat from his eyes, ignored the pain.
“Crucio!” He winced for the first time.
“Crucio!” He bit down on his lip, drawing blood. His shields failed, collapsing under the weight of the whole of Slytherin House – at least those who were game enough to join in – and it took all his concentration not to react to the pain.
“Crucio!” He drew in breath, hissed in pain.
“Crucio! Crucio! Crucio!” Metallic, coppery blood filled his mouth, and his bones vibrated with the intensity of the curse, as well as the pain. Nott watched him with feline, Slytherin eyes, taking great pleasure in the pain in his eyes that he couldn’t conceal – and infuriated by that amusement, Draco smiled crookedly, and spat a mouthful of blood and saliva into that mocking, crude face. And then he laughed…
Rage suffused Nott’s face as he slowly wiped the blood off with a white linen handkerchief, and at a curt gesture, Crabbe and Goyle, protectors of his childhood, grabbed his arms and pulled them behind his back, leaving him open and vulnerable. They also seized his wand and took a grip on his hair – messing it up, for gods’ sakes – and pulled his head back at a painful angle.
Nott punched him in the stomach, and he doubled over – or would have, if he had been allowed to. And then, “Crucio!” before he had the chance to recover his breath, and then another punch, and another dose of the Cruciatus, and another punch, and another, and another…
His knees gave out, and they let him go, and Nott grabbed him by the hair and held a knife to his throat, hatred blazing in his eyes, and whispered hoarsely – Lady, he was aroused by the violence – “Had enough, pretty boy?”
The silence was deafening, the tension thick enough to cut. Draco smiled, as much as he could through his split lips. “Fuck you, Teddy…”
An audible gasp ran through the room, and Nott’s face twisted; he had finally succeeded in smashing the other’s control, by the looks of it, but the knife was descending now, a flash of silver reflected over and over and over again in the mirrors, and it looked as if he had gone just a little too far in his provocation…
“Don’t kill him, Mr. Nott,” Snape’s voice purred, his magic snaked through the air to stop the knife before it finished its descent. “It will cause me far too much paperwork…”
Draco would have laughed, if it wouldn’t have broken the spell woven by Snape’s velvet voice. So, his protector had finally decided to come out of the shadows where he had been watching all along.
Nott dropped the knife, but swung his fist anyway, connecting with a sickening thud to Draco’s temple. The world went black, in an explosion of pain and light.
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She watched, horrified, as his body slumped to the floor, the silver hair darkened by blood and sweat, and as Nott calmly picked up the knife – Gods, the knife, he would have killed Malfoy – and put it away, before calmly resettling his robes and walking back to his supporters, leaving Malfoy alone, unconscious on the floor.
Oh, dear Lady…
She clapped a hand over her mouth, and bolted, fleeing in a flurry of robes and red hair, running away from the terrifying truth in the violence she had just witnessed.
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