A/N – This fic was my first attempt at Draco and Ginny, almost two years ago. If there is an occasional ‘Virginia’ sprinkled throughout the fic, please forgive me; I have tried to find them all and convert them to Ginevra.

Disclaimer – I don’t own any of the canon characters or situations. Don’t sue me.



CHAPTER 1 - Introductions



The dream started as it always did, with distant, echoing laughter ringing through the forest - an innocent laugh, as he had once laughed when his father swung him up, completely sure that he would never drop him - and then the laughter changed to pleading, calling, fearing for his father...


Terror came - the heart pounding terror of being stalked in the darkness, of running and running from something intangible and unstoppable until he could run no more, and finally he turned and stood, knowing that he was going to die, that it was all going to end and there was nothing he could do to stop it...


"Now, Draco! You must do it now, Draco!!!" His uncle Luc's desperate voice echoed, drowning out his racing heartbeat, and all he could see were Luc's grey, horrified eyes, desperate and pleading. Only Draco could succeed now - if he didn't, if he balked, then they were all lost...


"Draco! Do it now! Before HE does!" And time slowed down even further. There was a knife in his hand, a long, wickedly sharp scalpel designed for precision work, and he moved with all the smooth grace that had been trained into him since childhood, a smooth, precise lunge towards his target...


A shout of Avada Kedavra, ringing horribly in his ears, and he knew that it was the Dark Lord himself, but Voldemort must not kill the target - he must die by Draco's hand alone, now... He looked deep into grey eyes, the exact mirror of his own and of his uncle's, and whispered in a desperate plea, "Forgive me, father..."


And then, in a last, desperate surge of effort, he plunged the knife home, feeling the shock of how easily it sank into flesh and blood and bone, just before the green light hit...


**********************************


He came awake with a strangled scream, heart beating frantically, his whole body bathed in a cold sweat. He brought his hands up to his face, then jerked them down immediately, panicking at the blood that stained them - his father's blood, Lord Malfoy's blood...


No.


Breathe deeply.


In. Out.


In. Out.


A dream. Only a dream.


He was safe in his bed, far away from Wales, from the land his House had controlled for millennia, and away from Voldemort, who had been defeated some ten years ago. But not far enough from his memories, or from the pain… He laughed bitterly, almost desperately. His first kill, the first time he had ever taken a human life, and it had been his father. He'd only been fifteen.


And now, exactly twelve years later, to the very day, he knew that he would not have been prepared no matter how old he was. He'd loved his father, hero-worshipped him, idolized everything he did, but he'd had to kill him, because his Dark Mark had started to corrupt the Covenant – the bond between the Lord and the land he ruled – and once the Covenant was corrupted, the land was ripe for destruction.


The Dark Lord had been all too ready to be the destroyer, so Lucius had had to die to allow a new, unmarked Lord to take his place... No one had ever foreseen that Draco would be the one to kill him.


His uncle said it had all been for the greater good. His people said it was for the best. His friends - his true friends - said it was necessary. His intellect, trained and shaped from birth to think as a Slytherin aristocratic Lord, said it had been unfortunate but, in the long run, better for all involved.


His heart and his conscience called it murder.


Oh, Lady, Lady, Lady...


He rolled out of bed and padded into the bathroom, splashing water on his face to wake himself up, needing the sudden cold to shock himself back to reality. Turning on the harsh, unforgiving overhead lights, he looked at himself, truly looked at who he had become in the mirror. White blonde hair. Silver eyes. Pale skin made even paler by the shock and the faint dark shadows beneath his eyes. Sharp, aristocratic features - a perfect face, really, but that was of no consequence. He looked beneath the surface, through the normally unreadable eyes and into Caius Draconis Malfoy.


Intelligence, sharp and incisive and painfully objective. Determination - a strong, ruthless will and a core of hard, resilient steel forged in battle and grief and pain. A slightly skewed sense of honour, according to conventional norms - a personal moral code based on the ancient laws and traditions of the High Clans, the oldest aristocratic families in wizarding society. And there, beneath everything else, beneath the mind and the will and the heart, lay a foul dark stain that he saw every time he looked himself in the eye, a stain so strong it should be visible, accusing him for all the world too see, marking him for what he truly was.


Patricide.


In a sudden, reckless burst of rage he smashed his fist into the mirror, shattering it into a thousand silver shards, destroying his reflection and the sight of his unmarked face. He had worn an emotional mask for so long that it had become second nature, now. He knew better than to imagine that evil somehow marked its servants for all to see and beware, and yet...and yet, something in him believed that his one, unforgivable sin should have left a tangible mark on him somehow, somewhere.


The fact that it hadn't only made him feel worse.



************************************



It wasn't your fault.


She had grown tired of hearing that, over the years - had it really been fifteen years? Tired of hearing their platitudes and their comforting murmurs, of seeing their sincere concern and their faith in goodness, in right. Tired of hearing that she had been innocent, and therefore should not hold herself to blame. Little Ginevra Weasley, innocent and sweet, had unknowingly been the pawn of an evil plot - never mind that had she had the courage to actually make friends in her first year, she would not have needed to pour her heart out to an enchanted diary...


No one blamed her for anything. And no one blamed her for her subsequent actions - for her withdrawal, for her painful shyness and timidity, for her helpless longing for heroic Harry Potter, whom she could love from afar without his ever actually noticing her romantically. For the way her fear and cowardice had put Harry at risk, when he should have been concentrating on the last and final battle.


She'd almost destroyed everything, and still, they told her that it wasn't her fault. By now, she'd realized that it meant they thought her spineless and ineffectual, that she couldn't control her life or any of the events that went on in it. She couldn't take any action to prevent the bad things happening, and therefore it wasn't her fault.


She was tired of being a blameless martyr. She wanted to be blamed for something - nothing too dangerous or too threatening – but something that would destroy the image of poor, innocent Ginny Weasley, the victim, the martyr.


But she was afraid it wasn't going to be quite that easy.


Looking at herself in the mirror, she saw a pale, almost ghostly woman - dark red hair and white, white skin, whose brown eyes were wide and...innocent, but still wary. Dressed in baggy, enveloping clothes, not a hint of her true shape was revealed, just as her face concealed her true nature. She looked innocent and almost fragile. But underneath - underneath was a simmering anger and frustration at herself, at her cosseting family and friends, and at everyone who had assumed her to be helpless and hopeless.


She was twenty-six years old, she wore horrible clothes and she worked in a bookshop. She had never had any real dates not screened by her brothers and father first, and she was still, incredibly, a virgin. She wasn't a real person, an individual - she was a cliché. And not a very good one, either. If she didn't do something about it now, she would never break free.



****************************************

Disclaimer – I don’t own any of the canon characters or concepts. Don’t sue me.



CHAPTER 2 - Diagon Alley



It had been nearly ten years since he'd last set foot in Diagon Alley, and he was looking forward to seeing how much, or little, it had changed since he'd last seen it. Of course, at that time, it had been devastated by constant Death Eater raids, and the bustling, prosperous district of his childhood had been all but destroyed. He'd heard that it had been rebuilt bigger and better than ever, from the occasional acquaintances he'd met on his travels, but his last and most vivid memory was of utter, complete devastation.


Making his way through the crowd in the Leaky Cauldron, he was aware of the curious eyes watching his progress, watching the stranger who'd walked so confidently into their world. They didn't recognize him, not yet - of course, Draco Malfoy didn't go about dressed in casual muggle clothes and with untamed, too long hair; Draco Malfoy, even in the midst of a battle, was never less than perfectly groomed, never less than perfectly composed.


Well, he had not been that Draco Malfoy for a long, long time. In the long years since Harry Potter, in his last year at Hogwarts, had finally defeated Voldemort once and for all, Draco had left his past behind, had left everything behind, and had been drifting somewhat aimlessly throughout the world, trying to forget. He'd left his uncle in charge of his affairs and had taken off - as irresponsible as it may have seemed, perhaps even selfish, particularly in such uncertain times, he'd felt that he needed to escape, to leave, to get away from the memories that were everywhere in Britain - so many, in fact, that he'd felt almost suffocated, and had had to get out before he went mad.


As a result, it had been ten long years since he'd spent more than a night in England - he'd come back, once a year on the Midsummer Solstice, simply to oversee the celebrations on his land, and then had left before dawn, before the memories could fully catch up with him. Last month, after he'd smashed the mirror, shattering his reflection, he'd finally decided that he needed to go home. He couldn't run anymore - he had to go back where it all started and face the memories, to find some kind of peace with himself.


And so here he was, on his way to a meeting with his solicitors and bankers, finally ready to take charge of his responsibilities. He'd met with his uncle last week, to go over the details of his investments and his estate - after his father's death, the Ministry had tried to confiscate as much as they could, believing him to be an easy mark...


They should have known better. Even devastated and grieving, Draco was not going to let them take even the smallest bit of the estate that had belonged to the Malfoy for thousands of years. Standing up to the Ministry had pulled him out of his grief, had given him a purpose and new strength - had given him the confidence and the drive to go on. He'd even increased the estate since he'd taken over. He'd been trained since birth in money and estate management, how to turn information into money and money into power, and it had all come back to him surprisingly quickly. He'd forgotten how fascinating it was, and just how heady power and influence could be.


The very name Malfoy commanded respect, conjured images of endless money and influence - the title of Lord implied power. Financial, social and political power. The Malfoy were the oldest of the wizarding families, the first of the High Clan - they controlled, through alliances, intermarriages and manipulation most of the aristocratic families in wizarding Britain. They were feared, hated and resented, toadied to and plotted against and courted by all, but no one, no one ever made the mistake of underestimating them and what they were capable of.


And after the two years Draco had spent hunting down Death Eaters under the official aegis of the Order of the Phoenix, no one had ever underestimated him again. His last two years at school, after he had been forced to kill his father, had been the bloodiest years of the whole war, and he had been right in the thick of it.


He still dreamed of it, even now.


Shaking his head deliberately, to disperse the memories, he turned his attention to his surroundings. There was Gringotts, standing in the same place it had occupied since Diagon Alley had been founded - it had been the very first building to be reconstructed, after it had all ended. The wizarding world had its priorities straight. Ollivander's, Flourish and Blotts, Florian Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, they were all there, if not exactly as he remembered.


And there - there was the Quidditch supply shop, with young children clustering around the window; he remembered, with a faint sense of amusement, the days when he had been one of them, too well trained to gawk and stare, but inside, just as eager as the other children to possess (or even touch) a Nimbus 2000.


Contrary to public opinion, his father had not given him anything and everything he ever wanted, exactly when he wanted it. Draco had always loved flying, loved the freedom and the speed of it. His craving for speed - the faster, the better - had been the only reckless vice his father had ever allowed him. He'd been on the quidditch team because he was a Malfoy, and it was expected of him. He'd been a Seeker because he was small, and light, and extremely agile: it hadn't been his fault Potter had been an extraordinary Seeker, the best one Hogwarts had ever seen in at least a generation, or that Draco had always been more enthralled with the sheer act of flying than in actually looking for the Snitch.


Be realistic. He'd been too blinded by his hatred (oh yes, it had been hatred - instinctive, blind hatred) to concentrate on the game. He and Harry Potter had come to terms, eventually – by that time, rivalries and jealousies had seemed inconsequential, when compared with reality. They still hated each other, but could put that aside and work together effectively if they had to. He supposed that meant they had a curious kind of respect for each other, now.


His mind was fixed on business, on overseas investments and exchange rates, as he strode through the crowds, walking, despite his years away from the High Clan and the centre of power, as if he owned the world. The crowd parted automatically for him, but he was unconscious of the effect, because it had always been that way – even before he had left the wizarding world. But he was not so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't take note of a new shop, where a small printing press had once stood – odd, to see such a change in a place that had hardly changed at all in centuries.


A second hand bookshop? He would have to check it out, once he'd concluded his meetings. It wasn't every day you saw a new shop in Diagon Alley.



*************************************



It was two o'clock in the afternoon, the quietest time of the day, and she was busy planning her new image, the new, improved and fully responsible Ginny Weasley. Her list of things that needed to be done was quite daunting - heading the list was a new wardrobe, a new haircut that didn't make her look like she was still in her teens, a new confidence that would allow her to stand up to her brothers, and perhaps even a new man, although that might be going a bit too far.


She'd been wrapped up in Harry Potter for so long that she'd somehow missed the years where the rest of her peers gained their confidence in dealing with the male sex. By the time she realized she felt nothing more than sisterly affection for him she was seventeen years old, painfully shy and inexperienced.


Since then she'd somehow only managed to attract men who were...nice.


Gentlemanly.


Kind.


Respectful.


Safe.


Boring.


Her latest love interest was the perfect example - Gerald was financially secure, had a steady, well-paid job at Gringott's, and was a good prospect for marriage. He was solidly middle class and he liked classical music, expensive wine and French food. He had a social conscience and gave money to charity and good causes. He liked her family, and they him, even though he was not Harry Potter, and even if they did think him a little staid.


He was reliable, trustworthy, and financially solvent; he wanted a family, and marrying him would not turn her well-ordered, comfortable world upside down. Perhaps it was that realization that had given her the fatal jolt. Life with Gerald would be...comfortable. Predictable. Safe.


But not long ago, deep in the darkest hours of the night, she had realized that she wanted her life to be turned upside down and inside out. She wanted grand passion and drama. She wanted fireworks. She wanted...


She didn't want to end up like her mother.


Forced to be completely honest with herself, she had decided that, as much as she loved Molly Weasley, she simply didn't want to spend her life constantly looking after seven children and one husband, keeping a house and content with being shabby genteel, ignoring the pitying looks or the slights of those higher than them in the social strata. She wanted more.


Hence this new determination to grow a backbone, dispose of the baggy clothes and the unflattering hairstyle, and finally bring some excitement into her staid life. She wasn't looking for romance - all her experience with romance so far had been rather lacking, and not at all what she had imagined. But excitement would be good.


Perhaps even some sex. Wild, earth-shattering, screaming, no-holds-barred sex. Yes, that would be very good – and why not an incredibly rich, fantastically good-looking, unattached, heterosexual male as well, while she was at it? If she was going to do this at all, she might as well go all the way.


Laughing softly at herself, she was so preoccupied with her plans that she didn't hear the tinkling of the chime that announced customers entering the shop. But when she looked up absently, checking just to see if anything was happening, she felt her heart stutter, then give a huge thump. She looked into incredible silver eyes, and her heart stopped. She suddenly remembered her wish for a fantastically handsome, heterosexual male and offered up a small, entirely heartfelt prayer.


And then her brain, screaming a warning, caught up and started working again, and she looked past the eyes and at the rest of him. White skin, pale blonde hair, aristocratic features, and an unconscious arrogance. Her eyes slid down to his long, elegant white fingers, and saw an ancient, heavy silver ring engraved with a High Clan crest, and then back up to his eyes, which gleamed with unholy amusement. She shut her mouth with an audible click.


"Hello, Weasley," he murmured, all but purring.


She couldn't help it, she blushed. And then her temper, so rarely seen, came rushing to the fore, responding to the laughter that animated his entire face, turning it from a gorgeous mask into a real expression. In the six years she'd gone to the same school as he, she didn't think she'd ever seen him show any genuine emotion at all - not once. And here he was, in her shop, standing right in front of her, looking like a god...and laughing at her.


She opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought of him, in no uncertain terms, gleefully anticipating wiping the smirk off his face, when the door chimes rang and another voice interrupted.


"Ginny, love, how about you shut up early and we go home for some privacy and a little fun, hmmm? Just the two of us?"


Ginny froze, horrified.


Malfoy blinked once, and his face blanked of any and all expression.


Gerald walked cheerfully into the shop and kissed her, then turned to Malfoy, eyeing his muggle clothes and shabby grooming with poorly concealed distaste. Malfoy said nothing, only watched him with impassive eyes.


Gerald, faint traces of condescension in his voice, turned to Ginny and smiled. "I'm sorry dear, I didn't see you had a friend here. My apologies." He looked back at Malfoy. "I don't think I've seen you around here before..." he raised an enquiring brow. Ginny winced, partly in mortification, partly because she could see the look in Malfoy's eyes and Gerald couldn't. She opened her mouth before she had even thought of it - knowing she would curse herself for later.


"Gerald, this is an old school friend of mine," she said brightly. "He's just come back from abroad."


Malfoy's sardonic eyes flicked to her, and then back to Gerald, who had held out his hand with a condescending smile. "Gerald Tarrant," he said jovially. Silver eyes stared with faint incredulity at the outstretched hand, and up to Gerald's face and smile. Ginny fought not to groan in dismay.


Finally, Malfoy took the hand and shook it gingerly. "Draco Malfoy," he finally said, polite but reserved. He didn't look at Ginny, and she was more than grateful for it. She didn't need to see what he thought of Gerald. He had immigrated to England some five years ago, and so knew little about the power and influence of House Malfoy, but even so, surely he would have been able to see past the surface and into the predator?


Because Malfoy was dangerous. She'd only needed one look to see it, to see the ruthlessness and the elemental strength, but evidently Gerald didn't see it, because he clapped the other man on the back with a patronizing smile, some male instinct satisfied that Malfoy wasn't a threat, and said, "Any friend of Ginny's is a friend of mine," Ginny winced again at the blatant possessiveness, "so perhaps we'll see you around some time?"


He made some polite, noncommittal answer, but she wasn't listening. She was looking at Gerald for the first time in a while, stunned at the change in him. She'd never seen him like this before - patronizing, condescending, almost pompous, and not half as...vital, as effortlessly dominant, as Malfoy.


They talked of other, trivial matters for a little while, until Ginny managed to usher them both out of the shop. But before he left, Malfoy looked at her with faintly quizzical eyes, and arched an eyebrow almost in question, or in challenge. She read it easily and scowled - and didn't stop to think why she agreed with him, or how she could read him at all.

A/N – If Molly Weasley is a little OC, then it is quite deliberate. I wanted to see if anyone other than Ron could be irrational and stubbornly against Draco, although it may not have turned out the way I wanted.



CHAPTER 3 - Matchmaking



A few days later, Molly Weasley, in a matchmaking mood, invited her only daughter and her beau to a family dinner at the Burrow. Ginny and Gerald had been a couple for nearly four months now, and her mother had wedding bells ringing in her ears. Ginny suspected that her mother quite liked the idea of Gerald as a son-in-law - certainly he was far more respectable than her own children. But Ginny wasn't sure that she actually wanted to marry Gerald - especially not when her mother seemed to dote on him so much. In fact, that was a very persuasive argument all of its own: Ginny and her mother rarely ever saw eye to eye anymore, not after she had decided that she no longer loved Harry Potter and didn't want to marry him anymore.


Oh, Lady, the trouble that had caused...!


Nevertheless, Ginny had proved that she was just as stubborn as her mother, and had finally won the battle for her own independence. She'd moved out of the house, got a flat in Diagon Alley, and had eventually earned the money to start up her own business, her second hand book shop. And her family still thought of her as the youngest, as helpless, as too young to be out on her own. Hence the fascination with Gerald - he was steady, reliable, and financially secure - marry him and Ginny needn't worry about anything anymore, Gerald would do all that for her.


No, no, no, no, no!


Especially not after seeing him through Malfoy's eyes. Malfoy's cool, cynical, aristocratic eyes that had so clearly seen and mocked everything she had been trying to ignore in Gerald. He was a bore. A pompous bore who thought of her business as a whim, as something she would give up once she had a house and babies of her own. And not only was he pompous, insensitive and far more interested in money than in her, he was a fool. He hadn't even bothered to look past Malfoy's dishevelled appearance - he'd taken one look and dismissed him. Ginny and her brothers might have hated Malfoy, despised him, fought, cursed and hexed him, but they had never ever underestimated him.


And on top of all that, her mother approved of him and was trying to pressure her into marrying him. That had been the last straw. After dinner tonight, they would have to talk. Her plans for the new improved Ginny did not include him. Then who do they include? asked a small, insidious voice. She dismissed it immediately. There would be time enough for man hunting later. First she would have to get through dinner. Then, after getting rid of Gerald, she would think about it.



*********************************



The Malfoy estate was deep in the heart of Wales, cradled by steep mountains and deep green valleys, a land of dark, ancient forests and shadowy groves that hid secrets far older than Christ. And the oldest secret of all was found in the heart of the estate, in the Grove - a tangled, shadowed oak grove older than the Malfoy themselves, older than those who had held the land before Brandon Andenais came with fire and sword and sorcery and treacherously wiped them all out, thus earning for himself and his descendants the name Faithless.


Draco smiled bitterly. Brandon had set a fine precedent for his descendants: there was only one Law that the Malfoy held sacred - the land, and the people were to be protected above all things. And the Clan Lord must do anything and everything he could to ensure it remained that way. And so Draco had killed his father, because his Dark Mark had corrupted the delicate balance between Lord and land and people, to the point where everything that had endured for two and a half thousand years had begun to fail. Because Draco himself had been unMarked, he had renewed the balance when he became Lord.


Simple logic. Intellectually, it had been necessary; emotionally, it had seriously fucked him up. But he was here now, and he was ready to face it. Here, in the Grove, in the Heart of the estate, the funeral pyres of every Malfoy Clan Lord were held, from Brandon himself, two and a half millennia ago, to Lucius, twelve years ago. Here he had stood, and watched, as the flames consumed his father's body, had licked at the pale skin, at the familiar, beloved sardonic face, at the long, white hair that had been his only real vanity...


...("Kill him now Draco! Now!" Draco moved through a surreal dream, through air as thick and clinging as honey, his heart beating frantically, his mind screaming at his body to stop, stop...he looked into his father's beloved eyes, mirrors of his own, and...hesitated.


"Do it! You must!" echoed on the night, hollow in his ears. His right hand lifted of its own volition, raising the knife, light glinting on his father's face and in his eyes...Lucius lifted his head, exposing the vulnerable white line of his throat and his chest, crossed with trails of blood from the torture he had only just undergone.


He heard Voldemort's voice, hissing, shouting "Avada Kedavra!" and with a soft, inaudible whisper (forgive me, father...) he plunged the knife home. Lucius' luminous grey eyes glowed, dimmed, and glazed over. His blood, the Lord's blood, seeped crimson and black into the earth, renewing the Covenant and restoring the balance, and Draco became the new lord...)...


He came out of the flashback gasping, breath heaving and sobbing in his throat. No. No. No...Oh, Lady, no... He ran his hands through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut, pulling until it came to the point where pain and pleasure were indistinguishable. He pulled the fragments of his mask, his composure, back together and stood up straight, forcing his breathing to slow, his heartbeat to return to normal.


And then he walked away, and didn't look back.



**********************************



There were twelve seated at the table - her mother and father, her eldest brother Bill and his wife Fleur, Charlie and Percy and the twins Fred and George, Ron and Hermione, who had gotten married straight out of school and were sickeningly in love, and then Ginny and Gerald. Before they went in, Hermione looked at Gerald, and then gave her a speaking look. Hermione didn't like Gerald, didn't think they were suited at all - before she'd seen him through Malfoy's eyes, Ginny might have argued, or refused to listen, but now she was willing to acknowledge her sister-in-law's insight. She nodded back to Hermione, agreeing to an earnest discussion after dinner.


As usual in the Weasley household, dinner was rowdy and light hearted, with everyone talking at and over each other, and random explosions and bangs that could be traced directly back to Fred and George. As far back as she could remember, every single family dinner had included bangs and explosions - it wouldn't be the same without them. They'd gotten through the main meal and were sampling dessert, when the conversation turned around, inevitably, to business - her father's job as Deputy Minister of Magic meant that he was far more engrossed in his work now than he had been when they'd been growing up. Gerald, a high-up official at Gringott's, was also dedicated, and they'd developed a respect for each other's business and political acumen and their beliefs and ideals.


Gerald was speaking. "The entire department's been in a tizzy for days," he said, shaking his head. "They're all excited about one of their main accounts - apparently he's come back and wants to take control of his money..." he smiled, amused at the very thought. "Some French name, one of those old families who think they're better than us all..." he frowned, trying to remember the name. "It started with 'm' - Montfort, no, Mandeville...Malfort?"


Ron became very still. "Malfoy?" he asked with dangerous softness. Her brother had become an Auror during and after the war, had become a dangerous man, but he had never learned to like Malfoy.


Gerald beamed. "Malfoy, that's it!" He smiled gratefully at Ron, who watched him with barely concealed contempt. Ron shared Hermione's dislike of him; the two men simply seemed to rub each other the wrong way. Her other brothers blinked, frowned, but said nothing - it was none of their business that Malfoy had come back. But Ginny had a sinking feeling she knew what was coming next.


"Come to think of it," Gerald said absently, "I ran into a chap called Malfoy the other day." Ginny tried frantically to signal him with her eyes, telling him to stop, but he was oblivious. "An old school friend of Ginny's, he was."


She closed her eyes, then could all but feel Ron's glare and her other brothers' puzzled and quizzical glances.


Hermione cleared her throat. "Ah...what did you say his name was?" Good old Hermione, always the diplomat.


"Oh, I don't know, some outlandish name, I think...Draco, I think it was. Yes, that was it, dressed in muggle clothes with shaggy hair, a damned pale fellow with grey eyes." He looked at her father smugly, conspiringly. "He had a weak handshake, I know that much."


Bill looked at Fleur, and then back to Gerald. He opened his mouth, but then shut it again. He knew - they all knew - that the High Clan did not shake hands. They considered it a purely middle class custom, and contented themselves with bowing.


"Do you know him then?" Gerald asked with blissful innocence. "He and Ginny seemed to be getting along well."


There was a moment of dead silence, and then her father said faintly, "Yes, the younger children all went to school with him..."


"Oh, that's good then, that could come in useful later on."


No one said anything. No one was game enough. Ginny only closed her eyes and prayed for the ground to open up and swallow her. It didn't work. Fleur changed the subject, and the conversation moved away from dangerous waters. But she knew that she'd be facing an interrogation soon enough...


~()~


It came after dinner, after she had finished letting a bewildered Gerald down lightly. As she had predicted, they joined forces against her - Hermione and Ron, Percy and her mother – with Bill and Charlie leaving the confrontation to the others and hovering in the background offering moral support but saying nothing. Fred, George and her father very wisely stayed out of it, they retreated to the other end of the drawing room and tried to avoid looking at Ginny or any the others. She had always liked the twins best, after Bill and her father.


Typically, Ron took the lead. "What d’you think you’re doing, Ginny, being friendly to Malfoy?"


She couldn't help it, the reaction was instinctive. She scowled defensively. "I was not being friendly to Malfoy. He came into my shop and I was about to order him out when Gerald came in and jumped to the wrong conclusion."


"Gerald couldn't see straight if his life depended on it.” Ron’s retort was scathing and typically hotblooded. “You and Malfoy could have been doing anything and Gerald would have thought it perfectly respectable."


Ginny and her mother gasped in outrage, but for different reasons. "Ronald Weasley,” Molly began awfully, “you will not talk about your sister's fiancée like that. He is a perfectly nice man, and far more respectable than you will ever hope to be."


"Mother!” Ginny protested. “He and I are not engaged! We are not going to be engaged!"


"Nonsense, Ginny, you've been stepping out with him for four months now,” her mother said with unshakable complacency. “Of course you're engaged. I raised you properly, and proper young girls do not lead gentlemen on."


Ginny's mouth fell open. She rose slowly to her feet, bristling. Ron, Percy and Hermione exchanged glances with Bill and Charlie, looked towards Ginny and her mother, both on their feet and in each other's faces, and slowly, cautiously retreated towards the corner where Arthur and the twins were hiding. "Let me tell you this much, Mother," Ginny said dangerously softly. "I am not engaged to Gerald. We are not going to be married, not now, not ever. And four months without an announcement does not mean that I am leading a man on."


But her mother had always scorned the caution of angels. "I don't know that Gerald would want you, Ginny, if he knew the truth about Malfoy...what were you doing together, anyway? Shame on you!"


Ginny went still. Her voice lowered until it was almost inaudible, but it all but vibrated with intensity. "I did not do anything with Malfoy. But even if I did, it would be none of your business, Mother. None at all, do you hear me? If I were fooling around with Malfoy, you would have no right at all to interfere. Because it is my life, and I alone bear the ultimate responsibility for my acts."


Molly Weasley finally stepped back.


"And as for Gerald," Ginny continued, "He is a pompous, ignorant bore and I am finished with him. By my blood and the blood of my ancestors, I would rather marry Malfoy than Gerald!"


Suddenly the room became very quiet. "Is that clear?" Ginny finished menacingly. Molly nodded, scowling, finally admitting defeat.


"Well, then," said Ginny, but then suddenly became aware of the almost unnatural silence, and the stunned looks on her family’s faces. With a creeping sense of horrified dismay, she recalled what she had just said, went crimson all over, and then paled dizzily. Had she really sworn, on her ancestors' blood, that she would rather marry Malfoy?


The Gods had a nasty habit of holding people to oaths like that.



**************************************



Somewhere, far away in Wales, Draco Malfoy lifted his head to hear the voice on the wind. A feminine voice, smooth and low, but at the moment quite dangerous in its icy softness.


By my blood, and the blood of my ancestors…


He didn't know why the Wind was bringing this to him, but he did know a significant omen when he encountered one. And at this time of his life, when he had just come back and the future could go so many ways, he knew better than to ignore it.


So pretty Ginny Weasley had entertained, even for the slightest second, the thought of marriage to him? And then she had sworn a Blood Vow on it. Dear, dear me. This could be very interesting...



*************************************

CHAPTER 4 - Public Viewing



Draco walked into Gringott's dressed in black, formal dress robes, armed with all the confidence and arrogance of two and a half thousand years of absolute power, and prepared to take up the reins of his life and his Lordship. Goblins and customers alike scattered out of the way as he advanced purposefully, his face set impassive, power and danger surrounding him like an invisible cloud. He was the Lord of the Malfoy, the first and the oldest of the High Clan, and today he was flaunting it.


The Malfoy had returned. Let them all see.


The head goblin hurried over to meet him, bowing obsequiously, rubbing his hands together compulsively. "My Lord Malfoy, how good to see you! We have been eagerly awaiting your return," he hissed ingratiatingly. Draco looked at him expressionlessly. He couldn't abide bootlickers, but the head goblin of Gringott's, London was not someone to be easily dismissed.


"Thank you, Griphook," he said softly, inclining his head slightly. "I am glad to see you are so vigilant on my behalf."


"Oh, my Lord," Griphook said, "You are one of our oldest and most valued customers. We always take extra care to zealously guard your interests," he paused and smiled slyly, "and ours thereby." Draco and the goblin looked at each other in perfect understanding. The mask of obsequiousness was dropped, and Griphook's true personality shone through - and Draco knew it would have been a grievous mistake to underestimate him.


"Come," the goblin ordered, clapping his hands so that order returned to the foyer. "Let us discuss our mutual interests." He led Draco to his office, concealed behind an anonymous, undistinguished panel in the walls that swung open when Griphook waved his hand. Draco's respect for the goblin increased even further: wandless magic, and personal wards – his father had been right when he told him the goblins were dangerous. "Sit, please. Would you like some tea?" Griphook asked politely, indicating a tea set on a small side table.


Draco sat down politely in an exquisitely carved chair, arranging his robes around him with the skill of long practice as he settled. "Yes, please," he murmured politely, watching in detached amusement as the tea made itself, a small thread of magic animating the implements. He turned his gaze back to Griphook's as he accepted the cup that floated over to him, taking it gently and carefully out of the air. The goblin had sat down behind his desk, in the position of authority, as if to remind Draco that he was the head goblin of the main branch of Gringott's. Draco brought the cup up to his lips with his right hand, flaunting the ring that symbolized his authority, to remind the goblin of who he, too, was. A small, petty game, but a necessary one, between two players who had never met before and had yet to gain the other's measure.


Griphook's smile was slightly grim, but he spoke first. "So, my Lord Malfoy, what can I do for you?"



***************************************



When he emerged from the head goblin's office, Draco was most pleased with the way the business had gone. The Malfoy vault, all their investments, and another containing everything his mother had owned, had all come to him in due time after Lucius' and Narcissa's death on the same day, despite Ministry interference, and the goblins had been most zealous on his behalf, turning money into more money, and more again.


His father and uncle's financial wizardry had created an incredibly tangled web of investments and trusts, and his first act on coming back to England had been to learn how it worked, and then to find out the true extent of his estates and responsibilities, and now, today, he took control of it. All of it. Money wasn't an end, to him - it was a tool. There was no use having vaults overflowing with gold if he didn't do something with it - and traditionally, the Malfoy used their money to gain, buy and sell power, and to shape the world into what they wanted it to be.


Draco saw no reason to discontinue such an old and valued custom. The world had changed since Voldemort had been defeated for the last time. The Ministry had gained more and more power, and the influence of the High Clans, as people remembered how most of them had turned to the dark side, had diminished - oh, not completely, because the mindset of the wizarding world had always been slow to change, but certainly, Ministers had somehow gained in importance, in control, over Clan Lords. And Lords who had once held legitimate power were now better off buying Ministers and ruling through the shadows, rather than trying to enforce traditional rights.


It certainly couldn't help to have very strong strings attached to a few, influential people: take Arthur Weasley, for example, much as the thought of a Weasley holding any real power amused him. The man had a reputation for unflinching, if occasionally undiplomatic truth and honesty. He was trusted, he was held up as an example of what a politician should be, and most importantly, he was popular with the general public, if not with the aristocracy. He could be a very useful pawn. Now all he needed was a little bit of leverage...


His thoughts were interrupted when a man stormed up to him, planted himself right in front of his face, and drew himself up in outraged ire. His face was crimson and he was having trouble breathing, and he seemed to be in danger of keeling over from the force of his rage. Draco looked down at him with aristocratic distaste, his body language slightly taken aback, jaded eyes faintly surprised. With some difficulty, he recognised the man he had last seen in the littlest Weasel's bookshop. What had his name been? George? Gerard? Gerald. That was it. Gerald Tarrant. Now what the devil was he doing here now?


"You!" hissed Gerald melodramatically.


Draco blinked. "Excuse me?"


"You lying, whoring..." the man’s face reddened, "...bastard!"


A cooler, less amused glance now. "I beg your pardon?" He stiffened, and his voice chilled slightly.


"I don't know what she thinks she saw in you!" The man was lost in his outrage.


"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about." Colder now. His accent was crisper, more clipped, and his face had frozen.


"Liar! Womaniser! Vile seducer of innocents! You don't even remember her, do you? The innocent flower you ruined!"


Draco looked past the man to the security that was coming up quickly behind him, anxious to quash the disturbance. There was nothing less conducive to business than a nasty scene. "No," Draco said, voice icy. "I don't have the slightest clue."


Gerald's eyes bulged. His face went an alarming hue, and he quivered in the force of his rage. "My fiancée," he snarled. "Ginevra Weasley. You seduced her! You ruined her! And then you walked away." He struggled as the security guards took hold of his arms. "You'll pay for your sins, Malfoy!" He shouted hysterically. "You'll pay! You'll pay for everything!!!"


They dragged him to the door and threw him out. Griphook silently, grimly came up to Draco, standing until he relaxed his icy, frozen stance and looked at him. "He will no longer bother you, my Lord," he said, his voice laced with steel. "He was an employee here once, but no longer." His face was just as set as Draco's. "And he will not find employment anywhere else in Britain, if I have my way."


Draco inclined his head, once. "So be it." He turned as if to walk away. "Oh, and Griphook?" he looked back to the head goblin. "He was engaged to marry the youngest Weasley?"


Griphook nodded, his eyes glinting with malicious amusement. "I understand she jilted him, swearing Blood Oath she would rather marry you, sir, than him."


For a moment, Draco's eyes lit with laughter. And then just as quickly it was gone, replaced with their usual impassivity, and perhaps the added spark of calculation. His gaze shifted, looking out the window to where Tallant, tossed out in the street, had been helped up by an unlikely saviour, in the form of the former Pansy Parkinson. Wordlessly, Griphook by his side, he watched as they walked off together, arm in arm, heads close together as if they were plotting...



***********************************



The first indication she had that anything was wrong was just after ten, when two customers came into her bookshop more interested in her than in buying books. The two women were notorious gossips, and they interrogated her not very subtly on her engagement, and her relationship with Draco Malfoy. More came after that, even more blatant, if that were possible, and by one o'clock she felt as if she had been put through the wringer, and had developed a horrifying suspicion about what was really going on.


It was confirmed when the door chimes rang, announcing the arrival of the man himself.


Malfoy.


She wasn't surprised to see him, not after what she had endured that day. In his turn, he didn't seem surprised by her accusing glare, but instead looked insufferably amused. Once again, her temper erupted, but this time she had the brains to keep silent. She wanted to know what was going on, and he was the only one who could tell her. She would hold on to her temper if it killed her.


"Hello Ginevra," he said in that rich, aristocratic drawl of his. Somehow it never failed to rub her the wrong way.


She scowled. "Malfoy. What's going on?"


He smiled. "Apparently, you're determined to marry me, Ginevra. I've heard," he dropped his voice to a purr and came closer, almost stalking her, "that you even swore Blood Oath on it..."


She swore. "I didn't mean it that way."


He raised an eyebrow. "No? Then in what way did you mean it?"


"I said I'd rather marry you than Gerald." She glared at him and pointedly moved away, putting the counter between them.


"That's not what I heard," he murmured, coming up against the counter and leaning over it. "I heard, from Mr. Tarrant himself, that I seduced and abandoned you, and that you swore to get me back..."


She gasped and physically recoiled. "What?!!"


He smiled cruelly. "Yes, Ginevra, that was my first thought as well. However," he lifted a finger, "I'm afraid that the word has spread too far and too fast - the deputy Minister's daughter and the Clan Lord, the Weasley and the Malfoy – so fast that there's no hope of denying it and being believed."


She looked at him for a long, long time, and then acknowledged the truth of what he said. None of her curious customers believed her when she denied it - the only people who probably would believe her were her family and close friends, and they weren't here now, to throw their influence into quashing the rumours. Malfoy himself, for all his social power, had admitted that he couldn't stop them, so what chance did she have? She sighed. "What do we do?"


He looked at her with blank, calculating eyes, and she suddenly became wary of him, of what he could do to her; what did the rumours matter? They could hurt her reputation, harm her business, but on the other hand, Malfoy was by far the more dangerous. She opened her mouth to say, let's forget about it, just let the rumours run their course, when he suddenly grinned, an expression of good humour that lit up and animated his entire face, changing handsome features into blinding beauty, causing her to choke on whatever she was going to say.


"Well, Ginevra, there is one thing we can do," he said, still smiling.


She eyed him warily. "What's that?"


He came closer and captured a stray lock of her hair, falling past her cheekbone, and tugged on it playfully, his fingers brushing her face in passing. She shivered. "We can give them something to really talk about..."

Disclaimer – I don’t own any of the canon characters or concepts.



CHAPTER 5 - Sowing Speculation



Ginny stood there for a moment, frozen, staring up into his eyes, and then blinked, scowled, and slapped his hand away. He took a prudent step back and, eyes alight with laughter, spread his hands out on either side of his body, showing he was unarmed. When she glared at him, the laughter spread and he smiled - a full, unforced and unqualified smile full of laughter and devilry and delight. She caught her breath at the way it turned his already perfect features radiant, a word she would never have used in conjunction with Draco Malfoy. Perhaps it was just as well that the meaning of his last words finally sank in then, distracting her from his smile, from his beauty. Suspicion and mistrust came to her rescue.


"What do you mean, give them something to really talk about?" she asked suspiciously.


He looked at her, eyes limpid with malicious laughter. But his voice was perfectly serious. "I believe that you already had plans for a transformation, a complete and utter change?"


She nodded, still more than a little mistrustful.


"Then, let's go through with them - but in a truly grand manner."


She blinked. "I'm sorry?"


He stepped closer again, eyes intense. There was an air of recklessness about him now, an almost glittering light - and she didn't like it. The thought of Malfoy, Mr. Sangfroid himself, being reckless and impulsive, wasn't good. Oh, no. It was anything but good. "I mean, Ginevra, let's show them all. Show them all who we really are, beneath all the masks, all the all the conventions..."


She took an involuntary step back, suddenly unaccountably wary of the light in his eye. He was no longer laughing, but was instead deadly serious - and then he blinked, and it was gone. He was impassive again, faintly amused, certainly a little cynical and jaded, but no longer disturbingly intense. She cleared her throat. "So, you think I should go through with my transformation."


"Of course,” he said simply, “and I will help you."


"You'll what? Oh, no, no, no. No. I don't think so." She shook her head, actually holding out a hand, as if it would keep him at bay.


"Come now, Ginevra,” he coaxed, “it can't be that bad, can it? I'm generally held to have exquisite taste, and I certainly don't exert my influence for just anyone. How badly do you want this transformation?"


She didn't just want this makeover, she needed it - and he knew it. Ginny supposed, eyeing the cut and fashion of his robes, that he did indeed have good fashion sense, even if he did prefer women - although, according to some of the gossip of her school days, he might not have leant exclusively one way or the other... And besides, shopping with Malfoy would allow her to get into all the best and most exclusive shops, not just the ordinary ones on the Alley proper; and it would certainly fuel a lot of speculation and gossip. She was tempted, more than tempted – but then shook her head. 'It's not that I don't want to, Malfoy - I just don't have enough money to go into the Upper End of the alley..."


His lip curled fractionally in the smallest of sneers, and he lifted sardonic, mocking silver eyes to hers. "Ah, my dear, but that is the whole point. I will finance this whole undertaking."


She gasped. Instant outrage came first, but then came cold reason, and she thought of the conclusions any busybodies, including her mother, worth their salt would draw from her use of Malfoy's money; wild rumours of a Vow were one thing, easily discounted, but a rich bachelor showering money and gifts on a young, unmarried girl...?


"Oh, dear Goddess," she whispered in stunned awe. It was diabolical. It was perfect. It was far too good to pass up.


Something to really talk about.



*********************************



The whispers first started in Alexandre's, when Ginny swept in, head high, dressed in appalling clothes and a terrible haircut, hanging adoringly on Draco's extremely stylish sleeve. Draco and Alexandre, the short, wiry, egotistical master stylist himself, looked her over and examined her as if she were a lifeless mannequin, shaking their heads and discussing her in swift, idiomatic French she had no hope of following. She sat down and sipped tea, trying to look as if she wasn't terrified. Finally, after much discussion and moustache stroking, the little Frenchman nodded enthusiastically and clapped his hands, summoning at least six apprentices and assistants. Then he advanced purposefully on Ginny.


Draco appeared at her elbow, and leant down to whisper in her ear. "Alexandre is intrigued by what you can become, if that hair of yours is ever tamed - you might say that he was inspired by the challenge, and has decided to handle it personally."


She looked up at him a little wildly, reaching up automatically to touch her hair. She'd seen the hairstyles of some of the hairdressers. Draco laughed and gently pulled her hand back down. "Relax," he murmured. "Alexandre knows exactly what he's doing. He's the best hairstylist outside of Paris; he won't mess it up.' Suddenly he smiled reassuringly. "Besides, anything would be an improvement over what you have now." She scowled at him and he squeezed her hand in reassurance, before Alexandre came up to her and bowed flamboyantly, hustling her away to a chair where he would begin the transformation.


Draco looked after them in some amusement, and then strolled into the waiting area where a few others mingled, drinking tea and chatting, waiting patiently for their partners. He found an old acquaintance he hadn't seen for years, and prepared to while away the time until Alexandre had finished working his magic with gossip. Considering his mother had exclusively patronized this place before her death, he was prepared to wait for quite a while. Almost two hours later, he heard the Frenchman's distinctive tones raised in triumph and casually, elegantly, got up and strolled over to see what magic Alexandre had wrought.


The waist length mane was gone. It was still the same colour, a striking dark red, darker than her brothers' hair, but now it was much shorter, cut to frame her face, to showcase her best features - her cheekbones, her stunning dark eyes – and it no longer overpowered her face, as it had done before. Ginny's anxious eyes met his in the mirror, and he nodded slowly, in satisfaction, telling her that it was a good cut. She reached up, almost wonderingly, to touch her hair, to examine her suddenly new-seeming features and face, and something about the innocence of that gesture, of her genuine wonder and delight, caused the slightest stirrings of shame and disquiet in his mind.


Twined around the slight guilt and shame were feelings of pride and undeniable warmth - pride in her courage in going through with this, and warmth at the very innocence she tried so hard to deny and repudiate. She might say all she wanted about being grown up, about being capable of looking after herself, but for all the ancient knowledge and cynicism caused by Tom Riddle's diary, there was still something pure about Ginevra Weasley – something that Draco had lost long, long ago. Closing his eyes, he banished the doubts and hesitations. She had gone into this of her own free will, and of her own understanding of the immediate implications and consequences, if not of the more far-reaching ones. She was twenty-six years old, and as she so stridently insisted, independent and more than capable. It wasn't his fault she was innocent.


Alexandre's voice interrupted them. "So! It is a masterpiece of the utmost magnificence, n'est ce pas? A masterpiece worthy of me!" he kissed his fingers, lost in his own brilliance. Draco met her laughing eyes with his own carefully blank ones, and the moment was lost.


Straightening, he turned to Alexandre. "Yes, indeed it is a masterpiece, Monsieur. You have my thanks." Alexandre protested, bowing, that it was entirely his pleasure, and would mademoiselle mind if he were to take a picture to show his clients his skill? Ginny started to agree, only too willing, but Draco turned a warning, slightly haughty gaze towards the impertinent Frenchman, who had gone too far beyond what license he was permitted. Alexandre said nothing more on the subject, only bowed deeper and went into further flourishes and flamboyance as he saw them out personally.


As they walked outside, Ginny was puzzled. "Why didn't you have to pay them?" She asked, turning her head this way and that to get the feel of her new haircut.


He looked down at her in faint amusement. "My dear Ginevra, it is the height of bad manners to ask for payment immediately. They will send the bill to my house."


"Oh," she said, surprised. "But when my mother goes shopping..." she trailed off, flushing slightly.


"Just so," he said dryly, but a little gently nevertheless.


"Just out of curiosity," she asked tentatively, "how much did that haircut cost?"


He carelessly named a figure that made her wince, and then pale. "You're sure?" she asked faintly.


He nodded, his eyes drifting across the street, to two ladies standing with their heads close together, staring at them. Her eyes drifted across, following his, and she paled even further, now that the game had begun in earnest. Partly for comfort, partly for the benefit of any others watching, he took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm, and bent down to whisper in her ear, his breath tickling her skin. "Thinking of backing out, Ginevra?"


Instinctively, she tossed her head in defiance and looked up to scowl fiercely at him, until she realized how close together they were standing and how others would interpret it. Throwing caution to the winds - after all, that was what had gotten her into this mess - she stood up on tiptoes and smiled sugar-sweet into his eyes. "Not in this lifetime, Malfoy." Her eyes shot fire. "And don't call me Ginevra."


He leaned even closer, dangerously close, crowding into her personal space until he was only inches away from her lips and she could see that his eyes were, indeed, pure silver - no blue, no violet, pure silver. He opened his mouth and she felt a curious fluttering in her stomach, an odd anticipation that she had never felt before, even when she had been infatuated with Harry. Was he going to kiss her? But he only smiled, an almost invisible quirk of his mouth. "As you wish....darling." And then he was gone, resuming the proper and appropriate distance for the Upper End at about two in the afternoon.


But the damage had been done. They had been seen, and noted. Now for Madame Worth's, the dressmaker's, to set the seal on the afternoon.



******************************************



If she had to stand still for one more second... Ginny was fuming. Of course Malfoy hadn't intended to kiss her, on the street of all places - so why was she suddenly furious that he hadn't? He had played her for a fool, and if there was one thing Ginny hated...


And to top it all off, she was standing here, practically naked in her underwear and bra (white cotton, of course they were white cotton, conservatively cut) with her arms outspread while some tyrant of a Frenchwoman poked and prodded her as if she were no more than a horse, or a doll. Her face was still red from Madame Worth's disastrously frank pronouncement that she had passable legs, but her breasts were a little small and her derriere a little too well padded.


Great. Just great. Oh, Malfoy was going to pay for this. She forced herself to stay still, fantasizing of imaginative and painful ways in which to dispose of him, as soon as this ordeal was over. After, of course, her new clothes were delivered. She thought she had earned that much.



***************************************



Outside, Draco was deriving considerable amusement from the thought of Madame Worth's notorious frankness - something that was only tolerated because her robes and dresses were, every one, unique masterpieces, with prices to match.


A soft, velvet voice spoke at his ear. "My dear boy, in the short time you have been back, you have managed to stir up quite a hornet's nest..."


He didn't turn around. He didn't need to. "What are you doing in here of all places, Severus?" he spoke softly, as Snape did, because the walls at Madame Worth's had many ears.


"The same thing as you, I should imagine - spending extravagantly."


"Oh?" he asked, interested despite himself. Severus Andronicus Snape, the Lord of High Clan Snape - for what it was worth - had, when he had last been in Britain, not been a man usually seen in Madame Worth's.


But Snape only smiled. "A small piece of advice, Malfoy, from one familiar with your past..."


Draco blinked, and his face became totally impassive. "Go on."


"Your return has stirred up quite a few ghosts. And it has been ten years and more since your father's death - all vows," he paused, "and all amnesties, have long since run their course. All it needs is a catalyst, a legitimate cause..."


Draco stared into black, utterly serious eyes. He had known Snape since the cradle; more importantly, Snape and his uncle and his father had been companions since their cradles, and he had ever been an ally to House Malfoy. His warnings were not to be lightly disregarded.


He inclined his head formally. "I understand," he said gravely. "My uncle also gave me this advice."


Snape smiled almost imperceptibly. "Make sure, then, that you follow it, Draco."


Black eyes stared solemnly into silver, then shifted to watch a young girl came out of one of the alcoves, her black eyes shining as she launched herself at Snape, who caught her confidently and suffered the arms twining about his neck, before carrying her off, giggling, out of the door. He didn't look back, not even for a final significant look. There was no need to. They were in perfect understanding.


Draco crossed to the window overlooking the street. He thought of Snape's advice, and of his uncle's words of last week. Twelve years ago, after his father's death, he had given the order for the discreet execution of every Death Eater who had been present at the gathering where his father had been tortured. Every one of them, bar Snape, had died that night, the Malfoy symbol slashed into their left forearms, over the Dark Mark. He had made more than a few mortal enemies that night, and not even the amnesty he had offered them, saying only the individual Death Eaters had been targeted and killed, not their Clans and families, would be enough to hold them off forever. They had watched, and waited, and plotted patiently, for twelve years.


Waiting for a cause, for a legitimate grievance, for a catalyst. And today he had given them one, on a silver platter. Respectable Gerald, driven to distraction by Draco's seduction of his beloved fiancée...


He wondered, because he was not quite sure himself, whether he had been too caught up in his own pride and arrogance to know what he was doing, or whether he had deliberately provoked Gerald, in the hope of bringing everything that had festered for years in the dark out into the open. But it was of no consequence. He was the Malfoy. Let them come.


A soft, rarely heard voice spoke in his heart. He was ready. But was Ginny?



***********************************

Disclaimer – I don’t own any of the canon characters or concepts. Luc Malfoy is mine.



CHAPTER 6 – Introducing the Game.



The next day, Ginny was sitting down to her breakfast in her flat, still half asleep because it was seven in the morning and she was most assuredly not a morning person, when she cast uninterested eyes over the front page of the Prophet.


Blinked. Looked again.


SACKED WORKER DENOUNCES CORRUPT PRACTICES!!!!


Oh, dear Lady.


"...An anonymous former Gringott's employee came forward to denounce what he calls "corrupt practices" and "ancient, outdated 'old-boy' privileges" which he alleges led to his unfair dismissal…"


"I was dismissed for exercising my right to free speech in a public place, and because they didn't like what I was saying. This is a breach of a fundamental human right," said the employee.


"Even after You-Know-Who's fall, the aristocracy's influence still reaches into all corners of England's financial and political quarters - it's a shamefully outdated, morally corrupt system that has gone on for far too long, and it's time we put a stop to it."


"...Their pasts and backgrounds, especially some of the more powerful ones, are enough to send any other men to Azkaban for life, and yet they are regarded as pillars of the community. It's time we showed them that we will no longer bow down to them, no longer tolerate their slights and their sins..."


A cold chill ran down Ginny's spine. That sounded like some of the things Gerald often said - he was an avid believer in class equality and bitterly resented the hold the High Clan still had on the wizarding world – in fact, she recognised one or two of those quotes. The anonymous employee was Gerald? And he had said some of those things in public? In Gringott's itself?


No wonder he had been fired. But why had he gone to the papers? He'd been fired, yes, he'd lost his job, but inflammatory remarks of this sort, in print, quoted, might lose him everything he had. He must have been mad. And why had the Prophet even printed such biased copy, and on the front page too? They were openly courting, even inviting a lawsuit. There was something else at play, here - something deeper, something darker than Gerald's personal crusade against the aristocracy. She didn't know who or what it was, but she could sense it, almost reach out and touch it. And one thing she did know - whatever it was, Draco Malfoy stood at the very heart of it.


A knock sounded. She knew it was him before she opened her door, and was sorely tempted, even if just for a moment, to simply not let him in, to leave him standing on the doorstep and hope he would go away. But that would be naïve, and Ginny, despite what some people thought, was no longer naïve. So she let him in, because she knew he was capable of overcoming her wards and her locks, and because she wanted to ask him some questions of her own.


Such as how he had been involved in Gerald's dismissal. And who or what else would also take an interest in it? Ever since that night she'd foolishly sworn she'd rather marry Draco than Gerald, Gerald had grown more and more suspicious, more jealous, more fanatical in his crusade, and he'd made Draco the main target of his animosity. But this – this was the something more, something deeper that she'd sensed before. There was no way that Gerald could have known, even as whispered rumour, the shadows of Draco's past. No way, unless someone else had told him.


And what was Draco not telling her?


When he sat down at her kitchen table, an elegant, aristocratic figure almost completely out of place in her old, battered kitchen, like ethereal quicksilver or moonlight seen in the harsh light of day, she looked at him through puzzled eyes. She knew absolutely nothing about him, she realized. Oh, she knew him by reputation, but that was not the true Draco Malfoy - it was a mask, a public persona; there was something deep, something powerful lying beneath the suave, sophisticated surface - and whatever it was, she sensed instinctively that it could be very, very dangerous.


Looking into his grey eyes, she casually pushed the newspaper over to him, so that it lay open to the front page. His eyes flicked down to it, once, and then back up to hers, and he said nothing, did nothing other than look at her expressionlessly. They sat like that for a while, staring at each other, seeing who would break first; finally she tired of the foolishness, sighed, and gestured with her coffee cup towards the newspaper.


"So," she said flatly, "talk."


Luxuriant, incongruously golden lashes lowered over silver eyes, hiding whatever he didn't want her to see. She made a frustrated sound deep in her throat and reached out to grab his wrist, hesitated, suddenly, when she saw the coiled power only just held in check. He raised his eyes and she saw, once again, the very dangerous force she had once suspected lay beneath his composure. Only this time there was nothing to conceal it.


"What is there to say?" he asked smoothly. "He was indiscreet, and he paid the price."


"Because you ordered it." She could see it all too well - that arrogance, the supreme self-assurance...


He shook his head. "No. I didn't have to order it. It was understood."


"You didn't even have to order it? Do you have so much power, Malfoy?"


He looked at her a little curiously. "Had he said what he said to anyone other than myself, he would still have been dismissed. Free speech is all very well, but there is such a thing as discretion, especially when one works in Gringott's."


She spotted the evasion, but didn't take him up on it, diverted by something else he had said. "What he said? What, exactly, did he say?" she demanded.


His eyes went blank once more. "Nothing that you need to hear." She opened her mouth to protest, and then shut it again when he looked at her.


"And what of his...speaking out?" she drew the words out sarcastically. "Don't tell me that was also your doing."


He smiled very, very softly. "You know it wasn't, Ginevra. I am not the only man with influence and power in this world."


"But you could have stopped this, right? One word from you and they would never have printed this."


He looked at her through old, jaded eyes. "Perhaps I couldn't have stopped it." His lips twisted. "Perhaps I didn't want to stop it."


She banged her coffee cup down on the table. "All right," she all but snarled, tired of the evasions, of the half-truths, of the mysterious shadows she knew nothing about. "What the bloody hell is going on?"


He sighed, closing his eyes; and when he looked at her again, he had shed all the defenses and the masks and she was looking into what she believed was the real man.



****************************************



Draco was tired. Tired of politicking, tired of intrigue and playing games, and tired of running from his past and himself. The unexpected addition of Ginny, a wildcard, had only complicated the game further, with her Vow, with her sudden impulsive desire for a transformation, and with the wholly unexpected lust she inspired in him. Sweet Lady, a Weasley! He could hardly have picked a more inappropriate mate - and yet, with her impulsive Vow she had become part of the game, whether she liked it or not. The Wind had brought her declaration to him for a reason - as soon as he'd heard it, he'd felt the chill breath of inevitability trickle down his back.


And then he'd set out to gather all the information on her that he possibly could, so that her entry would work for him, rather than against him. Take control of the wildcard, control as many of the variables as possible, and he might just come out of this alive, and even more powerful than before. Unfortunately for him, she was proving rather difficult to control: it seemed now he would have to try that most unreliable of methods - cooperation. Preferably willing, but he would take what he could get. And to achieve that, he would need to explain himself.


"Do you remember my fifth year at Hogwarts and your fourth, when the Hogwarts Express was attacked by Death Eaters?"


She nodded, listening intently, now that she was finally getting answers. "I remember. Professor Malfoy - that is, your uncle - stopped them."


"Yes, he did - and in the doing, he showed his true allegiances. He publicly threw his support behind Dumbledore and the Order, and it sent Voldemort into a frenzy."


"Why?" she asked, intrigued. She hadn't seen the implications of the act at the time, or at any time since - had taken Luc Malfoy's protection of them as something inevitable. She hadn't thought that there might have been unforeseen consequences.


"Because he was a Malfoy - and he and my father were always very close, always together in everything. The Dark Lord suspected that my father, too, had turned against him, and he resolved to teach us, the Malfoy, all a lesson."


'Too?' thought Ginny. But she said nothing.


"There was more to it, of course, but the main point is that he brought my father to the edge of our land, to the Veil which separates Malfoy land from the Outside world, and he thought that if he tortured my father to death, then the Veil would come down and he could destroy the Land and the people who lived on it - everything the Malfoy hold sacred."


Draco blinked, momentarily lost in his memories, remembering the awful knowledge of his father's plight, of his helplessness as he watched his torture. "But the Veil was already failing," he continued, voice curiously, carefully neutral, "the balance between Lord and Land and Laymen - what we call the Covenant, which holds everything together - was already upset, because of my father's Dark Mark, which was poisoning everything he was part of. The only way to restore the balance was to instate a new, untouched Lord, and for that to happen, my father had to die."


She made a low, sympathetic sound. "I'm so sorry. So you watched him die?"


He laughed suddenly, a wild, harsh, bitter sound. "No, Ginevra, I killed him myself."


She opened her mouth – to exclaim, to commiserate – but there did not seem to be anything to say.


His face was utterly frozen, his eyes were like hammered, bitterly cold silver, and his voice was dangerously, lethally soft. "I ordered the killing of every single Death Eater who took part in that meeting. Every single one. They all died, marked with the Malfoy mark, to show that I judged them, found them guilty, and ordered their execution..." He felt, dimly, through the memories, through the bitterness and hatred, the touch of her hand as it gripped his, her strength acting as an anchor to keep him in the present, in the now. "But they weren't responsible for his death - I was." he tossed his head suddenly, an oddly incongruous gesture for such a self-controlled man, and changed the subject. "I offered them an amnesty - all the families of the dead Death Eaters - and they took it, hoping to destroy us during the war. But I, and the Malfoy survived. It's been twelve years since then, now - and no amnesty lasts forever, only until the defeated feel strong enough to take their chances once more."


"So they're coming after you."


"Yes, with everything they have, including the media and public opinion. All they needed was a cause, a figurehead." He gestured to the paper, his eyes neutral as he watched her.


She followed his gesture, uncomprehending - and then her eyes widened in amazement. "Gerald? You're not serious?"


"Oh, yes. Gerald, the epitome of the middle class, with his public campaign against aristocratic privilege; Gerald, who has been so ignominiously dismissed because of me..." he paused and looked her in the eye, "whose fiancée I have stolen and seduced..."


She spluttered and choked on her coffee. "What?" She shook her finger at him. "Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no - you are not dragging me into this."


He gently reached out and pulled her hand back to the table. "But you are already involved. You swore Blood Vow. You broke up with Gerald. You made yourself part of this."


"No, you dragged me into this. You came into my shop and suggested we do something shocking, and instead you embroiled me in a...a damned blood feud!"


"You could have said no," he pointed out reasonably.


"You shouldn't have asked me!"


He sighed. "Like it or not, Ginevra, you are part of this. You were Gerald's fiancée. You have now been seen on my arm, only hours after Gerald's dismissal. The whole world knows you swore Blood Vow preferring me over Gerald." He held tightly onto her hand. "You are Arthur Weasley's daughter..."


She went white and tried to pull away, but he held her wrist flat to the table. "Listen to me," he said softly, intensely. "It is too late to go back. A confrontation is coming - the board is already assembling, the players taking their places. And you have become my Queen - you cannot walk away and hope to survive. We must play this to the end."


"I would have felt better about that speech if I didn't think that you engineered this whole thing," she said bitterly, her eyes wounded and cold. "You could have arranged this differently, Malfoy - but you deliberately created this whole scenario, shaping it to your whim..."


"Yes," he said very, very softly. "Yes I did. Yes, I could probably have left you out of this - even with the Vow - but I didn't. I am the Lord of High Clan Malfoy, and I will not stand meekly by and let my enemies destroy me. If I must play this Game, then I will play it my way."


Her dark eyes were almost stricken, threatening tears, and for a moment he felt as if he had destroyed something precious. But, as he had said, he was the Lord of High Clan Malfoy. And he would do whatever he could to ensure the survival and continued well-being of his Clan. No matter the price.



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A/N: For all those who would like to know more about Lucius’ death and the events of twelve years ago, I would recommend that you read my story “The Greater Good, or the Lesser Evil.” (on ff.net) It will give you a bit more backstory.

Disclaimer – I don’t own any of the canon characters or concepts. The idea of the High Clan is mine.



CHAPTER 7 - Recriminations



Perhaps because of her experiences in her first year, Ginny had always been slightly fascinated by the High Clan, especially the older, darker Houses. In her seventh year History of Magic independent study, she'd researched the mindsets and the evolution of the Thirteen, the oldest of them all, which had been founded by Brandon Andenais, called Malfoy, and the twelve others who had followed him into exile and into a new, unclaimed land they made their own. What information she had been able to find, to coax out of the few High Clan scions she had managed to interview, had caused her to re-evaluate everything she had ever believed about the Slytherins. Before, all her knowledge of Slytherin had come from what she herself had seen, from what she had heard from her class and Housemates, and from what she had picked up from Tom Riddle, the memory of a seventeen year old, bastard half-blood muggle.


It had not been anywhere near the whole truth. Oh, yes, some things hadn't changed - the prejudice, the arrogance, the ambition and the cunning - but all that was superficial, it didn't even begin to cover the truth that underpinned what was known as the High Clan, a caste and a class almost separate from the rest of society, with their own laws and customs and hierarchy. The Clan - the family, the Blood - was everything, in their minds; the survival and prosperity of the Clan was the highest priority. The Clan Lord held absolute power over his Clan, checked only by the Covenant - a mystical bond she had not quite managed to understand but knew, instinctively, was vital. The Covenant was both the source of the Lord's authority and the only real check to it, a sacred balance that, if upset, would somehow plunge the Clan into disaster.


It was the Lord's task to ensure the prosperity and the survival of the Clan by any means possible, at any price. The main task, she knew, was to ensure the Covenant was upheld - but there were other, more worldly considerations. Politics, intrigue, manipulation, or outright force - the Clan Lord utilized all these things and more, counting no cost, taking the sins and the blame onto his own soul, to shelter and protect his family and blood. It had sounded rather like mystic babble at the time, and still did now, but after hearing Malfoy talk of his own Covenant, of the lengths to he had gone to restore it, to ensure its continuity, she was sure of one thing - Malfoy believed, utterly, in what he was saying.


For all his ruthlessness and worldly cynicism, there was a deep, dark streak of mysticism running through his soul.


What was the individual, when weighed against the whole Clan? These were the burdens of the Clan Lord - to stand, alone, against any and all who would oppose him. To give all that he could, all that he had, so that the least of his kinsmen could be safe. To commit any sin, to pay any price, so that what must be done was done.


And that was why she was so furious. She could forgive Draco his plotting and his manipulation because she could see the necessity, see the power ranged against the Malfoy, breathing down his neck, but she couldn't, no matter how hard she tried, meekly forget the way he had so callously used her. Were she a Slytherin, steeped in High Clan mentality since childhood, perhaps then she might understand and even forgive, but she was not Slytherin, not High Clan. She was a Gryffindor, a Weasley, a shabby-genteel family dating back all of two hundred years, when the Malfoy could trace direct descent for two and a half thousand.


Her research had given her an appreciation of the Slytherins that she hadn't dared share with her family. She still saw the flaws, and probably always would, but under and outside of that, she saw the discipline, the absolute control and sangfroid that characterized them, the elegance and the grace and the manners, the exquisite politeness and the subtlety, the patience of their thoughts. And their self control. She had never, not once, really seen Draco lose his temper. Oh, there had been tantrums, fights, spats and shouting matches, but watching closely even in her younger years, influenced by Tom's memories and experience, she could see the calculation inherent in every single incident, see the careful blankness that characterized restraint.


She had admired that most of all. Born into a hot-blooded, extremely volatile, rather vocal family, she had found the cold courtesy and the absolute self control, the soft voices that were never raised and never needed to be when speaking completely fascinating. And drawn by her admiration, by Malfoy's natural charisma, by girlish fantasies, by resentment and impulsiveness and sheer recklessness, she had allowed herself to believe, just for a moment, that she could come close to the real Draco Malfoy, the one behind the composure and the control and the Lord's masks. See, and perhaps even understand, the burning soul with such a mixture of mysticism and practicality, of ruthlessness and love, of strength and vulnerability.


But she'd gone too far, and had impulsively declared her still half-formed fascination to the Gods themselves, who had taken a hand in the matter. And then she had played right into Malfoy's hands.



****************************************



With deliberate, vindictive malice, she picked up a priceless, heirloom Dresden shepherdess she had always hated, weighed it in her hand, smiled slowly, and flung it at the wall, taking exquisite pleasure in the resulting smash. Her audience cringed, and tried their best to fade into the background. Then, still eerily calm, she picked up a crystal wine glass, one of the very few Molly Weasley had ever been able to afford, and held it up to the light to savour its reflection, its clarity. Molly Weasley, her expression caught between wariness of her daughter's temper and worry about her wine glass, made a choked sound as she came in the door and saw what was going on.


"Ginevra Molly Weasley!" she all but shrieked. Ginny turned, and so did Ron and Harry, who had been trying to remain unnoticed.


The smile that curved Ginny's lips was chilling. It was, quite frankly, the small smile they had all seen, on occasion, on Draco Malfoy's lips, usually just before the man turned ice cold and elegantly feral. Just how much had she learned from Malfoy? And what had he done to upset her this much?


"Hello, Mother," she purred softly. "Can't you see I'm throwing a tantrum? Isn't that just like a Gryffindoric, impulsive, naive Weasley."


Hermione, who had come in with Molly, winced.


"Is it Malfoy?" Molly asked with a disastrous lack of tact. "I can't say I'm surprised, Ginny, but I did warn you..."


If anything, Ginny's eyes went any colder.


"A man like him would have no interest in a virtuous young girl like you, Ginny dear," said her mother kindly, but firmly. As if it were a lesson she had tried and tried to impart, but was only now sinking in. "He's High Clan, and men like him don't marry the likes of us, darling. You're better off without him."


Ginny laughed, a shocking, harsh, bitter sound much like Draco had laughed when he told her how his father had died. She understood, now, something of what he had felt. "Mother," she said very softly, "he's bound me to him so closely I'll never break free."


Ron and Harry sat up suddenly, eyes narrowed. Hermione's eyes widened, then sharpened in speculation.


"What?" asked Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived, the auror who had slain Voldemort, the very dangerous man who had seen and done far too much in his lifetime.


She looked at him through cold, bitter eyes. "He set me up. He deliberately manipulated me and he played the whole situation like a goddamn chess board."


Molly looked bewildered. "Why?"


She smiled terribly. "Because he is the Lord of High Clan Malfoy, and he will do anything, everything, to ensure the survival of his Clan."


Ron scowled. "Is his Clan in such danger, then?"


Arthur Weasley, newly arrived home, stepped between his daughter and his wife. "After today's paper, and the rumours that are flying around the Ministry and Diagon Alley, I would say that someone, or some people, are throwing everything they've got against him..."


Ginny turned on him. "You don't believe that, do you? He's the Malfoy. Who's going to come after him? Who's going to dare?"


Harry cleared his throat delicately. "Well, Ginny, he did make quite a few enemies after his father died - his vengeance wasn't entirely subtle - a lot of people have been waiting for the perfect opportunity to pay him back in kind." He held up a hand, preventing her next outburst. "And, after all, he is only one man, only one Clan..."


Arthur nodded. "If he truly believes that his Clan is in danger, then he'll fight back with everything he's got. It's his duty."


Ron looked at both of them in amazement. "I can't believe you're supporting him in this. Look what he's done to Ginny - he's set her up, manipulated her..."


Hermione, Arthur and Harry exchanged glances. "Well, he is the Clan Lord. That's what a Clan Lord does, protecting, nurturing, avenging, upholding...."


Ron scowled. "Oh, for God's sake, don't tell me you believe all that mystical, High Clan tripe."


Ginny was silent. Hermione looked at her husband earnestly. "Yes, I do. And more importantly, so does Malfoy." She leaned forward and squeezed his hand. "Remember when we went Beyond the Veil, into his land? We saw his face when he killed his father, the father he loved and idolized, because of this unknown, mystical force called the Covenant. We were right there when the stigmata opened on his forearms and when he exchanged blood with every peasant on the estate. He believes."


"It's...it's archaic,” Ron blustered. “It just can't be still practiced today. Malfoy is too cynical, he can't believe in all that stuff."


Hermione lifted her chin, assumed her lecturing voice. "Time passes by that land - and the people still believe in the Old, old ways. The whole place is steeped in mysticism and ritual, and Malfoy believed in it, he wasn't just paying lip service."


"So what? Because he's a Clan Lord, because his family is in danger, does that give him the right to use Ginny like he did? Does that justify what he did?" Ron looked an appeal at Ginny, who had been drawn over to the window and was looking towards the west, towards Wales and, although she didn't know it, towards the Malfoy lands.


Ginny only shook her pressed her forehead against the glass, her eyes closed and her shoulders slumped. She looked utterly exhausted, oddly fragile, and more beautiful than she had ever been, with her new haircut and her newly fashionable clothes. Malfoy had already put his stamp on her – his Queen, he had called her. Just before telling her that there was no way for her to bow out of the game gracefully - either she played it his way, or not at all. She had a feeling that he played with consummate skill and utter ruthlessness. And she had an even more sneaking suspicion that if he lost this game, if the Malfoy, who had balanced and centred the High Clan for millennia, were brought down and destroyed, then the consequences would be...undesirable. For him, for her, and for the whole wizarding world.


And what was her resentment, when balanced against that? Perhaps if she were a Gryffindor, with naïve notions of justice and fair play, she might have objected on sheer principle. But she was not, not truly - she had too much of Tom in her, even now - and she could, with some difficulty, see the necessity in what he had done. That didn't mean she would make it easy on him.



*********************************************



At the moment, Draco was standing at the window of his drawing room, looking out blindly towards the east - towards the Burrow, if he had known it. He, too, leaned his head against the cool glass, closed his eyes wearily and let himself drift, relax, in the first moments of peace he'd had in what seemed like an age. He was the Lord, and he was supposed to be strong - but oh, Lady, sometimes it was so hard...


Now he knew how his uncle must have felt, in the first few terrifying days after Lucius had died, when Luc had had to carry the weight of the Malfoy and of his own Clan, to deal with his own grief, Draco's semi-resentment, the Ministry's circling vultures, and Voldemort's enmity all at once. He knew what was causing most of the strain, most of the uncertainty.


Ginevra. A complication. A distraction. A possibly disastrous vulnerability. A damned infuriating, infinitely desirable woman who was far too stubborn, and far too innocent, for her own good. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pin her down. And if he couldn't pin her down, he couldn't control her. And if he couldn't control her...


He needed her willing cooperation, but knew he wasn't likely to get it any time soon. He needed to see her, to talk to her, to explain and try to convince her – hopefully this time he would be able to find the right words, instead of the rather arbitrary demands he had made of her before. He still winced when he thought of that disastrous morning. But he couldn't afford to waste time, anymore. The wolves were coming closer by the moment. He needed to get her on his side, firmly, unequivocally on his side, as soon as possible.


No matter how it came about.



**********************************



They watched, and waited, as patiently as they had done for twelve long, humiliating years, and with every passing moment their hatred, their desire for revenge, burned even colder and deeper. Others had plotted revenge against the Malfoy, during the long, long centuries of their rule. Others had acted, had unleashed all manner of vengeance and plots, and had failed spectacularly, and had themselves fallen victim to Malfoy reprisals.


But this time they would not fail. Times had changed. The Lord's rights and prerogatives had been largely abandoned by recent legislation and custom, and the social and moral reform that had swept through society after Voldemort was finally defeated. Outright war, complete with massacres and salted fields was no longer an option. Nor was implicating their enemies in treason, or execution or assassination. So what methods did the Malfoy Lord have left? They had done their damnedest to make sure there were none. This time, they would bring the Malfoy down, and destroy them so utterly it would rock the very foundations of the wizarding world.


And then, only then, would they finally be satisfied.



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Disclaimer – I don’t own any of the canon characters or concepts. I do own Julia, and my version of Snape’s history.



CHAPTER 8 - Hogwarts



Hogwarts.


Watching it appear over the horizon, Draco felt an odd feeling of nostalgia for the days when he had, so innocently, roamed its corridors and sheltered within its walls. He had never really realized just how sheltered they'd all been, just how much had been kept from them for their own safety.


There were times when he missed Hogwarts, longed for the simplicity of the days when his biggest problem had been producing an essay Snape would approve of, and his greatest enemy had been Harry Potter, but that had been before his fifth year, before his father had died and he had been propelled into the real world, into the real Game.


There were times when he wished that he could go back, regain his innocence and revert once more to Draco Malfoy, the great ferret, the ruler of Slytherin, but it couldn't be. Mortals were given a set number of days on the earth and the gift of free will, so that they could live them as they willed. There was only one absolute - what was done could never be undone. In this world, even with the invention of time turners, there was no going back. One had to ride out the consequences as best one could.


Occasionally, though, life gives us all a chance to make amends.


McGonagall met him at the entrance to the Great Hall, still as straitlaced and prim as ever, regarding him with the same disapproving eyes and stiff manner that she had used through all his years at Hogwarts. In fact, he didn't think that he had ever earned a smile or a word of praise from the Head of Gryffindor - not once, not even after he had publicly denounced Voldemort and all his works. But he had long since ceased to care. Snape's silent, discreet support and Dumbledore's unconditional, unspoken acceptance had been enough to sustain him and dispel any doubts, and to help him, one of the few High Clan Slytherin children in the Order, to adapt to working with others not of his own circle - just as those others had had to adapt to working with him. It had been a learning experience all around.


"Mr Malfoy," she said icily, skepticism thickening the edges of her Scottish burr.


He kept his face completely impassive. "Professor," he answered, just as crisply.


She lowered her eyes first, a little disconcerted by the deceptive clarity of his gaze and the hint of something dangerous beneath the smooth surface - and by the uncanny resemblance to his father and uncle, both of whom she had taught, so many years ago. "Come in," she relented enough to say. "He is expecting you."


Draco nodded wordlessly, politely, and stepped through the door, into Hogwarts Castle for the first time in ten years.



*******************************************



She watched him as they walked beside each other, searching for something she still couldn't name. Perhaps an indication, some clue, to show that this elegant, eerily familiar stranger was indeed the boy she had once known, who had once shown such courage and dedication for the Order. She may not have shown it, but she had felt for that boy, so many years ago. It couldn't have been easy, throwing aside all the years of caution and discretion and openly supporting them, despite the opposition of most of his friends and Housemates - the anti-Slytherin, anti-High Clan prejudice of the other members had not helped him feel welcome, either.


She hadn't been surprised when he left England immediately after the end. Self-contained and introspective, he had kept everything inside during the war, had focused everything he had on bringing the Dark Lord down, not caring about anything else. And then, when it was all over, when there was nothing and no one left to fight, he had had to face the reality of everything he had sacrificed and lost. So he'd run, but now, it seemed, he had come back.


But Lady, how he'd changed in the meantime. Tailor made, discreetly embroidered robes whispered of silk and linen, his shoulder length white blonde hair was pulled back into a queue and bound with a silk ribbon. His skin was still alabaster white, and with his hair and silver eyes he should have been too pale, but there was too much life in his face, too much character and animation. Too much power - even if his features hadn't been utterly perfect, the product of centuries of careful, selective breeding, he would have stood out in a crowd, because he held himself with all the unconscious pride of a man who has never doubted his position in the world.


He had grown into his face; where it had been pointed before, almost too sharp for a boy, with maturity it had fulfilled its promise – he had laughter lines, now, and other indications of emotional and physical maturity, making him look like a man rather than a porcelain doll. But the face was only half the story - the rest of it was locked firmly behind the enigmatic, deceptive eyes, and unless you knew him very well, there was nothing there to be seen. Before his father had died, he had been much easier to read - oh, he'd been discreet and impassive, but his body language and the tone of his voice had given him away every time; now, he revealed nothing that he did not want to be seen.


Draco Malfoy had grown up. And though she would never say it, she was quite pleased with what he had become.



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Albus Dumbledore had changed, in the years since Voldemort's defeat - he was a little greyer, a little frailer, a little more diminished from the figure Draco remembered from his first year. Nevertheless, he was still more than strong enough to rule over Hogwarts as he had always done - with an extremely delicate, velvet glove, and a hidden, hardly ever seen steel fist.


He stood up as Draco came in, a pleased expression on his face and a twinkling light in those faded blue eyes - but he didn't move closer, didn't give any indications of affection or open his arms for an embrace. He knew better than to do that, when dealing with Slytherins.


He loved all his students, from the golden, high-spirited Gryffindors, so brave and so ready for anything, to the cool, sardonic Slytherins with their ambition and their ruthless will, their odd sense of honour and their aloof manners. He, like McGonagall, had never said anything of this before, but, proud as he was of Harry, who had always held true to the light, he valued Draco just as highly because he had known the darkness intimately, lived it, and had turned away from it.


"Mr. Malfoy," he said, permitting warmth to colour his tone. "It is good to see you again."


The man across from him, so controlled and composed, permitted himself the hint of a smile. "Headmaster," he said, a little warmly, "It is good to see you, too." He sat down elegantly and took a cup of tea with aristocratic ease. "Thank you for agreeing to see me."


"Oh, I always have time for ex-students," he said absently. "I like to know what they have done with themselves." He paused, then said nothing more, thinking of all the ex-students he had seen on their way to Azkaban and the Kiss, wishing that he could have done something more to save them, but knowing logically that it would not have helped. Free will was a beautiful, deadly, double-edged blade. Only one of his lost students had ever come back, and even then, he had been almost broken and scarred beyond repair. But through his work with the Slytherins, trying to steer them away from the Dark, Snape had found some sort of redemption.


He, too, appreciated seeing past students who had found their way to the light.


"He is teaching right now," said Dumbledore with an oddly sad, but understanding smile. "But after this lesson, he will be finished for the day. You can go up and see him then."


Draco said nothing - he suspected Dumbledore knew all too well why he had come, and it had not been because he felt like seeing Hogwarts again. But the Headmaster knew, and understood, and for the slightest second, Draco hesitated. Did he really need to drag Snape back into the shadows? But it was too late now. He had come to Hogwarts, he had asked to talk to Professor Snape, and soon it would be known throughout the whole High Clan. And besides, Snape had been a part of this from the very beginning, not three days ago, not twelve years ago, but more than thirty years ago when Draco's grandfather had first given into overwhelming pressure and bent his knee, Lord Marcus Malfoy who had bowed to nothing and no one, to the self- styled Lord Voldemort. And Augustus Snape had watched, and rejoiced.


So now it was time for the game to end. He would finish it, this time. Once and for all.



*************************************



He walked through the corridors towards the dungeons, making his way through crowds of black-robed students of all ages and Houses. He wondered, absently, whether there were modern equivalents of himself and Harry Potter - the school bully (probably a Slytherin) and the school hero (Gryffindor, naturally). And whether they hated each other, because they were twisted reflections of the other, or because they were natural opposites…


Twelve years on and he recognised none of these students - he had the rather odd feeling that they didn't recognize him, and that for all of his notoriety in his school days, as soon as he had left he had been forgotten, but for the old year books and the dim memories of those who had known him by sight and reputation, if not in person.


How depressing. And how deflating. He was just amusing himself by thinking of what Snape would have to say about that, when a section of the wall slid away as he passed, revealing another, hidden passage lined with tapestries and flickering torches. Snape had known he was coming.


"And so it begins," the velvet voice echoed all around him, and he spared a moment to appreciate the room's acoustics before he went over to join Snape by his worktable. He had been here before, of course, as a student - it was Snape's research laboratory, where he brewed his most subtle, lethal potions. It was kept ice-cold year around, for storage and safety purposes, and the acoustics were needed when the utmost delicacy was required in the brewing. The merest hint of a sound could signal the readiness, or the ruin, of a potion; it was slow, subtle work, but the scions of House Snape had been potions masters since time immemorial.


Draco appreciated the subtlety and the skill needed to make potions, but preferred to work his will through verbal manipulation - the Malfoy had ever been plotters, webspinners. And although he also appreciated the dramatic potential of an underground, echoing cavern, he didn't share Snape's flair for melodrama or romance. "Yes," he said clearly, and not too loudly, so that it didn't echo. "It was exactly as you said. They have a catalyst, and will do everything they can to bring me, and everything that I stand for down."


Snape looked at him over the cauldron, through thin streamers of vapour. "What will you do now?"


Draco looked down at the swirling, almost clear liquid. "They're using the media, and public opinion," he grinned mirthlessly, "rousing the mob."


Snape snorted. He, too, had learned his muggle history.


Draco continued. "This is a popularity contest, judged by reputation and by the public's perception. I've already started rumours of an affair with Ginevra Weasley."


Snape added powdered copper, and the liquid turned an intense bronze green. "Weasley," he murmured softly to himself. "One of the more respected, lesser Houses, six well connected brothers, a father with an excellent reputation, and the all important connection to Potter…"


Draco had long since accepted the range of Potter's influence. That didn't mean he had to like it.


"Hereditary Gryffindors," mused the potions master. "Yes, an attachment to that family would be very good publicity." He pinned Draco with his penetrating black stare. "If," he held up a finger, ever the teacher, "If you can get her, and their, cooperation. And that is the most important part."


Draco didn't take exception to the lecture. He knew it was very good advice. "I have to talk to her," he murmured half to himself. "Because she still doesn't trust me." He looked at Snape, who raised an innocent, amused brow. "But perhaps if I enlisted help from other sources..." He smiled suddenly, a small, almost reckless smile that Snape, who had known him and his father and uncle almost all his life, recognised with a sinking heart. Mischief almost inevitably followed that smile.


"Tell me, Severus," he murmured conspiratorially, "how do you judge Arthur Weasley?"


Snape sighed. Just as he had thought. "Idealistic, yes, but not naïve, not anymore, and quite shrewd under the eccentricity. He loves his family, has definite standards and ideals, but is more willing than most of the Weasleys to see shades of grey, rather than black or white."


Draco tapped the pads of his fingers soundlessly against the workbench, his head tilting to the side as he thought. "Would you call him a realistic man?"


Snape slowly stirred his potion with long, deliberate, and smooth strokes. "Realistic?" Three strokes clockwise, three anti-clockwise. "Let us say that he hopes for the best, but can be brought to accept unexpected or slightly unsatisfactory situations if there is no other choice..." Snape placed a sprig of mistletoe, freshly cut, into the mixture and watched it begin to bubble. "He is the Weasley patriarch," he said, as if it explained everything.


In a way, it did. Draco supposed that he would act in much the same way as a Clan Lord, which was why he had proposed this idea in the first place. If Arthur Weasley could be brought to see the advantages of an alliance with the Malfoy it would fight half of his battles for him. For a long while, Draco stared unseeingly at the hypnotic process of the potion brewing, watching Snape's hands, so confident and skilled, work with utter confidence, watching the swirling potion that changed with every passing instant, watching the faint but definitely building surge of magic that surrounded the liquid, just waiting to be released...


And then he smiled, and walked out.


Snape looked up as he left, unmistakable amusement glinting in his eyes. A slight sound distracted him and he looked to his right, to the door that connected to his private apartments. It was half open, and a young girl was standing uncertainly in the doorway. "Uncle Severus," she said in a soft, but not childish voice. She was nine years old, and she had never been childish, or even innocent. "I had the nightmare again."


He could see the echoes, the ghosts of the dream in her eyes, see the shadows scarring the clear black gaze so like his own, so like his unacknowledged, unmentioned illegitimate brother Janus, who had been her father, before Snape found out about her existence and the circumstances of her short life. He had crushed Janus, taken her away from her old life, but still she had nightmares and probably would for the rest of her life. So much darkness at so young an age... He had done what he could, but feared it was not enough. He didn't pick her up, because after her nightmares she couldn't abide physical contact, but he led her to the bed and sank down to his knees to face her on the same level. "Julia," he whispered softly. "I'm here. I'll always be here for you."


She looked at him, so vulnerable despite her almost unearthly composure. "Promise?" she whispered, suddenly so young it wrenched his heart. He held up his hand, palm forward, fingers angled downwards, to expose the scars where he had sealed oaths in blood. "Promise."


Her tremulous smile broke his heart. She was so vulnerable. How could he enter into Draco's game, when the consequences might rebound on this innocent child? How could he not enter into the game, when if Draco lost, the consequences would certainly rebound on her? She put her palm on his cheek, her eyes all too serious. "I love you, Uncle Severus..."


He closed his eyes and bit down fiercely on his lip, almost drawing blood. Now, after all these years, now that he had someone other than himself to care about, he understood what it meant to be a Lord. And it was a terrible, terrible isolation.



**************************************



Arthur Weasley, his faded red hair thinning slightly, raised his head curiously as he heard the knocking at his door. They weren't expecting any visitors, and none of their children had said they were coming for tea, either. Opening it himself, old instincts causing him to finger his wand nervously at the thought of unexpected guests, he found himself staring into Draco Malfoy's silver eyes.


"Mr Weasley," Malfoy began politely, registering the surprise in the older man's eyes, and the left hand that was still hidden in the pocket of his robe. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."


Arthur pulled himself back together. "No, no, not at all." He had known that Malfoy was back, but he hadn't expected to find him knocking on the front door. "Please, come in." He noted that Malfoy had waited until the invitation was made of his own free will.


He stepped aside, and Malfoy came in, brushing past, smelling faintly of sandalwood, his robes falling around him so perfectly Arthur had the brief, uncharitable thought that they probably cost more than he made in a single year. But he couldn't deny that they did emphasise the man's looks and bearing. Centuries of power, of breeding, years of training and careful cultivation - all of that and more were represented in this one, elegant man with old, jaded eyes. Molly turned around absently as he came into the kitchen, and stopped, frozen, with her wooden spoon dripping sauce onto the floor.


But he only smiled politely, somewhat remotely, and said, "Mrs. Weasley," as Arthur introduced him. He took the time to note that Malfoy didn't smile, or turn on the charm as he could have done - perhaps he knew that Molly didn't have the experience to play that particular game? Either way, it raised his estimation in Arthur's eyes.


"My apologies for dropping in like this," Malfoy said softly, over a cup of tea, "But I was hoping to talk to you about your daughter." Molly slowly put her teacup down and rose from the table, ready to annihilate him for the way he had upset Ginny, but Arthur looked at her in the way that all married couples develop over time, and she sat down reluctantly.


Arthur cleared his throat. "What about Ginny?" he asked neutrally, because he knew that any hint of untoward emotion was enough to put High Clan backs up.


Malfoy took another sip, managing to look aristocratic and commanding even sitting down on a ratty couch and drinking tea. "My uncle Luc is hosting a dinner tomorrow night," he waved a dismissive hand, "really, a political affair. I fear I am obliged to attend - and, well, quite frankly, I was hoping you would give me permission to escort Ginevra there."


Arthur's ears pricked at the thought of Luc Malfoy's very select dinners, where most of the country's trade policy was formulated over the dessert course. He would give his eyeteeth to know what went on at those dinners - and Malfoy knew it. Still, he hesitated. Malfoy was playing a very deep game here, and he didn't want to become entangled, lest he and his were pulled under...


"I appreciate that you've come to me with this, Mr. Malfoy," he hedged, "but shouldn't you talk to Ginny first?" Molly watched their guest with hard, suspicious eyes.


Malfoy coughed delicately. "Indeed, I have," he murmured softly. "Unfortunately, she didn't quite manage to give me a straight answer before she left to come back here – mostly, I believe, to avoid me." He looked apologetically at Arthur, who swore at the implications.


Ginny would undoubtedly refuse to even talk to Malfoy in the mood she was in now - which meant that she wouldn't settle the question of tomorrow night's dinner in time. There was no way that a responsible politician, particularly ambitious or not, could pass up this chance at such an opening. Luc Malfoy's trade dinner! Gods, what doors that would open... All that was asked was their influence in gaining Ginny's cooperation with whatever Draco was planning, and this silver haired, immensely capable aristocrat would take Arthur Weasley as far and as high as he could reach.


What was that he had thought before, about not becoming entangled in Malfoy plots?


His ambition warred with his natural concern for his daughter and his ingrained mistrust for the Malfoy. He had known the father, but he also knew the uncle - and he was beginning to take the measure of the son. Hermione’s and Harry's recommendations of the day before had caused him to think again, rather than to dismiss Draco as another Lucius. Even Ron had, very reluctantly, been brought to admit that Draco had (deep, deep down) a core of strength and integrity. And now that he had met him, Arthur was inclined to agree - although he saw the manipulation and the veiled ruthlessness, he could also sense the power and the responsibility.


And, quite frankly, there was one other thing that recommended Malfoy - Ginny herself. She had been looking miserable lately, pale, peaked and desperate – after meeting Malfoy, she had changed, had become more animated, more comfortable with herself, more independent. If it had not been for that, his anger at the manipulation would have awoken his wide stubborn streak. But because she had spoken Blood Vow, because she had somehow gained in self-confidence since meeting him, and because, quite frankly, he liked what he saw of the Malfoy so far, he would talk to Ginny. It was a small enough price to pay.


Of course, if he had known more of what Malfoy was planning, he might have been more cautious...



*******************************************

Disclaimer – I don’t own any of the canon characters or concepts. Luc and Kate are mine.



CHAPTER 9 – Introducing the High Clan



Bastard. Manipulative, arrogant, smug, Slytherin bastard.


She couldn't believe he had done this to her. He'd deliberately manipulated her into this - had engaged her father, of all people, to do his work - and she knew what he was doing. He was flaunting his influence, flaunting his ability to pull strings, push buttons, and make people dance to his tune. Even supposedly incorruptible people like her father.


She thought that she'd had her fill of Slytherin manipulation after her adventures with Tom Riddle - the debacle with the diary, and in her sixth year, the plot that had almost managed to destroy Harry Potter – she had played a starring role in that, too. Needless to say, she had harboured a deep hatred for any sort of manipulation ever since, and now she was up to her neck in it, and sinking fast.


She didn't know what was going on and she didn't know whether she could trust Malfoy completely - whether he was telling her the whole truth or just carefully selected half-truths – she didn't know which way to turn, and to a forthright Gryffindor, no matter her small experience with Slytherins, it was distressing.


Who did she trust? Gerald, who was respectable, approachable, mild and trustworthy, with an impeccable reputation? A gentleman who understood her and her family, whom she could relate to because he was a normal man with a normal upbringing, nothing more, nothing less. Or Draco Malfoy, High Clan Lord with different values, different beliefs, and an entirely different background; he was a nobleman, not a gentleman (yes, there was a definite distinction) with a shadowy reputation and a history of deception, cruelty and ruthlessness.


But there had been something she hadn't quite liked in Gerald, the last time she had seen him - something barely glimpsed, nothing more than an impression of something dark and twisted, something rotten – but then he blinked, and it was gone. And she had convinced herself that she had imagined it - her sympathy for him prompting her to give him the benefit of the doubt. Why had he chosen to ally himself with ex-Death Eaters? Why was he saying such poisonous, libellous things against the High Clan, and why were his new allies, High Clan themselves, allowing him to?


Not for the first time, she wished she knew what was really going on below the surface, below the bare facts that Draco, in order to gain her sympathy and trust, had allowed her. She couldn't even trust herself - her body was betraying her, her mind playing tricks on her, as she found herself dwelling on Malfoy's scent and voice far more often than she should, found even her magic reaching for, craving, the cool touch of his power, smooth, sure and utterly confident, smelling slightly spicy, like sandalwood, with a tangible feeling of warmth, of wonderful, sensuous, touchable texture...


She shook her head. She was craving him, needing him and his touch and his voice and his magic. Incredulously, she recognised all the signs that pointed to the beginnings of a Bond – not a blood bond, between master and servant, lord and peasant, but an actual soul bond. But soul bonds were legends. Wonderful romantic devices for the old ballads and stories, they had no place in everyday reality, especially not in her everyday reality. She did not want to share soul bond with Malfoy, but she knew the exact moment it had been formed - and like most of the trouble in her life lately, it had begun when she'd lost her temper and sworn Blood Vow. The repercussions were more serious than she had thought.


Covertly, she looked at him from the corner of her eye. He was dressed to impress tonight, in rich silks and velvets - his face was utterly impassive, set in a calm, unreadable expression. There was no indication that he felt anything but boredom, that he regarded her as anything more than a pawn, an uncooperative pawn necessary for the success of his plan. No hint that he was beginning to crave her as she craved him, or that he found her in any way attractive or desirable. She didn't know why she was so offended at the thought of his not desiring her.



****************************************



He was dressed in his best formal evening clothes - the obligatory black robes, trimmed with discreet touches of silver and dark, dark green - with Ginevra's hand resting lightly on his arm; she herself was dressed in warm cream silk, her simmering resentment only heightening her beauty.


Accustomed since childhood to presenting himself, he knew the impression they created - cool, severe power and strength, a dramatic contrast to simple, elegant innocence - and he could not have been more pleased. But he doubted that Ginevra would share his satisfaction. He had, after all, all but compelled her into this.


He hoped that she would come around, after she'd met his aunt Kate and had a chance to talk to her. Everybody loved Kate; surprising, really, when one thought about it. Kate was a mudblood. She'd been sorted into Slytherin at the height of the anti-muggle prejudice in the 70s, and had learned quickly enough that if she were to survive her school years at all, she would need a protector - someone with enough power and credit to justify the relationship with a mudblood, but open minded enough to seriously consider it.


She'd settled on Luc, a Malfoy, but a bastard, and he had taken her under his protection, kept her safe from harm and ridicule, and had actually bonded with her, mind and body and soul - the strongest and most lasting bond the Malfoy could ever know, other than the Covenant. They called it the soul bond, and when it snapped, when one of the parties died, it backlashed on the other party with terrible consequences. Kate had mysteriously disappeared in their seventh year, the bond had snapped, and Luc Malfoy had lost all sense of balance and perspective; after that, Draco knew, everything had fallen apart.


Twelve years ago, she had come back. And Luc had jumped at his second chance. They had been inseparable ever since.


Becoming a Malfoy had not changed her overmuch - she still remembered what it was to be outside and apart from the High Clan - so he was hoping that Kate, in her cool, welcoming way, would talk to Ginny on his behalf. She was Slytherin enough, pragmatic enough, that she knew the necessity of his situation – she was also, much to Luc's amusement, somewhat unpredictable, which meant that she could end up taking Ginny's side, for all he knew.


Just as long as she kept the well being of the Malfoy in the back of her mind. It wasn't that Draco didn't like, or even love, his aunt, it was simply that she was completely and utterly loyal to Luc, and Luc alone - and Luc was a law unto himself. Draco greatly admired his uncle, but he didn't make the mistake of underestimating his power. When Luc Malfoy snapped his fingers, the whole world came to heel. The leader, if not the Lord, of the House of de Sauvigny, a global trading empire that spanned both the wizarding and the muggle worlds, Luc all but controlled the flow of trade through England, and had a huge influence on other countries beyond Britain. In his late forties now, he had been one of the major players in the Great Game for nearly thirty years - he was a consummate, supremely subtle manipulator with influence in every corner of society, and the only real rival to his supremacy was the Draco himself.


Happily for Draco's peace of mind, Luc had made it more than clear that he had no designs on the leadership of Clan Malfoy, and would, in fact, do everything he could in Draco's support, but still, it did no harm to be a little wary of him, anyway. Because there was a great deal of shadow and controversy surrounding the story of Lucien Brandon Malfoy, younger, bastard brother of Lucius, who had, by the age of twenty-one, assumed leadership of his mother's Clan by default - all the other contenders being dead, or bound by allegiance to him. Indeed, it had been very convenient, the way that all those who opposed Luc's bid for power had been slain by Death Eaters - people had talked, at first, until the House, realizing the strength of their new Lord, had rallied behind him and quashed the rumours.


They may not have liked him, or his methods, but they recognised strength when they saw it, and brilliance - unlike the legitimate heirs, Luc Malfoy could take the House to heights previously undreamed of, and what was a shadowy past, mere suspicion, when compared to what he could do for them? He had never been brought to trial, or even arrested. His record was clean - he was a model member of society, and he had the influence to back up his arrogance.


And, together with Lucius, he had taught Draco everything he knew.



************************************



Ginny had heard the stories about Luc Malfoy - the good, and the bad - and had had him as a Defence teacher for one year at Hogwarts, but she couldn't claim that she knew him at all. All she did know was that he was very powerful, very influential, and very charming, but suspected that the charm was a cover for something deeper, much like Draco. She didn't care what her father had said, she had no desire to have dinner with a man that Draco was wary of – not that he had ever said it, of course, but it was there, quite easy to see, now that she seemed to be able to read him even with his blank mask.


Unlike Percy, Ginny had no interest in politics and even less ambition - she would much rather have stayed home, but her father had persuaded her that this was necessary.


Huh. Necessary. For him, perhaps, but not for her. Personally, she couldn't care less.


And there was their host, Luc Malfoy himself, turning around, his jet black hair (so different from Draco's) glinting in the light of the chandelier, his features thrown into strong relief, exposing the resemblance between them, the brilliance of his eyes veiled for once, so that she saw the sheer physical beauty first, and not the personality, not the will and the force of the man.


He smiled, and the force of his charm lit up the room. "My lord Malfoy, welcome to my home." He bowed his head respectfully, and Draco bowed in return, not as deeply because he outranked Luc. Ginny, awkward and unsure, bowed her head as Draco had - catching a small gleam of amusement in the woman standing next to Luc's eyes. "And Miss Weasley," purred their host. "Welcome. This is my wife Katherine," he indicated the woman, dark haired and green eyed and quite beautiful.


They made polite small talk for a while, and then uncle and nephew turned to each other and began to talk of esoteric business mysteries, effectively excluding their companions. Ginny found herself looking into Katherine Malfoy's green eyes, half-laughing and half-rueful, and smiling in return, helpless to resist their charm and appeal. Somehow, and she wasn't quite sure how it had happened so quickly, she found herself seated on a lounge with a glass of wine, unburdening herself to Katherine as she spilled the whole story of her involvement in this mess. The older woman, who insisted she call her Kate, was an excellent listener, and Ginny found herself sharing a good deal more than she had intended to.


"So," Kate summed up lightly, "you fear that you are bonding to him, but you are still wary of him, of his motives, of the game he plays..."


Ginny nodded. "I wish I knew what was going on. If I knew what was happening, I might be able to understand his actions, might be able to see whether they're justified – I might even be able to put all this into perspective."


Kate laughed softly, her eyes amused. "Miss Weasley," she put a light hand on her shoulder, looked her straight in the eyes. "Do you truly want to know what is going on, what he is planning? Do you not trust him, even now?"


Ginny scowled. "If his plans include me, then don't I have a right to know what's going on? And as for trusting him - why should I? He's Draco Malfoy. He's a Slytherin. He's slippery and cunning and ruthless..." she trailed off.


Kate's eyes were serious now. "Yes, he's a Slytherin. Yes, he's cunning and ruthless and ambitious - but all that ambition, all that intelligence, is bent towards the well being of his House, of his people. You know that?" Ginny nodded. "And sometimes, the Lord must keep some things to himself, carry that burden alone."


Ginny looked frankly at her. "Do you ever let Luc keep things from you? Do you let him carry his burden alone?"


The green eyes gleamed in lazy amusement. "No. But, despite all my efforts, he does keep some things from me - it's part and parcel of being Malfoy, so I believe. Some things they simply won't share, because they believe we would be soiled by it, even though we're soul bonded." Her eyes laughed outright at the look on Ginny's face, then she looked thoughtful. "But we were separated for twenty years, Miss Weasley - we grew apart, grew different, in that absence. Perhaps that may have something to do with it."


Ginny could be extremely stubborn when she wished to be. "Yes, but this is different." She looked at Kate almost apologetically. "No offence, but you were conditioned to play the submissive role from the beginning, because you relied on him, depended on him; I don't have to do that. I don't have to accept that. I am a Gryffindor, and I will not give up unless I get what I want."


There was no anger in Kate's eyes, only a very frank enquiry. "What do you want, then?"


She opened her mouth, hesitated. "I want – I want him to confide in me. If I'm going to cooperate in this at all, then I want to be an equal partner and not a pawn. I want to know what's going on, and what he intends to do about it before he puts it into action. I want to be able to trust him, and I can't do that if I'm watching him, wary of his manipulating me."


"You want him to trust you," Kate said slowly.


"We have to trust each other, I think - otherwise, we won't be able to work together at all." This - this was what she wanted. Well, apart from the physical craving that she would not, would not talk about or even think about.


Kate sighed. "I think he already does trust you a little, otherwise he would never have brought you this far in, but that kind of trust...it doesn't come easily, you know. Not to High Clan Slytherins, especially not to Clan Lords."


She scowled determinedly. "He'll have to learn then, won't he? Because unless we share full and mutual trust, I will continue to make things difficult for him. And believe me, I can cause a lot of trouble when I put my mind to it."


Kate watched the young woman, so innocent despite the occasional flashes of knowledge or cynicism in her eyes, and felt an odd feeling of rightness well up inside her, from the part of her she had learned to trust and pay heed to. She had courage, this Ginevra Weasley, and intelligence - perhaps she would indeed be strong enough to stand beside Draco and share his burdens and his path – if they didn't kill each other first, and if they survived the coming storm.


Trust would not come easily, but once it did, it would be irrevocable - and as for the physical intimacy, well, that was inevitable, she could see it already, in the way she looked at Draco, in the way he looked at her. They were bonding - a difficult process, with a great many pitfalls, but one that would ultimately result in a very strong, united front, if they survived.



*************************************************



Luc watched his wife and Miss Weasley exchange secrets and confidences with a slightly amused eye. He saw Draco's wariness at what they might be saying, and smiled cynically. Evidently the attachment was deeper than he would like to think, and the troubles a little more serious than he had intimated, if he was worrying about what the women were coming up with.


He could see the signs already - the increased level of Draco's magic, the frequent, slightly resentful looks over at young Ginevra, the almost absent daydreams. Lady! To be ambushed by love at such a critical time. This was no time for broken concentration - but Draco knew that, and was at least making an effort to concentrate seriously on what he was saying.


Gerald's mysterious backers, who had taken the disgraced banker in after his departure from Gringott's, were all of them familiar names, familiar faces. Crabbe. Goyle. Parkinson (who had gone back to her maiden name after her fourth husband died and left her everything). Wilkes. Flint. All the relatives of the Death Eaters whose execution he had ordered and Luc had personally carried out. Others were neutral, and would wait for further indication and developments before committing to any one side - or there were some who would not commit at all, who were chronic fence sitters notorious for their indifference. The fence sitters were only a small danger; the undecided and the indecisive would have to be persuaded to come to their side, or be eliminated. And others were firmly on the side of the Malfoy - himself, and the de Sauvigny, as well as his closest friends and allies such as Lestrange, Avery, Courtney, Andahni – and Snape as well, although Luc's relationship with Snape was slightly ambivalent.


While it was a serious matter for those involved, it should have remained an internal conflict within the High Clan, with no real repercussions for the rest of society now that the Dark Lord was gone and there was no one to take advantage of the absence of Malfoy protection. But in bringing the media into it, turning it into a crusade for social reform, the mysterious opponents who stood against them had involved the rest of the wizarding world. And that had introduced a number of unexpected elements into the game, and had changed the whole complexion of it – now, instead of being a game of bluff and dominance, the involvement of the Ministry meant Azkaban was now an option, public opinion had given people with no concept of what was really going on a say and, indeed, some influence over the events...


It had unbalanced the scales, and made everything immeasurably more difficult. And now Draco was falling for a Weasley - and that was the wildcard that would win them the whole game, or break them beyond repair. Especially if Draco refused to give her what she really wanted.


"I suspect she wants to be able to trust you," he said neutrally, following Draco's gaze over to Miss Weasley once more. "And to be trusted in return."


Draco looked at her, a slight frown in his eyes. "She should know enough to trust me by now."


Luc raised an eyebrow. "What have you done for her? You've upset her well ordered, safe life, ruined her reputation and her relationship with Gerald, and you’ve dragged her into a twisted, Slytherin plot without her permission."


"I showed her the truth of her foolish, boring banker, and I gave her the courage to go through with her transformation. She was looking for notoriety anyway. And as for the plot – she would have been part of it, with or without my involvement."


Luc sighed. "But that's not what she thinks, Draco. She still thinks of you as the Draco Malfoy from Hogwarts, who would cause trouble simply for the sake of it. You have to convince her that you are worthy of her trust, that you can bring her safely through this mess – and, as well as that, you have to show her that you trust her in turn."


Draco's eyes narrowed fractionally, and he turned to face Luc. "Matchmaking, are you?" he asked blandly.


Luc only smiled a little grimly. "You can't afford to be distracted at a time like this, Draco. You need to act - and if the only way to gain her and her family's willing cooperation is by finalizing the bond between you," he looked at Draco with serious eyes, "then bind her to you as firmly and irrevocably as you can."


Draco's eyes lit with unvoiced laughter. "Her brothers will kill me."


Luc placed a hand briefly on his nephew's shoulder. "Trust and sex, Draco. As soon as possible."



********************************************



It was an educational night. She had held her own over dinner, but to a woman who had no interest whatsoever in politics or trade, and no knowledge of how they worked, the discussion in the drawing room over brandy and tea had been incomprehensible, at first - until Draco, perhaps sensing that she had no idea what was going on, had quietly whispered a running commentary in her ear. He was a surprisingly good teacher, able to break things down to the simplest possible terms - she had a feeling he had simplified quite a lot of things - but to a novice, thrown in at the deep end with no preparation, it had covered the essential facts.


No one found it odd that she didn't contribute, anyway - they knew she was a Weasley, and that explained everything. She wondered why he was being so helpful, why he was suddenly sharing his knowledge with her. And then, immediately contrite, she banished the unworthy, entirely Slytherin suspicion from her mind. But it refused to leave completely, rather like the slight buzz and the drifting feeling she had from her three glasses of champagne.


Surprisingly enough, both men and women participated equally in the discussion - wives and husbands both, although the wives did tend to defer, just a little. There seemed to be a fair bit of sexual equality among the High Clan (she hadn't known that before), and she saw Luc and Kate's relationship in a different light. They were partners, equal partners, but society itself painted their marriage differently - stereotyping them as submissive mudblood and dominant High Clan Lord.


She wished she could apologise to Kate for what she had said before. Because that was what she wanted - well, not a marriage (sweet Lady, what a thought - she must have drunk more than she should have) but a partnership, where they both discussed the issue before deciding on a mutually satisfactory solution.


Yes, that would be good. And now, as he walked her home, his hair shining in the moonlight, his heady scent tantalizing her, making her head spin, she began to think it might be possible after all. He was Draco Malfoy, yes, but he was...different...from the wretched brat he had once been. He was a fully mature adult male now, and she was fully aware of it. He was even, in a slightly highhanded manner, rather nice...


She stopped and turned around, looking up at his face in the light. "Draco?" she murmured, slightly huskily.


He looked down at her, his hands resting lightly on her waist. "Hmmm?" he asked, seemingly distracted.


"I want," she licked her lips and didn't see the intent narrowing of his eyes, "I want us to be partners."


She couldn't see him, but knew he raised an eyebrow. "I thought we were already partners."


"Yes," she said, a little distracted by his warmth and the smell of sandalwood, "but equal partners trust each other, tell each other everything..."


"Oh?" he moved closer, subtly invading her personal space. She drew back so she could get some air, but came up hard against his arm. Startled, her eyes flew up to his - saw the intent, glittering silver.


She swallowed nervously. "I think – I think this isn't going to work until we share complete and mutual trust..."


His head dipped closer to hers, and suddenly she felt a slight tingle of anticipation, and maybe even fear. He was so close… He whispered in her ear, "You already trust me, Ginevra."


"I do?" she repeated dazedly.


"Yes," he whispered, coming even closer, "you do." He touched his lips to hers, briefly brushing over them, skimming over her cheekbone and coming back. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to turn her head, to open her mouth fractionally, and to accept the drowsy pleasure of his touch. She knew he wouldn't hurt her – she did trust him, after all...


Draco forced himself to keep it light, keep it gentle and undemanding, non-threatening, but the more he kissed her, the sweeter she tasted, and the more addictive the pleasure became. But she trusted him. And, by the Lady, he was damned if he would jeopardize that trust, not now, not when it was new and fragile and he was standing outside her parents' house, of all places – and not when she was more than a little tipsy. She wouldn't have let him come near her, otherwise. In the end, it was the thought of Molly Weasley waiting up for her youngest fledgling, no doubt even peering out the window and watching them, that gave him the strength to let go. He most definitely didn't want to have that woman angry with him.


Not when things were coming along so nicely.



**********************************************

Disclaimer – I don’t own any of the canon characters or concepts. The original characters in this chapter are mine. The name Dirk Courtney was borrowed from Wilbur Smith’s Courtney novels. It was too good a name to pass up.



CHAPTER 10 – Party Politics



He walked away from the cozy, warm light shining from the windows of the Burrow, his expensive black robes blending seamlessly with the night, until he merged completely, disappearing from her sight. She turned away, her mind still clouded and delightfully fuzzy, and not from the wine she had drunk. Had she said she trusted him? She couldn't remember. All she could remember was the heady smell of sandalwood, wreathing around her and going straight to her head, making her giddy - and the warmth of his breath, of his lips. The silken brush of his silver hair, the texture of his robes under her fingers...


And the very, very subtle brush of his magic, of his inborn, instinctive magic (the Malfoy wandless magic) manipulating her oh so delicately...


"You do trust me, Ginevra."


"I do?"


"Yes, you do. And then he had kissed her.


He had done it again!



******************************************



He walked rather slowly, breathing in the cool air, letting it circulate so it would cool his heated blood - heated to an almost uncomfortable level from one almost-chaste, certainly virginal kiss. Sweet Lady, he would never have thought; it couldn't be normal. He must be imagining things - he must be imagining the beginnings of what looked distressingly like a soul bond.


And he thought he'd been manipulating her. It seemed they were both being manipulated, and by something neither of them could ever hope to control.


He sighed. Merlin's Balls. They were bonding.


He was still swearing as he apparated away.



******************************************


Draco was no stranger to the shadowy, mysterious circles of the real powers behind wizarding Britain. Since childhood he had watched and listened and learned from them. At the tender age of fifteen, he had become one of them. And, since he had returned to Britain, he had finally assumed his place at the forefront of them – with Luc's full backing. He was not a fool. He knew that Luc had moved aside for him, had only been waiting for him to return. But this was the first time he had ever summoned the very first circle, the most influential, the most secretive, for what amounted to a council of war - even if it was a social war, which were often all the more dangerous than a real one.


Revolutions were so much more disruptive than rebellions. And the ruling class had so much more to lose.


And what Gerald Tarrant had begun in his vitriolic attack on the High Clan was a social revolution that, if not quashed, could bring the whole structure, the whole social class known as the High Clan, with all its position and tradition and heritage, crashing down with a bang that would sound through the ages. And so here they were at the de Sauvigny townhouse, after all the other guests had gone, in the Lord's study with its rich, elegant furnishings and the atmosphere of old influence, old power, old money.


Luc Malfoy, and his wife Kate.


Fair haired, green eyed Rayden Lestrange, the Clan Lord after his elder brother and sister-in-law had died in Azkaban. A consummate intriguer, ruthless and dangerous, he was the Minister of Defence, in charge of the Aurors and all other areas of the military, and he knew very well the odds against a man suspected of Death Eater activities, with a brother actually convicted, ever actually ascending to such a position. Thus he was properly grateful to the Malfoy and de Sauvigny.


Brandon Avery, black haired and grey eyed, sardonic and cynical, apparently plagued by ennui – certainly he had always put on a good show of it. Nevertheless, he could move with disconcerting speed and decisiveness once he put his mind to it.


Dirk Courtney, golden haired and blue eyed, insolent and mocking, hotheaded and quick-tempered – for a Slytherin – and completely, utterly loyal to Luc.


Shan Andahni, blonde and green eyed, less sharp than his cousin Rayden, more approachable. He was deceptively friendly, with an uncanny gift for winning people's trust and confidence. He had been Voldemort's spymaster, and he still retained a private army of informants, and a brilliant gift for analysis - although his instincts were not as uncanny as Kate's.


Severus Snape, who had no real power or influence, but who acted for Dumbledore, who did. Snape and Luc had a very curious relationship - Draco was not sure, even now, that he understood – or if he wanted to.


And then there was Draco himself, theoretically the most powerful man in the room. In reality – well, he had run away, abandoned his responsibilities: to the High Clan, that was a cardinal sin. He was only now making amends by coming back, and he had the feeling he was on probation. Oh, they followed Luc's lead and showed him respect, because he had earned it ten years ago; they knew something of his character, something of his strength, but they still watched, still questioned silently.


He would have to prove himself before they gave him the respect they gave Luc, or had given Lucius. Because whatever their faults, Luc and Lucius had never walked away from their responsibilities. Yes, he had power, but could he rule these other, powerful men, gods of his childhood? Could he be the first, the centre, and the balance between them?


Well, he would certainly try.


They watched him with barely concealed amusement as he walked back in - looking at Luc inquiringly, Draco saw his mouth twitch as he casually reached up and ran a thumb over his mouth, wiping off an imaginary substance. Pulling out a handkerchief, Draco ran it over his own lips, keeping his face impassive as he wiped off the lipstick.


Finally, he walked forward and sat down, facing all the others, his own face grave now, no trace of amusement left. "Well?" he asked, all business, sober and composed. "We all know what's going on, and why. Any suggestions?"


Avery tapped a finger on the table, his expression impassive, but thoughtful. "This Gerald Tarrant - what do we know of him?"


Andahni spoke up. "He's American - came to England about five years ago. He's quite good with money, although I wouldn't call him a genius." Here he tipped a head over towards Luc, who only raised a brow. "He's ambitious, but his ambition would have eventually outrun his talent – Gringott's knew that, if he didn't."


Rayden spoke up. "Hence his relationship with Weasley's daughter?"


Courtney smiled mockingly. "The thought of anyone courting a Weasley for power..." Luc only looked at him - just looked steadily, not saying anything - and he shut his mouth.


Snape spoke up, his velvet voice thoughtful. "And yet Arthur Weasley plays the Game surprisingly well, for a Gryffindor."


Draco nodded. "He understands much – such as the importance of your dinner parties, Luc." He looked at his uncle, and smiled. "I am to give him a full report of the proceedings, along with my interpretations, when I call upon them tomorrow morning."


"Oh?" Courtney smiled a little cruelly. "And does that include this meeting?"


Draco smiled back, a little feline curl of his lips. "Do you think it justified?"


"It is High Clan business," the other man said stiffly. "And none of his."


"And yet," Shan Andahni paused thoughtfully, "if, as you say, he understands, perhaps he can be of some use to us. We may have need of him."


Kate spoke in her quiet, warm, rich voice, "This revolution he speaks of, the social reform - it will destroy the whole High Clan. Not just the Malfoy, not just the de Sauvigny, it will bring all of us down." No one thought it odd that she classed herself High Clan - she had long ago been accepted as one of them. Her marriage to Luc had only set the final seal on it.


Rayden and Snape nodded. Luc's gaze shifted thoughtfully to them - his own expression blank and unreadable. Brandon's heavy-lidded, grey eyes watched him in turn, taking everything in.


"Perhaps," Snape said, talking of the consequences of the revolution, "that would not be such a bad thing."


There was a heartbeat of silence as they all hesitated. Luc looked at Snape quite oddly - but then lowered his eyes and said nothing.


High Clan Snape had lost everything when they had backed the wrong contender in 1745. Everything else had gone when Severus Snape had admitted that he had been a Death Eater – what the Ministry had not confiscated, he had voluntarily given up to become nothing more than the Potions Master of Hogwarts.


"No," Snape said again, insistent. "Listen. What is the High Clan? An outdated hierarchy of Clans with a fraction of the influence they had a century ago? An unnecessary aristocracy? Would society really be better off without it? Without us?"


Draco spoke for the first time. "The High Clan is an ideal. It is a way of life, and a history, and a heritage. It is a memory, of everything that has gone before, of everything that we were, and are, and could ever be." And it was - his ancestors were just as real to him as his father had been - he could feel them with him every time he stepped into the Grove, every time he walked his land.


Brandon spoke slowly. "The High Clan is continuity. A bond - the lord to the land, the land to the lord, and the people to both – and the knowledge that we are never quite alone..." The Covenant connected them all together - no child of the High Clan, or of their people was ever completely on their own. There was always someone, something else connected to them through blood bond, through Covenant, through some other High Clan magic.


"Unnecessary?" asked Rayden softly, dangerously. "We have been bound to this land, to this isle, for nearly twenty-five centuries. Our blood, and its, our history and its; our myths and our heritage are all entwined with this land. If the Clan Lords are dispossessed, if we lose our land, our estates, then everything that we have nurtured, everything we have protected and bound and wrought will be undone," he clicked his fingers, "just like that.”


Clan Lestrange had almost lost everything when Rudolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange were convicted and sent to Azkaban. Their Covenant had been dangerously unbalanced, and the Ministry had almost taken the land away from them. Rayden continued. "And if the magical bonds are snapped? What then? Everything that binds our land and our magic together is gone - oh, perhaps it won't fade straight away, but eventually, oh yes..."


Snape scowled. "You don't believe that, do you? No one believes that anymore."


They all looked at him - but no one said anything.


"But you still go to the Grove on Midsummer, don't you Snape?" Dirk said, softly. "You still shed blood, to preserve your own Covenant. Yes, you have next to nothing, yes you don't even have the land - but every year, you still go back. Because in your heart you know the consequences if you don't."


Snape’s face blanked. The others looked politely away from his discomposure, to save him unnecessary loss of face.


Draco changed the subject. "So who will help us in our own crusade? Our counter-revolution? Who can we count on, and who could be of use?"


Grateful for the distraction, they got down to business. Dumbledore, although too old and drained to play the Game on such as a scale as he had during the war, could still nevertheless make some public statements, and his support would count for much. Also, there were other things, more discreet and less visible, that he could also help with. Snape promised to talk to him, although he could not promise results. The old man was unpredictable and wily - and he played his cards very close to his chest.


An influential auror named Dane Harcourt - a Clan Lord himself, although not of the original Thirteen - who had quite a lot of influence with the ordinary people, if they could get him on their side. He was fair, he understood the High Clan, but he had no liking for the older, darker, more shadowy Clans. Rayden would talk to him.


Arthur Weasley, definitely. Draco was given the job (with an amused half smile) to bring him into the fold, and any others he could bring with him. Other names, other influential people to woo. Guided by Draco's growing confidence and Luc's far more subtle, only rarely wielded influence, they worked together to compile a list and a rudimentary battle plan. Gradually the atmosphere lightened, and there was a definite air of purposefulness among them all.


At dawn, as the meeting was breaking up and they were all leaving for their own homes and their own tasks, Draco prepared to apparate to the Burrow to fill Arthur Weasley in on all that had transpired - both at the dinner party and at the meeting afterwards. But Luc's major-domo, a discreet house elf, scratched on the door and handed his master this morning's edition of the Prophet. Luc's face blanked, wiped itself clean of any expression at all. His mask slammed itself in place, automatic self-defence for a stunning blow.
Expecting the worst, Draco took the paper off him and glanced at the front page.


"FATHER KILLER HEADS HIGH CLAN!"


"Draco Malfoy, the head of House Malfoy, the leader of the High Clan, is suspected of the murder of his father twelve years ago..."


Draco could all but feel his eyes turning feral silver - immediately, just as Luc had, he slammed up his shields...


"In a stunning new twist in an old mystery, new evidence has come to light, implicating Draco Malfoy..."


Sweet fucking Lady! How the hell did this happen? It had been hinted at before, but never before had it been stated so openly, so brazenly. He crumpled the paper in his clenched fist, grabbed hold of the shreds of his temper, and held on to his composure with his fingernails.


No, it wouldn't do to show any reaction to this. Blank, impassive, emotionless, he turned to his host and the other guests, bowed slightly, and asked his uncle to convey his regrets to Mr. Weasley - but it wasn't possible for him to call on them today...


Then he walked off, before he broke.



******************************************



Silence.


Stillness.


Peace.


The Grove. He had to get to the Grove...he would be safe there. He could fall apart in safety there...


Father...oh, forgive me father, please...


"Draco Malfoy, head of House Malfoy, leader of the High Clan..."


NO! Make it stop...


"Is suspected of the murder of his father twelve years ago..."


Stop it! Stop it! Make it stop...oh, gods, please!


Draco you must kill him! Kill him now! Now Draco!


No! No, no...


"Draco?"


Cinnamon, warmth, sweetness...Ginny?


"Draco, are you all right? Do you need some help?" Was that truly her, or a phantom, a ghost, a fantasy? A mirage, thrown up by his subconscious desires?


"Draco, what's going on?" It looked like her. It sounded like her. But he couldn't trust...you couldn't trust your senses, your instincts deceived you...


He lashed out at her. No, get away from me! Begone! Get out!


"Draco!"


Panting wildly, his eyes wide, sightless, unseeing, she reached out again to lay her hand on his cheek.


He whirled, and bolted.


The Grove...


He would be safe there. It would keep him safe.


"Draco Malfoy is suspected of his father's death..."



*******************************************

Disclaimer – Standard disclaimer applies. Don’t sue me.



Chapter 11 - Trust



It was the first time Luc had ever seen the Burrow. At first glance, it was not a particularly impressive place, but he had learned, in the course of his life, not to judge simply by appearances. All houses had a feel to them, a kind of aura, and in this higgledy-piggledy hodgepodge of a cottage he could nevertheless feel the years of love and laughter and light. All the signs of near-poverty and middle class were there - garden gnomes, faded paint, a fully functional vegetable garden of all things - but this house was filled with love, and laughter, and joy. It was an informal place, fit for a family, not a formal seat of power. There were no expectations, no need to impress or keep up appearances. An amazing contrast to Malfoy Manor, which was indeed a seat of power, a fortress...


It felt alien, vastly different to the feel of deep, thrumming power that ran through the veins of the Castle, Malfoy Manor, Clan Malfoy's stronghold since time immemorial – the deep, ancient knowledge and presence of the Lords stretching back through the centuries, the timeless continuity and the solemn, grave sense of power, and the mystical sense of belonging, of oneness, with the hills and the mountains and the peasants who partook of the Blood and gave their own in return.


The Burrow was lighter, warmer, more human – more carefree, and more innocent. It reached out to him, felt him and his magic, and was...wary...of the power it sensed in him, of the link to an ancient, unknown land. Nevertheless, it sought to welcome him anyway.


There was more than one kind of innocence, more than one kind of shadow and taint. This House, and those who lived and sheltered within it, had no understanding of the dark, twisted magics that were born and bred into the Malfoy soul, and yet, he had been made welcome. And because of that welcome, because of that innocence, before entering, he leashed his power and turned it down to a dull, almost imperceptible hum, determined not to leave any psychic residue or marks in this House's aura. He would not scar, or even mar, such a pure, untouched thing with the darkness in his soul.


He ducked his head respectfully as he walked over the threshold, almost pulling his robes around him as he could feel the aura enfolding him (a strangely uncomfortable sensation, really). He imagined, to those accustomed to it, it would feel like coming back home, coming back to the only place that would ever feel like home. He knew the feeling – the Great Hall at Hogwarts had the same feature, and so did the Veil that separated Malfoy land from the Outside. It was almost sentience.


He knew, by the look on Arthur Weasley's face, that he had not been expected – so, Draco had indeed promised to come, to give a report himself – but he covered it well. Luc hid a smile – Snape had been correct. The Weasley patriarch was surprisingly good at the Game, for a Gryffindor, non High Clan player. He made him welcome, anyway.


"Mr. Malfoy," came the almost sincere greeting. "It's good to see you." A High Clan scion would have been more polite, more flawlessly courteous – and even less sincere. Mindful of middle class customs, Luc held out a hand, managed a credible handshake. It was not something he did often, but he had dealt with Americans often enough.


"Mr. Weasley," he murmured in return. "I'm sorry for dropping in on you like this..." he raised an eyebrow, and, uncharacteristically, got straight to the point. "Draco was unable to come."


Arthur blinked. This was extremely blunt, even for a Malfoy intent on business and intending to dispense with unnecessary formality.


"Ah," he all but stammered. "I'm sorry to hear that..."


A languid, dismissive flick of a wrist. "There was a...distressing surprise he was not prepared for. He needed time to regain his composure..." Luc came even further into the house, into the living room, with the pictures of the whole family over the mantelpiece. He examined the picture of a young Ginny, waving and giggling, with impassive, measuring eyes. And then, eyes alight with something like mischief, he turned back to Arthur, who took an involuntary step back. "And so here I am, prepared to give you the report my nephew promised you."


It took everything Arthur had to keep his jaw from dropping, and even so he could not completely conceal his shock. "Oh..."


Luc's lips curved in an almost feline smile – not quite cruel, but definitely sharper than genuine amusement. "That is, of course, unless you have some objection? I will understand if you would rather not become involved in this..."


Gods, talk about double-edged blades...


Luckily for Arthur's struggle for composure, Ginny came rushing down the stairs in that instant, her face alight with eagerness, with concern. She had had such a horrible dream… Her face was almost comical in its dismay as she saw Luc there instead of Draco. The catlike smile gone, he had resumed his normal aloof mask, but his eyes were sharp with calculation as he watched her, measured the dark circles under her eyes and the remnants of the wandless magic that still danced in her aura. So Draco had indeed started down the road to total possession, and the magic was drawing them together. He wondered if she had dreamed....


"Miss Weasley," he inclined his head politely, causing her to regally pull her robe tighter around her, hold her head higher.


"Mr. Malfoy," she said with creditable composure. Her eyes could not avoid searching for a certain silver head, though. "But...I had thought," she looked at him with wide brown eyes, faked innocence and confusion.


He was sufficiently learned in the courtesies of polite speech and behaviour not to call her bluff and force her into incoherence. "My lord Malfoy was," he raised an eyebrow, "indisposed." He looked at her with frankly challenging eyes. "He was obliged to return to the Castle unexpectedly."


She blinked, slowly, as she absorbed the message in his eyes. "Oh...well, then. We had agreed to discuss a matter of some importance, this morning, but if he was obliged to return to Wales..."


Arthur, not insensitive to where this was going, nevertheless looked towards Luc as if in confirmation, not for permission, but for reassurance that this was indeed a good idea, a safe idea. Luc's eyes were blank, but he gave every indication that he wanted Ginny at the Castle. Grimacing inwardly, Arthur resigned himself to the price he would have to pay in return for whatever Luc decided to give him today. "Perhaps, Ginny, (if you don't mind, Mr. Malfoy) you could join him there?"


And there. It was done. He surrendered himself to the spider, to be spun into the web wherever and however the Malfoy so desired. But as Ginny held on to Luc's hands, preparing to apparate with him to the Veil, where Luc would take her past it into the Malfoy homeland, he felt a slight pang of conscience. He had delivered himself, his family and his daughter into Malfoy hands, and now they could no longer back out. He only hoped it was worth it.


Ambition was such a dangerous thing. He was only glad that it didn't come naturally – he didn't think his health would stand it, otherwise. He wondered, with a hidden hope that he had kept, very deep within his heart and far from his wife's prying mind, just whether Ginny would be able to handle it, if she ever wed the Malfoy Lord...



**************************************************



Luc paused on the very edge of the cliff, the physical point of separation between Malfoy land and Outside, where the Veil lay like an invisible, intangible wall between them, and turned towards Ginevra Weasley. "A last word of advice, Miss Weasley..."


She looked at him, dark eyes determined and set.


"He will be very upset - and he has taken refuge in the one place where his power will be amplified, where the magic itself will protect him, keep him from what it perceives as a threat."


She saw his point immediately. "From what it perceives as a threat, sir? Not from what he sees?"


He nodded. "Win the Grove, Miss Weasley. It is the heart and soul of the estate. Play your cards correctly after that, and everything will fall into place." He held up a hand as she went to speak. "But one last warning: he will throw everything he has at you. Everything. If you ever want to experience that mutual trust you talk about, if you ever want a future with him; if you ever want to feel Soul Bond – don't give up on him. And don't let him give up, either."


There was no mockery in his eyes, now. No laughter, no amusement, no calculation, no ulterior motives. Only stark, unmasked sincerity and a determination and willpower she had never before seen or even glimpsed. This was the iron fist beneath the velvet glove – this was the will she would need to combat in his nephew, who had learned everything from him. He was letting her see what she was up against, only in Draco it would be intensified by the emotion, by the passion, which the Malfoy tried so hard to avoid.


Because uncontrolled, excessive emotions and passions did strange things to the Malfoy power. It intensified it. It made it so much harder to control, and even more seductive. It turned the normally dispassionate, manipulative Malfoy into creatures of emotion and instinct, not logic and rationality.


Luc was sending her into the fray, because she had the beginnings of a soul bond with Draco, because although she knew something of his situation she didn't know all the secrets, and her innocence would protect her, show that she was no threat to the Lord. And because she was a stubborn, Gryffindoric Weasley who never gave up and who only wanted to love him and be loved in return, while Luc was a manipulative, calculating Slytherin who wanted so much more, whose deepest desires were so much more complicated and more dangerous...


Sensing all this, perhaps not knowing it but certainly sensing it, she nodded, once, her head held high, and then gripped his hand as he lay his palm against the solid barrier she would never have even suspected existed. The world...shifted, twisted...shimmered, and dissolved and reformed again, showing not empty air and a thousand foot drop, but a green, misty land that breathed of tradition, of secrets, of power.


They stepped through, the familiar feel of apparition came again, and she found herself in the heart of a great, ancient
forest, facing an unimaginably old ring of oaks, hoary and all but humming with the power they exuded.


The Malfoy Grove. And there, inside, was the shimmer of silver hair, shining in the shadowy gloom. Luc looked at her one last time, his eyes unreadable now, and then he turned and disappeared with eerie silence, leaving her alone with the Grove and with its Lord, armed with nothing but her determination, her compassion, and the promise of a bond such as she had seen Luc and Kate share. And Gryffindoric stubbornness.


Win the Grove, Miss Weasley. Right. Mentally girding her loins, she marched inside the circle of oaks, prepared for the battle of her life.


********************************************



He knew the instant she set foot inside the Grove. He knew why she had come, and what her purpose was, and he knew that she would not give up until she had what she wanted. And so he lashed out. "Hello, Ginevra..." The power in his voice, in his magic, was amplified here in the place of his greatest strength. The only problem was that in binding her, he was binding himself. He knew, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to care.


She flinched, and he smiled savagely, strangely satisfied by the evidence she was not perfect, not invulnerable, and not, in fact, a figment of his imagination as he had once thought. The hallucinations, the memories, had all faded and fled when he entered the circle, but he knew that they waited for him outside, that the Guardians had kept them away from him but, if they felt it justified, they would let them back in to see how he dealt with them. That was her plan, of course. Win the Grove, win the Guardians, and persuade them to force him to face the demons in his own soul. And then, once they were so confronted, he would supposedly be healed and they could all live happily ever after.


Oh, uncle Luc, employing half-truths and omissions again, I see? Manipulating a delightful cinnamon girl's feelings, using her stubbornness to force him into it, relying on her ignorance to bring her to go through with it. Relying on him being too far gone in shock and reaction to stop it happening. All for the greater good, of course. Of course it was. He probably would have done the same thing, if it hadn't been he who would have paid the price. He knew it was necessary. He just didn't have to like it...


He could see it unfolding like a muggle movie playing inside his head. The determination in her walk. Her appeal to the Grove, to the Guardians, the long dead, particularly strong Lords of the Malfoy, who, released from their mortal coils by the pyre, remained bound in death to the place they had shed so much blood for in life. A charming bargain, and an even more charming reward. Perhaps even his father was among them, his father who had paid the ultimate price. Exalted company, to be sure – Brandon himself, as well as the legendary Kaylan, or Varis, or Dante.


Not one of them would shrink from what they thought to be necessary. Not one of them would even hesitate to help Ginevra, knowing both what she intended and what her actions would bring about. Damn Luc and his infernal manipulations. He was the Lord of the Malfoy, and he would no longer put up with this meddling, this treatment for his own good...


"Kill him Draco! Kill him now! You must!" The ghosts returned, and the world turned inside out, the only real things were the movies, the memories playing in his head and the concern and the determination in her eyes. He reached out, flailing wildly for any purchase on reality, on solid ground, and she grasped his hand. It was real. He could feel it. It was a solid place in the storm. He held on with all his strength, both magical and physical, and lashed out again at the memories, blocking them, blocking his mind from them. But the strength of the Guardians, fueled by the reality of her will, was against him, and they came again.


(His father's eyes, desperate silver in the moonlight, glazed over and dark with resignation.) No. He could resist this. He could hold out against this.


(Draco! Kill him! Kill him now! You must!) His uncle's beloved, trusted voice uncharacteristically desperate in the night. Luc always knew what was best, didn't he? Didn't he?


(The surprising ease of sliding a steel blade into warm human flesh.) Something he had felt many times since. It didn't affect him. It didn't affect him. It didn't affect him...


(Forgive me father, please...) A whispered plea, a prayer, unanswered, unheard. Oh, Lady...


(His father's hair, long and silver, now crimson in the moonlight. Father? Father?! Why are you bleeding? Who stabbed you? I'll kill them. I'll crush them. I'll destroy them...oh. Oh. OH!)To this day, the time between killing Lucius and feeling the stigmata break out on his forearms was entirely blank.


("My Lord Malfoy...") the first time he had realized that he was now the Lord. He'd been fifteen years old.


The memories and sensations came faster and more vividly. He held on, tightly, to her hand. It was his only solid point in a world gone mad.


(His father tossing him up in the air, and his laughter and delight in the absolute certainty that, no matter how high he went, Lucius would catch him.)


Oh, Lady, make it stop. Make it stop!


(The childish laughter echoing through the woods, changing in a moment to terror, to screaming, to desperate calls for the only protector he'd ever known; but there'd been no answer.)


He felt, dimly, his legs gave out and his body slump forward, retching; her grip was surprisingly secure, her hands gentle as she soothed him. He tried desperately to break free, but the memories threatened to overwhelm him and he had to grab for her again. The whole world spun, and she was at its centre, the only thing keeping him sane. Mutual trust and cooperation, Draco...


(You trust me, Ginevra.)


(I do?)


(Yes, you do...)


But had he trusted her? He hadn't then. He did now. Like it or not, she was the only real thing in a world of illusions. She alone anchored him, she alone kept him sane. Dependence, complete and utter reliance – and trust. Unconditional, unquestioning trust. He held on, his eyes desperate even in his rigid, mask like face, and put all his trust in her, in her strength, in her determination. In her compassion and in the potential of her love. A silken, irresistible trap. Uncle and the Guardians had really outdone themselves, this time.


That was his last thought before the world went black.


**********************************************



When he awoke he was crying for the first time since he could ever remember. Well, perhaps weeping would be a better word - his face, rigorously trained since infancy, was still set in its stony impassivity, but the tears would not be denied. He was too well trained, even in unconsciousness after such an ordeal, to actually whimper or wail, but some outlet had to be found. He turned his head into her shoulder, gripped her arms desperately, and let the tears of a lifetime out.


*********************************************



She was stunned by the force of the emotions she had unwittingly unlocked. She had expected a composed, cynical opponent; she had found a desperate man, driven and haunted by unseen demons and unleashed memories. His silver eyes - normally they were so impassive, but now – now they were all too transparent, filled with horror and denial and grief and anger and doubt, everything that Malfoy were too controlled to ever feel.


He had actually physically collapsed. When she had gone over to him, held out a hand, he had latched onto it with almost desperate strength, his magic actually enfolding her and holding her in place; she couldn't have moved a muscle even if she had wanted to. He'd almost broken her hand – watching his eyes, watching the memories and the nightmares through the crystalline depths, she hadn't begrudged him the comfort. He had held her as if she was the last thing left in the world, and she had been in danger of being torn away from him.


Everything in her had responded, and she had held on. Despite all the pain, the psychic battering she'd taken from such close proximity to his emotional distress, especially when he was so strong in wandless magic, the physical pain of his grip and of the way his magic had squeezed her, despite all the horror she had glimpsed from his dreams and his memories, despite the rage and the fear and the pain, she had held on.


And when he had woken up from his merciful, but terrifying faint, and had buried himself around her and shook with the force of his muffled sobs, she had all but melted at the knowledge of his vulnerability. Caius Draconis Malfoy, and everything that name meant and everything it symbolised, had come undone in her arms. What she held now was not the cynical, aloof, polished Clan Lord – this was Draco the man.


Awkwardly, she patted him on the back, murmuring nonsense in his ear. His arms tightened around her – she had no warning, as his eyes came up to meet hers and she saw the awakening, uncontrolled predator that had been set free by the vulnerability, by the intense emotion. And then she was lost – lost beneath the fierce tide of passion empathically transmitted, as he pushed her down on the ground and devoured her mouth...


The man, Draco, and the woman, Ginevra, in the Grove, after a ceremony that had forged mutual trust and a strong bond. It was the inevitable conclusion, surely? A rare shaft of sunlight broke through the canopy and illuminated them where they lay, entwined on the grass. Certainly, the Grove itself and the Guardians approved.



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Disclaimer – Standard disclaimer applies. Don’t sue me.




Chapter 12 - Implications




Taken by surprise, overwhelmed by the flood of Draco's emotion, his elemental need, Ginny had less than no chance of denying him anything. And Draco, himself overwhelmed by emotions too-long suppressed, by the stunning power of the almost-complete bond, would indeed have gone through with the act, sealed them together then and there, on the floor of the forest, had Ginevra not flinched, and made the slightest, most infinitesimal whimper.


Broken and emotionally shattered, his survival instinct had kicked in, replacing now useless reason and logic with the older, more instinctive mystic, feral side of his brain...but deep in the depths of his blinding instinct to mate, her apprehension had registered as a distant anomaly.


It had checked him, for the slightest moment. It had given him enough pause to allow reason to return, to allow the self-control ingrained since childhood to resurface. Still panting, his heart beating almost frantically, he managed to force his body back to stillness, managed to dig his hands into the forest floor and pull himself back from the edge.


She was a virgin. An innocent, inexperienced and unaware of the rituals and symbolism of the High Clan, and no matter what Luc or the Guardians might think, he would rather not bind her first and explain later. Consummation of a soul bond inside the very Grove itself, defloration and initiation performed by the Clan Lord himself, with the full approval of the Guardians...


By all the traditions of the High Clan, by the unwritten, but very real Law, it was as legally binding as a conventional marriage. And the magical implications? They called children conceived in the Grove the Grove-born; they were considered to be especially blessed. And considering the circumstances surrounding this little encounter, Draco was more than certain that she would have conceived. So he forced himself to stop. Forced himself to shut down his wandless magic, stop it from pouring his desire into her aura, forced himself to move away from her and the temptation she represented and collapse, boneless and exhausted, on his back as far away from her as he could crawl.


He closed his eyes, concentrated on his breathing, and blocked everything else out.


In. Out. In. Out. Inhale...exhale. Inhale...exhale.


And then, and only then, did he trust himself to look her in the eye.



*******************************************



Logic and clear thought came back slowly, all too slowly. Oh, Lady, she hadn't known, she hadn't had the slightest idea – not of the power, not of the sheer strength and intensity...


Breathing slowly, she carefully, oh so carefully, moved away from Draco's sprawled body, away from his white skin, all but glowing with the strength of his innate magic, away from his feral silver eyes and the intensity of his still shivering body. She put up a shaking hand to push at her hair – it was no longer a waist length mane, but the habitual gesture comforted her, just a little.


"What," her voice shook, she moistened her lips nervously. "What was that?"


He looked at her through distinctly cynical eyes. "That, as you so aptly put it, was the full strength of the soul bond, unleashed in the very heart of the Grove..." his voice was perhaps a little overly precise, his aristocratic, crisp accent a little sharper, a little more distinct than usual.


"What? In English, please Malfoy." She was more than a little tired of cryptic High Clan mysticism she knew nothing about.


He sat up with less than flawless grace, arms hugging his updrawn knees, and looked at her a little oddly – it took her a while to identify what she saw in his eyes, because she'd never seen it before, especially from him.


Vulnerability. Perhaps even uncertainty.


"In plain English?" He smiled bitterly. "We share the beginnings of a soul bond, yes?" he raised an eyebrow at her, waited until she nodded reluctantly. "But it is not yet fully consummated, not yet finalized – and it will not be, until you and I," he paused again, delicately, "until we..."


"Have sex?" She finished it for him.


He winced slightly at the deliberate crudity, but nodded. "Yes, until we have sex." His eyes came back to hers, serious now, any hints of vulnerability gone. "Understand this, Ginevra. Once the process of bonding is begun, then it is very, very difficult to resist following through to the end – the magic wants to be finalized, the bond wants to be completed. And in this place, of all Places, the magic is at its strongest peak."


She frowned. "You make it sound sentient."


He tilted his head slightly, in thought and speculation. "Perhaps it is, in a way. For some unknown, unfathomable reason, both the Gods and the Grove desire us to be fully bonded."


She blinked in sudden realization. "And so does your uncle."


A very small, very thin smile barely touched his mouth. "Ah, yes, uncle Luc..."


"Why?" she asked baldly.


He only sighed, feeling infinitely tired. "My uncle is a true Slytherin," he murmured wearily. "He has a dozen reasons for everything he does, and everything he does achieves different, desired results..."


She had no patience for evasion, not now. "Why?" she asked again.


He closed his eyes. "The consummation of a soul bond is a legally binding joining, Ginevra. In the eyes of the Gods and the traditional Law, we would have become man and wife, Lord and Lady…"


"He wants a Weasley to be Lady Malfoy?" she demanded incredulously.


He didn't look at her, didn't want her to see the ancient cynicism. "You are Arthur Weasley's daughter, you are very close to Harry Potter, and you are not High Clan, you are an ordinary woman..."


"Exactly," she pointed out.


This time he did look at her. "It's excellent PR," he said simply.


She opened her mouth, shut it without saying anything.


Relentlessly he continued. "And had you been a cross eyed hunchback, he would have thrown us together immediately once he sensed we were bonding. There is nothing more painful, more distracting, than an unfinished, unconsummated bond – except perhaps a broken one."


"You're saying he didn't want you distracted."


"He didn't want me distracted. He wanted me to face the problems backed up by the Lady's approval, by my alliance with Arthur Weasley, by the added support of a soul mate," his eyes dropped, without his volition, down to her stomach, "and with the knowledge that at if I die, I would at least have left something behind..."


Instinctively, perhaps irrationally, she placed a hand on her stomach, said indignantly, "I'm not pregnant!"


He smiled wryly. "Had we fallen in with Luc's plans, darling, you certainly would have been..."


"How do you know that?"


His eyes were ancient, dark, filled with unshakable mystic faith. He believed, oh he believed utterly in things that she would have thought ridiculous. He believed that the Malfoy had an almost divine right to rule the High Clan, and in return they had a divine responsibility to be stewards, servants of everything they controlled. He believed that in this Grove, the spirits of his ancestors dwelled and watched over him; he could feel them, he could see them, he could talk and communicate with them, and they protected and guided him from the Afterlife.


He also believed that if he ever broke the Covenant, allowed it to become too unbalanced, too tainted, then disaster would come and swallow up his lands and his people forever. So strong was his belief, his conviction, that he had killed his father because of it; he lived his life by it and by the Law his Lady had laid down millennia ago, the Law that had all but died out in normal society but still shaped High Clan society even today.


If he believed she could become pregnant from her first time when she had only just finished her bleeding... Well. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing he'd stopped, after all, no matter what her body was telling her now.


"So what do we do about it?" she asked, placing the responsibility in his hands because she honestly had no idea.


A lurking flicker of amusement shone – but perhaps wisely, he didn't express it. "Well," he murmured thoughtfully, "there's only one thing we can do, now that we've found out how strong the bond really is..." he looked over to her, brow cocked.


"Are you saying we have to finish it?" she demanded, shaken.


Maliciously, he raised the eyebrow even higher in question.


She scowled horribly at him. "Do we have to have sex?" she grated out between clenched teeth.


He only nodded slowly, eyes dancing.


"Oh, Lady," she breathed, horrified. "We do have to have sex."


He smiled as he looked away, and then back to her and her almost comical dismay. "Yes, I'm afraid we do - and when we do, it's going to join us together irrevocably; for good or ill, for richer or for poorer..."


"Oh Lady," she breathed again. "Oh Gods." She looked over at him hopefully. "Can't we just..." she waved a hand, meaning everything and nothing.


He closed his eyes and shook his head. "No, we have to finish it. Otherwise the reaction will get worse, every time, and it will start to be painful."


He could almost feel sorry for her, with that shattered expression on her face. "Come on, Ginevra, it's not that bad, is it?" he tried, rather clumsily because he was still rather shocked himself, to cheer her up. Instead she only looked even more lost.


"How long," she swallowed, "how long do we have before we absolutely have to...?" she trailed off, but he caught her meaning.


"Before we absolutely have to finalize the bond?" she nodded. "About three weeks, I should say, judging from the intensity of what we felt here."


She nodded slowly, straightening her shoulders in determination, trying to regain her composure. "Right. Mum won’t like it, but she can probably arrange a marriage in that time..."


Luckily she was not looking in his direction as she said that – she would have seen the absolute shock flash in his face, seen the instinctive recoil, and then seen the fatalistic acceptance of what could not be changed. Not for the first time, he cursed whatever sins he had committed to justify this fate. Not that he would mind having to consummate his bond with Ginevra, oh no, but the public spectacle of a marriage, to a Weasley, good PR or no – ancient prejudices rebelled, were pushed down and determinedly ignored.


What was done was done. And now he would have to marry a Weasley. He would have Ron Weasley as a brother-in-law, and Molly Weasley as a mother-in-law... All he permitted himself was a world-weary sigh. And then he stood up, dusted his robes off, held out a hand to Ginevra and led her out of the Grove, feeling the weight of the Guardian's guarded, almost grudging approval at his decision – although no doubt they would have preferred instant consummation. He started walking in the direction of Malfoy Manor. He supposed it was time to show his prospective bride what would be their home, once they were wed.



***********************************************



Arthur Weasley was having a hard time believing his own luck. Luc Malfoy was here, in his house, in his study, and was willing to answer any and all questions he might think to ask. He had even promised to try and answer them properly – no evasions, no half-truths, and no omissions. Although, truthfully, that could be something of a double edged blade...


But while he was here, he would certainly take advantage of it.


Somewhat puzzled, Arthur watched his guest as he lounged elegantly and indolently on the rather shabby sofa in his study. He wore the same sort of rich, elegant understated robes, and sat and drank tea in the exact same manner his nephew had – the same grace, the same style, the same etiquette. The only thing to distinguish them was that Luc was older, his presence and charisma perhaps a little more controlled, a little less brilliant, and his eyes were far, far older. Perhaps those stories about his involvement with the Death Eaters were true after all... But he knew better than to come anywhere that particular subject.


Now that he had a Malfoy at his disposal, what exactly was he going to do with him? Ever since he had first started at the Ministry, and had first seen the process of government for what it really was - a balancing act, between the Ministry and the High Clan, between the old ways and the new ways, between central democratic rule and the official, government sanctioned legal system and the traditional Laws of the High Clan.


He had been a minor aide when the Augustus Snape had been killed, in 1977 – the Malfoy brothers had clearly marked their kill, had left him staked out in the middle of Diagon Alley for all the world to see. He had been rather more influential some twenty years later, when the Death Eaters who had killed Lucius Malfoy had been executed, again with the Malfoy mark.


On both occasions, although the killers had been clearly identified, no legal action had been taken, no one had even thought of calling them to account, because it had been within their rights under the Law. They had been told to let it be, not to interfere, and it had galled – oh, how it had galled...


Why should there be two legal systems for one country, for one people? Why should the High Clan be any different from the rest of the population? Why did they still linger on, when their day was long past? He had asked this, again and again and again, had questioned and needled and interfered, had provoked and put his nose into places where it wasn't welcome – and he had been told, time and time again, to let it be. Stubborn to the end, he had persevered – and in all his years at the Ministry, he had never gotten a satisfactory answer, never encountered anything more than High Clan impassivity, companionable just-between-you-and-me advice to be more discreet, and subtle and some not-so-subtle threats.


But now, with one of the Lords of the High Clan willing and prepared to answer questions, perhaps he would finally get an answer. If only he knew how to phrase the question. He took a leaf out of the Slytherins' book - he worked up to it slowly.


After an hour of discussion, where he learned more of the true nature of the financial quarter, more of the Byzantine world of High Clan politics and plotting and intrigue than he had in nearly thirty years of public service, he finally found an opening for his question. Gesturing to today's newspaper, which he had read with almost horror, he tried to look nonchalant and ask, rather casually, just what he thought of the article.


Silver eyes watched him in deceptively faint interest. "Do you believe it?" Luc asked, turning the tables.


Arthur flushed slightly. "It does seem to be rather, er, sensational..."


The eyes turned sardonic. "Yes, it does rather..."


He took a relieved breath. "You should talk to someone about that, printing such libelous nonsense..."


Luc watched him unblinkingly, but said nothing.


Something about his silence alerted Arthur to the fact that something was very, very wrong. "I mean, it's ridiculous, isn't it? If it were true, well, that would be..."


An eyebrow went up. "It would be...?"


"It would be..." he whispered softly, his mouth suddenly dry, "oh Merlin, you don't mean it's true?"


Thick black eyelashes lowered over silver eyes, hiding the thoughts and the truths within.


"Why?" he asked, his voice hoarse and shocked. "Why would he have...his own father!"


Luc stood up and walked slowly over to the window, turning his face away. When he turned back, he was completely impassive, his face a blank mask. "It was necessary," was all he said.


Arthur's mouth worked. "Necessary?" he whispered hoarsely.


"Yes," Luc said dryly, walking back over to Arthur, kneeling down at his feet so he could look straight into his eyes, as if he needed eye contact to hammer his point home. "Don't you understand the truth yet, Weasley? We are not the same; we are not one with the rest of wizarding Britain. We are High Clan. We are the direct descendants of the first Lords, of the first wizards to focus and harness the natural magical force of the Land. We are the stewards, the caretakers, the guardians..."


"And that gives you the right to live a different way, be judged by different standards?"


"Before William, before the Normans came with their harsh discipline and their alien beliefs, there was only one way, only one standard. He tried to destroy us, and when he couldn't do it by force, he tried manipulation, tried to turn the very laws of the land against us..." Luc's eyes all but burned in their intensity. "But he couldn't. And we survived, even though he legislated against us, against our customs; the Old ways and the old beliefs could not be so easily stamped out. We survived," he repeated in an oddly uncharacteristic show of passion.


Arthur searched his eyes; saw the illogical, irrational streak of absolute, utter faith. "You believe this," he breathed, stunned.


The eyes blinked, the disturbing intensity disappeared as if it never was. "Of course," he said in his normal tones. "And I will not stand by and let this, this rubbish," he flicked a hand at the paper, "achieve what the Conqueror and all who followed him could not."


"But why?" Arthur persisted. "What is the point? That is what all this newspaper coverage is aimed at – pointing out the apparent pointlessness of an upper class, of the High Clan. Why should there be two different legal systems? Why should the High Clan get away with so much? Why do they have so much power, so much influence even now, in the twenty-first century? What is the point of it all?"


Luc looked at him again, with that impenetrable High Clan blankness that irritated him so much. It was unshakable faith in his place in the world. He was Malfoy. He was High Clan. And that was all that needed to be said. To Arthur, who was a Weasley, who was not High Clan, it was infuriating.


"You are not High Clan," Luc said, eerily calm.


"No, I'm not," he said prosaically. "And it's people like me you'll need to convince. The normal people, the everyday people on the street. Not the High Clan, not the country people who live on your estates and worship you like gods."


Luc shook his head slowly, eyes serious, still eerie. "How can I put into words something I have never been told, but have always known? How do I explain the moon to a blind man, or music to a man who cannot hear? You are not High Clan," he said again, as if that explained all and everything.


Arthur looked down at him, down into those eyes, so eerie, so alien. They were open to him, he knew that now – Luc was letting him look inside, so that he could see what he couldn't say. But – and that was the point – he could look, but he couldn't see, and he couldn't understand. So much of it was alien, based on faith in things Arthur couldn't see and didn't know.


Logic and ambition, analysis and ruthlessness, yes, he could understand that – but not the mysticism, the utter faith. This, he knew – this was the problem. How could he put it into words, for the everyday person on the street to understand, when he could not explain it himself? His enemies had chosen their weapons well. Arthur only wished he could do more to help.



********************************************



A/N – This chapter (especially the debate about whether an aristocracy is necessary or not) owes quite a lot to Stephen Lawhead’s “Avalon: The Return of King Arthur”. Although, in that book, the debate was over the continuing relevance of the monarchy.

Disclaimer – Standard disclaimer applies.



CHAPTER 13 – The Great Binding



Malfoy Manor – also known as the Castle – was an amazing mixture of fortress and palace, strong place and showcase. The original building was an ancient hill fort, erected by the very earliest occupiers of the land, those who had held it even before the Malfoy. Brandon Andenais took it and made it into a fortress that commanded the surrounding countryside for miles around, an impregnable stronghold for the protection of the whole Clan and their people.


It remained a stronghold, fortified and modified as times and technology changed, until in the seventeenth century, Charles Malfoy, a dissolute Restoration dilettante, decided that if he must live in a fortress, it would at least be a comfortable one. Charles’ tastes had run to the magnificent, but luckily for his descendants, they had not verged on the vulgar or ostentatious. The furnishings, smooth marble and rich velvets, polished antiques and elegant embellishments, softened but did not detract from the original lines of the fortress – rather they seemed to sheathe it, like a velvet glove covering the iron fist. The Castle had been its original name, back into the depths of time. Malfoy Manor was what it had become, after Charles had finished with it.


It was, one supposed, rather like the Clan themselves – they had been powerful enough, long ago, to deal with the world on their own terms and public opinion be damned; now, they needed to be a little bit more subtle, a little bit more acceptable. The strength and the power had been covered up, but not buried, beneath a socially acceptable mask. And that, thought Ginny, was the truth of Draco Malfoy.


Walking through the front door, she could feel the Castle’s aura: unlike the Burrow, which radiated love and laughter, Malfoy Manor radiated power – magical, political, social – power of every sort. It did not feel cold, but rather like subliminal pressure, a humming in her eardrums, like a quickening of the heartbeat and a feeling of confidence, of invulnerability… And underneath the power was the faintest taste of blood – the blood that was the source of the Malfoy power; the blood of the Lord, of the people, of the Land and the magic that Brandon Andenais had seized and actually forced to his will and that of his descendants’.


A great and terrifying legacy – that was why the Covenant was so important to him; the land welcomed him and his, yes, but if the Oath was broken, the balance upset, there would be no second chances. The first Malfoy had been given another name for his ill faith, for his treachery in his ruthless search for land; he had used up all his and his family’s second chances long, long ago.


Ginny sensed this, but not in such detail, in such depth – had it been explained to her, there was a chance that she might not believe, not accept the truth of the matter. To a logical, modern daughter of a middle class family, brought up in Gryffindoric straightforwardness and educated in the powers of reason, if not reason as the muggles saw it, the thought of the land retaining memory through faith, through worship and blood sacrifice, was slightly exotic. The thought that the memory could be wiped out, and the blank slate reprinted, stamped with another’s mark, another’s blood, was a bit more out there. The thought that the land, sentient as it was, could actually reject and revoke all former agreements if the Vows were broken, the faith destroyed, was beyond anything she had ever believed of the world.


There was no room for such mysticism in her life, no need for it; it was as Luc had said to her father before – she was not High Clan. But she was bonded to one, or would be soon. So, rather tentatively, not really believing that she would understand, she asked Draco to explain it to her.


He only looked down at her, into her dark eyes, so sincere, so willing to try, so filled with Gryffindoric courage, and smiled twistedly. He trailed a finger down her cheek, placed the pad lightly on her lips, his eyes glinting as he saw hers darken, her pupils expand – and he said, softly, “Truth, Ginevra?”


She nodded slowly, lost in the shadows and undercurrents in his eyes.


“We are the stewards of this land. Long, long ago, when our ancestors came from over the sea and carved out kingdoms for themselves, they turned the wild magic of the land to their will, bound it and forced it to confirm to their desires and their wishes. But,” he turned away to look out over his land, over towards the pulsing heart of dark, tangled power that was the Grove, “in the binding, they in turn bound themselves, and every one of their descendants. Just as the magic is forced to do our will, we are forced to do the magic’s will…”


She looked at him blankly. “The Covenant,” he murmured, softly and almost to himself. “The sacred balance that we dare not, must not overset, lest all the centuries of confined raw, wild magic backlash upon us…”


“But,” she looked puzzled, “but how can magic be wild, or raw, or confined? Magic just is, isn’t it?”


His mouth quirked in what could have been a smile. “Magic, my dear, comes in all shapes and sizes, and yes, usually, in lands that were never claimed, it is free for all to use, free and unconfined and neutral. But what are spells, if not bindings? Instruments with which to shape the wild, unstructured magic to our desires. Even wands – they make it easier to channel the magic; they’re a tangible focus point through which the intangible can be touched. But when the ancient Lords worked their bindings, they sealed and bound the magical field – the entire magical field – that ran through their land, and tied it up in a working that would turn it to their will, and no one else’s.”


Suddenly she began to understand. “The Grove…” she breathed, stunned.


He nodded. “Yes. The Grove. The nexus, the centre, the focus and the lock – the tangible point where the intangible is harnessed and controlled. The Grove is the final lock on the magic – and every time the Lord sheds his blood in the Grove at Midsummer, it adds strength to the working, binding the magic even tighter.”


She let her eyes go unfocused, looked with her magical sight and instinct rather than her physical sight, and saw that the Grove had been planted, had grown, at the intersection of an innumerable number of ley lines. She had seen intersection points before – Stonehenge was at the centre of a number of lines – but this was beyond anything she had ever imagined. “This is the heart,” she said faintly. “The heart of Britain…”


He only looked over towards the Grove with hooded, unreadable eyes.


“Are you saying,” she breathed unsteadily, “that every High Clan has a Grove, and every Grove is a focus for a similar working?”


The grey eyes continued to gaze impassively. “There were thirteen original Lords,” he finally said, his voice distant, as if he recited ancient, long forgotten legends. “The Malfoy, and twelve others. And every one of them took part in the Great Binding; twelve locks, twelve points on the web, all funneling the power towards the Great Lock – the Centre, the Balance Point. And if one lock fails,” he murmured, looking back towards her, “if one strand weakens, then the Binding loses some of its strength. With every failed lock, with every weakened strand, the magic comes just that smallest bit closer to freedom. It strains,” he said in an odd voice, “it seethes for release, after so many years…”


“What…what happens, if it is released?” she asked, suddenly cold.


He closed his eyes. “Something too horrible to even imagine.”


A horrible thought occurred to her, then. “How many of the locks have failed, Draco? How many Clans have lost faith with their Covenants?” Her voice sharpened as she faced an unbelievable thought. “How many were deliberately broken, just to bring the Malfoy down?”


When he looked at her, his eyes were utterly empty – frozen, almost terrifyingly blank. “Crabbe,” he said in a flat monotone. “Goyle. Wilkes. Parkinson. Rosier. Flint.”


“Six out of thirteen?” she whispered, shocked.


He nodded curtly. “Lestrange and Avery hold firm, along with Snape, Andahni and Courtney.”


“And that leaves?”


“Zabini remains neutral.” His voice was oh, so cold…


Oh… Six against, six for. And one neutral. Time was running out for the Malfoy, and for the High Clan, it seemed. How had it all come to such a point, so fast? He laughed bitterly, and she started. She hadn’t realized that she’d spoken out loud.


“This has been brewing for nearly fifty years, Ginevra. We thought Tom Riddle an ignorant half blood, bastard scion of a third rate House, but even in death, he divides us, tears us apart, punishes us for our disdain. Oh, he understood us all too well…”


Of course. It had all started with the Death Eaters. Marcus Malfoy had been forced to join. Luc and Lucius, well, she didn’t know for sure, but she thought they may have joined willingly, and enjoyed all the benefits… Draco had not joined at all, had spurred the Dark Lord’s offer of allegiance.


Three generations. Voldemort had almost destroyed a Clan that had stood for two and a half millennia within three generations. The cold fingers of Tom Riddle’s ghost reached out to her from all those years ago, and she shivered, suddenly chilled all the way to her soul. For the first time, she understood the shadows in Draco’s eyes.



***********************************



“And what was the original purpose of this great working, then?” Arthur Weasley was having a hard time accepting what Luc was telling him – but it was just so incredibly…alien to his thinking.


Luc’s smile was tired – he had done quite a lot of talking today, most of it ancient, ambiguous High Clan lore that he had never shared with anyone but his wife. Generally, outsiders weren’t allowed to know the secrets of the High Clan, because the potential for disaster was enormous. But he knew that if he were to stand any chance of turning Arthur Weasley to their side, he would have to tell him everything.


Gryffindors always seemed to think that Slytherins tried to manipulate them by withholding vital information.


“The purpose?” he mused slowly, trying to put into words something he had never had to explain, something he had never been told, something he only understood as gut instinct. The original Lords had left no solid records, other than vague, ambiguous myths…


“I believe,” he said slowly, “that it had but one purpose…” He looked up, his eyes sardonic, self-mocking. “They targeted the built up repositories of magic in all the sacred places of the land – the Groves – erased the magical memory of centuries of worship and faith…”


“Stamped their own mark on it,” Arthur mused. “That seems…”


Luc nodded. “A desecration.”


“But why?”


“Don’t you know? They were invaders, seeking to take over this land, to make it their own. They could kill the original inhabitants easily enough, but the real challenges were the Guardians of Britain – the old spirits, the gods, who protected the land from spiritual invasion, and occasionally, through mortal champions, from physical ones.” He looked at Arthur’s skeptical face. “Yes, I know that’s very, very old mythology from the dawn of time, but they were real, terribly real as they rose up against the physical and spiritual invasion of the High Clan Lords. The Great Binding used the newly neutral sacred places, now turned to their will and their control, and used that same magic to bind the Guardians and anything else that opposed them into sleep, into dreamless sleep so deep that they could never, ever access the waking world again.”


“And once that was done, they made the land their own. They claimed it, once through the sword, twice through their magic, and thrice through their blood, and the willing sacrifice of their descendants’ blood, so long as the line should live, even until the end of time.”


“And you say the Binding is failing?” Luc nodded.


“What happens when it finally breaks?”


Luc shrugged. “I am not sure, but from what we were able to deduce, Lucius and Snape and I, we thought that the magic had been under such tight control for so long, under such exquisite strain, that it would very definitely backlash, as the tight confines of the binding broke. The consequences could be rather unpleasant, not just for the High Clan, but for us all…”


“And?” prompted Arthur. “There’s more, isn’t there?”


Luc raised an eyebrow, but nodded slowly. “Yes, there’s more.” He took a slow, thoughtful sip of his tea, as if to gain time to gather his thoughts. “The Guardians will awake, and they will seek to drive out all those they see as invaders…”


“And who will they see in that way?” Arthur asked faintly. “It’s been two and a half thousand years.”


Luc smiled thinly. “And not only that, but I fear, after all that time sleeping, confined and tortured by the Binding, that they may have become a little…twisted.”


Arthur only closed his eyes. “Twisted?” he held up a hand, saying, “No, don’t say it. I don’t want to know.” He looked up to meet emotionless silver eyes, perfectly composed and all too serious. Suddenly he realized the implications of one man’s overweening ambition so many years ago. “Merlin’s Beard! Did the original Malfoy not think about what he was doing? Did he take what he wanted and damn the consequences?”


Lines radiated from the corner of Luc’s eyes as he narrowed them slightly, in sardonic amusement, in acknowledgement of a palpable hit. Perhaps he saw the parallel between Brandon Malfoy and himself, in their ambition, in their determination to do whatever it took to achieve their desires. “Perhaps he thought it an acceptable risk, at the time. Perhaps he thought it worth the price…”


“He must have been a damned fool!”


“No,” Luc said softly. “He was a man with nothing to lose, and everything to gain…” he looked into Arthur Weasley’s eyes, faded blue, kindly, shrewd, and warm, with not a jot of ambition in their depths. There were far greater divisions in this life than the barrier between middle class and High Clan. “They were ruthless conquerors, who burned and slaughtered their way across Britain, destroyed anything and anyone who stood in their way, and would have let nothing, absolutely nothing, stop them from achieving their desires. They weren’t saints and they weren’t particularly good, in any sense of the word, but Brandon and every one of his followers knew exactly what they were doing, knew exactly what the price would be, and thought it more than justified.”


“They were willing to pay it?”


“Eventually, yes, but the Clans stood united for two and a half thousand years and more – it was only in the last fifty years that things began to come undone.”


Arthur hissed softly, in surprise, in understanding. “Voldemort.”


Luc’s eyes were like hammered steel. “Yes, Voldemort.”


Arthur closed his eyes, remembering with far too much clarity everything that Voldemort had done to their world. Then he looked almost sadly at Luc, who had suffered at the Dark Lord’s hands, just as he had, just as countless others had…but somehow, after nearly ten years of freedom, it seemed particularly cruel to see that he was still affecting the world, even in death. “The sins of the fathers,” he murmured, feeling every one of his years. He looked up into Luc’s impassive face. “Are you willing to pay this price, even after so long?”


Luc shook his head. “It is not a matter of willingness or not,” he said softly. “The debt came due, and it must be paid. Else all will be lost.” His smile was almost heartbreaking. “And even if we win, we will tear our world apart in the winning…”



**********************************************



Towards lunchtime, Arthur’s head came up and he stood up, going over to the window and peering out, tension in every line in his body. Luc watched him, noting that although Weasley didn’t claim to be anything like a Clan Lord, he had the necessary bond with his land and surroundings – something had told him of an intrusion, and his instant wariness could only have come from sharing the land’s instincts. “Who is it?” he asked softly, rising smoothly to stand beside his host. He had been accepted into this house, had broken bread with its master – he would defend it, if it became necessary.


Weasley looked a little embarrassed to be seen dabbling in such mysticism – but it was not the High Clan who would laugh at him for it. In fact, they were the only ones who might accept and even understand it – and knowing this, he spoke of what he rarely acknowledged, even to himself. “I’m not quite sure. It feels like that fellow Tarrant, but somehow twisted; his very footsteps make the land uneasy.”


Luc said nothing, but his face hardened, his eyes cooling. He touched his forefinger to the windowpane in front of him, raised an eyebrow at Arthur in question. Molly came bustling in, wiping her hands on her apron, ignored Luc and said to Arthur, “What’s going on, dear? Have we got visitors?”


Her eyes strayed to Luc’s finger on the windowpane, and she raised alarmed eyes to his. “What are you doing? Don’t touch my house with your magic, you…” she trailed off, warned by the sudden warning in Arthur’s eyes, but Luc promptly retracted his finger. He had only been going to reinforce the wards, pitifully inadequate defences as they were, but he would only ever think of doing so if he had his host’s full permission. Without permission it would be, as he had said, not too long ago, a desecration.


Arthur turned back to the window, looked out. “It’s Gerald Tarrant,” he said in some surprise. “But what’s he doing here?”


Molly beamed. “Oh, that’s all right. I met him in town the other day, and we had a nice chat, catching up on everything… Anyway, he said he wanted to see Ginny again, to see if he could have another chance. So I invited him over here so they could talk.”


Luc had stiffened during this remarkable speech – Arthur was uncomfortably aware of his icy control. Really, he did love his wife, but… He relaxed when Luc caught his eye and smiled fractionally, reassuring him. Luc would not kill Gerald right now, not under his roof. That would be most discourteous.


There was a polite knocking on the door, and Gerald stood framed in the doorway, carrying a bunch of flowers for Mrs Weasley, who cooed and fluttered in delight, but his smooth courtesy faltered when he looked past her into the living room, seeing Arthur Weasley and his other guest. Maliciously, Luc took some pleasure in the expression that fleetingly crossed Gerald’s face – but then it was gone, and the bland smile was back. He was playing respectable executive to the hilt, with neatly combed hair, staid, respectable robes in thick wool (not the more expensive fabrics that characterized aristocrats), and that damned irritating middle class, Gryffindoric amiability. If there was anything Luc hated more…of course, he could be a little prejudiced against Gerald, due to recent events.


“Hello, Malfoy,” came the smooth voice, jocular and far too familiar to Luc’s ears. He smiled easily, falling all too well into his public mask.


“Tarrant,” he murmured, not curtly, but a little distantly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur stiffen, a little disconcerted by the reemergence of the aristocrat, when Luc had talked to him as an equal all morning.


“I must say, I am sorry for any offence I may have inadvertently given with my ongoing campaign for equality,” he said to Luc some time later, smiling over a piece of cake. “But you understand that publicity is necessary if I’m to get my message across…”


Luc looked at him, not even bothering to smile back. There was no need for this fencing – they were already irrevocable enemies and both knew it – but he had played the Game all his life, had been brought up within it, and knew better than to show discourtesy or any kind of incivility to anyone under another’s roof. “I quite understand, Tarrant, you needn’t explain it to me.” He took another sip of tea. “I understand that you have found employment with Mr. Wilkes.” He raised an eyebrow. “Does he allow you to run your…campaign while you are working for him?”


“Oh, Mr. Wilkes has been of great assistance and support to the campaign,” Gerald said blandly, smiling. “He has long believed that it is more than time for full social and legal equality; in fact, he has been quite helpful with my research…”


Luc’s brow rose at this description of one of the most rabidly prejudiced, opportunistic turncoats he had ever had the misfortune to meet, but the polite fencing went on, and he had the sense that Gerald was just killing time until he could see Ginny again, try to convince her to take him back. Luc spared a thought to hope that Draco had actually consummated their bond – it would make things much, much easier – but he knew, Draco being much more honourable than he himself, that it was more than likely that he had pulled back, preferring to wait until he had her full permission. And that was where the problems would come in.


And by then it was too late – a knock came on the door, Molly went to open it with a beaming, approving smile on her face. “Ah, here’s Ginny now, Mr Tarrant. Won’t she be surprised to see you?”



***************************************************


A/N - Regarding Brandon Andenais, the first Malfoy: I realise that ‘Malfoy’ is French, and therefore unlikely to be in use in Brandon’s time. I am assuming that 2500 years ago he would have been given a name with the approximate same meaning, and that the Clan’s name has changed throughout history.


And the idea of the Guardians of Britain, and of wiping out already existing repositories of memory/magic and replacing it in order to claim the land comes from the book “Albion: The Last Companion” by Patrick McCormack.

Disclaimer – Standard disclaimer applies. Don’t sue me.



CHAPTER 14 – Choosing and Claiming.



Ginny had in no way been prepared for a confrontation with Gerald. Still stunned by the implications of everything Draco had revealed about the High Clan, still affected by the echoing aftermath of their aborted interlude in the Grove, she had been moving along in something of a daze, had decided to put off thinking for today – perhaps tomorrow, she would try and sort everything out and see what she thought of it.


Standing hand in hand on the doorstep with Draco, enjoying the physical closeness (a sign of just how far she had come) she had been rehearsing what she was going to say to her parents, when her mother had opened the door, smiled widely, and dropped her bombshell.


“Ginny, look who’s here! You remember Gerald, don’t you?” Horrified, she turned to Draco for guidance, for any kind of help. Slanting her an amused glance out of the corner of his eye, he came up behind her and put a possessive arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. He managed to keep his expression neutral – but only barely – as Mrs Weasley’s face went from conspiratorial delight to stunned dismay.


He wondered, just for a moment, why she deemed him such an unsuitable prospect. He was wealthy – more than wealthy, to be honest. He was reliable – now that he had come to terms with his past, he would never, ever abandon his responsibilities again. He was more than capable of looking after what was his – years at his father’s and Luc’s feet had taught him that much. He had a position in society – his lineage was impeccable, his bloodline ran back to and beyond the Founding. He was a Malfoy, his mother had been a Beaufort, one of the premier families in wizarding France, and as for respectability – well, he was a nobleman, not a gentleman.


With malicious amusement, he smiled warmly at Molly Weasley, relishing her discomposure, and said, smoothly, “Good morning, ma’am, I hope I’m not too much trouble? Ginevra and I had something rather important we wanted to say to you and Mr Weasley…”


Her expression went from dismay to outright sickly horror.


A light voice came from inside the house, and Gerald Tarrant, called by her previous announcement that Ginny was at the door, appeared behind Mrs Weasley, his face carefully arranged into hopeful, slightly reserved lines. He smiled a little shyly when he saw Ginny – and then went completely blank when he saw Draco behind her. Once again, Draco took the lead – his mouth curved (one couldn’t really call it a smile) almost cruelly, and he held out his hand to Gerald, a gesture that no polite, courteous gentleman could ignore, not and still be counted polite and courteous.


“Hello, Tarrant,” he purred, still smiling with feline malice, his eyes mocking and almost feral. Here was the man who had splashed his most private secrets on the front page of the Prophet for everyone to see – and Draco intended to see him pay, and pay, and pay. This was only the beginning.


A blank mask covered Gerald’s feelings of dismay, rage and instinctive bristling, and even the smallest hint of fear; but nothing could cover the hatred – it was too primal, too strong. Draco could have hidden his – he was certainly good enough to do so – but what was the point? It was an insult, a deliberate slap in the face, and he didn’t care. As soon as he had exposed Draco’s patricide, he had made himself an implacable enemy, and Draco would pursue him to the ends of the earth for the rest of his life, if he had to. He knew it, Gerald knew it, and the whole world knew it. Hell, even Molly Weasley knew it.


And that may have been why Gerald, who had lived all his life by the principles of a gentleman, looked down at Draco’s extended hand and ignored it, turned his back and walked back into the house. Ginny winced, and Mrs Weasley looked almost sick. Draco only smiled.



*************************************************



Even sitting on the couch in the living room, Arthur Weasley could feel the tension radiate through the whole house. There was Molly’s dismay, and Ginny’s embarrassment; Luc Malfoy was tense, a little wary, but he was anticipating the coming confrontation; that small smile was impossible to misinterpret. Gerald was a conflicting mess of emotions – again, it added to the impression that there was something badly wrong with him. The churning mixture of rage, terror and overwhelming hatred was like a dark psychic scar on the house’s aura, and it made him feel a little nauseous. And Draco Malfoy – well, the feral hatred ran strong there, and ice, ice cold…with just the slightest, dangerous hint of heat.


The anticipation, just as Luc was anticipating, was cruel, almost sadistic – the new Malfoy Lord had the same cruelty as his father and his uncle, the same potential for violence and ruthlessness. Arthur wasn’t at all sure that was a good thing. He wasn’t looking forward to this conversation at all, but it wasn’t as if he had a choice.


His youngest child, his daughter, came in with her arm around Draco Malfoy’s waist, and his around hers; they sat down on the couch together, as close to each other as they could. He could see the emotional intimacy there, but happily for his paternal instincts, no sign as yet of any…close physical intimacy. That was good. He still had trouble accepting the fact his daughter was twenty five years old, occasionally…


Gerald, whom he had once thought of as an ideal son-in-law, came back into the room and sat as far away from Draco and Ginny as possible, without sitting too close to Luc. He sat easily, comfortably, emphasizing his familiarity with the house, but he kept casting long, hate-filled looks Draco’s way. Draco intercepted them with sardonic, mocking ones as he kept Ginny distracted, so she wouldn’t notice Gerald’s malice.


Molly sat next to him, obviously ill at ease, casting concerned looks between Draco and Gerald, and despairing ones at Ginny – she leaned against him as if seeking reassurance. And Luc sat alone, watching them all with cool, amused eyes.



***********************************************************



After an eternity of inconsequential small talk, Gerald’s patience finally ran out. He had had enough of the waiting, of the feline anticipation on both Malfoy faces, so he cleared his throat and began – severely discomposed and thrown off balance, and resenting them even further for it. He had been counting on making his speech to Ginny alone, or Ginny in the company of her parents. Arthur Weasley was a pushover, a naïve fool too blinded by his love for muggles to see what was just under his nose…and Molly? Molly Weasley adored him, thought him the perfect and ideal son-in-law, if she couldn’t have Harry Potter.


Stupid cow. Everything had been going perfectly to plan – he had been only a proposal away from becoming the Deputy Minister’s son-in-law, from getting his hands on all that lovely, honest, democratically earned power and influence, and on Ginny Weasley too, which would have been a very nice bonus. With the added help of Weasley backing, he could have gone as far and as high as he wanted – until Malfoy came back.


Draco fucking Malfoy – with his perfect face and his perfect pedigree and his money and power and influence that outstripped everything Arthur Weasley ever dreamed of, and Ginny had rolled right over for him. She was probably spreading her legs for him every night, the faithless whore…


She had driven him to this. It was her fault he had been thrown out of Gringotts, her fault he had not been able to find employment anywhere else – her fault he was working for Wilkes, who had already demonstrated most ably the consequences of trying to back out of their deal… Well, he was not going to take it any more. He would bring down the Malfoy, then he would crush the Weasleys under his feet, and then, then, he would teach Ginny a lesson of his own about fidelity towards one’s fiancé – with great pleasure.


But first, he would give them one last chance. “Ginny,” he said, practicing his soulful voice and expression, “I realize that I may have been somewhat of a,” a self-deprecating laugh, a modest shrug, “well, quite frankly, a prat, lately…” Ginny was looking distinctly skeptical, Luc and Draco cynical; Mrs Weasley was lapping it up with great, romantic eyes. Gerald saw Arthur look at his wife in exasperation.


“But the thing is, you see,” he looked down, the modest English gentleman – oh, he knew how to play it – “I’ve…missed you.” He broke off to watch her reaction. Any proper woman would have been gasping in delight at such a private confession – the redheaded bitch only looked blank. And Malfoy – the bastard looked right at him and smirked.


“I’m sorry for whatever it is I said or did to lose you; it’s been hell without you, Gin. Could we…do you think we could, perhaps, start over and try again? Please?” Mrs Weasley sobbed, her eyes shining. Arthur Weasley closed his eyes and slowly shook his head – and Luc and Draco exchanged carefully veiled glances. Peripherally, he was aware of their reactions, but his attention was fully focused on Ginny, and what she would say. One last chance.



*************************************



Draco could hardly believe what he had just heard Gerald Tarrant say. Did he honestly think that any sane person would believe such…rot? Such utter nonsense? He was almost certain that Ginny would not believe it, either. Surely she couldn’t even think the man was sincere, after all the scandalous secrets and skeletons he had splashed across the front page of the Prophet, after everything he had shouted about Ginny that day in Gringotts? But he had so much tied up in this. And to have it destroyed on an ‘almost’ certain chance, when he had been so, so close…


She couldn’t believe Tarrant. She couldn’t.



************************************************************



Quite honestly, Ginny didn’t know what to say. Instinct told her to reject Gerald, and as quickly as possible, but Ginny had not been raised to rely on her instincts. She had been taught to use her brain and her intellect, and even now, her mind was in complete control, and it insisted she approach this logically and analytically. Gerald Tarrant and Draco Malfoy. Ginny wasn’t sure that there could be two men so different in so many ways. Not just in appearance, or in class, or in behaviour, but in nature, in mentality, in their basic makeup.


Their backgrounds defined them – their manner, their speech, their clothes and appearance – but it was more than a difference in class. It was in the way they thought. Gerald was a modern man, a product of a modern society, where all men were equal and all men had rights; he took it for granted and he never questioned, once, that life or society could be any different. He believed in the rights and powers of an individual – in his absolute right to do whatever he wished, go wherever he wished, live his life exactly as he wished it, without any outside interference from anything or anyone. The fact that he had gone wrong somewhere down the line was surely relevant, but still...perhaps he could be reformed? And perhaps she was just dreaming. She had read what he had given to the papers…


And Draco. Draco was a feudal lord, in every sense of the word. A product of an entirely different world, where he, as a Malfoy, as the Malfoy Lord, had the absolute, divine right to rule, and a reciprocal, absolute obligation to protect and defend. And because he was the Malfoy Lord, he had a place and a role in society it was his duty and obligation to fulfill – responsibilities and ancient, unbreakable bonds of tradition and duty – once he accepted them, he would no more walk away from them than he would ever abuse his Covenant.


Individualism? It had no place in his worldview, except in that one, odd circumstance – his uncle, the illegitimate, unofficial Lord of the de Sauvigny, and his mudblood wife. Well, no one ever said that personal or even social codes had to be consistent; in fact, it showed that he did have some flexibility, some room for things that didn’t quite fit the mould.


She wondered, yet again, why she preferred Draco to Gerald. No, not just because of the physical chemistry, and not because of the Soul Bond. Quite frankly, even without all that, she had discovered that she simply liked Draco better than Gerald. He was ruthless, far too calculating, driven and determined and far too arrogant; he could be cruel and quite often vicious, but…he was also the same man who had cried in her arms in the Grove, who believed so completely in mystic tales and myths she had dismissed long ago, who had seen straight into the heart of her when no one, not even her own family, had ever seen her clearly. He had held her hand as she looked at her new haircut. And when he smiled…oh, my… Well, what could Gerald offer that could compete with that?


******************************************************



“I’m sorry, Gerald, but…I can’t.” Something dark moved through Gerald’s eyes, something dark, feral and very, very ugly.


“Bitch!” There was a blur of motion, and the world exploded in a shower of stars and blinding pain; someone screamed as she fell backwards onto Draco, stunned and incredulous. It hurt…



********************************************************



Draco looked down at Ginny in surprise, his senses at first not comprehending the meaning of the red liquid running from her nose and mouth. Blood? What…? Why…? From the corner of his eye he saw Arthur Weasley surge up out halfway out of his seat, only to freeze as he caught Luc’s eye, and the cold, imperiously hissed, “No!”


Gerald was standing in the middle of the floor, fists clenched, hatred and a sick, rabid glee in his eyes and face. He looked down at Ginny, slumped in Draco’s arms, with a snarl of feral, lustful hatred, and laughed out loud. “You can’t? I’ll teach you to say you can’t, you sl-”


Draco growled, low and deep in his throat, and those mad eyes turned to him, giggling, leering. “Oh come now, Malfoy, you know how wild she is – she needs discipline-“


And for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy lost control of his anger. The Malfoy bloodline was one of the purest in the world, one of the strongest – his magic ran thick and deep and strong, and exquisitely controlled. He had been taught since infancy how to defend himself; he had learned, after he became the Lord, in his quest for vengeance, how to kill – he was a warrior aristocrat, of a long line of warrior aristocrats. And Gerald Tarrant was a middle-aged, middle class bean counter who had never encountered the slightest bit of action or violence in his whole life. It was a spectacularly unequal contest.


Responding to the call of his rage, his magic came surging up from his solar plexus; charged and strengthened by the sheer force of his emotional intensity, controlled by years of discipline, it was shaped almost instinctively into an ancient, dark spell designed to torture, to degrade, to cause exquisite pain rather than death – when it hit him, Gerald screamed, and the power of his terror and his excruciating pain went to Draco’s less than rational head like strong, heady wine, or incense burned on an altar for him and him alone. It was…intoxicating. The very world went red, and everything else other than the sheer rush of power faded away.



********************************************************



Watching in detached interest, with almost clinical analysis, Luc put Mrs Weasley into sleep and obliviated her memories of Draco’s darker side. He looked questioningly at Arthur, who shook his head, understanding the question and refusing to have his memory wiped. That was good – he would need to know just how dark the Malfoy could be… He didn’t do anything to Ginevra, who was watching in horrified fascination, protected by the insulating effects of shock; she could accept it now, but she was a Gryffindor, and still young enough to be idealistic. Luc knew she would be troubled about Draco’s capacity for cruelty later on, but that was something they would have to work out themselves.


And as for the House’s aura – innocent and vulnerable to the sheer amount of negative energy Draco’s volatile emotional cocktail of hatred and rage and possessiveness was producing – well, there was nothing he could do about that, as much as he might want to preserve the innocence. It would never again be the same, and that was a great pity…


He sighed, and settled back to watch the show. While the others might be shocked by Draco’s somewhat extreme reaction, Luc knew exactly what he was going through. He had experienced the same thing himself, long ago, when he had felt Kate’s fear as the bludger knocked her off her broom, and the excruciating pain as she hit the ground. He had almost killed Sirius Black that day – would have, if Dumbledore and the previous head of Slytherin house had not forcibly restrained him – but even now, the hatred (and, yes, the fear) still remained, still ran hot and strong and venomous.


And that was why he was letting Draco go through with this extremely thorough execution – hopefully it would purge him of all the lingering emotional poison, and help him remember just why Malfoy were taught absolute, unequivocal emotional control from infancy onwards. It was just too dangerous, otherwise. And because he still remembered his first and last time, he went into the kitchen and prepared a very strong headache potion, and added other things to aid deep, dreamless sleep. When Draco finally emerged from his madness, he would need it. And then they would all need to talk.



*****************************************************



Sweet Lady, this can’t be happening. That can’t be Draco… He’s not capable of this, is he? Is he…? Oh, Lady, Lady, Lady… How could he?



*****************************************************



And then, just as suddenly as he had lost it, control came back. And he looked down at his hands, at what he had done with them, and was horrified. Completely and utterly horrified.


Stripped of all defense, of all pretence, of all hint of his usual mask, he looked up to see Ginny’s horrified eyes, and realized just how far he’d gone over the edge. Oh, Sweet Lady, what had he done? What had he done? As he felt the gorge rise at the back of his throat, the world spun crazily, and everything went black.


******************************************************

Disclaimer – Standard disclaimers apply. Original character Dane Harcourt is mine.



CHAPTER 15 – Damage Control



Molly Weasley looked down at the unconscious form of Draco Malfoy, who, at twenty-seven years old, was almost a mirror image of his father. The thick, white hair, the radiant white skin – the eerie, elegant beauty of a perfectly formed predator. However, with his eyes closed, one could only see half of the truth – physically, he was a complete match, but deep down, he would never have gone to some of the lengths his father had, and he would never, ever have joined Voldemort. Although there had been rumours that Lucius’ induction into the Death Eaters had not been entirely his choice; rumours of truths and deceptions that ran far, far deeper than the surface.


In any case, it was no longer relevant. Lucius Malfoy was dead, and he could trouble their family no longer. His son, however… Molly made no secret of her distaste for the High Clan. She was not the type of hypocrite who would praise people to their faces when she secretly despised them – when she felt something, she made it known. And for all of her life, she had hated the Malfoy most of all – that stuck up ice bitch Narcissa, Lucius, who had almost caused her daughter’s death, and even Luc Malfoy, who often seemed to be more approachable, but was the most amoral of them all.


She had had grave reservations about Ginny and her relationship with Draco. To her mind, there was far too much of a gulf between Malfoy and Weasley – not just a social gulf, not just a monetary one, but also a cultural one, a mental one. Gerald had seemed to be the ideal son-in-law – he had been of their class, of their ways; he had been financially secure and had seemed to be quite steady and reliable. She had only ever wanted Ginny to be safe and secure, and Gerald had seemed to be everything a woman could want in a husband.


Only young girls dreamed about handsome princes and fairytales.


And what was Draco Malfoy? He was handsome, that was for sure, and he stood at the forefront of society, if not in respectability then in influence and social power. But the truth was that beneath the handsome façade, underneath the physical beauty and the courtesy and manners, lay a predator. A leader reared in the High Clan way, in the ruthlessness, the violence and the old, shadowed magics of their ancestors. Brandon Malfoy had not been anything like the great hero he was often made out to be. And the Malfoy, despite all their silken ways and the centuries of breeding, came from very dark, very bloody stock – bad blood, no matter how blue it was.


She had tried to explain all of this to Ginny when she had come home after Luc Malfoy’s dinner party, with stars in her eyes and kiss-swollen lips, but ever since they had fought over Harry so long ago, Ginny had made a point of not listening to her, of ignoring what she said no matter how important it was. Quite simply, they clashed horribly. That little discussion had ended with Ginny storming out in a huff, determined to go through with this simply because Molly had warned her against it. She should have known how it would end.


But really, she had asked her husband, was it too much to ask? All she wanted was to see her daughter happy, married to a nice, reliable man who would not walk out on her, and would not break her spirit or lead her too far into the darkness. Arthur had only looked at her and shaken his head – he had said it was far too late, now, they had begun to bond. And once the process had begun, it was irrevocable…


Looking down at the still, oddly vulnerable form arranged a little awkwardly on her couch, she supposed that she would have to start becoming accustomed to the thought of him as a son-in-law. As long as she could remember that he was different to Lucius, different to Luc; for her daughter’s sake, she would put up with him.



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He had been an Auror for more than thirty years, and in that time, he had seen things that would haunt his dreams forever, had done things that he would regret until his dying day, and had approved and sanctioned things that would permanently blacken his soul. He had lived through the Dark Times twice – as a teenage rookie who had matured far too quickly during the first uprising, and again as an experienced senior auror watching other rookies go through the same ordeal when Voldemort had risen a second time. So torture, murder and extremely violent death didn’t disconcert him at all. He had seen, and done, far worse things.


Dane Harcourt prided himself on his impartiality when dealing with the High Clan – but even his vaunted objectivity quailed when it came to confronting the Malfoy. The superstition, the psychological conditioning was too deeply ingrained. The Malfoy were the first, the centre, the balance – twice in his life he had seen it, seen the Malfoy mark on horribly mutilated bodies, brazenly flaunting their handiwork, daring anyone to come after them if they thought the death unjustifiable.


Augustus Snape, in 1977, had killed Marcus Malfoy, and so a vengeance-murder had been acceptable were-gild. Parkinson, Crabbe, Goyle et al had also been justifiable, in payment for the life of Lucius Malfoy. But no Malfoy scions had been killed recently – and so he was at a loss to understand just why Eugene Wilkes, of all people, had come to his door and told him, as a concerned citizen, that Draco Malfoy had just tortured and killed his employee, Gerald Tarrant.


Of course he knew who Gerald Tarrant was. A High Clan Lord himself, Dane had been following the recent newspaper coverage a curious mixture of disbelief and anger. Not that he himself hadn’t agreed with something of what Tarrant had been saying, but he had never espoused such extreme measures, nor such virulent attacks on something that the normal public could never understand, never completely grasp.


He had often thought that there should be some attempt at more integration between the two classes; Tarrant had talked of complete abolition of the High Clan – removal of aristocratic privilege, Ministry confiscation of estates and land… He didn’t agree with what Tarrant proposed, but that was no reason to kill him.


Not, of course, that he thought for a moment that Draco Malfoy would be stupid enough to kill him, unless he had a very good, completely justifiable reason – and that was why he was so puzzled. There was no excuse, no explanation for such an utterly mad act – Malfoy were never uncontrolled, never impulsive; there had only ever been one time that he’d seen a Malfoy lose control. And he never wanted to see anything like that ever again. But it looked like he might have to.



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He fought his way to the surface through a thick, black murky fog, struggling to reach out to her, to the fading, fugitive light he could sense was drawing further and further away with each passing second, frightened and wary and confused. Stretching out, he tried to enfold the diminishing light with his own light, with his own warmth and magic, but it panicked, and struggled – feeling the fear, he reluctantly let go, mourning the light’s loss with surprising strength. She was gone. The fledgling, unconsummated bond was fading…And he woke up, empty.


The first thing he saw was Molly Weasley, watching him with frowning, not-entirely disapproving eyes, almost as if she were re-evaluating him, rethinking her first opinion of him. He could see straight into her, through those defenceless, completely candid eyes – she hid nothing of what she was thinking and feeling. It was quite disconcerting, and a little disturbing, almost like he was some kind of mental voyeur. He looked away, as the High Clan did when they witnessed something too private for public viewing, to give the other person time and space to regroup without any loss of face.


“So,” she said in her oddly brisk, abrupt way. “You’re awake.” Her voice wasn’t quite cordial, but it was warmer than it had ever been before.


He turned his eyes back to hers, his mouth quirking almost involuntarily. “Yes,” he said. “Yes I am. What did I miss?”


She held out a wooden cup filled with some kind of herbal potion, eyes commanding. He took it absently, instinctively probing it in search of any poisons or drugs; his father had drummed this into him from childhood – he had never touched any food or drink without first confirming it was safe. She saw the action, understood the reasons behind it, and something inside her melted. Poor child…


“Your uncle said to wait until you woke up, before we did anything.” He blinked, for a moment wandering what there was to do anything about, but then the memory rushed back. It took all of his self-control to stop himself from reacting – Lady, how stupid could he be? To endanger everything for a stupid loss of temper, for a possessive, jealous reaction that had taken him by surprise? But that…that worm had struck Ginevra. Had insulted and laid hands on his mate. He deserved everything he got. And now Draco would have to pay for the right to defend what was his.


A slight cough came from the doorway, and Arthur Weasley came in, followed by Luc. And behind him, somewhat reluctantly, trailed Ginevra, very careful not to look him in the eye, looking anywhere but at him. He swore silently and viciously. She didn’t trust him. They sat down on the couches again, Arthur and Ginevra very obviously nervous, not looking at the stains on the carpet that Luc had done his best to fix before Molly came back to herself; Luc, with his customary, and often quite irritating sangfroid, was acting as if nothing had happened. If Draco hadn’t had that same habit himself, that same composure, he would have been infuriated with his uncle…


Always blunt, Arthur Weasley cut through all the unimportant issues and got straight to the point. “What are we going to do?”


Draco looked at Luc. Luc, his eyes narrowed in amusement, looked back at Draco. Evidently, he was leaving it all up to Draco – after all, it had been his mistake. But, no, it was more than that – it was an acknowledgement that Draco was in charge. He was surprised at how pleased that made him feel. Thinking quickly, Draco reached a conclusion and sighed. This was not going to be easy. Shit. Why are things always so difficult?


“The way I see it,” he said, thinking out loud, “We’ve got three options – firstly, bury the body out in the forest, or drop it into the sea, somewhere where it would never, ever be found, and deny that we ever saw Gerald today, or that we even know anything about what’s going on.”


Molly snorted. “And you don’t think that Gerald’s employers didn’t know where he was? Or that they’ll waste a single second in telling the aurors where he went, once they find out he’s dead?”


Arthur frowned, then looked to Luc, as if for a second opinion – he got nothing, for Luc was at his most impassive, his most calculating. He was already probably several moves ahead in the Game as it related to the House of de Sauvigny, now that he had finally handed House Malfoy back to Draco…


Arthur spoke the thought himself. “Gerald worked for Wilkes…who was an enemy of the Malfoy?” he looked to Draco, who nodded. “So perhaps, when Gerald didn’t return, because he said he only had two hours leave for a visit, they would have already gone to the aurors…?” He frowned harder, tapped his finger on the coffee table. “Perhaps they knew, when they sent him, that he would not come back.”


Molly frowned, horrified at the thought, but Arthur was a bit more worldly than his wife, a bit more knowledgeable of what the High Clan were capable of. Shaping a man into the perfect irritation, the perfect thorn in Draco’s side, feeding his fanatical hatred and zeal, fanning his jealousy and his twisted desire… Gerald had been exquisitely created and launched on a course that would lead to his death at Malfoy’s hands – it sickened him. But he knew that the two aristocrats currently sitting so tamely in his lounge room were more than capable of that, and of even worse. It was not a comforting thought, even if he was currently on their side.


“Right,” Molly said briskly. “What was the second option?”


Draco smiled a little bitterly. “Brazen it out,” he said softly. “Show an inscrutable, High Clan face, use the Malfoy influence and openly dare anyone to accuse me of it.”


Ginevra snorted softly, contemptuously. He looked over at her, but she looked down at the table, avoiding his gaze. Luc cleared his throat delicately, drawing Draco’s attention away from his erstwhile mate.


“Unfortunately,” his uncle murmured neutrally, “the Malfoy name does not carry as much influence as it used to two hundred, or even twenty years ago.” He didn’t look at Draco as he spoke. “And there is the one, important fact that this killing was unjustifiable – the traditional Law will not offer absolution for it…”


Draco didn’t ask why then Luc didn’t try to stop him from killing Tarrant. He didn’t think he was ready for the answer, just yet. Even if it was just a reluctance to come between a cold Malfoy and the object of his ire. He sighed soundlessly. “The third option is an open trial, to put myself in the hands of the Ministry’s justice.”


Luc closed his eyes slowly, and massaged the bridge of his nose. He knew just as well as Draco did the price and the potential risk – just as he knew that it was the only way. Especially now, when everything that had lain in the shadows of the High Clan for so long had been brought out into the public view.


“A criminal trial?” Ginevra said, covering up her fear with scorn and defiance. “You won’t stand a chance. They’ll destroy you, bring out every single one of your skeletons – they’ve never convicted a Malfoy before, even with overwhelming evidence; they’ll jump at the chance this time.”


He nodded slowly. “I know, but it’s our only choice. Gerald and his backers made this a public issue, and now we must finish it in public, instead of keeping it quiet and strictly within the High Clan. If we keep this secret, then we’ll have lost every bit of credibility we’ve ever had.”


Arthur spoke softly. “The evidence is overwhelming. With the condition of Tarrant’s body, with the very potent magical residue that’s still swirling around this room; even in a fair trial, they’ll crucify you…”


Draco smiled thinly. “I know. But who said that the Ministry were the only ones who could play dirty? I do have some tricks up my sleeve…”


Ginny looked like she wanted to argue, but knew, after so long associated with him, a little of how to play the Game. Oh, why couldn’t things have been easy? Why did Draco have to be so ruthless, so violent under that charming exterior? And why had she, deep down inside, felt a sick little thrill at the thought of all that concentrated savagery being used for her benefit? Why had she found that unbearably exciting? It was wrong. Surely it was wrong.


Arthur looked at the two of them, at Ginny so obviously not looking at Draco, at Draco looking infinitely weary but staring at Ginny with such hungry eyes, and decided it would be best to leave them alone for the moment. He looked at his wife, who nodded, a trace of amusement in her eyes – and he spared a thought to be thankful for her reluctant reversal of her opinion of Draco – and at Luc, who nodded slowly. They withdrew to the kitchen and closed the door, leaving them alone.



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Draco spoke first, frustrated by her refusal to look him in the eye. He’d had a very bad day – beginning with the revelation of his patricide splashed all over the morning paper, then his emotional breakdown in the Grove, and then, when all his senses had been tuned towards an amusing confrontation with Molly Weasley, when he would ask for her daughter’s hand in marriage, he had instead been forced to confront the reality of his temper and his passion – with potentially disastrous consequences. And now Ginevra had turned away from him, and it was almost more than he could bear.


“Look at me,” he said softly, reaching out to capture her chin and turn her to face him. She jerked her head away, turned her back and walked to the window. Irritation making him perverse, he followed her over and stopped just behind her, far too close for her comfort, effectively caging her between his body and the wall.


“What is it, Ginevra?” he asked, voice low and purring, scraping against her nerves, raising her hackles. She turned around, only to find herself far too close and looking up at him with wide, furious eyes.


“What is it?” she asked mildly – too mildly. “What is it? You killed him! You stood there and tortured him to death! That’s what’s wrong. And then you coldly and calmly sit and debate about the best way to ‘deal with the problem’!” Her voice rose to a shout, and she immediately tried to calm herself down, breathing slowly and deeply.


He looked at her impassively. “So what, precisely, are you objecting to?” His voice was calm and utterly reasonable. It infuriated her.


“What am I…” she trailed off breathlessly, reminding herself not to shout, “I am objecting to the way you so callously and efficiently killed him. You tortured him to death, and with great expertise, might I add…”


He looked straight into her eyes with a cool, clear silver gaze. “He struck you,” he said, clearly and reasonably. “He split your lip.”


She blinked, puzzled. “So? I’ve had worse during a quidditch game with my brothers.”


He shook his head. “He deliberately laid hands on you.”


She opened her mouth, paused, and then closed it. “And so you killed him?” she asked, a little breathless. That guilty little pool of pleasure was back again. She didn’t know why it made her feel so…feminine.


He raised an eyebrow. “And so for that, and for all his other crimes against me and mine, I executed him.”


She got herself back under control again, regained her outrage. “See, Draco, that’s what I find so infuriating about you. You talk so calmly about blood and death and protecting what’s yours, and you don’t care about the price. You have no compunctions about killing, and I simply cannot accept it.” She paused, quite pleased with that sentence, poised to continue, but he beat her to it.


“No, Ginevra, you cannot accept that you liked the thought of it.”


Her mouth dropped open. And she slapped his smirking, too perceptive face as hard as she could. Unfazed, he reached up and touched the corner of his mouth, gathering some blood onto his fingers, looked with impassive interest at the crimson, slippery blood. And then he brought his fingers to his mouth, and licked it off, savouring the warm, coppery taste. His eyes came up to hers, hot molten silver, and she had not even a moment’s warning before he reached out and grabbed the front of her robes, jerking her off her feet and crushing his mouth down to hers in a blatant show of dominance, of possession.


She tried to scream, tried to push him away, pushing feebly at his shoulders, but he was too strong. His heart was beating like a drum, racing, and the scent of sandalwood wreathed the air, intoxicating and heady, sending her head spinning…
He nipped at her lower lip, a little jot of pain, and she opened her mouth involuntarily, letting him in to plunder as he liked.


She drew breath to bite, to show him that he couldn’t treat her like this – and then, suddenly, madness overtook her, and she kissed him back, sharing the sour-sweet, metallic blood from his lip and hers, the sandalwood taste of the ardeur, of his magic, and the indefinable taste that was his and his alone.


The bond reasserted itself; desire pulled them under. The magic didn’t care that Ginny didn’t really trust Draco, not after seeing what he was capable of, nor that Draco himself still had some reservations, or that circumstances were slowly spinning out of control and time was running out, for all of them. They stood there in the living room, where he had, not even an hour ago, brutally murdered a man, and they held each other so tightly there was no room to breathe… And a slight, golden haze surrounded them as the magic bound them tighter and tighter together.



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Disclaimer – I don’t own any of the canon characters or concepts. Don’t sue me.



CHAPTER 16 – White Wedding



They sat on the couch in the living room, not kissing but simply embracing, touching – they couldn’t seem to let go of each other, to lose the simple, uncomplicated joy of mere physical contact. He rested his head on her shoulder, rather enjoying the contrast of his fair, almost silver hair tangled with her dark red; of his black robes against her plain cotton pants and shirt. What a pair they made – the aristocrat, without his normal social mask, not bothering to hide his predatory nature anymore, and the woman who had only just begun to find her own truths, her own identity.


He had found himself long, long ago – in the darkness and terror of a midnight attack, in the stark, uncompromising choice between one evil and an even worse one. In the bloody hell of a horrifying war with no front lines and no rules, and in the hatred and the grief that he had never managed to drown, not with violence, not with drink, not with sex and not with drugs. But in Ginevra, he had found peace. In the cool, shadowed depths of the Grove, held against her breast as she rocked him and let him cry, he had found catharsis. What would he find in her love?


For the first time, he let himself hope, just a little.


“I’m not quite sure that this is real,” she said softly, almost wonderingly. “It’s like a dream, like a fairytale…”


He stiffened involuntarily, ruining the mood. “I don’t believe in fairytales,” Draco said softly. “I haven’t since I was fifteen.”


She looked at him, huge, drowning eyes silently questioning. “I found out, that year, that there were some things that all the power, all the influence in the world, couldn’t fix, couldn’t make better…”


“You found out you weren’t omnipotent and omniscient?” she guessed, half-smiling.


But he didn’t laugh. “No,” he murmured, turning away from her to hide his eyes, “I found out that my father was only a man after all.” He set her on her feet, walked slowly over to the window, and leaned his head against the glass. “My father, the great and powerful Lord of High Clan Malfoy, was a man just like any other; for all his power and all his influence, he was still a mortal man, and he died, as mortal men do, when I stabbed him.” He finally looked at her, his eyes bitterly amused. “I half expected him to survive…”


She walked up to him, her heart filled with compassion, and laid her palm against his cheek – turning his eyes to hers, exposing them in all their defenceless vulnerability. “Oh, Draco…” she whispered, grieving for the boy he had once been. There were many kinds of innocence…


He didn’t look away, he didn’t close his eyes. He let her see everything. Covering her hand with his own, he leaned into the caress, rubbing his cheek against the soft, scented skin – it was so gentle, and yet so strong; she would have even less chance than Gerald, were he to turn on her in a cold rage, but he couldn’t look away from her, couldn’t free himself from the silken chains she bound him with.


Trust. Affection. Compassion. Understanding. Love. Oh, Lady, he loved her – it was more than physical desire, more than the bond… It was everything. And it was terrifying.


But he had gone so far beyond common sense, beyond self-preservation, beyond any kind of sanity today. With an almost tortured groan, he reached out and slowly, so slowly, pulled her against him, into his arms that held her almost too tightly, as if he were afraid she would pull away, as if he were afraid that he wouldn’t be able to stop her.


“Oh, Ginevra…” he whispered it against her hair, his eyes shut tightly as he inhaled her scent, the unique, utterly intoxicated smell that was hers alone. He felt as if he would recognize her anywhere, no matter what she wore, what she looked like, what she smelled like – he would recognize her. Because he loved her. And because he loved her, because he knew that of all things in this world, love was by far the rarest and the most fragile, he threw everything he had been taught of discipline and self-control and the Game out of the window.


For once in his life, he would do something solely because he wished it. He would have something for himself alone, something that no one else, not his Clan, not his blood kin, not his allies, would share in, benefit by or profit from. Draco Malfoy tossed aside years of caution and proper behaviour, and for once in his life, did something that he would have, in other circumstances, utterly deplored. He acted recklessly and impulsively, without first thinking of the possible consequences.



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Ginny wondered just what had inspired the almost rib-crushing hug, but was too happy to really care, because it meant that Draco had, at long last, cast aside all the control and discipline that had kept his behaviour relatively polite when dealing with her – especially when it came to the more…intimate…dealing.


But this had absolutely no resemblance to his first chaste kiss outside her parent’s house. And his kiss after their argument, well…she fought the urge to giggle mindlessly. He must have been angry, furiously angry, to have lost that much control and actually jerk her off her feet – after the first initial shock, she had found herself participating fully, and had been more than a little disappointed when he had slowly toned down the heat and pulled away. But this – this almost desperate hug was excellent. Exactly what she had been looking for. Because, quite frankly, she had been intrigued by the thought of finally consummating their bond…


But it was more than that. The desire was a very large part of it, an integral part, but her fascination with him ran deeper than that. She had wanted to know him, know his heart and his mind and his soul; after he had broken down in her arms in the Grove, he had been opening up to her more and more, letting her see into him, allowing her to see exactly what he was and what drove him. And somehow, during the times she had fought with him, comforted him, defended him, mistrusted him, desired him, been horrified by him, and had, eventually, found him stronger and more reliable than any other man she had ever met, she had somehow fallen in love with him.


He had paid for and masterminded her transformation, and held her hand throughout it all. He had told her, as she guessed he had told very, very few others, of his patricide and what he had done to become the Malfoy. He had taken her to a High Clan, political dinner and had whispered a running commentary in her ear so she wouldn’t be completely lost. He had held her hand as if she were the only real thing in a world of illusion; he had needed her for his very survival. He had killed Gerald for her. Because Gerald had struck her, he had killed him.


Of course she loved him, even if he did think differently, live differently, and even talk differently. She had always sworn that she would never end up like her mother, whose life revolved around her family – but there was one thing that she had picked up from Molly. Living with a family as large as the Weasleys, there were occasionally problems and spats, differences of opinion and outright arguments – keeping the peace almost always required compromise of some sort.


There was no problem that couldn’t be worked out if the two parties were willing to compromise, to meet each other halfway…


It wouldn’t be easy. Draco, the High Clan Lord with all his views and values and his archaic beliefs, and Ginny, with all her views and values and beliefs, almost none of which seemed, at first glance, to be compatible – they came from different worlds, High Clan and normal society, Slytherin and Gryffindor, and they thought that they could make a life together. The bond would help. But that would only provide the impetus and the reason to stay together – it wouldn’t guarantee that their life would be happy, or even peaceful. They would have to work at it, work at it harder than they had ever worked at anything before.


To her eyes, it was more than worth the price of trying – and so it must be to him, else he wouldn’t be holding on so desperately to her. She didn’t realize that she was holding on just as closely to him… She could feel his heartbeat, feel its steady rhythm, and hear his steady breathing as he breathed her in, as she breathed him in. And then she felt him tense again, heard him breathe, almost hesitantly, “Ginevra…?”


Still lost in dreams, she was smiling foolishly as she pulled back to look up into his eyes. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw the serious expression in his eyes, the most uncharacteristic look of tension. “Yes…?” she answered uncertainly.


He took a deep breath, closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them again, he looked down at her intense silver eyes. “Will you marry me?”


She frowned. “I thought we had already agreed to,” she said, worried. “Don’t you…?”


He shook his head. “No, I mean today. Right now. I don’t want to wait anymore…”


Her heart leapt, and she opened her mouth to agree wholeheartedly, but then hesitated. Stopped and thought. “This is about your trial, isn’t it?” she asked, suspicious, but pleased with herself for working it out. “Circumstances have changed, so we need to get married sooner, right?”


He blinked, looked confused for a priceless moment. “What? No! Well, yes, it would certainly be good, but that’s not the reason I was asking. I just…” He swore under his breath, raked a hand through his hair. Turned back to her with scowling eyes. “Damn it, can’t I do something without a secret agenda for once?”


She thought it best not to answer.


He swore again. “Sweet fucking Lady! All right, you want the real reason?” he asked, snarling at her quite irrationally, she thought. She nodded dumbly. It only made him angrier. “I love you!” he shouted, actually shouted, “isn’t that enough for you?”


Stunned, she could only blink. And then she smiled slowly, a crazy exultation welling up in her heart. She reached out and pulled his mouth down to hers, telling him her answer without the need for words. “I love you too,” she whispered shyly. She felt him reach out, felt the world spin, and held on for dear life as they apparated.



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They came out in Diagon Alley, at the apparation point nearest the registry office. Looking at it with distinct foreboding, she looked at Draco suspiciously, wondering whether he had lost his mind. “The registry office?” she asked with dangerous softness.


He looked down at her, amusement lurking in his eyes. “Yes, the registry office.”


She only looked at him, at the soulless brick façade of the registry office, where tedious administrative details were carried out by a nameless, faceless bureaucracy in complete anonymity, and down at herself, dressed in old clothes and the slippers she’d slipped into this morning. She was certain that she had bags under her eyes. Then she looked back at him, in his expensive robes and his perfect grooming, still gorgeous even after the horrendous day that he’d had. She moved closer, felt him control an impulse to step back. She had always known that Draco was intelligent…


“If you think,” she said very, very softly, “that I am getting married at the registry office, in,” she looked down at herself, “an ancient shirt and ratty pants, with my hair mussed and in not an ounce of makeup…”


This time he did back away, holding up his hands. But someone had raised him correctly. “I think you’re beautiful,” he said sincerely, not a bit of amusement showing. “Even in the old clothes and without makeup, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen…”


She looked at him with grave suspicion – but decided to let him live. And then, looking into his beautiful silver eyes, seeing the truth of the words he had spoken, that she was, indeed, beautiful to him just as she was, she felt her heart melt all over again. For a love like that, for the captivated look in his eyes, for the hint of heat that he allowed through, for everything that he was and everything that they could have together, she happily abandoned any plans she might have had for a properly planned wedding.


She didn’t need a long, glorious white dress, or a beautifully decorated church, or every single one of her relatives watching; she had old, comfortable clothes stained with the dirt and grass of the Grove, with Draco’s tears, and with Gerald Tarrant’s blood – bits of sacred ground, mixed with the proof of Draco’s trust and love…and she had Draco’s eyes to watch her.


She didn’t need an elaborate, public ceremony to cement and flaunt what had grown between them. The Grove knew, as did its Guardians. His family and his people knew, and so did hers. In the eyes of his Law and his Gods, they were already all but married, and all that was lacking was the consummation. She supposed that she could get married in the Registry Office. Smiling, she linked her arm through his, and they went in.



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The clerk, bored and unenthusiastic, asked them their business. Draco was in no mood to play games, or even try for subtlety.


“We want to get married,” he said with disastrous bluntness. Luc would have been most displeased. Well, Luc could take his discipline and… “Please,” he said, the lessons too well learned. He could all but see Ginny laughing at him.


The clerk blinked, looked down his nose somewhat at their less than immaculate clothes – especially at Ginny. Draco supposed that they did look rather ill dressed for a wedding; quite frankly, he didn’t care, as long as they got it over with soon. “Very well, sir,” murmured the clerk. “I will need both your birth certificates, and some proof of identification.”


Ginny looked at him, but he calmly produced a shrunken file which he had been carrying in his pockets for a while now – Arthur Weasley had slipped it to him while his wife hadn’t been watching. He had added his own documents later. He lay the documents flat on the counter so the clerk could see – papers certifying that Ginevra Molly Weasley had been born in mid-1981, to Molly Agnes Weasley and Arthur John Weasley, and her apparition license. Then he added his own birth certificate, confirming the birth of Caius Draconis Malfoy in early 1980, to Caius Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Celeste Malfoy. He took considerable pleasure from the look on the clerk’s face. Any hint of boredom or superiority vanished as if it had never been. There were no more glances at their unusual attire or their dishevelment, only smooth obsequiousness.


They made their way into the civil celebrant’s office, with its lectern for the celebrant and its discreet desk for the register, and the strip of red carpet to add a little prestige. Draco escorted her to the end of the carpet, unconsciously walking a little regally and with all the pride he had; he passed the attitude onto Ginny, who had her head high and was carrying the old clothes with all the grace of a queen. He gave her hand a little squeeze, and smiled reassuringly.


The celebrant cleared his throat, and if he had any thoughts or comments about the unusual nature of this ceremony, he chose, perhaps wisely, not to air them. His face was a study of impassivity, and he even managed not to stare overlong at Draco, or to stumble over the words of the High Clan ceremony Draco had insisted on. There were some things he would not give up, even to make her his wife as soon as possible.


“Do you, Caius Draconis, of High Clan Malfoy, take this woman, Ginevra Molly, of House Weasley, to be your wife, your companion…your Lady?”


He nodded. “I do.” This was the ceremony of his forefathers, the words that had been passed down through the generations; strictly speaking, they should have been wed in the Grove, witnessed by his ancestors and his People, on Beltane Eve with the fertility fires burning. The words sounded oddly out of place in this soulless building, spoken by the colourless bureaucrat who had no understanding of the forces he was invoking, the strength of the Vows he asked them to swear.


By my blood and the blood of my ancestors – he could feel it begin, feel the power gathering, called by the invocation of a blood vow – I, Caius Draconis Malfoy, swear to take this woman, and even her family, including her mother and her brother Ron, into my keeping and under my protection, to hold her through the good times and the bad, to keep her from all harm, to stand with her for the rest of my days, to love her with all that I have and all that I am…


There was an undeniable feeling of rightness, in speaking those words. It was meant to be. Of that, he had no doubts.


“Do you, Ginevra Molly, of House Weasley, accept this man, Caius Draconis, of High Clan Malfoy, as your husband, your companion and your Lord?”


She nodded. “I do.” He looked at her, and for perhaps the first time since she had come into his life, there was not a single doubt in her eyes, or even the slightest hint of mistrust. She looked certain, as if she wanted this with every bit of her Gryffindoric resolve… He knew that it wouldn’t last, that it would come back, eventually, every now and then and probably more often than not. He accepted that. She was a Weasley, and a Gryffindor, and so naturally they were suspicious of the Malfoy – in fact, it quite amused him on occasion. But still, her absolute certainty made him feel quite ridiculously exultant.


Through a daze of happiness, Ginny heard the celebrant ask if there was anybody who had any objections. She could feel Draco tense, knew that if there were any interruptions, he would kill them – luckily for him, there were no objections from the clerk or one of the secretaries, who had been rounded up as witnesses. She wondered, just a little irrelevantly, whether Ron would have had something to say.


That reminded her – she hadn’t yet told her brothers and Harry about the wedding yet – aside from the fact that they had only agreed to marry early this morning, she thought it might be best if the wedding were a fait accompli before she broke the news. Ron could rant and rave all he liked, then.


The time had come to exchange rings – Draco hadn’t thought of this, and so after some thought, slipped the ancient silver ring of the Malfoy Lords off his finger and onto hers. It pleased him, in some way that he couldn’t quite define, to see his ring on her slender, elegant fingers, a visible mark that she was Malfoy now, that she was his. And Ginny, who had been equally unprepared, rooted around in her pockets and found a paper clip, which she promptly transfigured into a ring.


He grinned delightedly, laughing at the recklessness that had driven them so precipitously into this, but before she could think too much of it, the celebrant pronounced them husband and wife, they signed the register, and Draco, her new husband, her new Lord, was kissing her. Possessively. Lovingly. Passionately. They looked at each other for a long, timeless moment, and then, both in complete accord, she put her hand in his as he apparated them both to the edge of the Malfoy land. They would do this, at least, in the correct manner. They apparated, hand in hand, to the Grove, which welcomed them home and into the heart of the Malfoy.



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Back at the Burrow, Arthur’s instinct quivered again, warning him of another imminent arrival. This time, the intruder felt older, deeper, and somehow…richer than Gerald had – this man was certainly not pure, certainly not innocent, but there was more complexity in his personality, and a deeper feeling of bedrock solidarity. Arthur had only met this man once, but that one time had been enough to form a favourable impression of Dane Harcourt.


He headed back into the living room, to warn Draco of the Auror’s arrival, only to find the room empty, and both Draco and Ginny gone. There was a note on the table – he picked it up, read it, raised an eyebrow and passed it to Luc, looking forward to seeing the other man’s reaction.


“Couldn’t wait,” it read. “Getting married today. See you tomorrow.” It was hastily stamped with the Malfoy seal. Luc swore under his breath, showing the first real, unfeigned displeasure that Arthur had ever seen him display. He stifled a most indiscreet grin, and sat down to await the Auror’s coming – and to plan just what he was going to say when Harcourt asked where Draco had gone. He was a past master at keeping his troublesome children out of trouble…



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Disclaimer – standard disclaimers apply.



CHAPTER 17 – The Real World



Hazy, diffuse, golden light softly illuminating ancient, dreaming oaks…


Black cashmere, tossed to the ground, softening the cool, grassy forest floor…


White, white limbs, lean and lithe and lightly muscled; smooth and sensual and previously untouched…dark, wine red hair thrown back and urgent hands clutching, entangled in thick, rich white hair, holding him to her, silently asking for what she couldn’t name…


A gathering power in the light, under the sun – an increasing urgency, a racing heartbeat shared by the very land itself…


A pause, as their eyes met – a last chance to stop, to pull back…a hesitation, as the whole world holds its breath… She smiled. Of course she trusted him… The Guardians rejoiced.


Joining.


A wondering gasp – murmured words of trust, of love, of encouragement…


Merging.


A sense of awareness, of knowledge, of oneness – almost unbidden, they locked eyes, looked into the truth of each other’s soul…


Bonding.

A pleasure she had never dreamed of, that he had never, in all his varied experiences, ever suspected…it bound them together, once and for all, now and forever…Consummation of a sacred marriage far, far older and far, far deeper than anything they had ever known.



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Almost inevitably, the rumours started as soon as Draco and Ginny had left the registry office. Any aristocratic, High Clan wedding was food for the high society gossip mill; the wedding of Lord Malfoy and a Weasley was something that had never before been seen, and probably never would be again. And just as inevitably, it came to the ears of Virginia’s family – most significantly, her brother Ron.


Hermione rushed up the stairs, hoping against hope that she would get there before anyone else had the chance to inform her notoriously hot-tempered and belligerent husband of his baby sister’s marriage. She was too late. She could see it by the way that Ron’s face had gone completely red, by the way he was holding himself so tightly controlled that his knuckles, clenched around the arm of his chair, were completely white.


He had come to accept Draco in the years since his father had died. He had even, albeit grudgingly, come to respect him in some ways. But to hear that his little sister had married him, Draco Malfoy, the bastard Slytherin ferret… At the registry office, of all places… And without even telling him, without telling any of the family…! It was almost too much for a brother to bear.


Looking at his face, Hermione sighed soundlessly and braced herself to confront Ron and his temper, and to attempt the almost impossible task of reconciling him to his sister’s marriage. And to the fact that Malfoy was now his brother-in-law. It was time, she thought determinedly, that they all went back to the Burrow, to find out just what, exactly, was going on.



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On one of his rare trips outside Hogwarts, Severus Snape, sitting down to lunch at White’s, an exclusive High Clan club in Diagon Alley, heard the news from Rayden Lestrange and Brandon Avery, both of whom seemed more than amused at the thought.


It seemed that Draco had been just as bound by the soul bond as his uncle had been – at least Draco’s partner was a pureblood. Kate was a wonderful person, they all agreed, but she was indisputably muggleborn; it was lucky that Luc was illegitimate, and therefore not in line for the Malfoy lordship. Draco, as the Lord, had a duty to his line to keep the blood pure.


Although, quite frankly, they didn’t know about the thought of introducing the various Weasley brothers into High Clan circles. Severus, who had taught four out of the six of them, merely closed his eyes and smiled in helpless amusement. Oh, Lady, lady, lady…what a thought. As they sat and laughed, enjoying an old, easy friendship, they had no idea of the trouble that was already building, of the storm clouds gathering, massing on the horizon…



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They watched, amused at the thought of the lengths the Malfoy would go to in order to stay alive, to stay in the Game. An alliance, a bond – if it indeed was a soul bond, then it would hurt all the more when they ripped it apart.


They had him on the defensive, now that their tool had done all they had programmed him to do, and had died magnificently, for the Cause. The Malfoy were now forced to rely on the Ministry, on the very organization they had opposed and flouted for so long – they would bring each other down. And now, they would begin on Zabini. It was time to close the trap.



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Dane Harcourt waited on the doorstep of the house that had been awarded, along with a small grant of land, to Horace Weasley some two hundred years ago by the Ministry in gratitude for services rendered. The Ministry had not revealed just what services had been rendered – and nor had Horace, publicly at least – and so the mystery of just why the Weasleys had been so elevated had remained just that – a mystery.


But some people speculated that the famous Malfoy-Weasley feud had roots that stretched back to this mystery; certainly there was nothing else in their history that would indicate why the Malfoy, with all their other interests, would focus so much hatred on such a small and relatively unimportant family, and just why they didn’t simply wipe them out.


But it seemed that the feud was about to come to an end in the near future – especially if Draco Malfoy was as close to the Weasley daughter as rumour implied. Come to think of it, rumour also placed Gerald Tarrant at Ginny Weasley’s side, before Malfoy had supplanted him; it was also said that Tarrant had thrown an almighty scene at Gringotts, publicly defaming both Malfoy and his erstwhile girlfriend.


The conclusions were obvious – ex-boyfriend, jealous of ex-girlfriend and her new man, intent on causing trouble for them, goes too far; the new man, unfortunately not a man to sit and watch while his girlfriend was insulted, takes exception…


A grand scandal, providing juicy fodder for the gossips and titillation for the tabloids – but Dane knew, after more than fifty years of experience with High Clan politics, that nothing, absolutely nothing, was ever exactly as it seemed. Especially when dealing with the Malfoy. It was just too pat. Draco Malfoy knew better than to kill in hot blood – killing discreetly, in cold blood, was understandable, but in the heat of the moment, provoked by rage and possessiveness? There had to be more to it, something deeper, something more underneath the surface.


Especially if Luc Malfoy had been there, by his side, whispering in his nephew’s ear; who knew just what went on in his labyrinthine mind? No, Luc would never have allowed Draco to act so foolishly. Unless…unless there was something else here – no. Not now. He wasn’t here to lose himself in speculation that could go round and round, with no real answer other than a raised eyebrow and amused silver eyes. He was here to verify that Gerald Tarrant was, indeed, dead, and to find out who had killed him – not why.


And there they were – Arthur Weasley and Luc Malfoy, two of the most unlikely allies that he had ever seen. They were almost as strange as the thought of Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape had been, when he had first found out the identity of the Headmaster’s secret spy inside the Death Eaters.


Politics was truly an odd game. Arthur Weasley, rumpled and comfortable in his old robes, his hair unruly and carrot red, was standing slightly in front of his noble ally, who was so different from him as to be almost of another world. Luc was letting him take the lead, because this was Arthur’s land, and it was his right to allow or deny entrance.


It was hard to see Arthur Weasley as a patriarch – he most certainly was not one in the Slytherin, High Clan sense of the word, which implied dignity, gravity and power – but, Dane supposed, he was a Gryffindor, so such things had less influence. He did have an odd, almost reassuring presence – here was an ordinary man, it seemed to say. A father, a husband, a comforting eccentric who posed no real threat; he was not a Clan Lord, with the aura and strangeness of the High Clan surrounding him, he was a man like any other man, he had been brought up in the real world, not the shadows of the aristocracy.


It was excellent PR. Dumbledore had taken full advantage of it, during the second rising, when he had set Weasley up in direct opposition to Fudge…


“Hello, Harcourt,” Arthur said congenially, if a little warily. Too much congeniality and it would have rung too false; too much wariness and it would have been a definite indication that something was wrong. Weasley had struck a nice balance. Of course, Luc would have revealed nothing at all – but then, he would not have been investigating Luc for hot-blooded murder. Or even cold-blooded, come to that…


He ventured a smile in return – a small one, because he had found that normal people found High Clan inscrutability a little unnerving. “Mr. Weasley,” he murmured politely, “I’m sure you know why I’m here.”


Arthur lowered his eyes, covering some sort of reaction – Dane didn’t catch it, but he could sense it well enough. This was more than a prank, more than the usual trouble that all of the Weasley children, at one time or another, had found themselves neck deep in; but he held up.


“Yes, I’m afraid I do, Mr. Harcourt.” Dane tried not to wince. He had not been called mister since before his father’s death, at Death Eater hands. “We would like to get this cleared up as soon as possible.”


Dane controlled the impulse to raise an eyebrow. So which way was Draco going to jump? He wasn’t sure. Perhaps he had spent too much of his life with normal people, and not enough playing the Game, because he had been completely unprepared for this. Even warned that something was up by the virulent media attacks, he hadn’t expected something like this, a direct attack on Draco himself, forcing him to choose obeying the laws of the Ministry, which he had never followed or even believed in, or losing every little bit of credibility he had ever possessed with the rest of society outside the High Clan. If he denied it or brazened this out, he would lose all credibility. If he gave himself up, as public opinion would most certainly demand, he would in all probability end up in Azkaban.


And Dane, who had met Draco every now and then during the second rising, and had found him to be cool, decisive and driven, if a little fey, found himself hoping, just a little, that there was a way out. For Draco, for High Clan Malfoy, and for the High Clan. As much as he professed to prefer non High Clan society, which was much simpler, much more democratic and egalitarian, and much freer, he could not, not completely, escape his upbringing or the beliefs that he had been taught from the cradle.


He was High Clan, but he was also an auror – an uneasy alliance, but not an impossible one, if he stuck to his objectivity and didn’t find himself in direct opposition with another House. For some reason, the High Clan resented one of their own wielding Ministry power more than they did the other Aurors.


“Mr. Weasley,” he began slowly, “may I speak to Lord Malfoy?” There was an odd beat of silence, a hesitation. Arthur looked at Luc, clearly questioning – Luc looked back at Arthur expressionlessly, but with a hint of…exasperation? Could that be right?


“I’m afraid,” Luc murmured delicately, looking him straight in the eye, challenging him to react, “that Draco is not here…”


Dane blinked. Surely Draco would not have run – he would not be that stupid.


Luc’s eyes were feline, filled with malicious amusement and a certain cruel curiosity, wondering just how he would react. “He instructs me to give you his most abject apologies, but he could not be present here at the moment; he has just gotten married. He says he will be back tomorrow.”


It took everything he had to meet those cold, amused eyes – to keep his own steady and his face impassive. For a full twenty seconds, he said nothing. And then he sat down, very deliberately, on the couch. “Very well then,” he murmured softly. “I will wait until he returns.” He smiled somewhat grimly. “It will all have to wait until he returns…”



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He lay his head down on her breast, still breathing raggedly, his heart still racing – he could feel her heart underneath him, beating just as rapidly, just as exultantly. Slowly, her narrow, elegant hand stroked his hair, soothing him in a way that he couldn’t define. He lifted his head just long enough to look at her face, into her dark, fathomless cinnamon gaze – and to see, once again, the truth of what she was, undisguised by defences, deceptions, or evasions.


She smiled, and his heart turned over. Oh, Lady, he couldn’t lose her, not now… She touched his cheek, reassuring, offering comfort as she saw the turmoil that he openly allowed her to see – turmoil that she understood, because she, too, knew that they couldn’t shelter in the Grove forever.


Outside, beyond the Veil, beyond the enchanted land that she had just become a part of, another, harsher world awaited them. Another, harsher reality. Looking into his silver, completely open eyes, she hugged him tightly. He was hers. Her mate, her lover, her husband – and she would not let him go.



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Disclaimer – Standard disclaimer applies. Don’t sue me. I will admit that I borrowed Agents Smith, Brown and Jones from the Matrix.



CHAPTER 18 – The Surrender



Blaise Zabini knew trouble when he saw it. He had recognised it from the first moment he had opened his paper and seen Gerald Tarrant’s impassioned diatribe against the High Clan, had felt it creeping up behind him when he had seen the guests who had attended Luc Malfoy’s trade dinner, when he had seen the guests who had attended Eugene Wilkes’ rather darker gathering on the same night.


Malfoy, Snape, Andahni, Lestrange, Avery and Courtney.


Wilkes, Parkinson, Flint, Rosier, Crabbe and Goyle.


And he himself in the unenviable position, quite unusual, when one thought about it, of the balance point. The wildcard. The one unknown factor in the equation. It was, if he had a mind to play it correctly, an incredibly powerful position. Unfortunately, both sides wanted his support; both sides would stop at absolutely nothing to secure it. Of course, Malfoy had the most incentive to gain his willing support, and to keep him alive. All Wilkes and friends had to do was make sure that he didn’t throw his support towards Malfoy…


He remembered Draco’s devastating vengeance, after his father’s death, remembered with a clarity that sent a chill down his back just how close his own father had come to dying. If he had not been forced to work late at the Ministry on the night of Lucius Malfoy’s death… For that one reason, among a few others, Blaise had never quite held the same level of hatred that the other Slytherin students had for Draco. Yes, his father might have died – but he hadn’t. And because he hadn’t, there had been no sense in pursuing a blood feud against the Malfoy and their very powerful supporters.


Had his own father been betrayed in such a way, he might have done the same. And then again, maybe not – he didn’t think that Clan Zabini had been quite powerful enough to call the Ministry’s bluff. They had never been power mongers like the Malfoy, or merchant princes like the de Sauvigny, or even as ambitious as the Snapes. What Clan Zabini were, what they had been ever since their ultimate ancestor had founded the House, were neutral mediators. They weren’t powerful, but they were the House that never seemed to take sides – consequently they gained a reputation for neutrality; eventually, they became the peacemakers who had forged the new agreements after the infights where the Malfoy had, again and again and again, established their paramount position.


The Zabini weren’t powerful. They had influence only because of their neutrality, because of their reputation for scrupulous impartiality, and now he was being forced to actually throw all that away, ignore centuries of cautious manoeuvring, and finally choose a side.


How had it come to this point? What had driven the High Clan to discard thousands of years of prudent diplomacy, the extremely fragile framework of agreements and alliances that had kept them all together because the Malfoy were first among equals, not an absolute overarching authority…?


And almost as soon as he asked the question, he knew the answer. Voldemort. His coming, the way he had forced them all to kneel to him, all the proud High Clan Lords in their independence; he had twisted and tainted the High Clan, corrupted it from what it was originally supposed to be, made it infinitely darker, infinitely more dangerous. Clans had fought amongst themselves before, but never to the point of extinction. The Dark Lord was ten years gone, but his legacy of mistrust and fear remained, not only in the hearts of normal wizarding society, but also in the hearts and the games of the High Clan. And Blaise Zabini feared that, even if Malfoy was able to win this Game, there would be another, and another, and another after that… Tom Riddle, who had been so spurned by his High Clan classmates some seventy years ago, had struck back with devastating effect.


They had come to see him, not too long ago, after the first newspaper article had been published. Smooth and silken, they had talked of power and of wealth, of influence and of manipulation, of the past and of the need to move on, of change and of a better, freer future for all, if only. But they had implied that if only could, so very easily, become when. They had offered logic and reason, had hinted of bribes and rewards; had hinted, even more subtly, of threats and coercion…


And he had murmured the appropriate pleasantries, returned bland replies and evasions, and had presented polite impassivity to any and all representations. They had been willing to settle for that, at the time.


Now, after they had dared to splash the news of Malfoy’s patricide over the morning papers, after they had so callously sacrificed Gerald Tarrant (rumours of his horrifying murder were even now winging their way through Diagon Alley, expertly spread), he wasn’t so sure that they would be so easily appeased, the next time they approached him. Because there would be a next time. Of that, he had no doubt. But, somewhat surprisingly, no one had approached him from the other side…yet.



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The rather awkward atmosphere inside the Burrow was interrupted soon after Dane Harcourt had drunk his first cup of tea by the youngest Weasley son, who burst unceremoniously into the living room, his face an absolute study in outrage, indignation and righteous anger. He was followed, soon after, by his wife, who looked as if she had tried, unsuccessfully, to restrain her husband, before giving into the inevitable and following him anyway.


“Where is she?” Ron Weasley asked in an almost dangerously calm voice. This was the voice of true temper, not bluster – and Dane was momentarily surprised to hear it from the man he had privately thought the most volatile of all the Weasley children.


They looked at each other, then, Dane and Luc and Arthur and Molly, and then back to Ron. Clearing his throat, Arthur spoke rather cautiously, picking his words with care. “They are at the Malfoy estate, in Wales…”


Ron scowled, turning cold blue eyes onto Luc. “Is it true they’re married?” Behind his back, Hermione looked as if she desperately wanted Luc to tell them it had all been a joke, and that Ron could calm down, now. Unfortunately, Luc only nodded, his eyes calm and analytical; it seemed he watched Weasley, judging his reaction. And for a moment, just for a moment, it seemed as though Weasley would indeed respond with the fireworks that Dane had expected of him – but, quite surprisingly, he closed his eyes, took deep, rhythmic breaths, and calmed himself down. Outwardly, at least.


Intrigued, Dane wondered just where he had learned such self-control. And then he remembered that Luc had spent a year teaching Defence against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, when Ron had been in his fifth year – many alliances could be forged, between teacher and student, that could not easily be made between Malfoy and Weasley out in the real world.


Ron had only one question. “Why?”


All eyes turned to Luc, as they so often did. He wondered if the other man ever wearied of such faith and trust. But Luc only smiled, a little thinly, and said, “I believe they fell in love, and could not bear to wait…”


Ron was not satisfied. “Why?”


If anything, the amusement deepened. “Things are coming to a head, extremely quickly – perhaps Draco thought it best to finalise his alliance with the Weasley family and the common people as soon as possible…”


Molly opened her mouth to protest, but evidently Ron was more familiar with this one of Luc’s more irritating habits. “Why?” he demanded, for the last time.


Luc’s flashing grin was open, unguarded, and full of genuine amusement. For the barest moment, those who had not known him as a boy, who had not seen him before he walked willingly and knowingly into the darkness, were treated to a glimpse of what he could have been, had it not been for the Dark Lord. Brilliant, charismatic, and beautiful.


Radiant.


“Trust and sex, Weasley,” he said, in delighted amusement. “Trust and sex.”


Hermione closed her eyes in despair.



~()~



Later on, when he had calmed enough to think logically, after Luc had, quite prudently, gone into the kitchen to make himself another cup of tea, Ron asked Dane what he was doing at the Burrow. Wishing, a little ruefully, that he could look to Luc to answer that particular question, Dane sighed and tried to think of the best way to phrase his answer.


Finally, he decided on the stark truth. For some reason, Gryffindors preferred it that way – they preferred to have the brutal punch, rather than to work up to it slowly so as to lesson the blow. Dane didn’t understand – all too often, the unvarnished truth caused the recipient to jump to untoward conclusions, forced them to confront the whole issue all at once, when they would not be prepared to deal with it. And that led to mistakes.


However, after years of dealing with his primarily Gryffindoric companions in the Auror Corps, Dane had learned to cater to their odd whims and preferences – it made life easier for all concerned, especially if they didn’t think he was holding out on them, or that he was being, Gods forbid, cunning and secretive…


So, finally he said, “Eugene Wilkes came to me this morning, with a wild tale that his employee, Gerald Tarrant, had been most brutally murdered by Draco Malfoy. I came to check it out.”


Hermione blinked. “I’m sorry? You thought Gerald had been murdered? By Malfoy? Draco Malfoy?” Calmly, he nodded.


She laughed. “That’s, that’s ridiculous. Gerald’s a pompous bore, and a bit of a nuisance, but that’s no reason to kill him…”


He kept silent, only raised an encouraging brow. A little wary, now, she frowned as she thought it through. “Why would Draco want to kill him? Granted, he has been making a nuisance of himself lately,” his brows climbed higher as he thought of the trouble those newspaper articles had caused, “but I can’t think that’s enough of a reason to kill him, especially in cold blood.”


Almost against his will, he smiled. “Oh, I don’t believe it was in cold blood…”


She frowned at him disapprovingly, and he spared a moment to enjoy the effect. “But High Clan never kill in hot blood. Especially not Malfoy – are you sure that it was Draco? Not Luc?”


His eyes flicked to Luc, who had just silently entered the room – his eyes were hooded in sardonic amusement at that rather backhanded insult. Then he turned back to Hermione, and nodded. “It was Draco, Mrs Weasley,” he murmured softly. “Luc would never have been caught…”


“Then why would Draco kill Gerald, in hot blood, and knowing that he would be caught?”


“Ah,” Dane said, nodding. “That is exactly the point. And one other thing,” he said, turning his head towards Luc. “Why didn’t his so clever, so powerful uncle stop him?” They all turned around to watch him – unconcerned, he lounged against the wall and took a leisurely sip of his tea. And then he smiled, slowly, and turned to the front door, as three solid knocks sounded against the wood.



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Expecting to see someone quite different, Arthur was taken aback to see three Ministry officials on his front doorstep – dressed in plain black robes, much as Luc Malfoy was, but of a much cheaper fabric and a less stylish cut, they nevertheless radiated a terrifying air of purpose, of officialdom. It brought to mind far less pleasant memories, of others who had also worn anonymous black robes and who appeared, unannounced, on unsuspecting citizen’s doorsteps.


He wondered why he was more upset at seeing these three here than he was on seeing a man who had actually been a Death Eater. Times changed, and so did circumstances and the shift of allegiances… The one in the centre, obviously the leader, spoke in a deep, commanding voice. “Mr. Weasley?”


Recovering his composure quickly, Arthur nodded.


The man said, “My name is Smith, and these are my colleagues Brown and Jones – we have orders to take Caius Draconis Malfoy into custody.” He looked, a little suspiciously, at Arthur – as if it were rather questionable that Malfoy could be found at his house. Although he had been a law-abiding man all his life, Arthur found himself a little glad that Draco was not, in fact, inside the house, and a little resentful at this arbitrary intrusion into his life.


“May I see some identification and a warrant, please gentlemen?” he asked, as politely as he could. Exchanging glances, the men pulled out cards identifying them as special agents of the Department of Unspeakables, authorized to hunt down fleeing criminals and bring them to justice. Their warrant was, to his secret disappointment, entirely genuine. With less than gracious politeness, he stepped back and invited them in over his threshold.

Of course, the first person they saw was Luc Malfoy, lounging negligently against the wall – watching them with sardonic, mocking eyes. This was the darker side of the smooth, urbane Clan leader, the darker side to the aristocratic mask; the twist of his mouth was almost ugly. Arthur Weasley only hoped that Luc would not resort to violence, not after what Draco had already done. The three agents eyed him with hostile suspicion – perhaps they had dreamed, long ago, of hunting him down too? – and the atmosphere chilled noticeably, perhaps warning the others in the house that something was wrong.


Molly came forward to greet them, and Smith forced his attention to her, to replying to her deliberately inconsequential small talk – but the other two looked past her, at the others in the lounge, dismissing Ron and Hermione and focusing on Dane Harcourt, with his High Clan bearing and heritage unmistakable, even now. Dane’s cool, measuring stare flicked between them, a little unsettling, a little discomposing, but there was no instant hostility as there had been with Luc. Perhaps that was a sign of just how trusted Harcourt really was, even in the Gryffindor-centric Ministry, even among the paranoid Unspeakables.


Smith refused a cup of tea, and got straight to the point. “We have been sent here to place the man known as Caius Draconis Malfoy under arrest, on charges of murder,” he looked intently at Luc as he spoke. “We had reason to believe that he could be found here.”


Ron looked at Dane questioningly, wondering whether he had anything to do with this, but the Auror shook his head fractionally. He had come only to investigate, and had not been under any official orders – someone had evidently gone over his head with this, and he didn’t like it. Given the chance to deal with Luc and Arthur on a personal basis, without authority to get in his way, he could have wrapped this up neatly and without much difficulty and grandstanding, but looking at the expression on Luc’s face, at the cruel glint in his eyes, at the hint of a very unpleasant smile, he knew that they had just lost any chance at his easy cooperation.


He would make them pay, now. He had engineered this whole situation, he was sure – but he had been counting on dealing with Dane, before. Dane knew the rules, and would play by them. But these three – the more they alienated Luc, the more politely difficult he would become, the more he would yank their chains before eventually he gave them what they wanted.


Perhaps wanting to defuse the situation a little, perhaps recognizing, as they all did, a little instinctively, the significance of Luc’s cold amusement, Molly said brightly, “Oh, he was here not too long ago, but he’s gone now, of course.” Arthur had to fight to keep his face straight. There were times when his lovely wife was not as foolish as she appeared, and this was one of them.


He thought he could see the agents grind their teeth. “Do you know where he can be found now, ma’am?” Jones, evidently a diplomatic man, spoke to give his leader time to recover.


“Where are they now?” she repeated absently, apparently thinking hard, not reacting to their well covered surprise at her change of pronoun. “Oh, I don’t know,” she tilted her head. “They left to get married, you know…”


All three of them went very, very still. “Married?” Smith repeated, dangerously softly. She nodded, oblivious.


“It was so romantic, the way they just couldn’t wait.” She smiled beatifically. “Are you married, Agent Smith?”


He shook his head. “Do you know where they are now, ma’am?” he repeated again, his whole body language radiating barely leashed intensity. The other two agents watched the others, but no one gave anything away, hiding behind the impassive masks learned through working at the Ministry.


Molly’s eyes unfocused, as if she were thinking hard. “Do you know, I just don’t know…” she breathed. Then she focused on the agents again, smiling. “Are you sure you don’t want any tea?”


Agent Smith agreed to a cup solely to get her out of the room and into the kitchen. Then, when she was gone, he turned his full attention onto Luc, walked forward until he was only a pace away, and said, “Do you know where they are now, Malfoy?”


Blankly, Luc shrugged – a magnificent gesture of unconcern. “No,” he said, amiably. “I don’t know where they are now.”


Agent Smith’s face hardened visibly. He walked forward again, until he was leaning only a hairsbreadth away from Luc’s face. He made no reaction to the blatant intimidation.


“Where is he?” Smith hissed venomously.


Slowly, Luc smiled. It was not a nice smile.


The other two agents shifted uncomfortably, obviously discomfited by the thought of pushing so hard, especially against Luc Malfoy, of all people. No one wanted to know what he was capable of, if pushed into a corner…


“He’s gone where none of you could ever follow him.” Smith stilled as he understood the implications of that statement. Malfoy had gone home. Beyond the Veil, to the ancestral land that was one place in Britain where he held true, sovereign power. To the one place in Britain that was truly cut off from the outside, unless a scion of Malfoy blood opened the Veil and let outsiders in, and insiders out. Shit.


“Take me there, Malfoy,” he ordered arrogantly, sure in his knowledge that his authority was legitimate and unquestionable. There had been times when it hadn’t been, but that was a long, long time ago. Unfortunately, Malfoy didn’t move. He didn’t react in any way, but there was an arrogant insolence in his body language, in his eyes, that made Smith long to smash the defiance out of him, break the goddamned superior bastard, show him that he was just as fragile as the rest of the men Smith had crushed… No. Control. Control. Pull the mask back up, become Agent Smith again…


“You know it will be better for him if he gives himself up…” that was better. He was calm again, in control. Dane blinked – but Draco had been coming back tomorrow anyway, hadn’t he? He hastily resumed his mask before anyone could notice. Who knew the ways that Luc’s mind worked?


Finally, after a long, silent staring match, Luc smiled tauntingly, moved forward off the wall, forcing Smith to move back quickly, and walked out of the room to the front door. He turned as he opened it, turned back towards them and said, “Well, are you coming?” before he walked out into the sunlight, into the middle of the garden, where he would have room to apparate. Eventually, out of curiosity, out of ambition, out of a curious desire to see Malfoy humbled, they all came.



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Standing in a circle surrounding Luc Malfoy, they felt the power rush, felt it grab them, and the garden at the Burrow faded away, to be replaced by a forested cliff edge, and a sheer, downward drop into a chasm that had no bottom. Ron and Hermione recognised the very place where Lucius Malfoy had died, his son Draco cradling his body, his face white and set; the psychic echoes were still very, very strong.


The others had never been here – Dane because he was a few years older than the Malfoy brothers had been, and he had not really associated with them at school, and the others because they had simply never had reason to. Agent Smith, alone of all of them, didn’t gaze around in curiousity, and Dane saw Luc eyeing him questioningly. He wondered what the other man saw.


Reaching out to the air just over the edge of the cliff, Luc’s hand actually flattened against an invisible barrier; then he pushed, and it shimmered, dissolved, blurred…and parted to reveal the ancient home of the Malfoy – green and prosperous and contented – a sight that few, other than the High Clan, were ever allowed to see. Their eyes narrowed against any unprofessional signs of awe, the agents examined the enchantments, felt for themselves the unimaginable weight of millennia, and felt a chill run down their spines. This was old, old magic – it would be impossible to break, impossible to bring down; if the Malfoy decided to hole up behind his Veil, then nothing and no one would ever get him out again.


Then they went in, and Luc apparated them again, this time to the grounds of an ancient, fortified castle. Good Gods, an actual castle – this was beyond anything that Jones or Brown had ever experienced, beyond anything they had ever dreamed of. Children of middle class parents, of a middle class upbringing, they had never really become involved in the matters of the High Clan before. Luc Malfoy, of whom they had heard so much, was one thing – on his own, the man was positively scary – but this, this was quite another. This was the stuff of ancient legends.


Walking up the path to the castle with utter confidence of his reception, with the easy authority of a Lord, Luc knocked on the heavy iron sheathed doors – they swung open to reveal a House Elf, dressed in immaculate linens, who welcomed them in warmly. Following Luc, they walked into the castle, their progess slow because they stopped to look around, to marvel at the insides, at the evidence of the power and might and wealth of the Clan. The man who owned and controlled all this did not need to worry about the murder of one irritatingly pompous man. So why was he holed up here? And why had Luc let them in so easily?


Before doubts could destroy their state of mind, they walked into a sun-lit salon, washed with psychic echoes of another murder, where Draco Malfoy himself stood at the window and watched them come. There was some kind of secret amusement in his expression, as if he knew of some irony that they didn’t. No one had ever managed to find out just what had happened to Narcissa Malfoy, twelve years ago…or if they did know, no one had ever said anything. White haired and completely, enviably composed, he smiled and welcomed them in. “Ah, gentlemen, ladies, please, do come in. What may I do for you? Have you met my wife, Ginevra?”


He indicated Ginny, who sat swinging her foot on the chaise lounge, watching them all with an oddly fierce expression. They paused to greet her, too, then Smith took the lead, drawing himself up and looking at Draco with disgusted contempt. “Caius Draconis Malfoy, you are under arrest for the murder of Gerald Tarrant.”


Ginny made a movement, as if she would have sprung up off the chaise, but subsided at a small gesture and a glance from her husband. Ron and Hermione stared at her strangely, as if they couldn’t believe it was really her, Molly looked a little askance at Draco, but Arthur had a small, delighted smile on his face – if the situation weren’t so serious, he would probably have been beaming at her. Luc spared her one look, and she remembered his advice when he had shown her the depth of his and Draco’s willpower and told her she would have to be strong – and she remembered that whatever he did, he had only ever did it for the good of his House and his family. He would have a reason for this. She was sure of it.


And after all that, after all the drama, after the long and pointed trip through the Castle that hammered home just how powerful the Clan still was, even now, Draco Malfoy gave himself up peacefully to his arrest, willingly going along into custody, with only a last look at his wife and a long, unreadable glance at his uncle, who stared back at him impassively. But evidently, whatever he had seen in Luc Malfoy’s enigmatic eyes had been enough to satisfy him. Because after that, he didn’t look back once on his way back to the real world.



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Standard disclaimers apply.



CHAPTER 19 – Layers upon Layers



“We’ve done it,” the shadowed figure exulted, almost childlike in her glee. “We’ve finally brought the Malfoy down!” A feral smile curled her lips – but then, she had always hated, loved and envied Draco, especially after he made it more than clear that he was uninterested.


Another, more cautious figure spoke. “Many times before, we thought that we had finally destroyed the Malfoy. And every single time, they emerge victorious and relatively unscathed; I don’t think believe this will be as easy as you think.”


The first figure scowled. “This time, they have chosen the instrument of their own destruction – they have chosen to play by the rules, and now they are bound by them – and those rules will bring them down. We have won this round,” she breathed. “We won!”


But the other was still far from convinced. “I think,” he murmured under his breath, frowning, “that we have been allowed to win…”



***********************************************



Draco lifted his hand slowly, taking care not to jar his ribs (he thought that that last kick must have broken at least two) and examined his face, checking for any broken bones – black eyes, split lips, a broken nose – but, thankfully, no major damage done. Except to his vanity – at least until the Aurors would eventually come and heal him, before putting him on the stand. The last thing they needed was rumours of Auror brutality.


He would have laughed, if it wouldn’t have hurt his ribs too much. Auror brutality. (Of course not, your Honour, I was treated with the warmest of hospitality; like an honoured guest...) Like the week he’d spent at Flint’s house, when he’d been captured by the Death Eaters – he had indeed been treated to the very warmest of hospitality. They’d all been most gratified to see him, and most eager to show him just how much they’d been looking forward to this moment. He had found out, in the course of that week, just how much pain the human body could experience and still live, only to be shown even more agony, more excruciating pain.


Compared to that, last night had been trivial. It was something, at least, to be thankful for. Of course, not all the Aurors in the building had taken the chance to work him over – in fact, most of them hadn’t. Most of them remembered the work Draco had done for the Order, and appreciated the fact that this Malfoy, at least, was not a Death Eater. The few who had taken the chance to rough him up had been the hard-core anti-Slytherin, anti-aristocrat veterans who could still remember the horrors of the first rising, when the whole world seemed to be ending, when everything had spun so quickly out of control and the High Clan Lords had watched with smug, amused eyes; the only thing that had kept them going, kept them alive through those days had been their hatred.


Hatred of the Death Eaters, of the Clan Lords who must have supported them, of the House that had spawned them… They didn’t believe in leopards changing their spots. And they didn’t believe that he had come easily and willingly – perhaps they didn’t want to believe it.


Coughing, he spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor, frowning at the metallic, coppery taste left behind in his mouth. He knew what blood tasted like – especially his own – but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He thought he had left such things far behind.


As he concentrated on not moving any more than necessary, the door swung open, revealing a looming silhouette of a man, wreathed in torchlight – quite melodramatic, really. He wondered if it was a deliberate effect. He squinted, until the figure came closer and the torchlight softened, allowing him to see who it was. He began to laugh, helplessly, trying hard to suppress the pain in his ribs as he did so. Mad-Eye Moody – so the old fossil was still going, even now.


He stopped laughing when he saw the expression on Moody’s face. The old man seemed to be…disappointed? He was scowling at him, seemingly upset. “I thought you had potential, boy. Is this what you’ve become?”


Draco only stared at him, surprised into impassivity – an ancient fallback position when dealing with Gryffindoric judgement. He thought that he’d have gotten over it by now.


When he didn’t reply, Moody suddenly looked tired, oh so tired… He sighed heavily. “What’s going on, Malfoy? This whole situation reeks of deception and misdirection; in fact, it reeks of politics and this damned Game that Harcourt talks of incessantly…”


Draco only closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the wall.


“I know you, Malfoy,” Moody continued. “I know your family. And I don’t believe this.”


Still no reaction. Moody leaned forward, his red eye rolling, and his real eye intense. “Well, boy – talk to me! Did you do it?”


The barest ghost of a smile twisted Draco’s mouth as he half opened his eyes, looked up at Moody in insolent, sardonic amusement. He didn’t say anything.


Moody nodded slowly, sadly as he understood. “So…” He turned away and walked over to the corner of the cell, not meeting Draco’s eyes. “Why?” he asked finally.


Why did he kill Gerald? Why did he give himself up? Why was he willing to face the common justice, when he knew his chances of winning were miniscule? What could he possibly have to gain? There were many things he could have said.
But Moody was too old and too canny, even if he wasn’t High Clan, to be fobbed off by an easy answer. So he said nothing, merely closing his eyes once more, turning away from the old man’s expectations.


He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t a courageous, gallant Gryffindor who played by society’s rules. He was a Slytherin, and a Malfoy. And for all his two years with the Order of the Phoenix, he still didn’t believe in truth, justice, and freedom, or even in equality. He didn’t believe in fundamental human rights or a universal morality – he believed in shades of grey, in manipulation and shadow games, and above all, in the twists and turns of the Game…


“Let the world see, if they must see,”his uncle had said, in that last discussion at the Burrow. “At least in this way we can control what is shown them. Hide a deeper deception behind a façade of truth, let them see the smaller issues, so that we can hide the larger, crucial ones; there is nothing to be gained by making the whole truth of this clear.”


Draco had nodded slowly, understanding. “A façade of truth – a trial to bring everything into the light, itself a carefully constructed illusion – and the truth will be what we wish it to be.”


Wheels within wheels, deceptions within deceptions…


“And even if we do win, what then?” he had asked in a rare moment of self-doubt. “What happens after?”


Luc’s eyes, so old, so full of memories Draco was glad he didn’t share, had been almost merciless in their clarity. “If we lose this Game, Draco, there won’t be an afterwards…”



**********************************************



“I hope you know what you’re doing,” a soft, rather dangerous voice spoke from behind him. He turned around, slowly, to face the new Lady Malfoy – an entirely different sort of woman from Narcissa, who had been an ice-bitch he had been only too happy to kill. Ginevra Weasley, now Malfoy, had an inner strength, an inner fire, that Narcissa had utterly lacked.


Perhaps it came of being a Gryffindor. Perhaps it came of being a Weasley – as much as she might not appreciate the comparison, he recognised that protective look on her face when she looked at Draco, when she had glared at the three agents who had come to take him away. In much the same way had he seen Molly Weasley protecting her cubs…


He looked at her impassively, measuring her strength of will, her faith, the strength of her principles and her beliefs. Just how deeply did she believe in truth, justice and equality, in courage and morality and absolute good and evil? Did she see the world in stark black and white, or in the more Slytherin view of infinite shades of grey?


He knew what had happened in her first year. He knew what had happened on the night just before the last battle against Voldemort. What he didn’t know was just how deeply she had been affected by those incidents – and how much faith she still placed in the tenets of Gryffindorism.


“I know what I’m doing, Lady. The question is, do you?”


She frowned, tilted her head. “I’m sorry?”


He touched his hand to the stone of the windowsill, trailing his long, white elegant fingers along the ancient stonework, highlighting the solidarity, the strength, the power of a fortress built and designed to withstand sieges and to dominate the surrounding countryside. The fragility of flesh, placed against the enduring strength of ancient stone. But not stark stone – he could feel the living, beating power of this place, feel the soul of the building that had housed the Malfoy for so long it was almost sentient. This was everything his family was, to him. Stronger and more enduring than solid rock, a living, tangible bulwark built to protect, defend and govern…But even rock could be ground down. Even castles can fall into ruin. And even the Malfoy could fall.


“Do you know what you are doing, in becoming a Malfoy, in becoming High Clan?” He looked back to her, into her experienced and yet still innocent eyes. She had seen something of life, but hadn’t yet lost her youth or her odd innocence. “Do you believe in our way, in our Cause, in our fight?”


She frowned, puzzled. “Why?”


“Draco called you his Queen, once.” She frowned as she remembered that conversation, long ago at her kitchen table. “But if you are to become Queen, you must believe in what you are doing, in what you are fighting for…”


She looked at him, her eyes cooling. No, she didn’t like him, didn’t trust him, but right now, he was all she had to work with. And he was the only one who really knew what was going on. Clever Ginevra, so Slytherin in her thinking, in her reasoning.


“And what am I fighting for, Luc?” she asked, her voice cool. Deliberately using the familiar form of address, to emphasise her higher rank.


He didn’t smile. This was far too serious for any untoward levity. “For the High Clan? For the Malfoy? For your husband? Or perhaps even for yourself?” She flinched imperceptibly at that barb, perhaps a little disconcerted by his insight.


And then struck back. “And what do you fight for, Lucien Brandon Malfoy? What do you believe in?”


He looked her steadily in the eye, considered and rejected several possible answers. Finally, he settled on the truth. “I fight for myself,” he murmured softly. “But I believe, I have always believed, above everything else, in the Malfoy...”


Her lips curled in an almost sneer. “That’s not what I have heard.”


He smiled a little thinly. “So, you have been listening to the rumours?”


“Rumours about your truest ambitions and your real desires? That you have always coveted House Malfoy above all things? Yes, I’ve heard them.” She looked at him, her entire demeanour a threat, a warning; she leaned in closer, invading his personal space. “So, Mr. Malfoy,” she purred, oh so softly, “How much truth is there in those rumours?”


Heavy eyelids lifted slowly, momentarily revealing silver, infinitely jaded eyes. “All the truth in the world,” he said wearily. “All the truth in the world; but that doesn’t mean that I’ll act on it.”


She wasn’t mollified. “How do I believe that?”


He smiled cynically. “You’ll just have to trust me.” And then, spurred by her unblinking stare, he made a sharp, slashing gesture, showing he was farther off balance than she had previously thought. “If I wanted to rule the Malfoy, then why didn’t I let Voldemort kill Draco and his father both? Everything I had ever wanted would have fallen, without the slightest effort, into my hands, and all I needed to do was stand and watch.”


She shook her head. “That’s not all…” He was a Slytherin, so Draco had said, once, long ago. And therefore he had multiple motives for everything he did – for the barest moment, she saw sheer rage in his eyes – and then it was gone. Wiped clean.


“No,” he murmured. “That’s not all…” Almost casually, holding her eyes with his own, he extended his left arm and pushed the sleeve of his robe up to bare his forearm, showing pale, white skin, as pale as Draco’s was; a whispered word, and the skin…shimmered, blurred…reformed…And finally revealed the faintest, barest outlines of an old, old Mark. Although she had never seen one before, other than in pictures and in Tom’s twisted imaginings, she recognised it immediately. The air of malevolence, of abomination, was still unmistakable, still tangible even now, ten years after the Dark Lord’s downfall.


Her entire body froze – but she forced herself to look back to him, her chin lifted, her eyes faintly inquiring. But there was no trace of amusement in his eyes or in his face. Indeed, he was looking down at his own forearm with an odd look, of almost revulsion, of – not regret, no, but – bitterness. And then he looked back to her, and his entire face blanked, all trace of expression disappeared. “I would not come to the Malfoy with…this…on my soul. It would be blasphemy of the worst sort.”


“And yet Lucius did it,” she pointed out.


He made a bitterly amused sound deep in his throat. “Lucius took the Malfoy to the brink of destruction. If Draco had not killed him, the Covenant would have failed within six months.” He pulled his sleeve back into place. “My taking his place would have smashed it beyond repair. And that,” he turned back to her, suddenly businesslike again, “is why I have fought, and will fight, so hard for Draco. Because he is the rightful Lord. Because he, alone, is capable of healing the damage Voldemort has done to us…”


She smiled suddenly. “And because he is your nephew and you love him.”


Caught off guard, his stunning smile flashed again, suddenly emphasizing his beauty, rather than his presence. “And,” he agreed, “because he is my nephew and I love him.” He bowed, turned to leave, and walked towards the door.


“Wait!” she called before he could walk out. He turned back to her, his eyebrow raised in question. Why did you show me your Mark? I could have destroyed you.” Even this far after the end, uncovered Death Eaters could still face life in Azkaban.


He smiled slowly. “Because right now, there’s no possible gain for you in destroying me – you need me. Later on,” he shrugged negligently, “it may make you feel more secure if you feel you have a handle on me.”


She looked at him. “Do I?”


He didn’t smile. “You asked for truth, Ginevra, from your husband, and from the rest of us – well, this is the truth of it: nothing is ever as it seems. Reality shifts with every perspective, and truth comes in a thousand different shades and variations...”


She repeated again, “Do I?”


He tilted his head. “Perhaps you do. But the question is, are you willing to pay the price of making that move?”


She blinked, beginning to understand something of what he was saying. “There is a price?”


He smiled bitterly. “There is always a price. The only question is whether or not the potential gain outweighs it. Take what you want,” he said finally, “and pay for it.”



***********************************************************



Albus Dumbledore stood at the window in his study, looking out over the grounds of Hogwarts, watching over the children playing with such innocence, safe within the castle’s shadow. Although he had never thought of himself in that way, he was aware that Snape often compared his guardianship of the school to that of a Clan Lord’s of his land and people. He was sure that Snape meant it as a compliment – the highest that a High Clan could give to a person not of their class – but somehow, putting it that way was…uncomfortable for him. He had never sought power, never wanted to be anything more than the Headmaster of Hogwarts School.


Not being a Slytherin, he had not thought of the opportunity for influencing and controlling the leaders of tomorrow – instead, he had seen it as the chance to guide the children away from the dark, away from evil, shaping them to be full and functioning members of normal society. And there he had run up against the High Clan, and their different beliefs and mentality…


Of course, it had not been so bad when he had first begun teaching. Before Tom Riddle began to corrupt them, the High Clan had been more closely integrated with normal society – although still aristocrats, still somewhat distant, they had not been so…shadowed. But as his influence grew, the Clans were dragged deeper and deeper into the darkness, and their ways and rituals had been twisted.


Draco was the third Malfoy Lord who had attended Hogwarts since he had begun teaching – he could remember Marcus Malfoy as a schoolboy, and he had been nothing, nothing like his grandson. Marcus had been almost innocent compared to the eleven year old Draco – and he could only mourn the loss of that innocence, because he knew Lucius and Luc had destroyed it for the boy’s own good. They had done the best they could to prepare him for life in the High Clan, dominated as it was by the Dark Lord.


He could still see echoes of the grandfather in the grandson – faint echoes, yes, but those faint hints of honour, of inner strength, were enough to remind him that all was not lost, that the High Clan were not, as the newspapers had been claiming lately, rotten through and through.


Just so had he seen faint hints of light and faith in Slytherin,
even at the height of the Dark Times. A faint sound from behind him – the faintest swish of robes, the slightest scent of herbs and potion ingredients…


“Hello Severus,” he said softly, not turning around.


The other man came further into the room, to stand by him at the window. “Albus,” he said in greeting, the memories of years of association contained in that one word. “Malfoy’s been arrested…”


Dumbledore sighed, remembering all the children who had never been innocent, who had never fought because they thought it right, but because they thought they could get something out of it. And this was no different. “Why?” he asked, finally.


Severus, too, knew the many layers of that one question. He knew something of the Game, and something of the way Luc Malfoy’s mind worked, but he didn’t pretend to fully understand him, or any of the layers of motives and misdirection, of truth and ambiguity and lies behind all the moves in this Game. But one thing he was sure of. “Because he believes that he’ll be acquitted.”


Caius Draconis Malfoy, Lord of High Clan Malfoy, would never, ever have chanced Azkaban unless he knew that there was not the slightest chance of ever being convicted. Not only did the Ministry exile criminals to almost certain madness, they took possession of all their land, all their possessions, all their money; everything and anything they had ever owned. And the Malfoy would not risk that.


Just as Lucius Malfoy had said to him long ago, when he had so soulfully and pathetically humbled himself by claiming, with precisely judged humiliation, that he had been placed under the Imperius and therefore was not in control of his actions…


“Justice is a very expensive whore, Severus…luckily, I can afford her.”


And Severus could not. So while Lucius had walked free, with public humiliation and ridicule as his only punishment, Severus had spent three months in Azkaban, and had spent the rest of his life teaching potions at Hogwarts. There had to be a moral in that somewhere.


He wondered what Justice’s price would be this time. And what would happen when Draco walked away innocent. Because the trial was not the only problem the Malfoy were facing…



***********************************************************



“Take what you want, and pay for it,” is from Robert Jordan’s “The Shadow Rising”.


“Justice is a very expensive whore, luckily, this time I can afford her”, is from Suzanne Forster’s “Come Midnight.”

Disclaimer – Standard disclaimer. I don’t own anything.



CHAPTER 20 – The Trial Pt 1: Reality Construct



And so the day came. Caius Draconis Malfoy: High Clan Lord, corrupt aristocrat; leader of society, suspected Death Eater; dressed in standard issue blue prison robes with his head held high and his hands and ankles chained, was led through the streets to the courtroom where his future would be decided for him.


Spectators lined the streets on all sides – wizards of all sorts and classes, armed with signs and placards (Down with the Malfoy! Down with the High Clan! Equality for All!) – and watched as the Malfoy Lord passed by, some of them hissing and sneering in derision, in gleeful, vindictive triumph, enjoying the sight of the Malfoy bought so low, some of them watching in silence, perhaps compelled, through a kind of odd respect, to stand witness even though they could do nothing to help.


Others still watched in foreboding, seeing here the end of something that had stood for longer than they could possibly imagine; the end of everything they had fought for, everything they had given up so much to preserve. In their actions to save themselves and their way of life, they had been twisted, corrupted, and the corruption had eventually led back to this. Snape wondered whether they thought it worth it.


Certainly, it looked as if this trial would be the end of the High Clan’s almost mystical influence on society – if Draco were found guilty, and it looked very likely, the myth of High Clan immunity would be shattered forever, heralding what people like Arthur Weasley would call a new golden age of liberty, fraternity and equality. And the price? Why, only one man’s life. Only a torn, shattered Covenant that would tear the Great Binding apart. Only a magical backlash that would unleash consequences Voldemort had never even dreamed of…


Such a small price, really, for a social revolution.



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Walking through the streets, hampered by his chains and by the Aurors ostensibly supporting him, Draco could actually feel the crowd, feel their emotions – the vicious, almost mindless prejudice intensified by the odd shared consciousness of a mob, the odd, rare moments of empathy, of sympathy, and something more, something deeper. Sheer, vindictive hatred, and a dark, feral triumph that would dearly love to see him utterly crushed and destroyed, begging helplessly and hopelessly at their feet…


He looked up, at an overhanging balcony four stories up, and saw them.


Pansy, not so beautiful now, if she ever was – she had just
buried husband number four, and had taken him for all that she could possibly get. Vincent and Gregory, their faces still deceptively vacuous, the merest hint of intelligence glinting in their eyes. They worked together, as they always had, even when they had been his, well, his minders, really. Voldemort never really trusted Lucius, who had joined him so reluctantly. Eugene Wilkes, lean and lithe and far too sleek for Draco’s liking, with his smooth empty charm and his blank, soulless eyes, stood beside William Rosier, bluff and hearty, forthright and amiable, with an insatiable lust for power and a voracious appetite for young boys.


Marcus Flint had no real vices that he knew of, but his family had hated Clan Malfoy ever since Kaylan Malfoy had played both ends against the middle, ensuring the failure of the rebellion in 1746, and the prosecution of any who had been foolish enough to commit themselves too far. The Malfoy had earned quite a few enemies with that spectacular coup, and what was two hundred years, in the grand scheme of things? They had earned many enemies over the centuries. Unfortunately, it had all come back upon them with a vengeance now.


They watched him with feral, fanatical eyes, and he could feel their hatred beating against him with almost tangible force, turning his stomach, causing him to stumble, just for a moment, as he was taken off balance…


And then he dragged his eyes away, looked desperately into the crowd, vulnerable now to the emotion and the feeling he had allowed in when his defenses dropped, battered and bruised by the hatred and the rising scent of violence that could, with the drop of a hat, turn into a full-blown riot. He couldn’t run in these chains, and there was no way that he could defend himself against the whole crowd – although he could probably kill quite a few of them before they tore him apart through sheer weight of numbers.


The shouting grew louder, rowdier, the scent of violence rose even higher into the still, midday air, and he was surrounded on all sides by rage and hatred and prejudice, with the six instigators of this whole situation watching on in detached interest, in the knowledge of their invulnerability and their safety from the seething mass of humanity below. He turned his head and stretched his battered senses out, searching for a friendly face, for help, for something, anything, that would allow him to centre himself again, to regain his equanimity.


And then he saw her. Ginevra, standing on another balcony, watching. The only truth in a world gone horribly mad. He looked deep into her dark velvet eyes, looked into the calm centre of her soul, the other half of his, now – and she smiled. And everything came back into focus.


He was the Malfoy. And he would not be defeated – not by six renegade Clans, not by a vicious media campaign, not by a biased jury, and most certainly not by this crowd. He straightened himself, walked proudly once again – and faced the crowd with head high, with calm, cool eyes, with the charisma he had inherited through his blood and the confidence he had gained through hard experience, and dared them to attack. Dared them to take him on.


Time seemed to slow down as his heartbeat sped up and his adrenaline raced, and he could see individual details with startling clarity – see the worry that Ginny tried so hard to conceal behind her smile and her eyes, see the quivering excitement in Wilkes’ damp hand-washing, see the cool control in Luc’s grey eyes contrasting with the tension in his stance, in the pulse that raced under his skin. He could see the warring impulses in the spectators’ eyes, the normal, everyday reasoning of civilized life fighting with the deeper, darker instincts that were banished to the deepest depths of the mind by reason, and logic, and social conditioning in childhood. All it needed was a match…


Above him, he could almost feel the anticipation. But, as they stood frozen in a bizarre tableau, barely daring to breathe, he slowly realized that there was no provocation from above, no match lit to start the conflagration, and he raised his eyes again to see the six renegades almost frozen, staring in almost horror at…Ginny? His fierce, protective wife who nevertheless knew nothing of the Dark Arts beyond what she had learned in Defence? She was holding them silent and still with the power of her gaze and her will alone, hypnotizing them with her eyes. And that was very powerful dark magic. Wherever she had learned it, she held it long enough to allow the crowd to calm down, to let them all return back to sanity, to break the hold the six renegades had had over them that had so influenced their minds, and save his life.


And he felt a fierce rush of gratitude and love, felt it run through the bond towards her – and he knew, when she finally relinquished her hold on them and looked down to him again, a slight triumphant grin on her lips, that she felt it too, and returned it in full measure. Oh, Lady, he loved her, loved her so much it felt as if his heart would burst with it. With his Ginevra beside him, there was nothing, nothing that he couldn’t do.



******************************************************



Ginny watched everything with eyes that wanted, desperately, to open wide in astonishment – but she knew well enough by now that she had to control her reactions and her emotions, to show nothing to the enemy who watched with detached amusement, to the Ministry who watched with avid eagerness, and to the crowd, who watched in titillation, all of them looking to see how she reacted and what she was feeling.


There were paparazzi at the entry to the Ministry building, crowding and clamouring, all of them eager for a word with Draco as he went in, shouting questions at him (Why did you do it, Mr. Malfoy? Did he know the truth about you? Mr. Malfoy, did you kill him because he was having an affair with your wife? Mr. Malfoy, why did you marry Ginny Weasley? Did you hope to gain her father’s support? Mr. Malfoy, is this some plot orchestrated by your uncle?) and shoving magical recording machines in his face, hoping for an answer, for any kind of response.


One, bolder than the rest, shouted out “Mr. Malfoy, is it true that you killed your father?”


The rest of the reporters went still, as Draco turned, slowly, to face him. He didn’t say anything, just stood there in his chains and his stained and ill-fitting robes, his whole body somehow coiled, giving the impression of something very, very dangerous only just held under control – and he lifted his eyes to the reporter’s, who paled, and took an involuntary step back. Ginny knew the power of that gaze, knew the shock of eye contact – knew that the reporter had just been given a very brief glimpse of the true nature of the Malfoy. It was a terrifying truth, the first time one saw beneath the surface.


She didn’t like to think of what the six renegades might have seen, when she had held them still with her eyes earlier. She didn’t like to think of what that particular use of her magic might have cost her, or what it might have revealed about her. She didn’t really want to know what lengths she was capable of going to, to keep the people she loved safe.



*******************************************



Intimidated by that little show of force and personality, the paparazzi let Draco through, and then focused on all the other people who were going in after him, who had come to witness the proceedings, searching for anything else that could possibly be used as a story. And there was a veritable gold mine of material – this was the trial of the century, the Malfoy Lord himself! And unlike his father’s one and only brush with the justice system, this wasn’t hushed and hurried, held in a secret location deep in the bowels of the Ministry building where society’s darker past could be concealed. This was taking place in the full light of day, fully covered by the media who intended to milk this for all it was worth.


The Ministry officials – the Aurors, the expert witnesses (a psychiatrist from St. Mungo’s, a scholar known for his expertise in High Clan matters) and other, miscellaneous, necessary personnel arrived, and entered relatively freely, left alone because no one really knew who they were and no one really cared anyway.


The Lords of the High Clan had come out in full force, to watch this trial that would most certainly decide their place in society. Luc Malfoy’s other nephew, the late Caine de Sauvigny’s son, Marc de Sauvigny, who was the true, if relatively powerless Lord, supported by the most powerful of the House’s executives, Dominic and Michel de Sauvigny, all of whom stood firmly behind Malfoy. Dane Harcourt, who, even if he was an Auror, was still a High Clan Lord of some influence – he wasn’t known for his support of the Malfoy, but he was scrupulously fair in his dealings, and he had a cautious, wary friendship with the Luc. Rayden Lestrange, Brandon Avery, Shan Andahni, and Dirk Courtney were all members of the Thirteen, all solidly pro-Malfoy.


The six renegade Clan leaders – in a tight-knit group with their supporters, the minor bit-players of the Death Eater years, such as McNair, Bulstrode, Pritchard, Baddock; they didn’t have the sheer political influence of their opponents, but their malice hung over them like a dark, oppressive cloud whenever they watched Draco.


Then came the other, non-High Clan spectators – the Weasleys first among them, the six brothers, lanky, freckled and red haired, the homely and comfortable mother, the harmless father, a good natured eccentric, and behind them, the daughter – sophisticated, cool and supremely composed (“There she is!” the shout went up) walking beside and almost under the patronage of Luc Malfoy himself.


The paparazzi rushed towards them, madly snapping pictures, Ginny hesitated just a little but Luc put a respectful hand on her back and ushered her quickly through the media gauntlet, protecting her from the worst of the barrage, looking neither right nor left but going quickly forward and ducking into the shelter of the building.


Albus Dumbledore, not so spry as he once was, but still a vital presence, supported by Severus Snape, who, although his primary allegiance was to Dumbledore, was definitely in bed with Luc Malfoy – literally, some people said. No one really knew which way Dumbledore leant, but he was notoriously protective towards his former students, especially the Slytherins who had managed to escape the stigma of darkness and evil.


And, to those who knew more about the situation than they let on, Blaise Zabini’s presence was also intriguing; even for a House notorious for their fence-sitting, he was very careful not to associate himself with either of the two major parties. The six anti-Malfoy players watched him closely, almost threateningly, Lestrange and Avery eyed him with speculative eyes, but oddly, Luc Malfoy only gave him one long, unreadable look before turning away.


And then they came into the courtroom, took their seats, one party sitting on the right, the other on the left, and there was something sardonic in Luc Malfoy’s eyes as he watched the Aurors and Ministry officials sitting primly and rather uncomfortably on the same side as Crabbe, Goyle and all the other ‘known but unproved’ Death Eaters they had tried so hard to bring down. And the smile grew more crooked as he thought of Molly Weasley, who, twenty-seven years ago, had so publicly – and ultimately fruitlessly – blamed him for his half-brother Caine de Sauvigny’s so-convenient death.


The rules of the Game were by no means static and fixed; Voldemort’s death had brought an end to one era, and conventional wisdom had had to be re-evaluated, old alliances and enmities rethought, a new set of rules and norms created for this new age. The victors would, as always, be the ones who could best adapt to the rapidly changing world. And that was just as true now as it had been ten years ago, and seventeen years before that, and in all the upheavals and changes the world had ever endured, in all the years men had been playing the Game.



**************************************************



The courtroom was a study of polished wood and leather, of formal portraits of past statesmen and lawmakers staring down upon the public with stern, grave faces, and a suitably imposing judge with a reputation for complete impartiality, strong enough to control such volatile and delicate proceedings.


The prosecuting lawyer, Flavius Aquinas – tall, lean and dark haired, with predatory eyes hungry for the credit a conviction would bring him, utterly unscrupulous in a way that the Slytherins in the room could understand. In fact, yes, Snape recognised him as a former Slytherin, not High Clan, of course…


Draco’s lawyer, a middle aged man with tired, oddly gentle eyes – Jude Worth, his name was, and he had, hard as it was to believe, been Lucius Malfoy’s main counselor, when he had so successfully pleaded Imperius. Of course, back then, he had still been young enough to believe in truth, justice and the Gryffindor way – once the trial had finished, he had been…changed. All the light and the fire had gone, replaced by disillusionment, which was, in its way, worse than cynicism and proper Slytherin skepticism. He had gone on to become a very successful barrister – but the vital spark had vanished.


And that, thought Snape on an oddly wistful note, was a very great pity. Of course as soon as Lucius was acquitted, he had sworn never to have anything to do with the Malfoy again, but in the end, he couldn’t really resist Draco’s request for his services – it had the feeling of inevitability. Perhaps, in some way, it would bring things full circle.


Draco sat, apparently confident and relaxed, trying not to look too often at his new wife who sat with her family and with the other Clan Lords who stood firmly behind the Malfoy; his only sign of tension was his complete and utter impassivity; he was too blank not to be hiding anything. And then, when everyone was settled in, the judge bought his gavel down and began the proceedings.



***********************************************



“Caius Draconis Malfoy,” came the rich, plummy tones of the judge, “you stand accused of the unlawful slaying of another human being, of the torture-murder of the man known as Gerald Edward Tarrant, and of the use of forbidden Dark Arts hexes and curses…”


Draco held his head high and his face impassive, he resisted looking at his wife and his uncle for support. They could not help him now – for all that Luc had done, for all his careful manipulations, he could not do any more for Draco; he had prepared him, and now he would have to sit back and watch while Draco either pulled this off, or didn’t. It was that simple – and it was probably frustrating as hell, to a man who was used to controlling the situation.


But perhaps this would finally prove that Draco was the Malfoy in his own right. Perhaps it would prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was more than capable of looking after his own, without any more help or interference. Intellectually, Luc had known that already – but this would finalise it, in Draco’s mind, in his mind, and in the mind of everyone else who counted. He was the Malfoy. Very well then, he would be the Malfoy, in every single way. And no one would ever doubt him again.


“…What do you plead?” the judge finished.


Slowly, in complete silence as the whole courtroom watched and held its breath, he stood up and said, his eyes fixed on the judge’s, “Not guilty, your Honour.”


And then it began.



**********************************************



Flashes of memory, of awareness…


Aquinas’ smooth, oily voice. “Dr. Weston, could you tell us exactly what caused this man’s death?” An expert medical witness from St. Mungo’s, suitably sober and grave enough to inspire trust in the most skittish of patients, Dr Weston adjusted his glasses and looked at the examiner.


“The subject was subjected to a number of curses normally classified as borderline Dark Arts,” he intoned gravely. “None of them, on their own, was enough to cause death.” He frowned, pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “The subject’s death was actually caused by massive and eventually fatal cardiac arrest…”


Luc Malfoy’s eyes carefully veiled, Draco’s white hair veiling his features from view.


Jude Worth’s mild, soothing voice. “Dr. Weston, will you please tell the court the advice you gave Mr. Tarrant in November of last year, when he came in for his annual check up?”


The doctor’s eyes, vaguely troubled. “I told Mr. Tarrant that he was under a very high risk of heart disease, that he would have to stop drinking and smoking if he didn’t want to provoke a heart attack…”


“So he already had a heart condition?” Worth’s gentle, insistent voice was relentless.


“Yes, he did.” Anticipating the next question, he said, “The curses, while relatively harmless on their own, managed to trigger the cardiac arrest…”


Worth took centre stage. “Your Honour, my client was unaware of Mr Tarrant’s pre-existing medical condition, and in subjecting the victim to a number of relatively harmless curses, in no way intended to cause fatal harm to him. The fact that he did indeed have a pre-existing condition rendering him more susceptible to harm, and that condition caused a massive heart attack, is an intervening act that breaks the chain of causation between my client’s act and the result…”


Aquinas sputtering, “But for Mr. Malfoy’s act, there wouldn’t have been a heart attack! It was the very thing likely to happen…”


Worth’s relentless voice again. “Dr. Weston, could you describe to us the effect of theses curses when used on the human body?”


“The main spell used was an illusion spell, which allows the castor to literally manipulate the victim’s six senses, creating whatever sensations or images they desire…” Worth took a moment to point out that this curse, on its own, was not illegal, although it was of a dubious morality, usually used in the more…esoteric houses of pleasure. “Others were generally sensation curses, which inflict different, not necessarily painful sensations on the castee,” again, another spell used in exotic brothels – the audience was tittering, now – and it was becoming apparent that most of the curses Draco had used were relatively legal, but twisted to cause harm rather than stimulation. And with the amount of power Draco was capable of pouring into his spells, especially when fueled by uncontrolled rage, well, it had gone a little too far.


A new witness, a psychologist who had evaluated Draco in his cell.


“Dr Krantz,” the unctuous voice of the prosecutor continued, “in your professional, expert opinion, would you say that Mr. Malfoy is capable of killing?” Dr Krantz blinked at him wisely and fingered his beard and moustache, murmuring “Hmmm, yes, indeed, I would say he is capable of killing, but that is because he was an Auror, you know; they undergo special training…”


“Yes, but even before he became an Auror, he had killed…”


Draco’s jaw clenched, Luc’s eyes cooled noticeably, and a murmur broke out in the room. Worth drew himself up majestically, his voice almost ringing. “Objection, your Honour! That is not relevant to this trial.”


The judge looked at him, looked at Aquinas and raised an eyebrow. Smiling triumphantly, the prosecutor said, “But it is a significant factor in Mr. Malfoy’s mental state, your Honour.” Staring at him warningly, the judge asked him to rephrase his question.


“Dr. Krantz, taking into account Mr. Malfoy’s past and heritage,” another dig at Draco there, he didn’t react, “do you believe he is capable of torturing and killing the victim?”


Dr. Krantz, playing for time because he knew very well something of Malfoy’s mental state and it was not what he had expected, took off his glasses and polished them on his sleeve. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you mean by ‘his past and heritage’.” he murmured softly. If the man wanted it said, he would have to say it himself.


Here, Aquinas overplayed his hand in his thirst to discredit Malfoy. Or perhaps he did it deliberately, willing to take the consequences of such an act if it achieved the result he wanted. In a dramatic voice, with sweeping gestures, he pointed to Draco and said, “I mean, he killed his own father!” Pandemonium erupted, and his voice rose above the babble. “If he’s capable of killing his own father, then what isn’t he capable of?”


Draco closed his eyes, slowly, as Worth came to his feet with the force of his objection, as the High Clan Lords froze in their seats, impassive masks slamming down, as the rest of the spectators started to speak, to speculate – So it’s really true? He did kill him? No, he couldn’t have…but it was in the papers! In black and white print! It must be true…The judge banged his gavel down again and again and again, demanding order in a loud, penetrating voice, and gradually, slowly, the crowd calmed down, and Aquinas had a small, tight triumphant smile on his face, having achieved exactly what he wanted.


Jude Worth looked down at his client, who was, even allowing for the age and generation difference, noticeably different from his uncle and his father, and felt a small pang of sympathy for his tension, for the…shame…of having such a private thing dragged out for all the world to see. Perhaps he could believe in this Malfoy…and then he looked up, caught Luc Malfoy’s grey eyes, froze – and knew something that he had failed to realize when he had first encountered the Malfoy. If they were cold, if they were ruthless – it was all, all done for a reason, for something they thought completely justified, for the good of the Clan, of their family, of their loved ones; whatever they might demand of others, they demanded no less of themselves.


Finally, it was silent again, and the judge ordered an adjournment.


Draco, Luc, Worth and Ginevra all filed into an anteroom and shut the door, creating an isolated haven of peace that somehow managed to block out the rest of the world. Draco turned away into the middle of the room, his whole body restless and coiled, tense energy too tightly controlled. He looked back to Luc, back to Ginevra – nothing showing, but the mask dangerously thin. Ginevra came over to comfort him, her eyes sympathetic and compassionate – Luc said nothing and showed nothing, but watched him closely.


He didn’t say what he was thinking – I can’t do this, I can’t go through with it – because he was the Lord of Clan Malfoy, and he was above doubts and fears and human error. The Clan Lord was strong enough to handle any problems, to carry the whole Clan on his shoulders. In return, Luc refrained from saying – You must do this, no matter what it costs you, there is no other choice – because he was, when all was said and done, the usurping head of a lesser Clan, and the Malfoy Lord answered to nothing and no one, and because Draco already knew that he had no other choice. He had only to accept and embrace it. They understood each other perfectly.


So here it was – the last choice. Because they could not lose this trial. And nothing else mattered, at least not yet. Calm and centred once again, Draco turned and walked towards the door, ready to go back into the courtroom. He was the Malfoy Lord, and he would not be defeated.



**************************************************



A/N – I am a lowly law student, not John Grisham. The law in this chapter is _not_ an accurate representation of current Australian criminal law; I have the feeling Draco would be going straight to Azkaban for life without his $200 if it was.

Disclaimer – standard disclaimer applies. Not mine. Nor are the legal principles. Don’t sue.



Chapter 21 – The Trial Pt 2: True Perspective



“Mr. Malfoy, how would you describe your relationship with Gerald Tarrant?”


I hated him, with an absolute passion that I haven’t felt since Harry Potter – no, not even that – my hatred for Potter was a boy’s emotion. This was the hatred of a full-grown, fully confident adult…


“I hardly knew the man. We had only met twice before, and for some reason he took me in dislike. I was not pleased with him and his crusade, of course, but apart from that, I was not aware of him as an individual person.”


“Mr. Malfoy, will you please describe the events of the day in question…?”


I killed him. Isn’t that what you want to hear? I killed him, and I reveled in every agonizing scream… But he didn’t say that, of course he didn’t. Instead, he went over the events again, emphasizing how the man had struck Ginevra, the way he had threatened them, if not with words, then certainly with actions.


There was an argument for self-defence, there – he could play the ‘concern for a loved one’s safety’ card, if he cared. Of course, the only problem was the issue of proportionality – essentially, matching the level of his defence to the degree and severity of threat. As much as one might want to, one couldn’t use the Killing Curse on a muggle street kid with a stick. There were only too many people willing to testify that Draco had been an Auror, once, and a lethal one at that; and Tarrant, civilized, sensitive and new age as he was, would have had less than no chance of standing against him. So much for self-defence.


“You attacked him, Mr. Malfoy? It was not the other way around?” Grey eyes watchful, Draco nodded. Oh, he knew where this was going, and where it would lead…


“Tell me, Mr. Malfoy,” Aquinas purred again, “is it not a fundamental tenet of High Clan behaviour, especially Malfoy behaviour, to never, ever, under any circumstances, lose your temper?” The bastard was enjoying this; he had a major grudge against the High Clan somewhere in his background, Draco was sure.


“None of us is perfect, Counselor,” he said, softly,
tauntingly. “Only saints never lose their temper.”


“You claim that when you lost your temper, this time, that you went cold, I think you said. You described it a complete loss of rational thought, and the complete surrender to instinct, but you still managed to restrain yourself to curses that were still relatively legal, that were not strong enough on their own to kill.”


Draco closed his eyes, only for a moment – so weary – and then he looked back up, into Aquinas’ eyes, too tired to be insolent or coy anymore. He nodded.


“So you were angry, because of his recent revelations about you in the Prophet, because he struck Miss We-“ he cut himself, “Lady Malfoy. And you took your anger out on him, in the heat of the moment, before the passion cooled, and in doing so, you inflicted a number of charms of a,” he raised an eyebrow, “dubious morality on Mr. Tarrant, twisting them to cause pain. Only, you say, you didn’t know that he had a pre-existing heart condition, and things went farther than you intended them to.” Aquinas’ smooth, rich voice was decidedly skeptical – and his skepticism was swaying others in the crowd, he could see them raising eyebrows and sneering delicately too.


And what of it? It was, for one of the very few times in his life, the exact truth. He had indeed lost control when he saw the blood on Ginevra’s white skin. and he had deliberately chosen low-level curses designed to inflict maximum pain and minimum real damage. Their relative legality was not deliberate, he had been too far gone to think about such things, but evidently some part of him had been alert, or perhaps it was simply because he had chosen them as an insult, knowing their more conventional applications, or because it had tickled his dark sense of irony.


He had never been a Death Eater, but he been raised by two men who had, and he’d listened to things he shouldn’t have, learned things they would far rather have kept from him, including the deepest, darkest truth of his own capacity for cruelty that had honestly shocked him. But this was the first time he had ever, even subconsciously, given free reign to it. For the first time in his life, he had completely lost control. And look at the consequences.


“I think, Mr. Malfoy,” Aquinas’ voice was intense, now – he was going for the kill, “that you knew exactly what you were doing. And so, I think, did your uncle – why else did he not intervene?” He half turned towards Luc, focusing the spectator’s attention on Luc Malfoy and all that he represented. “He would not have allowed you to go so far unless he saw some benefit, some profit in it…” Luc didn’t react to the deliberate insult, only raising an eyebrow; Draco stiffened, outraged by this completely unwarranted attack.
He moved, drawing the attention back onto him, somehow coiled and intense now, dangerous even in chains and with aurors posted all over the room.


He half rose out of his chair, ignoring the pulled wands and the sudden tension. “Nobody owns me,” he said very clearly, to keep from hissing. “I do not answer to my uncle, or to the de Sauvigny…” He didn’t finish, didn’t say the unspoken ‘or to anyone or anything else’. It would not have been wise. But the damage had been done – they saw the difference, now, between himself and themselves, between the High Clan and the rest of society. They had heard his unspoken words.


The questions continued, relentless and invasive, chipping away his composure, his moral high ground with their intensity and their stark objectivity, reducing tangled, complex issues to stark black and white, yes or no. Reduce everything he had done, everything he was, to such a basic, fundamental level, and what did you have? A murderer. Nothing more, nothing less. Most people preferred to see the world in black and white.


It made things much easier, removed any necessity for them to see beneath the surface, deep into the complexity that lay beneath the apparently tranquil exterior. Quite frankly, they didn’t like dealing with difficult, ambiguous issues…


Aquinas, his rich voice purring in satisfaction, in anticipation of final victory, called his last expert witness to the stand – Dr. Phineas Crane, an academic expert on High Clan lore, Law and behaviour. Crane, who had no High Clan blood of his own, had been fortunate enough to secure the patronage of Richard Clearwater, lesser scion of a lesser Clan, and had based his findings and his writings, such as they were, on the behaviour he had observed amongst the Clearwater and similar other, lesser Clans. Nevertheless, he had a solid reputation among the wider community, if not within the High Clan, and his writings were quite respected and applauded.


An old, almost neurotically precise man, with carefully slicked back white hair and ancient, wire-rimmed spectacles, he looked the part of the shy, reclusive scholar he was. Sometimes, stereotypes held an element of truth.


“Dr Crane,” Aquinas asked, his voice respectful, “could you please tell us in what circumstances the ancient, traditional Law of the High Clan will allow murder?”


Crane tilted his head to the side, an oddly birdlike mannerism. “Well, quite frankly, the Law does not so much as allow murder as justify it under certain, strictly controlled circumstances…” he polished his glasses nervously, unnerved by the scrutiny of so many of the truly powerful Lords, whom he had always scrupulously stayed away from. “First of all,” he stated, his manner pedantic, like the worst kind of schoolmaster, “the perpetrator must be a Clan Lord, or acting on a Clan Lord’s direct order.” He bowed his head oddly in Draco’s direction, acknowledging that Draco met that particular criterion. “Second, the perpetrator, or the man who ultimately orders the death, must have an utterly compelling reason, and be able to prove it, beyond a shadow of a doubt, if his actions are called into account.”


Aquinas nodded. “Mr. Malfoy states that he attacked the victim because Tarrant laid hands on Miss Ginevra Weasley, his fiancée, with the intention of causing her harm and even death. He claims he was only protecting and defending her. In your expert opinion, is that enough to justify such a horrible death, Dr. Crane?”


The doctor’s eyes unfocused, and he stared into the distance, thinking. Any High Clan spectators, who had been steeped in the Law since childhood, concealed their own disgust and their contempt for this scholar who could not even judge such a simple case. The Law, considering that Draco was the Malfoy Lord, that he and Ginevra were bonding, might have allowed a severe beating and could, with Malfoy influence, be stretched to include a death, an execution, but given the differences in their relative magical skill, strength, and knowledge of the Law, and that Ginevra had really been in no danger at all, such a horrific torture-murder was an unnecessary overreaction.


Eventually, in much more complicated language, Dr. Crane came to the same conclusion – really, the only thing that would mitigate this was the fact the Malfoy were known to be possessive of what they thought of as theirs, and that Malfoy in the process of bonding were even more volatile, even more predisposed to emotional displays. But really, the man was hardly a threat…it was understandable, what with all that had been going on, what with the revelation of the unfortunate events of twelve years ago appearing in the newspapers on that very morning, but still… It was that but still that was going to cause all the trouble. They all knew it. And they all wondered what the Malfoy had under his sleeve…



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Blaise Zabini watched in fascination. There had been something different about Draco as he had walked back into the room after the adjournment. Something remote, something untouchable, something…otherworldly.
He had never, ever seen it before – not in his father, not in Luc Malfoy, not in Lucius, not even wholly in Dumbledore – but he knew what it was, nevertheless.


It was the indefinable aura of a true Clan Lord, of a man both humble and supremely self-confident, independent of all allegiances but tied, inextricably, to his obligations, a man strong enough to hold what was his against all comers, but gentle enough not to crush it, utterly fragile as it was… He had known, from seven years with Draco at Hogwarts, that he had the potential to be a great leader, but he had never expected this.


Somehow, between all those who had had some influence on his life – Lucius and Luc and Dumbledore and even Snape – they had created a man worthy of being called Clan Lord. Now all they had to do was make sure their creation didn’t spend the rest of his days in Azkaban, and that there would be a Clan left for him to rule, after the troubles that were coming whether Draco won the trial or not.


He looked out of the corner of his eye at Rayden Lestrange and Brandon Avery, two figures who had seemed god-like when he had been child, who were still god-like now – only he was not as afraid of them as he was of Luc Malfoy – to see whether they knew something of what was going on, if they had any clue how the Malfoy were going to get out of this.
But Lestrange and Avery only watched Draco with strangely avid, hungry eyes, as if they were yearning for something they couldn’t name, for something they hadn’t even known they were searching for.


Perhaps, perhaps they could call it faith – belief in something they had always dreamed of, in something they had never thought to see. So much of High Clan culture was built around the idea of a Clan Lord, but not one of them had ever known a true one, not a Lord in the oldest sense; by the time they had been old enough to understand, the corruption of the High Clan had already begun, and in Blaise’s case, well and truly advanced…


They were not Gryffindors, to dream of gallantry and chivalry. But they had heroes, nevertheless, chief among them Brandon Andenais, who, for all his ruthlessness, had led his followers through the wilderness, had walked beside them all the way, had supported them when they tired, had carried them when they fell. They called him Faithless, because of his acts against the original inhabitants of this land. But he had kept the faith with his followers, at least, no matter his other betrayals, his other sins…


Oh, the Slytherin High Clan boys hadn’t dreamed of Godric Gryffindor, or of any of the other English folk heroes the Gryffindors so worshipped. But they had had other ideals, other, darker, more shadowed, more ambiguous myths – the Goddess and her Consort, who gave his blood and his life in times of famine and war; the Fisher King, whose wounded body represented the earth, and who bled, continuously, as a symbol of renewal; the Good Son, who had been sacrificed, so that his death might bring life to the world once more.


Artos the warrior-king, who at the moment of his greatest triumph, had sown the seeds of his own destruction by lying with his own sister in her guise as a priestess of the Lady, fathering the son who would eventually kill him. Just so did the cycle of death and rebirth replay over and over, and just so did every man’s actions determine his eventual end – the price that all must pay for that most precious and dangerous gift of all, free will.


Not, Blaise thought, that this situation was in any way comparable to those…shaking his head to clear it of the mysticism he was all too prone to, he ignored the primitive thrill that ran down his spine when he looked into Draco’s eyes, shook off the eerie recognition that was entirely at odds to his modern, civilised mind. He looked over to Dumbledore to see his reaction to the Malfoy Lord – but saw, instead, that the old man was watching him with those blue, too-perceptive eyes.


He felt as if they could see straight through him. How did he know? How could Dumbledore know what he was thinking, his innermost, most utterly secret thoughts and dreams? He had never, ever spoken of his yearning to anyone, let alone to the Headmaster, or to the Slytherin boys he had gone to school with – but somehow the old man could see it, could see the hunger, the yearning…


And he pitied them for it. He pitied them. For their dreams. For their wishes, their deepest, darkest hopes that they had never, ever dared voice; he pitied them all, proud and powerful lords, because they had always dreamed of something they couldn’t have, dreamed of something sacred in this all too profane world. Dreamed of purity, when their whole world had been tainted before birth…


And now, when they had seen it, when they had seen everything they could ever have dreamed of and it was within their grasp, it was in danger of being destroyed. Could the Zabini remain neutral and watch from the sidelines as the High Clan tore itself apart?


Yes, his Clan had been neutral for two and a half thousand years. Yes, he had been brought up to stand apart, just as surely as Draco had been brought up to stand in the middle, but what good was neutrality when the whole system is falling down around your ears? His original ancestor had known, when he had made his choice of the lonely burden of neutrality, that some day it would come to the point where a Zabini would have to make the choice again.


His Clan, or the High Clan? Safe neutrality, on the sidelines, or partisanship that would put him in the front lines of the conflict. He knew they would not judge him, no matter which choice he made – such was the reputation they had built for themselves, over the centuries – but could he live with himself if, by his inaction, he ushered in the end of everything his ancestors had fought so hard to build, and then to preserve?


No. No, and no, and no. He would not let their only hope of salvation die, either in Azkaban at the hands of the Dementors, or in the mystic agony that came from a snapped Covenant; not when he stood a chance of preventing it.



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The next day they came back to hear the jury’s decision, and just outside the courtroom, Luc put a respectful hand on Ginny’s arm and drew her aside, his face blank but his eyes vaguely troubled.


“What is it?” she asked under her breath, aware that they were the focus of a number of eyes, paparazzi among them. Ever since that little conversation they had had at the Castle, Luc had treated her with the utmost respect, as an equal – but now he looked at her, and she knew that this time, he didn’t see her, he saw a potential vulnerability, a liability. His words confirmed it for her.


“Ginevra, things may become dangerous, from now on. I think that Draco would be more – comfortable – knowing that you were safe, somewhere far away from here…”


She scowled at him, her Weasley temper and Gryffindoric courage combining to stiffen her spine against the force in Luc’s eyes. “I will not run away from anything that you and Draco stay to face.”


He opened his mouth to argue, but she forestalled him. “And I will not be sent away for my own good. I am twenty-six years old, Luc, old enough to make my own decisions. I will not be packed off like a good, obedient, submissive wife.” She smiled dangerously, her impulsiveness getting the better of her. “And speaking of that, where is Kate?”


But he was not to be diverted. “I don’t doubt that you can defend yourself, but listen, Ginevra. The bond ties you together – what you experience, so too does he, and vice versa.” He lowered his voice until it almost vibrated with intensity. “Listen to me; something is going to happen today. I can feel it, I can almost taste it. Draco cannot afford to be distracted, worrying about you and your safety.”


“I can look after myself,” she hissed softly.


He looked at her rather strangely. “Can you?” he asked, almost to himself, almost as if he had had this conversation before. Perhaps he had. “They will try to use you against him, if you stay. Are you ready for that? Now that you are bonded, if one of you dies, so too does the other – I will not risk his life for your pride and arrogance.” She hid a scowl, but nodded, to show she understood the stakes, and the price. Conceding defeat, he sighed. “Do not get caught.”


She nodded confidently again, but as she walked away, Luc knew that she had no idea of the truth of his words. The Malfoy Soul Bond was their greatest, most terrifying vulnerability – there had been too many Lords who had been brought down because their wives had been taken, or killed; he did not intend to see Draco join their ranks.


And as for Kate, he had made sure that she was well out of this. Far more experienced and with more understanding of the shadow world than Ginevra, she knew all too well the vulnerabilities of the bond; she also knew, after all the long years in Slytherin and the High Clan that she could not, in fact, look after herself. If she had ever been impulsive and Gryffindoric like her twin sister Lily, life and experience had taught her differently.


As they took their seats again, Ginny saw the six renegades and their followers, saw their complete confidence and the arrogance with which they came in; they acted as if they had already won, as if it was a foregone conclusion that Draco would soon be on his way to Azkaban. Remembering Luc’s words, she looked over to him and to his companions, Lestrange and Avery, Andahni and Courtney, to Snape, who sat dourly next to Dumbledore.


They were, all six of them, showing subtle signs of readiness and awareness – the slight, coiled sense of intensity, the humming awareness that seemed to vibrate in the very air around them. But looking around at the rest of the courtroom, she could see no signs that anyone else could sense the tension, sense the potential for sudden violence that was far, far more frightening than the mob had been yesterday.


Somehow, she knew that the mob would be easier to subdue. Harcourt could see it, she noticed – he himself was coiled – as well as some of the other aurors, who were seemingly always ready for trouble, but no one else from the general public. She didn’t know what that meant, whether it was because the High Clan were so different, or because the general public was simply unused to violence, now, and no longer expected it.


Oh, and yes, over there, was Blaise Zabini, his grey-green eyes impassive as they rested on Draco, who was in turn casting his eye over the crowd and searching for something in particular – she realized, after a while, that he was searching for all the people who supported the six renegades. Following his eyes, she saw they were distributed in a semi-circle around the back of the room, prepared to block off all the exits.


What is going on…?


She caught Draco’s eye, and something of her worry must have communicated itself to him, because he nodded reassuringly – it would have had more effect, if she hadn’t seen the fatigue and the concealed worry in his eyes, if she hadn’t felt the tension of the Lords at her back, if she had been more sure of how Zabini would jump.


Then the judge came in, and the noise level died, and with the silence came a new awareness of the tension that ran, invisibly but almost tangibly, throughout the entire courtroom. Luckily for them, the judge was not the long-winded type, and he got straight to business. With a gesture, he ordered the doorman to open the door and let the jury back into the room, and the twelve witches and wizards, most of them middle class, middle income, filed in.


The judge cleared his throat. “Have the jury reached a decision?” he asked in a grave, level voice.


The head juror nodded. “We have.” Conscious of the significance of this case, he cleared his own throat importantly and, with great ceremony, unfolded the parchment scroll that held their decision. The tension in the court was palpable, it was dead silent and no one dared to move a muscle.


“On the charge of the use of forbidden and dark hexes and curses, we find the defendant…not guilty.” A breathy sigh ran through the room, a slight relaxing of tension. But there was still the most important charge to come. “On the charge of the murder of Gerald Tarrant, we find the defendant…”


“NOW!!!” A voice shouted, and simultaneously, every single one of the renegades’ supporters came to their feet and intoned the one word, “Incendio!” while the renegades themselves spoke the words that opened the aetheric plane – and allowed a spell cast here to take effect in six places at once.


All at exactly the same time, six out of the Thirteen Locks, the Groves that anchored the workings of the Great Binding, went up in magical flames, fire that ignored the rules of nature and burned everything it touched to ash. The foundations of wizarding Britain, which had been established with the advent of the High Clan two and a half thousand years ago, began to shift…


The world…ripped…as if a hole was torn in a veil, allowing a glimpse of something terrifying, something unimaginably ancient, awakening…


The Covenants shattered, and the threads of magic thus freed backlashed…The balance hung, tilted, tilting, sliding out of control, six locks broken, six locks holding, and one…one more holding…precariously, it stabilized, and the hole torn in the veil remained as it was, the foundations groaned, but held…But the magical backlash all came back on the centre, on the balance point, with all the force that had been released when the bonds had been cut…


Draco’s whole body jerked, convulsed, and so, unknowing, did Ginny’s – but she couldn’t feel it, caught up as she was in Draco’s mind.


The centre was the strongest, the most powerful…but even so, it was rocked by the six others impacting it…


Blood trickled from Malfoy’s nose, from his eyes and his ears and his mouth, staining his white, white skin – so, too, did Ginny bleed.


Somehow, the other six locks absorbed the impact, bending almost to breaking point…


Luc bent over Lestrange and Avery, Andahni and Courtney, Snape and Zabini, who had thrown his weight behind the Malfoy at the last minute – they, too, were bleeding, and completely unconscious. He sat back on his heels; a peaceful island in the screaming storm all around him, but his mind was anything but calm. Draco had finally gone beyond his reach – for all his influence, he could do nothing here. He did not rule one of the Thirteen…


For an eternity, the fragile balance hung, precariously, in limbo…six straining against it, six striving to preserve it, and one striving to centre it…