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...
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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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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...
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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.
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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.
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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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