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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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