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.
******************************************************
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.
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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.
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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?
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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.
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