Disclaimer – Standard disclaimers apply. Original character Dane Harcourt is mine.
CHAPTER 15 – Damage Control
Molly Weasley looked down at the unconscious form of Draco Malfoy, who, at twenty-seven years old, was almost a mirror image of his father. The thick, white hair, the radiant white skin – the eerie, elegant beauty of a perfectly formed predator. However, with his eyes closed, one could only see half of the truth – physically, he was a complete match, but deep down, he would never have gone to some of the lengths his father had, and he would never, ever have joined Voldemort. Although there had been rumours that Lucius’ induction into the Death Eaters had not been entirely his choice; rumours of truths and deceptions that ran far, far deeper than the surface.
In any case, it was no longer relevant. Lucius Malfoy was dead, and he could trouble their family no longer. His son, however… Molly made no secret of her distaste for the High Clan. She was not the type of hypocrite who would praise people to their faces when she secretly despised them – when she felt something, she made it known. And for all of her life, she had hated the Malfoy most of all – that stuck up ice bitch Narcissa, Lucius, who had almost caused her daughter’s death, and even Luc Malfoy, who often seemed to be more approachable, but was the most amoral of them all.
She had had grave reservations about Ginny and her relationship with Draco. To her mind, there was far too much of a gulf between Malfoy and Weasley – not just a social gulf, not just a monetary one, but also a cultural one, a mental one. Gerald had seemed to be the ideal son-in-law – he had been of their class, of their ways; he had been financially secure and had seemed to be quite steady and reliable. She had only ever wanted Ginny to be safe and secure, and Gerald had seemed to be everything a woman could want in a husband.
Only young girls dreamed about handsome princes and fairytales.
And what was Draco Malfoy? He was handsome, that was for sure, and he stood at the forefront of society, if not in respectability then in influence and social power. But the truth was that beneath the handsome façade, underneath the physical beauty and the courtesy and manners, lay a predator. A leader reared in the High Clan way, in the ruthlessness, the violence and the old, shadowed magics of their ancestors. Brandon Malfoy had not been anything like the great hero he was often made out to be. And the Malfoy, despite all their silken ways and the centuries of breeding, came from very dark, very bloody stock – bad blood, no matter how blue it was.
She had tried to explain all of this to Ginny when she had come home after Luc Malfoy’s dinner party, with stars in her eyes and kiss-swollen lips, but ever since they had fought over Harry so long ago, Ginny had made a point of not listening to her, of ignoring what she said no matter how important it was. Quite simply, they clashed horribly. That little discussion had ended with Ginny storming out in a huff, determined to go through with this simply because Molly had warned her against it. She should have known how it would end.
But really, she had asked her husband, was it too much to ask? All she wanted was to see her daughter happy, married to a nice, reliable man who would not walk out on her, and would not break her spirit or lead her too far into the darkness. Arthur had only looked at her and shaken his head – he had said it was far too late, now, they had begun to bond. And once the process had begun, it was irrevocable…
Looking down at the still, oddly vulnerable form arranged a little awkwardly on her couch, she supposed that she would have to start becoming accustomed to the thought of him as a son-in-law. As long as she could remember that he was different to Lucius, different to Luc; for her daughter’s sake, she would put up with him.
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He had been an Auror for more than thirty years, and in that time, he had seen things that would haunt his dreams forever, had done things that he would regret until his dying day, and had approved and sanctioned things that would permanently blacken his soul. He had lived through the Dark Times twice – as a teenage rookie who had matured far too quickly during the first uprising, and again as an experienced senior auror watching other rookies go through the same ordeal when Voldemort had risen a second time. So torture, murder and extremely violent death didn’t disconcert him at all. He had seen, and done, far worse things.
Dane Harcourt prided himself on his impartiality when dealing with the High Clan – but even his vaunted objectivity quailed when it came to confronting the Malfoy. The superstition, the psychological conditioning was too deeply ingrained. The Malfoy were the first, the centre, the balance – twice in his life he had seen it, seen the Malfoy mark on horribly mutilated bodies, brazenly flaunting their handiwork, daring anyone to come after them if they thought the death unjustifiable.
Augustus Snape, in 1977, had killed Marcus Malfoy, and so a vengeance-murder had been acceptable were-gild. Parkinson, Crabbe, Goyle et al had also been justifiable, in payment for the life of Lucius Malfoy. But no Malfoy scions had been killed recently – and so he was at a loss to understand just why Eugene Wilkes, of all people, had come to his door and told him, as a concerned citizen, that Draco Malfoy had just tortured and killed his employee, Gerald Tarrant.
Of course he knew who Gerald Tarrant was. A High Clan Lord himself, Dane had been following the recent newspaper coverage a curious mixture of disbelief and anger. Not that he himself hadn’t agreed with something of what Tarrant had been saying, but he had never espoused such extreme measures, nor such virulent attacks on something that the normal public could never understand, never completely grasp.
He had often thought that there should be some attempt at more integration between the two classes; Tarrant had talked of complete abolition of the High Clan – removal of aristocratic privilege, Ministry confiscation of estates and land… He didn’t agree with what Tarrant proposed, but that was no reason to kill him.
Not, of course, that he thought for a moment that Draco Malfoy would be stupid enough to kill him, unless he had a very good, completely justifiable reason – and that was why he was so puzzled. There was no excuse, no explanation for such an utterly mad act – Malfoy were never uncontrolled, never impulsive; there had only ever been one time that he’d seen a Malfoy lose control. And he never wanted to see anything like that ever again. But it looked like he might have to.
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He fought his way to the surface through a thick, black murky fog, struggling to reach out to her, to the fading, fugitive light he could sense was drawing further and further away with each passing second, frightened and wary and confused. Stretching out, he tried to enfold the diminishing light with his own light, with his own warmth and magic, but it panicked, and struggled – feeling the fear, he reluctantly let go, mourning the light’s loss with surprising strength. She was gone. The fledgling, unconsummated bond was fading…And he woke up, empty.
The first thing he saw was Molly Weasley, watching him with frowning, not-entirely disapproving eyes, almost as if she were re-evaluating him, rethinking her first opinion of him. He could see straight into her, through those defenceless, completely candid eyes – she hid nothing of what she was thinking and feeling. It was quite disconcerting, and a little disturbing, almost like he was some kind of mental voyeur. He looked away, as the High Clan did when they witnessed something too private for public viewing, to give the other person time and space to regroup without any loss of face.
“So,” she said in her oddly brisk, abrupt way. “You’re awake.” Her voice wasn’t quite cordial, but it was warmer than it had ever been before.
He turned his eyes back to hers, his mouth quirking almost involuntarily. “Yes,” he said. “Yes I am. What did I miss?”
She held out a wooden cup filled with some kind of herbal potion, eyes commanding. He took it absently, instinctively probing it in search of any poisons or drugs; his father had drummed this into him from childhood – he had never touched any food or drink without first confirming it was safe. She saw the action, understood the reasons behind it, and something inside her melted. Poor child…
“Your uncle said to wait until you woke up, before we did anything.” He blinked, for a moment wandering what there was to do anything about, but then the memory rushed back. It took all of his self-control to stop himself from reacting – Lady, how stupid could he be? To endanger everything for a stupid loss of temper, for a possessive, jealous reaction that had taken him by surprise? But that…that worm had struck Ginevra. Had insulted and laid hands on his mate. He deserved everything he got. And now Draco would have to pay for the right to defend what was his.
A slight cough came from the doorway, and Arthur Weasley came in, followed by Luc. And behind him, somewhat reluctantly, trailed Ginevra, very careful not to look him in the eye, looking anywhere but at him. He swore silently and viciously. She didn’t trust him. They sat down on the couches again, Arthur and Ginevra very obviously nervous, not looking at the stains on the carpet that Luc had done his best to fix before Molly came back to herself; Luc, with his customary, and often quite irritating sangfroid, was acting as if nothing had happened. If Draco hadn’t had that same habit himself, that same composure, he would have been infuriated with his uncle…
Always blunt, Arthur Weasley cut through all the unimportant issues and got straight to the point. “What are we going to do?”
Draco looked at Luc. Luc, his eyes narrowed in amusement, looked back at Draco. Evidently, he was leaving it all up to Draco – after all, it had been his mistake. But, no, it was more than that – it was an acknowledgement that Draco was in charge. He was surprised at how pleased that made him feel. Thinking quickly, Draco reached a conclusion and sighed. This was not going to be easy. Shit. Why are things always so difficult?
“The way I see it,” he said, thinking out loud, “We’ve got three options – firstly, bury the body out in the forest, or drop it into the sea, somewhere where it would never, ever be found, and deny that we ever saw Gerald today, or that we even know anything about what’s going on.”
Molly snorted. “And you don’t think that Gerald’s employers didn’t know where he was? Or that they’ll waste a single second in telling the aurors where he went, once they find out he’s dead?”
Arthur frowned, then looked to Luc, as if for a second opinion – he got nothing, for Luc was at his most impassive, his most calculating. He was already probably several moves ahead in the Game as it related to the House of de Sauvigny, now that he had finally handed House Malfoy back to Draco…
Arthur spoke the thought himself. “Gerald worked for Wilkes…who was an enemy of the Malfoy?” he looked to Draco, who nodded. “So perhaps, when Gerald didn’t return, because he said he only had two hours leave for a visit, they would have already gone to the aurors…?” He frowned harder, tapped his finger on the coffee table. “Perhaps they knew, when they sent him, that he would not come back.”
Molly frowned, horrified at the thought, but Arthur was a bit more worldly than his wife, a bit more knowledgeable of what the High Clan were capable of. Shaping a man into the perfect irritation, the perfect thorn in Draco’s side, feeding his fanatical hatred and zeal, fanning his jealousy and his twisted desire… Gerald had been exquisitely created and launched on a course that would lead to his death at Malfoy’s hands – it sickened him. But he knew that the two aristocrats currently sitting so tamely in his lounge room were more than capable of that, and of even worse. It was not a comforting thought, even if he was currently on their side.
“Right,” Molly said briskly. “What was the second option?”
Draco smiled a little bitterly. “Brazen it out,” he said softly. “Show an inscrutable, High Clan face, use the Malfoy influence and openly dare anyone to accuse me of it.”
Ginevra snorted softly, contemptuously. He looked over at her, but she looked down at the table, avoiding his gaze. Luc cleared his throat delicately, drawing Draco’s attention away from his erstwhile mate.
“Unfortunately,” his uncle murmured neutrally, “the Malfoy name does not carry as much influence as it used to two hundred, or even twenty years ago.” He didn’t look at Draco as he spoke. “And there is the one, important fact that this killing was unjustifiable – the traditional Law will not offer absolution for it…”
Draco didn’t ask why then Luc didn’t try to stop him from killing Tarrant. He didn’t think he was ready for the answer, just yet. Even if it was just a reluctance to come between a cold Malfoy and the object of his ire. He sighed soundlessly. “The third option is an open trial, to put myself in the hands of the Ministry’s justice.”
Luc closed his eyes slowly, and massaged the bridge of his nose. He knew just as well as Draco did the price and the potential risk – just as he knew that it was the only way. Especially now, when everything that had lain in the shadows of the High Clan for so long had been brought out into the public view.
“A criminal trial?” Ginevra said, covering up her fear with scorn and defiance. “You won’t stand a chance. They’ll destroy you, bring out every single one of your skeletons – they’ve never convicted a Malfoy before, even with overwhelming evidence; they’ll jump at the chance this time.”
He nodded slowly. “I know, but it’s our only choice. Gerald and his backers made this a public issue, and now we must finish it in public, instead of keeping it quiet and strictly within the High Clan. If we keep this secret, then we’ll have lost every bit of credibility we’ve ever had.”
Arthur spoke softly. “The evidence is overwhelming. With the condition of Tarrant’s body, with the very potent magical residue that’s still swirling around this room; even in a fair trial, they’ll crucify you…”
Draco smiled thinly. “I know. But who said that the Ministry were the only ones who could play dirty? I do have some tricks up my sleeve…”
Ginny looked like she wanted to argue, but knew, after so long associated with him, a little of how to play the Game. Oh, why couldn’t things have been easy? Why did Draco have to be so ruthless, so violent under that charming exterior? And why had she, deep down inside, felt a sick little thrill at the thought of all that concentrated savagery being used for her benefit? Why had she found that unbearably exciting? It was wrong. Surely it was wrong.
Arthur looked at the two of them, at Ginny so obviously not looking at Draco, at Draco looking infinitely weary but staring at Ginny with such hungry eyes, and decided it would be best to leave them alone for the moment. He looked at his wife, who nodded, a trace of amusement in her eyes – and he spared a thought to be thankful for her reluctant reversal of her opinion of Draco – and at Luc, who nodded slowly. They withdrew to the kitchen and closed the door, leaving them alone.
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Draco spoke first, frustrated by her refusal to look him in the eye. He’d had a very bad day – beginning with the revelation of his patricide splashed all over the morning paper, then his emotional breakdown in the Grove, and then, when all his senses had been tuned towards an amusing confrontation with Molly Weasley, when he would ask for her daughter’s hand in marriage, he had instead been forced to confront the reality of his temper and his passion – with potentially disastrous consequences. And now Ginevra had turned away from him, and it was almost more than he could bear.
“Look at me,” he said softly, reaching out to capture her chin and turn her to face him. She jerked her head away, turned her back and walked to the window. Irritation making him perverse, he followed her over and stopped just behind her, far too close for her comfort, effectively caging her between his body and the wall.
“What is it, Ginevra?” he asked, voice low and purring, scraping against her nerves, raising her hackles. She turned around, only to find herself far too close and looking up at him with wide, furious eyes.
“What is it?” she asked mildly – too mildly. “What is it? You killed him! You stood there and tortured him to death! That’s what’s wrong. And then you coldly and calmly sit and debate about the best way to ‘deal with the problem’!” Her voice rose to a shout, and she immediately tried to calm herself down, breathing slowly and deeply.
He looked at her impassively. “So what, precisely, are you objecting to?” His voice was calm and utterly reasonable. It infuriated her.
“What am I…” she trailed off breathlessly, reminding herself not to shout, “I am objecting to the way you so callously and efficiently killed him. You tortured him to death, and with great expertise, might I add…”
He looked straight into her eyes with a cool, clear silver gaze. “He struck you,” he said, clearly and reasonably. “He split your lip.”
She blinked, puzzled. “So? I’ve had worse during a quidditch game with my brothers.”
He shook his head. “He deliberately laid hands on you.”
She opened her mouth, paused, and then closed it. “And so you killed him?” she asked, a little breathless. That guilty little pool of pleasure was back again. She didn’t know why it made her feel so…feminine.
He raised an eyebrow. “And so for that, and for all his other crimes against me and mine, I executed him.”
She got herself back under control again, regained her outrage. “See, Draco, that’s what I find so infuriating about you. You talk so calmly about blood and death and protecting what’s yours, and you don’t care about the price. You have no compunctions about killing, and I simply cannot accept it.” She paused, quite pleased with that sentence, poised to continue, but he beat her to it.
“No, Ginevra, you cannot accept that you liked the thought of it.”
Her mouth dropped open. And she slapped his smirking, too perceptive face as hard as she could. Unfazed, he reached up and touched the corner of his mouth, gathering some blood onto his fingers, looked with impassive interest at the crimson, slippery blood. And then he brought his fingers to his mouth, and licked it off, savouring the warm, coppery taste. His eyes came up to hers, hot molten silver, and she had not even a moment’s warning before he reached out and grabbed the front of her robes, jerking her off her feet and crushing his mouth down to hers in a blatant show of dominance, of possession.
She tried to scream, tried to push him away, pushing feebly at his shoulders, but he was too strong. His heart was beating like a drum, racing, and the scent of sandalwood wreathed the air, intoxicating and heady, sending her head spinning…
He nipped at her lower lip, a little jot of pain, and she opened her mouth involuntarily, letting him in to plunder as he liked.
She drew breath to bite, to show him that he couldn’t treat her like this – and then, suddenly, madness overtook her, and she kissed him back, sharing the sour-sweet, metallic blood from his lip and hers, the sandalwood taste of the ardeur, of his magic, and the indefinable taste that was his and his alone.
The bond reasserted itself; desire pulled them under. The magic didn’t care that Ginny didn’t really trust Draco, not after seeing what he was capable of, nor that Draco himself still had some reservations, or that circumstances were slowly spinning out of control and time was running out, for all of them. They stood there in the living room, where he had, not even an hour ago, brutally murdered a man, and they held each other so tightly there was no room to breathe… And a slight, golden haze surrounded them as the magic bound them tighter and tighter together.
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CHAPTER 15 – Damage Control
Molly Weasley looked down at the unconscious form of Draco Malfoy, who, at twenty-seven years old, was almost a mirror image of his father. The thick, white hair, the radiant white skin – the eerie, elegant beauty of a perfectly formed predator. However, with his eyes closed, one could only see half of the truth – physically, he was a complete match, but deep down, he would never have gone to some of the lengths his father had, and he would never, ever have joined Voldemort. Although there had been rumours that Lucius’ induction into the Death Eaters had not been entirely his choice; rumours of truths and deceptions that ran far, far deeper than the surface.
In any case, it was no longer relevant. Lucius Malfoy was dead, and he could trouble their family no longer. His son, however… Molly made no secret of her distaste for the High Clan. She was not the type of hypocrite who would praise people to their faces when she secretly despised them – when she felt something, she made it known. And for all of her life, she had hated the Malfoy most of all – that stuck up ice bitch Narcissa, Lucius, who had almost caused her daughter’s death, and even Luc Malfoy, who often seemed to be more approachable, but was the most amoral of them all.
She had had grave reservations about Ginny and her relationship with Draco. To her mind, there was far too much of a gulf between Malfoy and Weasley – not just a social gulf, not just a monetary one, but also a cultural one, a mental one. Gerald had seemed to be the ideal son-in-law – he had been of their class, of their ways; he had been financially secure and had seemed to be quite steady and reliable. She had only ever wanted Ginny to be safe and secure, and Gerald had seemed to be everything a woman could want in a husband.
Only young girls dreamed about handsome princes and fairytales.
And what was Draco Malfoy? He was handsome, that was for sure, and he stood at the forefront of society, if not in respectability then in influence and social power. But the truth was that beneath the handsome façade, underneath the physical beauty and the courtesy and manners, lay a predator. A leader reared in the High Clan way, in the ruthlessness, the violence and the old, shadowed magics of their ancestors. Brandon Malfoy had not been anything like the great hero he was often made out to be. And the Malfoy, despite all their silken ways and the centuries of breeding, came from very dark, very bloody stock – bad blood, no matter how blue it was.
She had tried to explain all of this to Ginny when she had come home after Luc Malfoy’s dinner party, with stars in her eyes and kiss-swollen lips, but ever since they had fought over Harry so long ago, Ginny had made a point of not listening to her, of ignoring what she said no matter how important it was. Quite simply, they clashed horribly. That little discussion had ended with Ginny storming out in a huff, determined to go through with this simply because Molly had warned her against it. She should have known how it would end.
But really, she had asked her husband, was it too much to ask? All she wanted was to see her daughter happy, married to a nice, reliable man who would not walk out on her, and would not break her spirit or lead her too far into the darkness. Arthur had only looked at her and shaken his head – he had said it was far too late, now, they had begun to bond. And once the process had begun, it was irrevocable…
Looking down at the still, oddly vulnerable form arranged a little awkwardly on her couch, she supposed that she would have to start becoming accustomed to the thought of him as a son-in-law. As long as she could remember that he was different to Lucius, different to Luc; for her daughter’s sake, she would put up with him.
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He had been an Auror for more than thirty years, and in that time, he had seen things that would haunt his dreams forever, had done things that he would regret until his dying day, and had approved and sanctioned things that would permanently blacken his soul. He had lived through the Dark Times twice – as a teenage rookie who had matured far too quickly during the first uprising, and again as an experienced senior auror watching other rookies go through the same ordeal when Voldemort had risen a second time. So torture, murder and extremely violent death didn’t disconcert him at all. He had seen, and done, far worse things.
Dane Harcourt prided himself on his impartiality when dealing with the High Clan – but even his vaunted objectivity quailed when it came to confronting the Malfoy. The superstition, the psychological conditioning was too deeply ingrained. The Malfoy were the first, the centre, the balance – twice in his life he had seen it, seen the Malfoy mark on horribly mutilated bodies, brazenly flaunting their handiwork, daring anyone to come after them if they thought the death unjustifiable.
Augustus Snape, in 1977, had killed Marcus Malfoy, and so a vengeance-murder had been acceptable were-gild. Parkinson, Crabbe, Goyle et al had also been justifiable, in payment for the life of Lucius Malfoy. But no Malfoy scions had been killed recently – and so he was at a loss to understand just why Eugene Wilkes, of all people, had come to his door and told him, as a concerned citizen, that Draco Malfoy had just tortured and killed his employee, Gerald Tarrant.
Of course he knew who Gerald Tarrant was. A High Clan Lord himself, Dane had been following the recent newspaper coverage a curious mixture of disbelief and anger. Not that he himself hadn’t agreed with something of what Tarrant had been saying, but he had never espoused such extreme measures, nor such virulent attacks on something that the normal public could never understand, never completely grasp.
He had often thought that there should be some attempt at more integration between the two classes; Tarrant had talked of complete abolition of the High Clan – removal of aristocratic privilege, Ministry confiscation of estates and land… He didn’t agree with what Tarrant proposed, but that was no reason to kill him.
Not, of course, that he thought for a moment that Draco Malfoy would be stupid enough to kill him, unless he had a very good, completely justifiable reason – and that was why he was so puzzled. There was no excuse, no explanation for such an utterly mad act – Malfoy were never uncontrolled, never impulsive; there had only ever been one time that he’d seen a Malfoy lose control. And he never wanted to see anything like that ever again. But it looked like he might have to.
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He fought his way to the surface through a thick, black murky fog, struggling to reach out to her, to the fading, fugitive light he could sense was drawing further and further away with each passing second, frightened and wary and confused. Stretching out, he tried to enfold the diminishing light with his own light, with his own warmth and magic, but it panicked, and struggled – feeling the fear, he reluctantly let go, mourning the light’s loss with surprising strength. She was gone. The fledgling, unconsummated bond was fading…And he woke up, empty.
The first thing he saw was Molly Weasley, watching him with frowning, not-entirely disapproving eyes, almost as if she were re-evaluating him, rethinking her first opinion of him. He could see straight into her, through those defenceless, completely candid eyes – she hid nothing of what she was thinking and feeling. It was quite disconcerting, and a little disturbing, almost like he was some kind of mental voyeur. He looked away, as the High Clan did when they witnessed something too private for public viewing, to give the other person time and space to regroup without any loss of face.
“So,” she said in her oddly brisk, abrupt way. “You’re awake.” Her voice wasn’t quite cordial, but it was warmer than it had ever been before.
He turned his eyes back to hers, his mouth quirking almost involuntarily. “Yes,” he said. “Yes I am. What did I miss?”
She held out a wooden cup filled with some kind of herbal potion, eyes commanding. He took it absently, instinctively probing it in search of any poisons or drugs; his father had drummed this into him from childhood – he had never touched any food or drink without first confirming it was safe. She saw the action, understood the reasons behind it, and something inside her melted. Poor child…
“Your uncle said to wait until you woke up, before we did anything.” He blinked, for a moment wandering what there was to do anything about, but then the memory rushed back. It took all of his self-control to stop himself from reacting – Lady, how stupid could he be? To endanger everything for a stupid loss of temper, for a possessive, jealous reaction that had taken him by surprise? But that…that worm had struck Ginevra. Had insulted and laid hands on his mate. He deserved everything he got. And now Draco would have to pay for the right to defend what was his.
A slight cough came from the doorway, and Arthur Weasley came in, followed by Luc. And behind him, somewhat reluctantly, trailed Ginevra, very careful not to look him in the eye, looking anywhere but at him. He swore silently and viciously. She didn’t trust him. They sat down on the couches again, Arthur and Ginevra very obviously nervous, not looking at the stains on the carpet that Luc had done his best to fix before Molly came back to herself; Luc, with his customary, and often quite irritating sangfroid, was acting as if nothing had happened. If Draco hadn’t had that same habit himself, that same composure, he would have been infuriated with his uncle…
Always blunt, Arthur Weasley cut through all the unimportant issues and got straight to the point. “What are we going to do?”
Draco looked at Luc. Luc, his eyes narrowed in amusement, looked back at Draco. Evidently, he was leaving it all up to Draco – after all, it had been his mistake. But, no, it was more than that – it was an acknowledgement that Draco was in charge. He was surprised at how pleased that made him feel. Thinking quickly, Draco reached a conclusion and sighed. This was not going to be easy. Shit. Why are things always so difficult?
“The way I see it,” he said, thinking out loud, “We’ve got three options – firstly, bury the body out in the forest, or drop it into the sea, somewhere where it would never, ever be found, and deny that we ever saw Gerald today, or that we even know anything about what’s going on.”
Molly snorted. “And you don’t think that Gerald’s employers didn’t know where he was? Or that they’ll waste a single second in telling the aurors where he went, once they find out he’s dead?”
Arthur frowned, then looked to Luc, as if for a second opinion – he got nothing, for Luc was at his most impassive, his most calculating. He was already probably several moves ahead in the Game as it related to the House of de Sauvigny, now that he had finally handed House Malfoy back to Draco…
Arthur spoke the thought himself. “Gerald worked for Wilkes…who was an enemy of the Malfoy?” he looked to Draco, who nodded. “So perhaps, when Gerald didn’t return, because he said he only had two hours leave for a visit, they would have already gone to the aurors…?” He frowned harder, tapped his finger on the coffee table. “Perhaps they knew, when they sent him, that he would not come back.”
Molly frowned, horrified at the thought, but Arthur was a bit more worldly than his wife, a bit more knowledgeable of what the High Clan were capable of. Shaping a man into the perfect irritation, the perfect thorn in Draco’s side, feeding his fanatical hatred and zeal, fanning his jealousy and his twisted desire… Gerald had been exquisitely created and launched on a course that would lead to his death at Malfoy’s hands – it sickened him. But he knew that the two aristocrats currently sitting so tamely in his lounge room were more than capable of that, and of even worse. It was not a comforting thought, even if he was currently on their side.
“Right,” Molly said briskly. “What was the second option?”
Draco smiled a little bitterly. “Brazen it out,” he said softly. “Show an inscrutable, High Clan face, use the Malfoy influence and openly dare anyone to accuse me of it.”
Ginevra snorted softly, contemptuously. He looked over at her, but she looked down at the table, avoiding his gaze. Luc cleared his throat delicately, drawing Draco’s attention away from his erstwhile mate.
“Unfortunately,” his uncle murmured neutrally, “the Malfoy name does not carry as much influence as it used to two hundred, or even twenty years ago.” He didn’t look at Draco as he spoke. “And there is the one, important fact that this killing was unjustifiable – the traditional Law will not offer absolution for it…”
Draco didn’t ask why then Luc didn’t try to stop him from killing Tarrant. He didn’t think he was ready for the answer, just yet. Even if it was just a reluctance to come between a cold Malfoy and the object of his ire. He sighed soundlessly. “The third option is an open trial, to put myself in the hands of the Ministry’s justice.”
Luc closed his eyes slowly, and massaged the bridge of his nose. He knew just as well as Draco did the price and the potential risk – just as he knew that it was the only way. Especially now, when everything that had lain in the shadows of the High Clan for so long had been brought out into the public view.
“A criminal trial?” Ginevra said, covering up her fear with scorn and defiance. “You won’t stand a chance. They’ll destroy you, bring out every single one of your skeletons – they’ve never convicted a Malfoy before, even with overwhelming evidence; they’ll jump at the chance this time.”
He nodded slowly. “I know, but it’s our only choice. Gerald and his backers made this a public issue, and now we must finish it in public, instead of keeping it quiet and strictly within the High Clan. If we keep this secret, then we’ll have lost every bit of credibility we’ve ever had.”
Arthur spoke softly. “The evidence is overwhelming. With the condition of Tarrant’s body, with the very potent magical residue that’s still swirling around this room; even in a fair trial, they’ll crucify you…”
Draco smiled thinly. “I know. But who said that the Ministry were the only ones who could play dirty? I do have some tricks up my sleeve…”
Ginny looked like she wanted to argue, but knew, after so long associated with him, a little of how to play the Game. Oh, why couldn’t things have been easy? Why did Draco have to be so ruthless, so violent under that charming exterior? And why had she, deep down inside, felt a sick little thrill at the thought of all that concentrated savagery being used for her benefit? Why had she found that unbearably exciting? It was wrong. Surely it was wrong.
Arthur looked at the two of them, at Ginny so obviously not looking at Draco, at Draco looking infinitely weary but staring at Ginny with such hungry eyes, and decided it would be best to leave them alone for the moment. He looked at his wife, who nodded, a trace of amusement in her eyes – and he spared a thought to be thankful for her reluctant reversal of her opinion of Draco – and at Luc, who nodded slowly. They withdrew to the kitchen and closed the door, leaving them alone.
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Draco spoke first, frustrated by her refusal to look him in the eye. He’d had a very bad day – beginning with the revelation of his patricide splashed all over the morning paper, then his emotional breakdown in the Grove, and then, when all his senses had been tuned towards an amusing confrontation with Molly Weasley, when he would ask for her daughter’s hand in marriage, he had instead been forced to confront the reality of his temper and his passion – with potentially disastrous consequences. And now Ginevra had turned away from him, and it was almost more than he could bear.
“Look at me,” he said softly, reaching out to capture her chin and turn her to face him. She jerked her head away, turned her back and walked to the window. Irritation making him perverse, he followed her over and stopped just behind her, far too close for her comfort, effectively caging her between his body and the wall.
“What is it, Ginevra?” he asked, voice low and purring, scraping against her nerves, raising her hackles. She turned around, only to find herself far too close and looking up at him with wide, furious eyes.
“What is it?” she asked mildly – too mildly. “What is it? You killed him! You stood there and tortured him to death! That’s what’s wrong. And then you coldly and calmly sit and debate about the best way to ‘deal with the problem’!” Her voice rose to a shout, and she immediately tried to calm herself down, breathing slowly and deeply.
He looked at her impassively. “So what, precisely, are you objecting to?” His voice was calm and utterly reasonable. It infuriated her.
“What am I…” she trailed off breathlessly, reminding herself not to shout, “I am objecting to the way you so callously and efficiently killed him. You tortured him to death, and with great expertise, might I add…”
He looked straight into her eyes with a cool, clear silver gaze. “He struck you,” he said, clearly and reasonably. “He split your lip.”
She blinked, puzzled. “So? I’ve had worse during a quidditch game with my brothers.”
He shook his head. “He deliberately laid hands on you.”
She opened her mouth, paused, and then closed it. “And so you killed him?” she asked, a little breathless. That guilty little pool of pleasure was back again. She didn’t know why it made her feel so…feminine.
He raised an eyebrow. “And so for that, and for all his other crimes against me and mine, I executed him.”
She got herself back under control again, regained her outrage. “See, Draco, that’s what I find so infuriating about you. You talk so calmly about blood and death and protecting what’s yours, and you don’t care about the price. You have no compunctions about killing, and I simply cannot accept it.” She paused, quite pleased with that sentence, poised to continue, but he beat her to it.
“No, Ginevra, you cannot accept that you liked the thought of it.”
Her mouth dropped open. And she slapped his smirking, too perceptive face as hard as she could. Unfazed, he reached up and touched the corner of his mouth, gathering some blood onto his fingers, looked with impassive interest at the crimson, slippery blood. And then he brought his fingers to his mouth, and licked it off, savouring the warm, coppery taste. His eyes came up to hers, hot molten silver, and she had not even a moment’s warning before he reached out and grabbed the front of her robes, jerking her off her feet and crushing his mouth down to hers in a blatant show of dominance, of possession.
She tried to scream, tried to push him away, pushing feebly at his shoulders, but he was too strong. His heart was beating like a drum, racing, and the scent of sandalwood wreathed the air, intoxicating and heady, sending her head spinning…
He nipped at her lower lip, a little jot of pain, and she opened her mouth involuntarily, letting him in to plunder as he liked.
She drew breath to bite, to show him that he couldn’t treat her like this – and then, suddenly, madness overtook her, and she kissed him back, sharing the sour-sweet, metallic blood from his lip and hers, the sandalwood taste of the ardeur, of his magic, and the indefinable taste that was his and his alone.
The bond reasserted itself; desire pulled them under. The magic didn’t care that Ginny didn’t really trust Draco, not after seeing what he was capable of, nor that Draco himself still had some reservations, or that circumstances were slowly spinning out of control and time was running out, for all of them. They stood there in the living room, where he had, not even an hour ago, brutally murdered a man, and they held each other so tightly there was no room to breathe… And a slight, golden haze surrounded them as the magic bound them tighter and tighter together.
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