Disclaimer – Standard disclaimer applies. Don’t sue me. I will admit that I borrowed Agents Smith, Brown and Jones from the Matrix.



CHAPTER 18 – The Surrender



Blaise Zabini knew trouble when he saw it. He had recognised it from the first moment he had opened his paper and seen Gerald Tarrant’s impassioned diatribe against the High Clan, had felt it creeping up behind him when he had seen the guests who had attended Luc Malfoy’s trade dinner, when he had seen the guests who had attended Eugene Wilkes’ rather darker gathering on the same night.


Malfoy, Snape, Andahni, Lestrange, Avery and Courtney.


Wilkes, Parkinson, Flint, Rosier, Crabbe and Goyle.


And he himself in the unenviable position, quite unusual, when one thought about it, of the balance point. The wildcard. The one unknown factor in the equation. It was, if he had a mind to play it correctly, an incredibly powerful position. Unfortunately, both sides wanted his support; both sides would stop at absolutely nothing to secure it. Of course, Malfoy had the most incentive to gain his willing support, and to keep him alive. All Wilkes and friends had to do was make sure that he didn’t throw his support towards Malfoy…


He remembered Draco’s devastating vengeance, after his father’s death, remembered with a clarity that sent a chill down his back just how close his own father had come to dying. If he had not been forced to work late at the Ministry on the night of Lucius Malfoy’s death… For that one reason, among a few others, Blaise had never quite held the same level of hatred that the other Slytherin students had for Draco. Yes, his father might have died – but he hadn’t. And because he hadn’t, there had been no sense in pursuing a blood feud against the Malfoy and their very powerful supporters.


Had his own father been betrayed in such a way, he might have done the same. And then again, maybe not – he didn’t think that Clan Zabini had been quite powerful enough to call the Ministry’s bluff. They had never been power mongers like the Malfoy, or merchant princes like the de Sauvigny, or even as ambitious as the Snapes. What Clan Zabini were, what they had been ever since their ultimate ancestor had founded the House, were neutral mediators. They weren’t powerful, but they were the House that never seemed to take sides – consequently they gained a reputation for neutrality; eventually, they became the peacemakers who had forged the new agreements after the infights where the Malfoy had, again and again and again, established their paramount position.


The Zabini weren’t powerful. They had influence only because of their neutrality, because of their reputation for scrupulous impartiality, and now he was being forced to actually throw all that away, ignore centuries of cautious manoeuvring, and finally choose a side.


How had it come to this point? What had driven the High Clan to discard thousands of years of prudent diplomacy, the extremely fragile framework of agreements and alliances that had kept them all together because the Malfoy were first among equals, not an absolute overarching authority…?


And almost as soon as he asked the question, he knew the answer. Voldemort. His coming, the way he had forced them all to kneel to him, all the proud High Clan Lords in their independence; he had twisted and tainted the High Clan, corrupted it from what it was originally supposed to be, made it infinitely darker, infinitely more dangerous. Clans had fought amongst themselves before, but never to the point of extinction. The Dark Lord was ten years gone, but his legacy of mistrust and fear remained, not only in the hearts of normal wizarding society, but also in the hearts and the games of the High Clan. And Blaise Zabini feared that, even if Malfoy was able to win this Game, there would be another, and another, and another after that… Tom Riddle, who had been so spurned by his High Clan classmates some seventy years ago, had struck back with devastating effect.


They had come to see him, not too long ago, after the first newspaper article had been published. Smooth and silken, they had talked of power and of wealth, of influence and of manipulation, of the past and of the need to move on, of change and of a better, freer future for all, if only. But they had implied that if only could, so very easily, become when. They had offered logic and reason, had hinted of bribes and rewards; had hinted, even more subtly, of threats and coercion…


And he had murmured the appropriate pleasantries, returned bland replies and evasions, and had presented polite impassivity to any and all representations. They had been willing to settle for that, at the time.


Now, after they had dared to splash the news of Malfoy’s patricide over the morning papers, after they had so callously sacrificed Gerald Tarrant (rumours of his horrifying murder were even now winging their way through Diagon Alley, expertly spread), he wasn’t so sure that they would be so easily appeased, the next time they approached him. Because there would be a next time. Of that, he had no doubt. But, somewhat surprisingly, no one had approached him from the other side…yet.



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The rather awkward atmosphere inside the Burrow was interrupted soon after Dane Harcourt had drunk his first cup of tea by the youngest Weasley son, who burst unceremoniously into the living room, his face an absolute study in outrage, indignation and righteous anger. He was followed, soon after, by his wife, who looked as if she had tried, unsuccessfully, to restrain her husband, before giving into the inevitable and following him anyway.


“Where is she?” Ron Weasley asked in an almost dangerously calm voice. This was the voice of true temper, not bluster – and Dane was momentarily surprised to hear it from the man he had privately thought the most volatile of all the Weasley children.


They looked at each other, then, Dane and Luc and Arthur and Molly, and then back to Ron. Clearing his throat, Arthur spoke rather cautiously, picking his words with care. “They are at the Malfoy estate, in Wales…”


Ron scowled, turning cold blue eyes onto Luc. “Is it true they’re married?” Behind his back, Hermione looked as if she desperately wanted Luc to tell them it had all been a joke, and that Ron could calm down, now. Unfortunately, Luc only nodded, his eyes calm and analytical; it seemed he watched Weasley, judging his reaction. And for a moment, just for a moment, it seemed as though Weasley would indeed respond with the fireworks that Dane had expected of him – but, quite surprisingly, he closed his eyes, took deep, rhythmic breaths, and calmed himself down. Outwardly, at least.


Intrigued, Dane wondered just where he had learned such self-control. And then he remembered that Luc had spent a year teaching Defence against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, when Ron had been in his fifth year – many alliances could be forged, between teacher and student, that could not easily be made between Malfoy and Weasley out in the real world.


Ron had only one question. “Why?”


All eyes turned to Luc, as they so often did. He wondered if the other man ever wearied of such faith and trust. But Luc only smiled, a little thinly, and said, “I believe they fell in love, and could not bear to wait…”


Ron was not satisfied. “Why?”


If anything, the amusement deepened. “Things are coming to a head, extremely quickly – perhaps Draco thought it best to finalise his alliance with the Weasley family and the common people as soon as possible…”


Molly opened her mouth to protest, but evidently Ron was more familiar with this one of Luc’s more irritating habits. “Why?” he demanded, for the last time.


Luc’s flashing grin was open, unguarded, and full of genuine amusement. For the barest moment, those who had not known him as a boy, who had not seen him before he walked willingly and knowingly into the darkness, were treated to a glimpse of what he could have been, had it not been for the Dark Lord. Brilliant, charismatic, and beautiful.


Radiant.


“Trust and sex, Weasley,” he said, in delighted amusement. “Trust and sex.”


Hermione closed her eyes in despair.



~()~



Later on, when he had calmed enough to think logically, after Luc had, quite prudently, gone into the kitchen to make himself another cup of tea, Ron asked Dane what he was doing at the Burrow. Wishing, a little ruefully, that he could look to Luc to answer that particular question, Dane sighed and tried to think of the best way to phrase his answer.


Finally, he decided on the stark truth. For some reason, Gryffindors preferred it that way – they preferred to have the brutal punch, rather than to work up to it slowly so as to lesson the blow. Dane didn’t understand – all too often, the unvarnished truth caused the recipient to jump to untoward conclusions, forced them to confront the whole issue all at once, when they would not be prepared to deal with it. And that led to mistakes.


However, after years of dealing with his primarily Gryffindoric companions in the Auror Corps, Dane had learned to cater to their odd whims and preferences – it made life easier for all concerned, especially if they didn’t think he was holding out on them, or that he was being, Gods forbid, cunning and secretive…


So, finally he said, “Eugene Wilkes came to me this morning, with a wild tale that his employee, Gerald Tarrant, had been most brutally murdered by Draco Malfoy. I came to check it out.”


Hermione blinked. “I’m sorry? You thought Gerald had been murdered? By Malfoy? Draco Malfoy?” Calmly, he nodded.


She laughed. “That’s, that’s ridiculous. Gerald’s a pompous bore, and a bit of a nuisance, but that’s no reason to kill him…”


He kept silent, only raised an encouraging brow. A little wary, now, she frowned as she thought it through. “Why would Draco want to kill him? Granted, he has been making a nuisance of himself lately,” his brows climbed higher as he thought of the trouble those newspaper articles had caused, “but I can’t think that’s enough of a reason to kill him, especially in cold blood.”


Almost against his will, he smiled. “Oh, I don’t believe it was in cold blood…”


She frowned at him disapprovingly, and he spared a moment to enjoy the effect. “But High Clan never kill in hot blood. Especially not Malfoy – are you sure that it was Draco? Not Luc?”


His eyes flicked to Luc, who had just silently entered the room – his eyes were hooded in sardonic amusement at that rather backhanded insult. Then he turned back to Hermione, and nodded. “It was Draco, Mrs Weasley,” he murmured softly. “Luc would never have been caught…”


“Then why would Draco kill Gerald, in hot blood, and knowing that he would be caught?”


“Ah,” Dane said, nodding. “That is exactly the point. And one other thing,” he said, turning his head towards Luc. “Why didn’t his so clever, so powerful uncle stop him?” They all turned around to watch him – unconcerned, he lounged against the wall and took a leisurely sip of his tea. And then he smiled, slowly, and turned to the front door, as three solid knocks sounded against the wood.



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Expecting to see someone quite different, Arthur was taken aback to see three Ministry officials on his front doorstep – dressed in plain black robes, much as Luc Malfoy was, but of a much cheaper fabric and a less stylish cut, they nevertheless radiated a terrifying air of purpose, of officialdom. It brought to mind far less pleasant memories, of others who had also worn anonymous black robes and who appeared, unannounced, on unsuspecting citizen’s doorsteps.


He wondered why he was more upset at seeing these three here than he was on seeing a man who had actually been a Death Eater. Times changed, and so did circumstances and the shift of allegiances… The one in the centre, obviously the leader, spoke in a deep, commanding voice. “Mr. Weasley?”


Recovering his composure quickly, Arthur nodded.


The man said, “My name is Smith, and these are my colleagues Brown and Jones – we have orders to take Caius Draconis Malfoy into custody.” He looked, a little suspiciously, at Arthur – as if it were rather questionable that Malfoy could be found at his house. Although he had been a law-abiding man all his life, Arthur found himself a little glad that Draco was not, in fact, inside the house, and a little resentful at this arbitrary intrusion into his life.


“May I see some identification and a warrant, please gentlemen?” he asked, as politely as he could. Exchanging glances, the men pulled out cards identifying them as special agents of the Department of Unspeakables, authorized to hunt down fleeing criminals and bring them to justice. Their warrant was, to his secret disappointment, entirely genuine. With less than gracious politeness, he stepped back and invited them in over his threshold.

Of course, the first person they saw was Luc Malfoy, lounging negligently against the wall – watching them with sardonic, mocking eyes. This was the darker side of the smooth, urbane Clan leader, the darker side to the aristocratic mask; the twist of his mouth was almost ugly. Arthur Weasley only hoped that Luc would not resort to violence, not after what Draco had already done. The three agents eyed him with hostile suspicion – perhaps they had dreamed, long ago, of hunting him down too? – and the atmosphere chilled noticeably, perhaps warning the others in the house that something was wrong.


Molly came forward to greet them, and Smith forced his attention to her, to replying to her deliberately inconsequential small talk – but the other two looked past her, at the others in the lounge, dismissing Ron and Hermione and focusing on Dane Harcourt, with his High Clan bearing and heritage unmistakable, even now. Dane’s cool, measuring stare flicked between them, a little unsettling, a little discomposing, but there was no instant hostility as there had been with Luc. Perhaps that was a sign of just how trusted Harcourt really was, even in the Gryffindor-centric Ministry, even among the paranoid Unspeakables.


Smith refused a cup of tea, and got straight to the point. “We have been sent here to place the man known as Caius Draconis Malfoy under arrest, on charges of murder,” he looked intently at Luc as he spoke. “We had reason to believe that he could be found here.”


Ron looked at Dane questioningly, wondering whether he had anything to do with this, but the Auror shook his head fractionally. He had come only to investigate, and had not been under any official orders – someone had evidently gone over his head with this, and he didn’t like it. Given the chance to deal with Luc and Arthur on a personal basis, without authority to get in his way, he could have wrapped this up neatly and without much difficulty and grandstanding, but looking at the expression on Luc’s face, at the cruel glint in his eyes, at the hint of a very unpleasant smile, he knew that they had just lost any chance at his easy cooperation.


He would make them pay, now. He had engineered this whole situation, he was sure – but he had been counting on dealing with Dane, before. Dane knew the rules, and would play by them. But these three – the more they alienated Luc, the more politely difficult he would become, the more he would yank their chains before eventually he gave them what they wanted.


Perhaps wanting to defuse the situation a little, perhaps recognizing, as they all did, a little instinctively, the significance of Luc’s cold amusement, Molly said brightly, “Oh, he was here not too long ago, but he’s gone now, of course.” Arthur had to fight to keep his face straight. There were times when his lovely wife was not as foolish as she appeared, and this was one of them.


He thought he could see the agents grind their teeth. “Do you know where he can be found now, ma’am?” Jones, evidently a diplomatic man, spoke to give his leader time to recover.


“Where are they now?” she repeated absently, apparently thinking hard, not reacting to their well covered surprise at her change of pronoun. “Oh, I don’t know,” she tilted her head. “They left to get married, you know…”


All three of them went very, very still. “Married?” Smith repeated, dangerously softly. She nodded, oblivious.


“It was so romantic, the way they just couldn’t wait.” She smiled beatifically. “Are you married, Agent Smith?”


He shook his head. “Do you know where they are now, ma’am?” he repeated again, his whole body language radiating barely leashed intensity. The other two agents watched the others, but no one gave anything away, hiding behind the impassive masks learned through working at the Ministry.


Molly’s eyes unfocused, as if she were thinking hard. “Do you know, I just don’t know…” she breathed. Then she focused on the agents again, smiling. “Are you sure you don’t want any tea?”


Agent Smith agreed to a cup solely to get her out of the room and into the kitchen. Then, when she was gone, he turned his full attention onto Luc, walked forward until he was only a pace away, and said, “Do you know where they are now, Malfoy?”


Blankly, Luc shrugged – a magnificent gesture of unconcern. “No,” he said, amiably. “I don’t know where they are now.”


Agent Smith’s face hardened visibly. He walked forward again, until he was leaning only a hairsbreadth away from Luc’s face. He made no reaction to the blatant intimidation.


“Where is he?” Smith hissed venomously.


Slowly, Luc smiled. It was not a nice smile.


The other two agents shifted uncomfortably, obviously discomfited by the thought of pushing so hard, especially against Luc Malfoy, of all people. No one wanted to know what he was capable of, if pushed into a corner…


“He’s gone where none of you could ever follow him.” Smith stilled as he understood the implications of that statement. Malfoy had gone home. Beyond the Veil, to the ancestral land that was one place in Britain where he held true, sovereign power. To the one place in Britain that was truly cut off from the outside, unless a scion of Malfoy blood opened the Veil and let outsiders in, and insiders out. Shit.


“Take me there, Malfoy,” he ordered arrogantly, sure in his knowledge that his authority was legitimate and unquestionable. There had been times when it hadn’t been, but that was a long, long time ago. Unfortunately, Malfoy didn’t move. He didn’t react in any way, but there was an arrogant insolence in his body language, in his eyes, that made Smith long to smash the defiance out of him, break the goddamned superior bastard, show him that he was just as fragile as the rest of the men Smith had crushed… No. Control. Control. Pull the mask back up, become Agent Smith again…


“You know it will be better for him if he gives himself up…” that was better. He was calm again, in control. Dane blinked – but Draco had been coming back tomorrow anyway, hadn’t he? He hastily resumed his mask before anyone could notice. Who knew the ways that Luc’s mind worked?


Finally, after a long, silent staring match, Luc smiled tauntingly, moved forward off the wall, forcing Smith to move back quickly, and walked out of the room to the front door. He turned as he opened it, turned back towards them and said, “Well, are you coming?” before he walked out into the sunlight, into the middle of the garden, where he would have room to apparate. Eventually, out of curiosity, out of ambition, out of a curious desire to see Malfoy humbled, they all came.



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Standing in a circle surrounding Luc Malfoy, they felt the power rush, felt it grab them, and the garden at the Burrow faded away, to be replaced by a forested cliff edge, and a sheer, downward drop into a chasm that had no bottom. Ron and Hermione recognised the very place where Lucius Malfoy had died, his son Draco cradling his body, his face white and set; the psychic echoes were still very, very strong.


The others had never been here – Dane because he was a few years older than the Malfoy brothers had been, and he had not really associated with them at school, and the others because they had simply never had reason to. Agent Smith, alone of all of them, didn’t gaze around in curiousity, and Dane saw Luc eyeing him questioningly. He wondered what the other man saw.


Reaching out to the air just over the edge of the cliff, Luc’s hand actually flattened against an invisible barrier; then he pushed, and it shimmered, dissolved, blurred…and parted to reveal the ancient home of the Malfoy – green and prosperous and contented – a sight that few, other than the High Clan, were ever allowed to see. Their eyes narrowed against any unprofessional signs of awe, the agents examined the enchantments, felt for themselves the unimaginable weight of millennia, and felt a chill run down their spines. This was old, old magic – it would be impossible to break, impossible to bring down; if the Malfoy decided to hole up behind his Veil, then nothing and no one would ever get him out again.


Then they went in, and Luc apparated them again, this time to the grounds of an ancient, fortified castle. Good Gods, an actual castle – this was beyond anything that Jones or Brown had ever experienced, beyond anything they had ever dreamed of. Children of middle class parents, of a middle class upbringing, they had never really become involved in the matters of the High Clan before. Luc Malfoy, of whom they had heard so much, was one thing – on his own, the man was positively scary – but this, this was quite another. This was the stuff of ancient legends.


Walking up the path to the castle with utter confidence of his reception, with the easy authority of a Lord, Luc knocked on the heavy iron sheathed doors – they swung open to reveal a House Elf, dressed in immaculate linens, who welcomed them in warmly. Following Luc, they walked into the castle, their progess slow because they stopped to look around, to marvel at the insides, at the evidence of the power and might and wealth of the Clan. The man who owned and controlled all this did not need to worry about the murder of one irritatingly pompous man. So why was he holed up here? And why had Luc let them in so easily?


Before doubts could destroy their state of mind, they walked into a sun-lit salon, washed with psychic echoes of another murder, where Draco Malfoy himself stood at the window and watched them come. There was some kind of secret amusement in his expression, as if he knew of some irony that they didn’t. No one had ever managed to find out just what had happened to Narcissa Malfoy, twelve years ago…or if they did know, no one had ever said anything. White haired and completely, enviably composed, he smiled and welcomed them in. “Ah, gentlemen, ladies, please, do come in. What may I do for you? Have you met my wife, Ginevra?”


He indicated Ginny, who sat swinging her foot on the chaise lounge, watching them all with an oddly fierce expression. They paused to greet her, too, then Smith took the lead, drawing himself up and looking at Draco with disgusted contempt. “Caius Draconis Malfoy, you are under arrest for the murder of Gerald Tarrant.”


Ginny made a movement, as if she would have sprung up off the chaise, but subsided at a small gesture and a glance from her husband. Ron and Hermione stared at her strangely, as if they couldn’t believe it was really her, Molly looked a little askance at Draco, but Arthur had a small, delighted smile on his face – if the situation weren’t so serious, he would probably have been beaming at her. Luc spared her one look, and she remembered his advice when he had shown her the depth of his and Draco’s willpower and told her she would have to be strong – and she remembered that whatever he did, he had only ever did it for the good of his House and his family. He would have a reason for this. She was sure of it.


And after all that, after all the drama, after the long and pointed trip through the Castle that hammered home just how powerful the Clan still was, even now, Draco Malfoy gave himself up peacefully to his arrest, willingly going along into custody, with only a last look at his wife and a long, unreadable glance at his uncle, who stared back at him impassively. But evidently, whatever he had seen in Luc Malfoy’s enigmatic eyes had been enough to satisfy him. Because after that, he didn’t look back once on his way back to the real world.



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