Standard disclaimers apply.
CHAPTER 19 – Layers upon Layers
“We’ve done it,” the shadowed figure exulted, almost childlike in her glee. “We’ve finally brought the Malfoy down!” A feral smile curled her lips – but then, she had always hated, loved and envied Draco, especially after he made it more than clear that he was uninterested.
Another, more cautious figure spoke. “Many times before, we thought that we had finally destroyed the Malfoy. And every single time, they emerge victorious and relatively unscathed; I don’t think believe this will be as easy as you think.”
The first figure scowled. “This time, they have chosen the instrument of their own destruction – they have chosen to play by the rules, and now they are bound by them – and those rules will bring them down. We have won this round,” she breathed. “We won!”
But the other was still far from convinced. “I think,” he murmured under his breath, frowning, “that we have been allowed to win…”
***********************************************
Draco lifted his hand slowly, taking care not to jar his ribs (he thought that that last kick must have broken at least two) and examined his face, checking for any broken bones – black eyes, split lips, a broken nose – but, thankfully, no major damage done. Except to his vanity – at least until the Aurors would eventually come and heal him, before putting him on the stand. The last thing they needed was rumours of Auror brutality.
He would have laughed, if it wouldn’t have hurt his ribs too much. Auror brutality. (Of course not, your Honour, I was treated with the warmest of hospitality; like an honoured guest...) Like the week he’d spent at Flint’s house, when he’d been captured by the Death Eaters – he had indeed been treated to the very warmest of hospitality. They’d all been most gratified to see him, and most eager to show him just how much they’d been looking forward to this moment. He had found out, in the course of that week, just how much pain the human body could experience and still live, only to be shown even more agony, more excruciating pain.
Compared to that, last night had been trivial. It was something, at least, to be thankful for. Of course, not all the Aurors in the building had taken the chance to work him over – in fact, most of them hadn’t. Most of them remembered the work Draco had done for the Order, and appreciated the fact that this Malfoy, at least, was not a Death Eater. The few who had taken the chance to rough him up had been the hard-core anti-Slytherin, anti-aristocrat veterans who could still remember the horrors of the first rising, when the whole world seemed to be ending, when everything had spun so quickly out of control and the High Clan Lords had watched with smug, amused eyes; the only thing that had kept them going, kept them alive through those days had been their hatred.
Hatred of the Death Eaters, of the Clan Lords who must have supported them, of the House that had spawned them… They didn’t believe in leopards changing their spots. And they didn’t believe that he had come easily and willingly – perhaps they didn’t want to believe it.
Coughing, he spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor, frowning at the metallic, coppery taste left behind in his mouth. He knew what blood tasted like – especially his own – but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He thought he had left such things far behind.
As he concentrated on not moving any more than necessary, the door swung open, revealing a looming silhouette of a man, wreathed in torchlight – quite melodramatic, really. He wondered if it was a deliberate effect. He squinted, until the figure came closer and the torchlight softened, allowing him to see who it was. He began to laugh, helplessly, trying hard to suppress the pain in his ribs as he did so. Mad-Eye Moody – so the old fossil was still going, even now.
He stopped laughing when he saw the expression on Moody’s face. The old man seemed to be…disappointed? He was scowling at him, seemingly upset. “I thought you had potential, boy. Is this what you’ve become?”
Draco only stared at him, surprised into impassivity – an ancient fallback position when dealing with Gryffindoric judgement. He thought that he’d have gotten over it by now.
When he didn’t reply, Moody suddenly looked tired, oh so tired… He sighed heavily. “What’s going on, Malfoy? This whole situation reeks of deception and misdirection; in fact, it reeks of politics and this damned Game that Harcourt talks of incessantly…”
Draco only closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the wall.
“I know you, Malfoy,” Moody continued. “I know your family. And I don’t believe this.”
Still no reaction. Moody leaned forward, his red eye rolling, and his real eye intense. “Well, boy – talk to me! Did you do it?”
The barest ghost of a smile twisted Draco’s mouth as he half opened his eyes, looked up at Moody in insolent, sardonic amusement. He didn’t say anything.
Moody nodded slowly, sadly as he understood. “So…” He turned away and walked over to the corner of the cell, not meeting Draco’s eyes. “Why?” he asked finally.
Why did he kill Gerald? Why did he give himself up? Why was he willing to face the common justice, when he knew his chances of winning were miniscule? What could he possibly have to gain? There were many things he could have said.
But Moody was too old and too canny, even if he wasn’t High Clan, to be fobbed off by an easy answer. So he said nothing, merely closing his eyes once more, turning away from the old man’s expectations.
He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t a courageous, gallant Gryffindor who played by society’s rules. He was a Slytherin, and a Malfoy. And for all his two years with the Order of the Phoenix, he still didn’t believe in truth, justice, and freedom, or even in equality. He didn’t believe in fundamental human rights or a universal morality – he believed in shades of grey, in manipulation and shadow games, and above all, in the twists and turns of the Game…
“Let the world see, if they must see,”his uncle had said, in that last discussion at the Burrow. “At least in this way we can control what is shown them. Hide a deeper deception behind a façade of truth, let them see the smaller issues, so that we can hide the larger, crucial ones; there is nothing to be gained by making the whole truth of this clear.”
Draco had nodded slowly, understanding. “A façade of truth – a trial to bring everything into the light, itself a carefully constructed illusion – and the truth will be what we wish it to be.”
Wheels within wheels, deceptions within deceptions…
“And even if we do win, what then?” he had asked in a rare moment of self-doubt. “What happens after?”
Luc’s eyes, so old, so full of memories Draco was glad he didn’t share, had been almost merciless in their clarity. “If we lose this Game, Draco, there won’t be an afterwards…”
**********************************************
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” a soft, rather dangerous voice spoke from behind him. He turned around, slowly, to face the new Lady Malfoy – an entirely different sort of woman from Narcissa, who had been an ice-bitch he had been only too happy to kill. Ginevra Weasley, now Malfoy, had an inner strength, an inner fire, that Narcissa had utterly lacked.
Perhaps it came of being a Gryffindor. Perhaps it came of being a Weasley – as much as she might not appreciate the comparison, he recognised that protective look on her face when she looked at Draco, when she had glared at the three agents who had come to take him away. In much the same way had he seen Molly Weasley protecting her cubs…
He looked at her impassively, measuring her strength of will, her faith, the strength of her principles and her beliefs. Just how deeply did she believe in truth, justice and equality, in courage and morality and absolute good and evil? Did she see the world in stark black and white, or in the more Slytherin view of infinite shades of grey?
He knew what had happened in her first year. He knew what had happened on the night just before the last battle against Voldemort. What he didn’t know was just how deeply she had been affected by those incidents – and how much faith she still placed in the tenets of Gryffindorism.
“I know what I’m doing, Lady. The question is, do you?”
She frowned, tilted her head. “I’m sorry?”
He touched his hand to the stone of the windowsill, trailing his long, white elegant fingers along the ancient stonework, highlighting the solidarity, the strength, the power of a fortress built and designed to withstand sieges and to dominate the surrounding countryside. The fragility of flesh, placed against the enduring strength of ancient stone. But not stark stone – he could feel the living, beating power of this place, feel the soul of the building that had housed the Malfoy for so long it was almost sentient. This was everything his family was, to him. Stronger and more enduring than solid rock, a living, tangible bulwark built to protect, defend and govern…But even rock could be ground down. Even castles can fall into ruin. And even the Malfoy could fall.
“Do you know what you are doing, in becoming a Malfoy, in becoming High Clan?” He looked back to her, into her experienced and yet still innocent eyes. She had seen something of life, but hadn’t yet lost her youth or her odd innocence. “Do you believe in our way, in our Cause, in our fight?”
She frowned, puzzled. “Why?”
“Draco called you his Queen, once.” She frowned as she remembered that conversation, long ago at her kitchen table. “But if you are to become Queen, you must believe in what you are doing, in what you are fighting for…”
She looked at him, her eyes cooling. No, she didn’t like him, didn’t trust him, but right now, he was all she had to work with. And he was the only one who really knew what was going on. Clever Ginevra, so Slytherin in her thinking, in her reasoning.
“And what am I fighting for, Luc?” she asked, her voice cool. Deliberately using the familiar form of address, to emphasise her higher rank.
He didn’t smile. This was far too serious for any untoward levity. “For the High Clan? For the Malfoy? For your husband? Or perhaps even for yourself?” She flinched imperceptibly at that barb, perhaps a little disconcerted by his insight.
And then struck back. “And what do you fight for, Lucien Brandon Malfoy? What do you believe in?”
He looked her steadily in the eye, considered and rejected several possible answers. Finally, he settled on the truth. “I fight for myself,” he murmured softly. “But I believe, I have always believed, above everything else, in the Malfoy...”
Her lips curled in an almost sneer. “That’s not what I have heard.”
He smiled a little thinly. “So, you have been listening to the rumours?”
“Rumours about your truest ambitions and your real desires? That you have always coveted House Malfoy above all things? Yes, I’ve heard them.” She looked at him, her entire demeanour a threat, a warning; she leaned in closer, invading his personal space. “So, Mr. Malfoy,” she purred, oh so softly, “How much truth is there in those rumours?”
Heavy eyelids lifted slowly, momentarily revealing silver, infinitely jaded eyes. “All the truth in the world,” he said wearily. “All the truth in the world; but that doesn’t mean that I’ll act on it.”
She wasn’t mollified. “How do I believe that?”
He smiled cynically. “You’ll just have to trust me.” And then, spurred by her unblinking stare, he made a sharp, slashing gesture, showing he was farther off balance than she had previously thought. “If I wanted to rule the Malfoy, then why didn’t I let Voldemort kill Draco and his father both? Everything I had ever wanted would have fallen, without the slightest effort, into my hands, and all I needed to do was stand and watch.”
She shook her head. “That’s not all…” He was a Slytherin, so Draco had said, once, long ago. And therefore he had multiple motives for everything he did – for the barest moment, she saw sheer rage in his eyes – and then it was gone. Wiped clean.
“No,” he murmured. “That’s not all…” Almost casually, holding her eyes with his own, he extended his left arm and pushed the sleeve of his robe up to bare his forearm, showing pale, white skin, as pale as Draco’s was; a whispered word, and the skin…shimmered, blurred…reformed…And finally revealed the faintest, barest outlines of an old, old Mark. Although she had never seen one before, other than in pictures and in Tom’s twisted imaginings, she recognised it immediately. The air of malevolence, of abomination, was still unmistakable, still tangible even now, ten years after the Dark Lord’s downfall.
Her entire body froze – but she forced herself to look back to him, her chin lifted, her eyes faintly inquiring. But there was no trace of amusement in his eyes or in his face. Indeed, he was looking down at his own forearm with an odd look, of almost revulsion, of – not regret, no, but – bitterness. And then he looked back to her, and his entire face blanked, all trace of expression disappeared. “I would not come to the Malfoy with…this…on my soul. It would be blasphemy of the worst sort.”
“And yet Lucius did it,” she pointed out.
He made a bitterly amused sound deep in his throat. “Lucius took the Malfoy to the brink of destruction. If Draco had not killed him, the Covenant would have failed within six months.” He pulled his sleeve back into place. “My taking his place would have smashed it beyond repair. And that,” he turned back to her, suddenly businesslike again, “is why I have fought, and will fight, so hard for Draco. Because he is the rightful Lord. Because he, alone, is capable of healing the damage Voldemort has done to us…”
She smiled suddenly. “And because he is your nephew and you love him.”
Caught off guard, his stunning smile flashed again, suddenly emphasizing his beauty, rather than his presence. “And,” he agreed, “because he is my nephew and I love him.” He bowed, turned to leave, and walked towards the door.
“Wait!” she called before he could walk out. He turned back to her, his eyebrow raised in question. Why did you show me your Mark? I could have destroyed you.” Even this far after the end, uncovered Death Eaters could still face life in Azkaban.
He smiled slowly. “Because right now, there’s no possible gain for you in destroying me – you need me. Later on,” he shrugged negligently, “it may make you feel more secure if you feel you have a handle on me.”
She looked at him. “Do I?”
He didn’t smile. “You asked for truth, Ginevra, from your husband, and from the rest of us – well, this is the truth of it: nothing is ever as it seems. Reality shifts with every perspective, and truth comes in a thousand different shades and variations...”
She repeated again, “Do I?”
He tilted his head. “Perhaps you do. But the question is, are you willing to pay the price of making that move?”
She blinked, beginning to understand something of what he was saying. “There is a price?”
He smiled bitterly. “There is always a price. The only question is whether or not the potential gain outweighs it. Take what you want,” he said finally, “and pay for it.”
***********************************************************
Albus Dumbledore stood at the window in his study, looking out over the grounds of Hogwarts, watching over the children playing with such innocence, safe within the castle’s shadow. Although he had never thought of himself in that way, he was aware that Snape often compared his guardianship of the school to that of a Clan Lord’s of his land and people. He was sure that Snape meant it as a compliment – the highest that a High Clan could give to a person not of their class – but somehow, putting it that way was…uncomfortable for him. He had never sought power, never wanted to be anything more than the Headmaster of Hogwarts School.
Not being a Slytherin, he had not thought of the opportunity for influencing and controlling the leaders of tomorrow – instead, he had seen it as the chance to guide the children away from the dark, away from evil, shaping them to be full and functioning members of normal society. And there he had run up against the High Clan, and their different beliefs and mentality…
Of course, it had not been so bad when he had first begun teaching. Before Tom Riddle began to corrupt them, the High Clan had been more closely integrated with normal society – although still aristocrats, still somewhat distant, they had not been so…shadowed. But as his influence grew, the Clans were dragged deeper and deeper into the darkness, and their ways and rituals had been twisted.
Draco was the third Malfoy Lord who had attended Hogwarts since he had begun teaching – he could remember Marcus Malfoy as a schoolboy, and he had been nothing, nothing like his grandson. Marcus had been almost innocent compared to the eleven year old Draco – and he could only mourn the loss of that innocence, because he knew Lucius and Luc had destroyed it for the boy’s own good. They had done the best they could to prepare him for life in the High Clan, dominated as it was by the Dark Lord.
He could still see echoes of the grandfather in the grandson – faint echoes, yes, but those faint hints of honour, of inner strength, were enough to remind him that all was not lost, that the High Clan were not, as the newspapers had been claiming lately, rotten through and through.
Just so had he seen faint hints of light and faith in Slytherin,
even at the height of the Dark Times. A faint sound from behind him – the faintest swish of robes, the slightest scent of herbs and potion ingredients…
“Hello Severus,” he said softly, not turning around.
The other man came further into the room, to stand by him at the window. “Albus,” he said in greeting, the memories of years of association contained in that one word. “Malfoy’s been arrested…”
Dumbledore sighed, remembering all the children who had never been innocent, who had never fought because they thought it right, but because they thought they could get something out of it. And this was no different. “Why?” he asked, finally.
Severus, too, knew the many layers of that one question. He knew something of the Game, and something of the way Luc Malfoy’s mind worked, but he didn’t pretend to fully understand him, or any of the layers of motives and misdirection, of truth and ambiguity and lies behind all the moves in this Game. But one thing he was sure of. “Because he believes that he’ll be acquitted.”
Caius Draconis Malfoy, Lord of High Clan Malfoy, would never, ever have chanced Azkaban unless he knew that there was not the slightest chance of ever being convicted. Not only did the Ministry exile criminals to almost certain madness, they took possession of all their land, all their possessions, all their money; everything and anything they had ever owned. And the Malfoy would not risk that.
Just as Lucius Malfoy had said to him long ago, when he had so soulfully and pathetically humbled himself by claiming, with precisely judged humiliation, that he had been placed under the Imperius and therefore was not in control of his actions…
“Justice is a very expensive whore, Severus…luckily, I can afford her.”
And Severus could not. So while Lucius had walked free, with public humiliation and ridicule as his only punishment, Severus had spent three months in Azkaban, and had spent the rest of his life teaching potions at Hogwarts. There had to be a moral in that somewhere.
He wondered what Justice’s price would be this time. And what would happen when Draco walked away innocent. Because the trial was not the only problem the Malfoy were facing…
***********************************************************
“Take what you want, and pay for it,” is from Robert Jordan’s “The Shadow Rising”.
“Justice is a very expensive whore, luckily, this time I can afford her”, is from Suzanne Forster’s “Come Midnight.”
CHAPTER 19 – Layers upon Layers
“We’ve done it,” the shadowed figure exulted, almost childlike in her glee. “We’ve finally brought the Malfoy down!” A feral smile curled her lips – but then, she had always hated, loved and envied Draco, especially after he made it more than clear that he was uninterested.
Another, more cautious figure spoke. “Many times before, we thought that we had finally destroyed the Malfoy. And every single time, they emerge victorious and relatively unscathed; I don’t think believe this will be as easy as you think.”
The first figure scowled. “This time, they have chosen the instrument of their own destruction – they have chosen to play by the rules, and now they are bound by them – and those rules will bring them down. We have won this round,” she breathed. “We won!”
But the other was still far from convinced. “I think,” he murmured under his breath, frowning, “that we have been allowed to win…”
***********************************************
Draco lifted his hand slowly, taking care not to jar his ribs (he thought that that last kick must have broken at least two) and examined his face, checking for any broken bones – black eyes, split lips, a broken nose – but, thankfully, no major damage done. Except to his vanity – at least until the Aurors would eventually come and heal him, before putting him on the stand. The last thing they needed was rumours of Auror brutality.
He would have laughed, if it wouldn’t have hurt his ribs too much. Auror brutality. (Of course not, your Honour, I was treated with the warmest of hospitality; like an honoured guest...) Like the week he’d spent at Flint’s house, when he’d been captured by the Death Eaters – he had indeed been treated to the very warmest of hospitality. They’d all been most gratified to see him, and most eager to show him just how much they’d been looking forward to this moment. He had found out, in the course of that week, just how much pain the human body could experience and still live, only to be shown even more agony, more excruciating pain.
Compared to that, last night had been trivial. It was something, at least, to be thankful for. Of course, not all the Aurors in the building had taken the chance to work him over – in fact, most of them hadn’t. Most of them remembered the work Draco had done for the Order, and appreciated the fact that this Malfoy, at least, was not a Death Eater. The few who had taken the chance to rough him up had been the hard-core anti-Slytherin, anti-aristocrat veterans who could still remember the horrors of the first rising, when the whole world seemed to be ending, when everything had spun so quickly out of control and the High Clan Lords had watched with smug, amused eyes; the only thing that had kept them going, kept them alive through those days had been their hatred.
Hatred of the Death Eaters, of the Clan Lords who must have supported them, of the House that had spawned them… They didn’t believe in leopards changing their spots. And they didn’t believe that he had come easily and willingly – perhaps they didn’t want to believe it.
Coughing, he spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor, frowning at the metallic, coppery taste left behind in his mouth. He knew what blood tasted like – especially his own – but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He thought he had left such things far behind.
As he concentrated on not moving any more than necessary, the door swung open, revealing a looming silhouette of a man, wreathed in torchlight – quite melodramatic, really. He wondered if it was a deliberate effect. He squinted, until the figure came closer and the torchlight softened, allowing him to see who it was. He began to laugh, helplessly, trying hard to suppress the pain in his ribs as he did so. Mad-Eye Moody – so the old fossil was still going, even now.
He stopped laughing when he saw the expression on Moody’s face. The old man seemed to be…disappointed? He was scowling at him, seemingly upset. “I thought you had potential, boy. Is this what you’ve become?”
Draco only stared at him, surprised into impassivity – an ancient fallback position when dealing with Gryffindoric judgement. He thought that he’d have gotten over it by now.
When he didn’t reply, Moody suddenly looked tired, oh so tired… He sighed heavily. “What’s going on, Malfoy? This whole situation reeks of deception and misdirection; in fact, it reeks of politics and this damned Game that Harcourt talks of incessantly…”
Draco only closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the wall.
“I know you, Malfoy,” Moody continued. “I know your family. And I don’t believe this.”
Still no reaction. Moody leaned forward, his red eye rolling, and his real eye intense. “Well, boy – talk to me! Did you do it?”
The barest ghost of a smile twisted Draco’s mouth as he half opened his eyes, looked up at Moody in insolent, sardonic amusement. He didn’t say anything.
Moody nodded slowly, sadly as he understood. “So…” He turned away and walked over to the corner of the cell, not meeting Draco’s eyes. “Why?” he asked finally.
Why did he kill Gerald? Why did he give himself up? Why was he willing to face the common justice, when he knew his chances of winning were miniscule? What could he possibly have to gain? There were many things he could have said.
But Moody was too old and too canny, even if he wasn’t High Clan, to be fobbed off by an easy answer. So he said nothing, merely closing his eyes once more, turning away from the old man’s expectations.
He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t a courageous, gallant Gryffindor who played by society’s rules. He was a Slytherin, and a Malfoy. And for all his two years with the Order of the Phoenix, he still didn’t believe in truth, justice, and freedom, or even in equality. He didn’t believe in fundamental human rights or a universal morality – he believed in shades of grey, in manipulation and shadow games, and above all, in the twists and turns of the Game…
“Let the world see, if they must see,”his uncle had said, in that last discussion at the Burrow. “At least in this way we can control what is shown them. Hide a deeper deception behind a façade of truth, let them see the smaller issues, so that we can hide the larger, crucial ones; there is nothing to be gained by making the whole truth of this clear.”
Draco had nodded slowly, understanding. “A façade of truth – a trial to bring everything into the light, itself a carefully constructed illusion – and the truth will be what we wish it to be.”
Wheels within wheels, deceptions within deceptions…
“And even if we do win, what then?” he had asked in a rare moment of self-doubt. “What happens after?”
Luc’s eyes, so old, so full of memories Draco was glad he didn’t share, had been almost merciless in their clarity. “If we lose this Game, Draco, there won’t be an afterwards…”
**********************************************
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” a soft, rather dangerous voice spoke from behind him. He turned around, slowly, to face the new Lady Malfoy – an entirely different sort of woman from Narcissa, who had been an ice-bitch he had been only too happy to kill. Ginevra Weasley, now Malfoy, had an inner strength, an inner fire, that Narcissa had utterly lacked.
Perhaps it came of being a Gryffindor. Perhaps it came of being a Weasley – as much as she might not appreciate the comparison, he recognised that protective look on her face when she looked at Draco, when she had glared at the three agents who had come to take him away. In much the same way had he seen Molly Weasley protecting her cubs…
He looked at her impassively, measuring her strength of will, her faith, the strength of her principles and her beliefs. Just how deeply did she believe in truth, justice and equality, in courage and morality and absolute good and evil? Did she see the world in stark black and white, or in the more Slytherin view of infinite shades of grey?
He knew what had happened in her first year. He knew what had happened on the night just before the last battle against Voldemort. What he didn’t know was just how deeply she had been affected by those incidents – and how much faith she still placed in the tenets of Gryffindorism.
“I know what I’m doing, Lady. The question is, do you?”
She frowned, tilted her head. “I’m sorry?”
He touched his hand to the stone of the windowsill, trailing his long, white elegant fingers along the ancient stonework, highlighting the solidarity, the strength, the power of a fortress built and designed to withstand sieges and to dominate the surrounding countryside. The fragility of flesh, placed against the enduring strength of ancient stone. But not stark stone – he could feel the living, beating power of this place, feel the soul of the building that had housed the Malfoy for so long it was almost sentient. This was everything his family was, to him. Stronger and more enduring than solid rock, a living, tangible bulwark built to protect, defend and govern…But even rock could be ground down. Even castles can fall into ruin. And even the Malfoy could fall.
“Do you know what you are doing, in becoming a Malfoy, in becoming High Clan?” He looked back to her, into her experienced and yet still innocent eyes. She had seen something of life, but hadn’t yet lost her youth or her odd innocence. “Do you believe in our way, in our Cause, in our fight?”
She frowned, puzzled. “Why?”
“Draco called you his Queen, once.” She frowned as she remembered that conversation, long ago at her kitchen table. “But if you are to become Queen, you must believe in what you are doing, in what you are fighting for…”
She looked at him, her eyes cooling. No, she didn’t like him, didn’t trust him, but right now, he was all she had to work with. And he was the only one who really knew what was going on. Clever Ginevra, so Slytherin in her thinking, in her reasoning.
“And what am I fighting for, Luc?” she asked, her voice cool. Deliberately using the familiar form of address, to emphasise her higher rank.
He didn’t smile. This was far too serious for any untoward levity. “For the High Clan? For the Malfoy? For your husband? Or perhaps even for yourself?” She flinched imperceptibly at that barb, perhaps a little disconcerted by his insight.
And then struck back. “And what do you fight for, Lucien Brandon Malfoy? What do you believe in?”
He looked her steadily in the eye, considered and rejected several possible answers. Finally, he settled on the truth. “I fight for myself,” he murmured softly. “But I believe, I have always believed, above everything else, in the Malfoy...”
Her lips curled in an almost sneer. “That’s not what I have heard.”
He smiled a little thinly. “So, you have been listening to the rumours?”
“Rumours about your truest ambitions and your real desires? That you have always coveted House Malfoy above all things? Yes, I’ve heard them.” She looked at him, her entire demeanour a threat, a warning; she leaned in closer, invading his personal space. “So, Mr. Malfoy,” she purred, oh so softly, “How much truth is there in those rumours?”
Heavy eyelids lifted slowly, momentarily revealing silver, infinitely jaded eyes. “All the truth in the world,” he said wearily. “All the truth in the world; but that doesn’t mean that I’ll act on it.”
She wasn’t mollified. “How do I believe that?”
He smiled cynically. “You’ll just have to trust me.” And then, spurred by her unblinking stare, he made a sharp, slashing gesture, showing he was farther off balance than she had previously thought. “If I wanted to rule the Malfoy, then why didn’t I let Voldemort kill Draco and his father both? Everything I had ever wanted would have fallen, without the slightest effort, into my hands, and all I needed to do was stand and watch.”
She shook her head. “That’s not all…” He was a Slytherin, so Draco had said, once, long ago. And therefore he had multiple motives for everything he did – for the barest moment, she saw sheer rage in his eyes – and then it was gone. Wiped clean.
“No,” he murmured. “That’s not all…” Almost casually, holding her eyes with his own, he extended his left arm and pushed the sleeve of his robe up to bare his forearm, showing pale, white skin, as pale as Draco’s was; a whispered word, and the skin…shimmered, blurred…reformed…And finally revealed the faintest, barest outlines of an old, old Mark. Although she had never seen one before, other than in pictures and in Tom’s twisted imaginings, she recognised it immediately. The air of malevolence, of abomination, was still unmistakable, still tangible even now, ten years after the Dark Lord’s downfall.
Her entire body froze – but she forced herself to look back to him, her chin lifted, her eyes faintly inquiring. But there was no trace of amusement in his eyes or in his face. Indeed, he was looking down at his own forearm with an odd look, of almost revulsion, of – not regret, no, but – bitterness. And then he looked back to her, and his entire face blanked, all trace of expression disappeared. “I would not come to the Malfoy with…this…on my soul. It would be blasphemy of the worst sort.”
“And yet Lucius did it,” she pointed out.
He made a bitterly amused sound deep in his throat. “Lucius took the Malfoy to the brink of destruction. If Draco had not killed him, the Covenant would have failed within six months.” He pulled his sleeve back into place. “My taking his place would have smashed it beyond repair. And that,” he turned back to her, suddenly businesslike again, “is why I have fought, and will fight, so hard for Draco. Because he is the rightful Lord. Because he, alone, is capable of healing the damage Voldemort has done to us…”
She smiled suddenly. “And because he is your nephew and you love him.”
Caught off guard, his stunning smile flashed again, suddenly emphasizing his beauty, rather than his presence. “And,” he agreed, “because he is my nephew and I love him.” He bowed, turned to leave, and walked towards the door.
“Wait!” she called before he could walk out. He turned back to her, his eyebrow raised in question. Why did you show me your Mark? I could have destroyed you.” Even this far after the end, uncovered Death Eaters could still face life in Azkaban.
He smiled slowly. “Because right now, there’s no possible gain for you in destroying me – you need me. Later on,” he shrugged negligently, “it may make you feel more secure if you feel you have a handle on me.”
She looked at him. “Do I?”
He didn’t smile. “You asked for truth, Ginevra, from your husband, and from the rest of us – well, this is the truth of it: nothing is ever as it seems. Reality shifts with every perspective, and truth comes in a thousand different shades and variations...”
She repeated again, “Do I?”
He tilted his head. “Perhaps you do. But the question is, are you willing to pay the price of making that move?”
She blinked, beginning to understand something of what he was saying. “There is a price?”
He smiled bitterly. “There is always a price. The only question is whether or not the potential gain outweighs it. Take what you want,” he said finally, “and pay for it.”
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Albus Dumbledore stood at the window in his study, looking out over the grounds of Hogwarts, watching over the children playing with such innocence, safe within the castle’s shadow. Although he had never thought of himself in that way, he was aware that Snape often compared his guardianship of the school to that of a Clan Lord’s of his land and people. He was sure that Snape meant it as a compliment – the highest that a High Clan could give to a person not of their class – but somehow, putting it that way was…uncomfortable for him. He had never sought power, never wanted to be anything more than the Headmaster of Hogwarts School.
Not being a Slytherin, he had not thought of the opportunity for influencing and controlling the leaders of tomorrow – instead, he had seen it as the chance to guide the children away from the dark, away from evil, shaping them to be full and functioning members of normal society. And there he had run up against the High Clan, and their different beliefs and mentality…
Of course, it had not been so bad when he had first begun teaching. Before Tom Riddle began to corrupt them, the High Clan had been more closely integrated with normal society – although still aristocrats, still somewhat distant, they had not been so…shadowed. But as his influence grew, the Clans were dragged deeper and deeper into the darkness, and their ways and rituals had been twisted.
Draco was the third Malfoy Lord who had attended Hogwarts since he had begun teaching – he could remember Marcus Malfoy as a schoolboy, and he had been nothing, nothing like his grandson. Marcus had been almost innocent compared to the eleven year old Draco – and he could only mourn the loss of that innocence, because he knew Lucius and Luc had destroyed it for the boy’s own good. They had done the best they could to prepare him for life in the High Clan, dominated as it was by the Dark Lord.
He could still see echoes of the grandfather in the grandson – faint echoes, yes, but those faint hints of honour, of inner strength, were enough to remind him that all was not lost, that the High Clan were not, as the newspapers had been claiming lately, rotten through and through.
Just so had he seen faint hints of light and faith in Slytherin,
even at the height of the Dark Times. A faint sound from behind him – the faintest swish of robes, the slightest scent of herbs and potion ingredients…
“Hello Severus,” he said softly, not turning around.
The other man came further into the room, to stand by him at the window. “Albus,” he said in greeting, the memories of years of association contained in that one word. “Malfoy’s been arrested…”
Dumbledore sighed, remembering all the children who had never been innocent, who had never fought because they thought it right, but because they thought they could get something out of it. And this was no different. “Why?” he asked, finally.
Severus, too, knew the many layers of that one question. He knew something of the Game, and something of the way Luc Malfoy’s mind worked, but he didn’t pretend to fully understand him, or any of the layers of motives and misdirection, of truth and ambiguity and lies behind all the moves in this Game. But one thing he was sure of. “Because he believes that he’ll be acquitted.”
Caius Draconis Malfoy, Lord of High Clan Malfoy, would never, ever have chanced Azkaban unless he knew that there was not the slightest chance of ever being convicted. Not only did the Ministry exile criminals to almost certain madness, they took possession of all their land, all their possessions, all their money; everything and anything they had ever owned. And the Malfoy would not risk that.
Just as Lucius Malfoy had said to him long ago, when he had so soulfully and pathetically humbled himself by claiming, with precisely judged humiliation, that he had been placed under the Imperius and therefore was not in control of his actions…
“Justice is a very expensive whore, Severus…luckily, I can afford her.”
And Severus could not. So while Lucius had walked free, with public humiliation and ridicule as his only punishment, Severus had spent three months in Azkaban, and had spent the rest of his life teaching potions at Hogwarts. There had to be a moral in that somewhere.
He wondered what Justice’s price would be this time. And what would happen when Draco walked away innocent. Because the trial was not the only problem the Malfoy were facing…
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“Take what you want, and pay for it,” is from Robert Jordan’s “The Shadow Rising”.
“Justice is a very expensive whore, luckily, this time I can afford her”, is from Suzanne Forster’s “Come Midnight.”
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