Disclaimer – I don’t own any of the canon characters or concepts. The idea of the High Clan is mine.
CHAPTER 7 - Recriminations
Perhaps because of her experiences in her first year, Ginny had always been slightly fascinated by the High Clan, especially the older, darker Houses. In her seventh year History of Magic independent study, she'd researched the mindsets and the evolution of the Thirteen, the oldest of them all, which had been founded by Brandon Andenais, called Malfoy, and the twelve others who had followed him into exile and into a new, unclaimed land they made their own. What information she had been able to find, to coax out of the few High Clan scions she had managed to interview, had caused her to re-evaluate everything she had ever believed about the Slytherins. Before, all her knowledge of Slytherin had come from what she herself had seen, from what she had heard from her class and Housemates, and from what she had picked up from Tom Riddle, the memory of a seventeen year old, bastard half-blood muggle.
It had not been anywhere near the whole truth. Oh, yes, some things hadn't changed - the prejudice, the arrogance, the ambition and the cunning - but all that was superficial, it didn't even begin to cover the truth that underpinned what was known as the High Clan, a caste and a class almost separate from the rest of society, with their own laws and customs and hierarchy. The Clan - the family, the Blood - was everything, in their minds; the survival and prosperity of the Clan was the highest priority. The Clan Lord held absolute power over his Clan, checked only by the Covenant - a mystical bond she had not quite managed to understand but knew, instinctively, was vital. The Covenant was both the source of the Lord's authority and the only real check to it, a sacred balance that, if upset, would somehow plunge the Clan into disaster.
It was the Lord's task to ensure the prosperity and the survival of the Clan by any means possible, at any price. The main task, she knew, was to ensure the Covenant was upheld - but there were other, more worldly considerations. Politics, intrigue, manipulation, or outright force - the Clan Lord utilized all these things and more, counting no cost, taking the sins and the blame onto his own soul, to shelter and protect his family and blood. It had sounded rather like mystic babble at the time, and still did now, but after hearing Malfoy talk of his own Covenant, of the lengths to he had gone to restore it, to ensure its continuity, she was sure of one thing - Malfoy believed, utterly, in what he was saying.
For all his ruthlessness and worldly cynicism, there was a deep, dark streak of mysticism running through his soul.
What was the individual, when weighed against the whole Clan? These were the burdens of the Clan Lord - to stand, alone, against any and all who would oppose him. To give all that he could, all that he had, so that the least of his kinsmen could be safe. To commit any sin, to pay any price, so that what must be done was done.
And that was why she was so furious. She could forgive Draco his plotting and his manipulation because she could see the necessity, see the power ranged against the Malfoy, breathing down his neck, but she couldn't, no matter how hard she tried, meekly forget the way he had so callously used her. Were she a Slytherin, steeped in High Clan mentality since childhood, perhaps then she might understand and even forgive, but she was not Slytherin, not High Clan. She was a Gryffindor, a Weasley, a shabby-genteel family dating back all of two hundred years, when the Malfoy could trace direct descent for two and a half thousand.
Her research had given her an appreciation of the Slytherins that she hadn't dared share with her family. She still saw the flaws, and probably always would, but under and outside of that, she saw the discipline, the absolute control and sangfroid that characterized them, the elegance and the grace and the manners, the exquisite politeness and the subtlety, the patience of their thoughts. And their self control. She had never, not once, really seen Draco lose his temper. Oh, there had been tantrums, fights, spats and shouting matches, but watching closely even in her younger years, influenced by Tom's memories and experience, she could see the calculation inherent in every single incident, see the careful blankness that characterized restraint.
She had admired that most of all. Born into a hot-blooded, extremely volatile, rather vocal family, she had found the cold courtesy and the absolute self control, the soft voices that were never raised and never needed to be when speaking completely fascinating. And drawn by her admiration, by Malfoy's natural charisma, by girlish fantasies, by resentment and impulsiveness and sheer recklessness, she had allowed herself to believe, just for a moment, that she could come close to the real Draco Malfoy, the one behind the composure and the control and the Lord's masks. See, and perhaps even understand, the burning soul with such a mixture of mysticism and practicality, of ruthlessness and love, of strength and vulnerability.
But she'd gone too far, and had impulsively declared her still half-formed fascination to the Gods themselves, who had taken a hand in the matter. And then she had played right into Malfoy's hands.
****************************************
With deliberate, vindictive malice, she picked up a priceless, heirloom Dresden shepherdess she had always hated, weighed it in her hand, smiled slowly, and flung it at the wall, taking exquisite pleasure in the resulting smash. Her audience cringed, and tried their best to fade into the background. Then, still eerily calm, she picked up a crystal wine glass, one of the very few Molly Weasley had ever been able to afford, and held it up to the light to savour its reflection, its clarity. Molly Weasley, her expression caught between wariness of her daughter's temper and worry about her wine glass, made a choked sound as she came in the door and saw what was going on.
"Ginevra Molly Weasley!" she all but shrieked. Ginny turned, and so did Ron and Harry, who had been trying to remain unnoticed.
The smile that curved Ginny's lips was chilling. It was, quite frankly, the small smile they had all seen, on occasion, on Draco Malfoy's lips, usually just before the man turned ice cold and elegantly feral. Just how much had she learned from Malfoy? And what had he done to upset her this much?
"Hello, Mother," she purred softly. "Can't you see I'm throwing a tantrum? Isn't that just like a Gryffindoric, impulsive, naive Weasley."
Hermione, who had come in with Molly, winced.
"Is it Malfoy?" Molly asked with a disastrous lack of tact. "I can't say I'm surprised, Ginny, but I did warn you..."
If anything, Ginny's eyes went any colder.
"A man like him would have no interest in a virtuous young girl like you, Ginny dear," said her mother kindly, but firmly. As if it were a lesson she had tried and tried to impart, but was only now sinking in. "He's High Clan, and men like him don't marry the likes of us, darling. You're better off without him."
Ginny laughed, a shocking, harsh, bitter sound much like Draco had laughed when he told her how his father had died. She understood, now, something of what he had felt. "Mother," she said very softly, "he's bound me to him so closely I'll never break free."
Ron and Harry sat up suddenly, eyes narrowed. Hermione's eyes widened, then sharpened in speculation.
"What?" asked Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived, the auror who had slain Voldemort, the very dangerous man who had seen and done far too much in his lifetime.
She looked at him through cold, bitter eyes. "He set me up. He deliberately manipulated me and he played the whole situation like a goddamn chess board."
Molly looked bewildered. "Why?"
She smiled terribly. "Because he is the Lord of High Clan Malfoy, and he will do anything, everything, to ensure the survival of his Clan."
Ron scowled. "Is his Clan in such danger, then?"
Arthur Weasley, newly arrived home, stepped between his daughter and his wife. "After today's paper, and the rumours that are flying around the Ministry and Diagon Alley, I would say that someone, or some people, are throwing everything they've got against him..."
Ginny turned on him. "You don't believe that, do you? He's the Malfoy. Who's going to come after him? Who's going to dare?"
Harry cleared his throat delicately. "Well, Ginny, he did make quite a few enemies after his father died - his vengeance wasn't entirely subtle - a lot of people have been waiting for the perfect opportunity to pay him back in kind." He held up a hand, preventing her next outburst. "And, after all, he is only one man, only one Clan..."
Arthur nodded. "If he truly believes that his Clan is in danger, then he'll fight back with everything he's got. It's his duty."
Ron looked at both of them in amazement. "I can't believe you're supporting him in this. Look what he's done to Ginny - he's set her up, manipulated her..."
Hermione, Arthur and Harry exchanged glances. "Well, he is the Clan Lord. That's what a Clan Lord does, protecting, nurturing, avenging, upholding...."
Ron scowled. "Oh, for God's sake, don't tell me you believe all that mystical, High Clan tripe."
Ginny was silent. Hermione looked at her husband earnestly. "Yes, I do. And more importantly, so does Malfoy." She leaned forward and squeezed his hand. "Remember when we went Beyond the Veil, into his land? We saw his face when he killed his father, the father he loved and idolized, because of this unknown, mystical force called the Covenant. We were right there when the stigmata opened on his forearms and when he exchanged blood with every peasant on the estate. He believes."
"It's...it's archaic,” Ron blustered. “It just can't be still practiced today. Malfoy is too cynical, he can't believe in all that stuff."
Hermione lifted her chin, assumed her lecturing voice. "Time passes by that land - and the people still believe in the Old, old ways. The whole place is steeped in mysticism and ritual, and Malfoy believed in it, he wasn't just paying lip service."
"So what? Because he's a Clan Lord, because his family is in danger, does that give him the right to use Ginny like he did? Does that justify what he did?" Ron looked an appeal at Ginny, who had been drawn over to the window and was looking towards the west, towards Wales and, although she didn't know it, towards the Malfoy lands.
Ginny only shook her pressed her forehead against the glass, her eyes closed and her shoulders slumped. She looked utterly exhausted, oddly fragile, and more beautiful than she had ever been, with her new haircut and her newly fashionable clothes. Malfoy had already put his stamp on her – his Queen, he had called her. Just before telling her that there was no way for her to bow out of the game gracefully - either she played it his way, or not at all. She had a feeling that he played with consummate skill and utter ruthlessness. And she had an even more sneaking suspicion that if he lost this game, if the Malfoy, who had balanced and centred the High Clan for millennia, were brought down and destroyed, then the consequences would be...undesirable. For him, for her, and for the whole wizarding world.
And what was her resentment, when balanced against that? Perhaps if she were a Gryffindor, with naïve notions of justice and fair play, she might have objected on sheer principle. But she was not, not truly - she had too much of Tom in her, even now - and she could, with some difficulty, see the necessity in what he had done. That didn't mean she would make it easy on him.
*********************************************
At the moment, Draco was standing at the window of his drawing room, looking out blindly towards the east - towards the Burrow, if he had known it. He, too, leaned his head against the cool glass, closed his eyes wearily and let himself drift, relax, in the first moments of peace he'd had in what seemed like an age. He was the Lord, and he was supposed to be strong - but oh, Lady, sometimes it was so hard...
Now he knew how his uncle must have felt, in the first few terrifying days after Lucius had died, when Luc had had to carry the weight of the Malfoy and of his own Clan, to deal with his own grief, Draco's semi-resentment, the Ministry's circling vultures, and Voldemort's enmity all at once. He knew what was causing most of the strain, most of the uncertainty.
Ginevra. A complication. A distraction. A possibly disastrous vulnerability. A damned infuriating, infinitely desirable woman who was far too stubborn, and far too innocent, for her own good. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pin her down. And if he couldn't pin her down, he couldn't control her. And if he couldn't control her...
He needed her willing cooperation, but knew he wasn't likely to get it any time soon. He needed to see her, to talk to her, to explain and try to convince her – hopefully this time he would be able to find the right words, instead of the rather arbitrary demands he had made of her before. He still winced when he thought of that disastrous morning. But he couldn't afford to waste time, anymore. The wolves were coming closer by the moment. He needed to get her on his side, firmly, unequivocally on his side, as soon as possible.
No matter how it came about.
**********************************
They watched, and waited, as patiently as they had done for twelve long, humiliating years, and with every passing moment their hatred, their desire for revenge, burned even colder and deeper. Others had plotted revenge against the Malfoy, during the long, long centuries of their rule. Others had acted, had unleashed all manner of vengeance and plots, and had failed spectacularly, and had themselves fallen victim to Malfoy reprisals.
But this time they would not fail. Times had changed. The Lord's rights and prerogatives had been largely abandoned by recent legislation and custom, and the social and moral reform that had swept through society after Voldemort was finally defeated. Outright war, complete with massacres and salted fields was no longer an option. Nor was implicating their enemies in treason, or execution or assassination. So what methods did the Malfoy Lord have left? They had done their damnedest to make sure there were none. This time, they would bring the Malfoy down, and destroy them so utterly it would rock the very foundations of the wizarding world.
And then, only then, would they finally be satisfied.
*************************************
CHAPTER 7 - Recriminations
Perhaps because of her experiences in her first year, Ginny had always been slightly fascinated by the High Clan, especially the older, darker Houses. In her seventh year History of Magic independent study, she'd researched the mindsets and the evolution of the Thirteen, the oldest of them all, which had been founded by Brandon Andenais, called Malfoy, and the twelve others who had followed him into exile and into a new, unclaimed land they made their own. What information she had been able to find, to coax out of the few High Clan scions she had managed to interview, had caused her to re-evaluate everything she had ever believed about the Slytherins. Before, all her knowledge of Slytherin had come from what she herself had seen, from what she had heard from her class and Housemates, and from what she had picked up from Tom Riddle, the memory of a seventeen year old, bastard half-blood muggle.
It had not been anywhere near the whole truth. Oh, yes, some things hadn't changed - the prejudice, the arrogance, the ambition and the cunning - but all that was superficial, it didn't even begin to cover the truth that underpinned what was known as the High Clan, a caste and a class almost separate from the rest of society, with their own laws and customs and hierarchy. The Clan - the family, the Blood - was everything, in their minds; the survival and prosperity of the Clan was the highest priority. The Clan Lord held absolute power over his Clan, checked only by the Covenant - a mystical bond she had not quite managed to understand but knew, instinctively, was vital. The Covenant was both the source of the Lord's authority and the only real check to it, a sacred balance that, if upset, would somehow plunge the Clan into disaster.
It was the Lord's task to ensure the prosperity and the survival of the Clan by any means possible, at any price. The main task, she knew, was to ensure the Covenant was upheld - but there were other, more worldly considerations. Politics, intrigue, manipulation, or outright force - the Clan Lord utilized all these things and more, counting no cost, taking the sins and the blame onto his own soul, to shelter and protect his family and blood. It had sounded rather like mystic babble at the time, and still did now, but after hearing Malfoy talk of his own Covenant, of the lengths to he had gone to restore it, to ensure its continuity, she was sure of one thing - Malfoy believed, utterly, in what he was saying.
For all his ruthlessness and worldly cynicism, there was a deep, dark streak of mysticism running through his soul.
What was the individual, when weighed against the whole Clan? These were the burdens of the Clan Lord - to stand, alone, against any and all who would oppose him. To give all that he could, all that he had, so that the least of his kinsmen could be safe. To commit any sin, to pay any price, so that what must be done was done.
And that was why she was so furious. She could forgive Draco his plotting and his manipulation because she could see the necessity, see the power ranged against the Malfoy, breathing down his neck, but she couldn't, no matter how hard she tried, meekly forget the way he had so callously used her. Were she a Slytherin, steeped in High Clan mentality since childhood, perhaps then she might understand and even forgive, but she was not Slytherin, not High Clan. She was a Gryffindor, a Weasley, a shabby-genteel family dating back all of two hundred years, when the Malfoy could trace direct descent for two and a half thousand.
Her research had given her an appreciation of the Slytherins that she hadn't dared share with her family. She still saw the flaws, and probably always would, but under and outside of that, she saw the discipline, the absolute control and sangfroid that characterized them, the elegance and the grace and the manners, the exquisite politeness and the subtlety, the patience of their thoughts. And their self control. She had never, not once, really seen Draco lose his temper. Oh, there had been tantrums, fights, spats and shouting matches, but watching closely even in her younger years, influenced by Tom's memories and experience, she could see the calculation inherent in every single incident, see the careful blankness that characterized restraint.
She had admired that most of all. Born into a hot-blooded, extremely volatile, rather vocal family, she had found the cold courtesy and the absolute self control, the soft voices that were never raised and never needed to be when speaking completely fascinating. And drawn by her admiration, by Malfoy's natural charisma, by girlish fantasies, by resentment and impulsiveness and sheer recklessness, she had allowed herself to believe, just for a moment, that she could come close to the real Draco Malfoy, the one behind the composure and the control and the Lord's masks. See, and perhaps even understand, the burning soul with such a mixture of mysticism and practicality, of ruthlessness and love, of strength and vulnerability.
But she'd gone too far, and had impulsively declared her still half-formed fascination to the Gods themselves, who had taken a hand in the matter. And then she had played right into Malfoy's hands.
****************************************
With deliberate, vindictive malice, she picked up a priceless, heirloom Dresden shepherdess she had always hated, weighed it in her hand, smiled slowly, and flung it at the wall, taking exquisite pleasure in the resulting smash. Her audience cringed, and tried their best to fade into the background. Then, still eerily calm, she picked up a crystal wine glass, one of the very few Molly Weasley had ever been able to afford, and held it up to the light to savour its reflection, its clarity. Molly Weasley, her expression caught between wariness of her daughter's temper and worry about her wine glass, made a choked sound as she came in the door and saw what was going on.
"Ginevra Molly Weasley!" she all but shrieked. Ginny turned, and so did Ron and Harry, who had been trying to remain unnoticed.
The smile that curved Ginny's lips was chilling. It was, quite frankly, the small smile they had all seen, on occasion, on Draco Malfoy's lips, usually just before the man turned ice cold and elegantly feral. Just how much had she learned from Malfoy? And what had he done to upset her this much?
"Hello, Mother," she purred softly. "Can't you see I'm throwing a tantrum? Isn't that just like a Gryffindoric, impulsive, naive Weasley."
Hermione, who had come in with Molly, winced.
"Is it Malfoy?" Molly asked with a disastrous lack of tact. "I can't say I'm surprised, Ginny, but I did warn you..."
If anything, Ginny's eyes went any colder.
"A man like him would have no interest in a virtuous young girl like you, Ginny dear," said her mother kindly, but firmly. As if it were a lesson she had tried and tried to impart, but was only now sinking in. "He's High Clan, and men like him don't marry the likes of us, darling. You're better off without him."
Ginny laughed, a shocking, harsh, bitter sound much like Draco had laughed when he told her how his father had died. She understood, now, something of what he had felt. "Mother," she said very softly, "he's bound me to him so closely I'll never break free."
Ron and Harry sat up suddenly, eyes narrowed. Hermione's eyes widened, then sharpened in speculation.
"What?" asked Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived, the auror who had slain Voldemort, the very dangerous man who had seen and done far too much in his lifetime.
She looked at him through cold, bitter eyes. "He set me up. He deliberately manipulated me and he played the whole situation like a goddamn chess board."
Molly looked bewildered. "Why?"
She smiled terribly. "Because he is the Lord of High Clan Malfoy, and he will do anything, everything, to ensure the survival of his Clan."
Ron scowled. "Is his Clan in such danger, then?"
Arthur Weasley, newly arrived home, stepped between his daughter and his wife. "After today's paper, and the rumours that are flying around the Ministry and Diagon Alley, I would say that someone, or some people, are throwing everything they've got against him..."
Ginny turned on him. "You don't believe that, do you? He's the Malfoy. Who's going to come after him? Who's going to dare?"
Harry cleared his throat delicately. "Well, Ginny, he did make quite a few enemies after his father died - his vengeance wasn't entirely subtle - a lot of people have been waiting for the perfect opportunity to pay him back in kind." He held up a hand, preventing her next outburst. "And, after all, he is only one man, only one Clan..."
Arthur nodded. "If he truly believes that his Clan is in danger, then he'll fight back with everything he's got. It's his duty."
Ron looked at both of them in amazement. "I can't believe you're supporting him in this. Look what he's done to Ginny - he's set her up, manipulated her..."
Hermione, Arthur and Harry exchanged glances. "Well, he is the Clan Lord. That's what a Clan Lord does, protecting, nurturing, avenging, upholding...."
Ron scowled. "Oh, for God's sake, don't tell me you believe all that mystical, High Clan tripe."
Ginny was silent. Hermione looked at her husband earnestly. "Yes, I do. And more importantly, so does Malfoy." She leaned forward and squeezed his hand. "Remember when we went Beyond the Veil, into his land? We saw his face when he killed his father, the father he loved and idolized, because of this unknown, mystical force called the Covenant. We were right there when the stigmata opened on his forearms and when he exchanged blood with every peasant on the estate. He believes."
"It's...it's archaic,” Ron blustered. “It just can't be still practiced today. Malfoy is too cynical, he can't believe in all that stuff."
Hermione lifted her chin, assumed her lecturing voice. "Time passes by that land - and the people still believe in the Old, old ways. The whole place is steeped in mysticism and ritual, and Malfoy believed in it, he wasn't just paying lip service."
"So what? Because he's a Clan Lord, because his family is in danger, does that give him the right to use Ginny like he did? Does that justify what he did?" Ron looked an appeal at Ginny, who had been drawn over to the window and was looking towards the west, towards Wales and, although she didn't know it, towards the Malfoy lands.
Ginny only shook her pressed her forehead against the glass, her eyes closed and her shoulders slumped. She looked utterly exhausted, oddly fragile, and more beautiful than she had ever been, with her new haircut and her newly fashionable clothes. Malfoy had already put his stamp on her – his Queen, he had called her. Just before telling her that there was no way for her to bow out of the game gracefully - either she played it his way, or not at all. She had a feeling that he played with consummate skill and utter ruthlessness. And she had an even more sneaking suspicion that if he lost this game, if the Malfoy, who had balanced and centred the High Clan for millennia, were brought down and destroyed, then the consequences would be...undesirable. For him, for her, and for the whole wizarding world.
And what was her resentment, when balanced against that? Perhaps if she were a Gryffindor, with naïve notions of justice and fair play, she might have objected on sheer principle. But she was not, not truly - she had too much of Tom in her, even now - and she could, with some difficulty, see the necessity in what he had done. That didn't mean she would make it easy on him.
*********************************************
At the moment, Draco was standing at the window of his drawing room, looking out blindly towards the east - towards the Burrow, if he had known it. He, too, leaned his head against the cool glass, closed his eyes wearily and let himself drift, relax, in the first moments of peace he'd had in what seemed like an age. He was the Lord, and he was supposed to be strong - but oh, Lady, sometimes it was so hard...
Now he knew how his uncle must have felt, in the first few terrifying days after Lucius had died, when Luc had had to carry the weight of the Malfoy and of his own Clan, to deal with his own grief, Draco's semi-resentment, the Ministry's circling vultures, and Voldemort's enmity all at once. He knew what was causing most of the strain, most of the uncertainty.
Ginevra. A complication. A distraction. A possibly disastrous vulnerability. A damned infuriating, infinitely desirable woman who was far too stubborn, and far too innocent, for her own good. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pin her down. And if he couldn't pin her down, he couldn't control her. And if he couldn't control her...
He needed her willing cooperation, but knew he wasn't likely to get it any time soon. He needed to see her, to talk to her, to explain and try to convince her – hopefully this time he would be able to find the right words, instead of the rather arbitrary demands he had made of her before. He still winced when he thought of that disastrous morning. But he couldn't afford to waste time, anymore. The wolves were coming closer by the moment. He needed to get her on his side, firmly, unequivocally on his side, as soon as possible.
No matter how it came about.
**********************************
They watched, and waited, as patiently as they had done for twelve long, humiliating years, and with every passing moment their hatred, their desire for revenge, burned even colder and deeper. Others had plotted revenge against the Malfoy, during the long, long centuries of their rule. Others had acted, had unleashed all manner of vengeance and plots, and had failed spectacularly, and had themselves fallen victim to Malfoy reprisals.
But this time they would not fail. Times had changed. The Lord's rights and prerogatives had been largely abandoned by recent legislation and custom, and the social and moral reform that had swept through society after Voldemort was finally defeated. Outright war, complete with massacres and salted fields was no longer an option. Nor was implicating their enemies in treason, or execution or assassination. So what methods did the Malfoy Lord have left? They had done their damnedest to make sure there were none. This time, they would bring the Malfoy down, and destroy them so utterly it would rock the very foundations of the wizarding world.
And then, only then, would they finally be satisfied.
*************************************
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