Disclaimer – I don’t own any of the canon characters or concepts. I do own Julia, and my version of Snape’s history.
CHAPTER 8 - Hogwarts
Hogwarts.
Watching it appear over the horizon, Draco felt an odd feeling of nostalgia for the days when he had, so innocently, roamed its corridors and sheltered within its walls. He had never really realized just how sheltered they'd all been, just how much had been kept from them for their own safety.
There were times when he missed Hogwarts, longed for the simplicity of the days when his biggest problem had been producing an essay Snape would approve of, and his greatest enemy had been Harry Potter, but that had been before his fifth year, before his father had died and he had been propelled into the real world, into the real Game.
There were times when he wished that he could go back, regain his innocence and revert once more to Draco Malfoy, the great ferret, the ruler of Slytherin, but it couldn't be. Mortals were given a set number of days on the earth and the gift of free will, so that they could live them as they willed. There was only one absolute - what was done could never be undone. In this world, even with the invention of time turners, there was no going back. One had to ride out the consequences as best one could.
Occasionally, though, life gives us all a chance to make amends.
McGonagall met him at the entrance to the Great Hall, still as straitlaced and prim as ever, regarding him with the same disapproving eyes and stiff manner that she had used through all his years at Hogwarts. In fact, he didn't think that he had ever earned a smile or a word of praise from the Head of Gryffindor - not once, not even after he had publicly denounced Voldemort and all his works. But he had long since ceased to care. Snape's silent, discreet support and Dumbledore's unconditional, unspoken acceptance had been enough to sustain him and dispel any doubts, and to help him, one of the few High Clan Slytherin children in the Order, to adapt to working with others not of his own circle - just as those others had had to adapt to working with him. It had been a learning experience all around.
"Mr Malfoy," she said icily, skepticism thickening the edges of her Scottish burr.
He kept his face completely impassive. "Professor," he answered, just as crisply.
She lowered her eyes first, a little disconcerted by the deceptive clarity of his gaze and the hint of something dangerous beneath the smooth surface - and by the uncanny resemblance to his father and uncle, both of whom she had taught, so many years ago. "Come in," she relented enough to say. "He is expecting you."
Draco nodded wordlessly, politely, and stepped through the door, into Hogwarts Castle for the first time in ten years.
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She watched him as they walked beside each other, searching for something she still couldn't name. Perhaps an indication, some clue, to show that this elegant, eerily familiar stranger was indeed the boy she had once known, who had once shown such courage and dedication for the Order. She may not have shown it, but she had felt for that boy, so many years ago. It couldn't have been easy, throwing aside all the years of caution and discretion and openly supporting them, despite the opposition of most of his friends and Housemates - the anti-Slytherin, anti-High Clan prejudice of the other members had not helped him feel welcome, either.
She hadn't been surprised when he left England immediately after the end. Self-contained and introspective, he had kept everything inside during the war, had focused everything he had on bringing the Dark Lord down, not caring about anything else. And then, when it was all over, when there was nothing and no one left to fight, he had had to face the reality of everything he had sacrificed and lost. So he'd run, but now, it seemed, he had come back.
But Lady, how he'd changed in the meantime. Tailor made, discreetly embroidered robes whispered of silk and linen, his shoulder length white blonde hair was pulled back into a queue and bound with a silk ribbon. His skin was still alabaster white, and with his hair and silver eyes he should have been too pale, but there was too much life in his face, too much character and animation. Too much power - even if his features hadn't been utterly perfect, the product of centuries of careful, selective breeding, he would have stood out in a crowd, because he held himself with all the unconscious pride of a man who has never doubted his position in the world.
He had grown into his face; where it had been pointed before, almost too sharp for a boy, with maturity it had fulfilled its promise – he had laughter lines, now, and other indications of emotional and physical maturity, making him look like a man rather than a porcelain doll. But the face was only half the story - the rest of it was locked firmly behind the enigmatic, deceptive eyes, and unless you knew him very well, there was nothing there to be seen. Before his father had died, he had been much easier to read - oh, he'd been discreet and impassive, but his body language and the tone of his voice had given him away every time; now, he revealed nothing that he did not want to be seen.
Draco Malfoy had grown up. And though she would never say it, she was quite pleased with what he had become.
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Albus Dumbledore had changed, in the years since Voldemort's defeat - he was a little greyer, a little frailer, a little more diminished from the figure Draco remembered from his first year. Nevertheless, he was still more than strong enough to rule over Hogwarts as he had always done - with an extremely delicate, velvet glove, and a hidden, hardly ever seen steel fist.
He stood up as Draco came in, a pleased expression on his face and a twinkling light in those faded blue eyes - but he didn't move closer, didn't give any indications of affection or open his arms for an embrace. He knew better than to do that, when dealing with Slytherins.
He loved all his students, from the golden, high-spirited Gryffindors, so brave and so ready for anything, to the cool, sardonic Slytherins with their ambition and their ruthless will, their odd sense of honour and their aloof manners. He, like McGonagall, had never said anything of this before, but, proud as he was of Harry, who had always held true to the light, he valued Draco just as highly because he had known the darkness intimately, lived it, and had turned away from it.
"Mr. Malfoy," he said, permitting warmth to colour his tone. "It is good to see you again."
The man across from him, so controlled and composed, permitted himself the hint of a smile. "Headmaster," he said, a little warmly, "It is good to see you, too." He sat down elegantly and took a cup of tea with aristocratic ease. "Thank you for agreeing to see me."
"Oh, I always have time for ex-students," he said absently. "I like to know what they have done with themselves." He paused, then said nothing more, thinking of all the ex-students he had seen on their way to Azkaban and the Kiss, wishing that he could have done something more to save them, but knowing logically that it would not have helped. Free will was a beautiful, deadly, double-edged blade. Only one of his lost students had ever come back, and even then, he had been almost broken and scarred beyond repair. But through his work with the Slytherins, trying to steer them away from the Dark, Snape had found some sort of redemption.
He, too, appreciated seeing past students who had found their way to the light.
"He is teaching right now," said Dumbledore with an oddly sad, but understanding smile. "But after this lesson, he will be finished for the day. You can go up and see him then."
Draco said nothing - he suspected Dumbledore knew all too well why he had come, and it had not been because he felt like seeing Hogwarts again. But the Headmaster knew, and understood, and for the slightest second, Draco hesitated. Did he really need to drag Snape back into the shadows? But it was too late now. He had come to Hogwarts, he had asked to talk to Professor Snape, and soon it would be known throughout the whole High Clan. And besides, Snape had been a part of this from the very beginning, not three days ago, not twelve years ago, but more than thirty years ago when Draco's grandfather had first given into overwhelming pressure and bent his knee, Lord Marcus Malfoy who had bowed to nothing and no one, to the self- styled Lord Voldemort. And Augustus Snape had watched, and rejoiced.
So now it was time for the game to end. He would finish it, this time. Once and for all.
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He walked through the corridors towards the dungeons, making his way through crowds of black-robed students of all ages and Houses. He wondered, absently, whether there were modern equivalents of himself and Harry Potter - the school bully (probably a Slytherin) and the school hero (Gryffindor, naturally). And whether they hated each other, because they were twisted reflections of the other, or because they were natural opposites…
Twelve years on and he recognised none of these students - he had the rather odd feeling that they didn't recognize him, and that for all of his notoriety in his school days, as soon as he had left he had been forgotten, but for the old year books and the dim memories of those who had known him by sight and reputation, if not in person.
How depressing. And how deflating. He was just amusing himself by thinking of what Snape would have to say about that, when a section of the wall slid away as he passed, revealing another, hidden passage lined with tapestries and flickering torches. Snape had known he was coming.
"And so it begins," the velvet voice echoed all around him, and he spared a moment to appreciate the room's acoustics before he went over to join Snape by his worktable. He had been here before, of course, as a student - it was Snape's research laboratory, where he brewed his most subtle, lethal potions. It was kept ice-cold year around, for storage and safety purposes, and the acoustics were needed when the utmost delicacy was required in the brewing. The merest hint of a sound could signal the readiness, or the ruin, of a potion; it was slow, subtle work, but the scions of House Snape had been potions masters since time immemorial.
Draco appreciated the subtlety and the skill needed to make potions, but preferred to work his will through verbal manipulation - the Malfoy had ever been plotters, webspinners. And although he also appreciated the dramatic potential of an underground, echoing cavern, he didn't share Snape's flair for melodrama or romance. "Yes," he said clearly, and not too loudly, so that it didn't echo. "It was exactly as you said. They have a catalyst, and will do everything they can to bring me, and everything that I stand for down."
Snape looked at him over the cauldron, through thin streamers of vapour. "What will you do now?"
Draco looked down at the swirling, almost clear liquid. "They're using the media, and public opinion," he grinned mirthlessly, "rousing the mob."
Snape snorted. He, too, had learned his muggle history.
Draco continued. "This is a popularity contest, judged by reputation and by the public's perception. I've already started rumours of an affair with Ginevra Weasley."
Snape added powdered copper, and the liquid turned an intense bronze green. "Weasley," he murmured softly to himself. "One of the more respected, lesser Houses, six well connected brothers, a father with an excellent reputation, and the all important connection to Potter…"
Draco had long since accepted the range of Potter's influence. That didn't mean he had to like it.
"Hereditary Gryffindors," mused the potions master. "Yes, an attachment to that family would be very good publicity." He pinned Draco with his penetrating black stare. "If," he held up a finger, ever the teacher, "If you can get her, and their, cooperation. And that is the most important part."
Draco didn't take exception to the lecture. He knew it was very good advice. "I have to talk to her," he murmured half to himself. "Because she still doesn't trust me." He looked at Snape, who raised an innocent, amused brow. "But perhaps if I enlisted help from other sources..." He smiled suddenly, a small, almost reckless smile that Snape, who had known him and his father and uncle almost all his life, recognised with a sinking heart. Mischief almost inevitably followed that smile.
"Tell me, Severus," he murmured conspiratorially, "how do you judge Arthur Weasley?"
Snape sighed. Just as he had thought. "Idealistic, yes, but not naïve, not anymore, and quite shrewd under the eccentricity. He loves his family, has definite standards and ideals, but is more willing than most of the Weasleys to see shades of grey, rather than black or white."
Draco tapped the pads of his fingers soundlessly against the workbench, his head tilting to the side as he thought. "Would you call him a realistic man?"
Snape slowly stirred his potion with long, deliberate, and smooth strokes. "Realistic?" Three strokes clockwise, three anti-clockwise. "Let us say that he hopes for the best, but can be brought to accept unexpected or slightly unsatisfactory situations if there is no other choice..." Snape placed a sprig of mistletoe, freshly cut, into the mixture and watched it begin to bubble. "He is the Weasley patriarch," he said, as if it explained everything.
In a way, it did. Draco supposed that he would act in much the same way as a Clan Lord, which was why he had proposed this idea in the first place. If Arthur Weasley could be brought to see the advantages of an alliance with the Malfoy it would fight half of his battles for him. For a long while, Draco stared unseeingly at the hypnotic process of the potion brewing, watching Snape's hands, so confident and skilled, work with utter confidence, watching the swirling potion that changed with every passing instant, watching the faint but definitely building surge of magic that surrounded the liquid, just waiting to be released...
And then he smiled, and walked out.
Snape looked up as he left, unmistakable amusement glinting in his eyes. A slight sound distracted him and he looked to his right, to the door that connected to his private apartments. It was half open, and a young girl was standing uncertainly in the doorway. "Uncle Severus," she said in a soft, but not childish voice. She was nine years old, and she had never been childish, or even innocent. "I had the nightmare again."
He could see the echoes, the ghosts of the dream in her eyes, see the shadows scarring the clear black gaze so like his own, so like his unacknowledged, unmentioned illegitimate brother Janus, who had been her father, before Snape found out about her existence and the circumstances of her short life. He had crushed Janus, taken her away from her old life, but still she had nightmares and probably would for the rest of her life. So much darkness at so young an age... He had done what he could, but feared it was not enough. He didn't pick her up, because after her nightmares she couldn't abide physical contact, but he led her to the bed and sank down to his knees to face her on the same level. "Julia," he whispered softly. "I'm here. I'll always be here for you."
She looked at him, so vulnerable despite her almost unearthly composure. "Promise?" she whispered, suddenly so young it wrenched his heart. He held up his hand, palm forward, fingers angled downwards, to expose the scars where he had sealed oaths in blood. "Promise."
Her tremulous smile broke his heart. She was so vulnerable. How could he enter into Draco's game, when the consequences might rebound on this innocent child? How could he not enter into the game, when if Draco lost, the consequences would certainly rebound on her? She put her palm on his cheek, her eyes all too serious. "I love you, Uncle Severus..."
He closed his eyes and bit down fiercely on his lip, almost drawing blood. Now, after all these years, now that he had someone other than himself to care about, he understood what it meant to be a Lord. And it was a terrible, terrible isolation.
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Arthur Weasley, his faded red hair thinning slightly, raised his head curiously as he heard the knocking at his door. They weren't expecting any visitors, and none of their children had said they were coming for tea, either. Opening it himself, old instincts causing him to finger his wand nervously at the thought of unexpected guests, he found himself staring into Draco Malfoy's silver eyes.
"Mr Weasley," Malfoy began politely, registering the surprise in the older man's eyes, and the left hand that was still hidden in the pocket of his robe. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
Arthur pulled himself back together. "No, no, not at all." He had known that Malfoy was back, but he hadn't expected to find him knocking on the front door. "Please, come in." He noted that Malfoy had waited until the invitation was made of his own free will.
He stepped aside, and Malfoy came in, brushing past, smelling faintly of sandalwood, his robes falling around him so perfectly Arthur had the brief, uncharitable thought that they probably cost more than he made in a single year. But he couldn't deny that they did emphasise the man's looks and bearing. Centuries of power, of breeding, years of training and careful cultivation - all of that and more were represented in this one, elegant man with old, jaded eyes. Molly turned around absently as he came into the kitchen, and stopped, frozen, with her wooden spoon dripping sauce onto the floor.
But he only smiled politely, somewhat remotely, and said, "Mrs. Weasley," as Arthur introduced him. He took the time to note that Malfoy didn't smile, or turn on the charm as he could have done - perhaps he knew that Molly didn't have the experience to play that particular game? Either way, it raised his estimation in Arthur's eyes.
"My apologies for dropping in like this," Malfoy said softly, over a cup of tea, "But I was hoping to talk to you about your daughter." Molly slowly put her teacup down and rose from the table, ready to annihilate him for the way he had upset Ginny, but Arthur looked at her in the way that all married couples develop over time, and she sat down reluctantly.
Arthur cleared his throat. "What about Ginny?" he asked neutrally, because he knew that any hint of untoward emotion was enough to put High Clan backs up.
Malfoy took another sip, managing to look aristocratic and commanding even sitting down on a ratty couch and drinking tea. "My uncle Luc is hosting a dinner tomorrow night," he waved a dismissive hand, "really, a political affair. I fear I am obliged to attend - and, well, quite frankly, I was hoping you would give me permission to escort Ginevra there."
Arthur's ears pricked at the thought of Luc Malfoy's very select dinners, where most of the country's trade policy was formulated over the dessert course. He would give his eyeteeth to know what went on at those dinners - and Malfoy knew it. Still, he hesitated. Malfoy was playing a very deep game here, and he didn't want to become entangled, lest he and his were pulled under...
"I appreciate that you've come to me with this, Mr. Malfoy," he hedged, "but shouldn't you talk to Ginny first?" Molly watched their guest with hard, suspicious eyes.
Malfoy coughed delicately. "Indeed, I have," he murmured softly. "Unfortunately, she didn't quite manage to give me a straight answer before she left to come back here – mostly, I believe, to avoid me." He looked apologetically at Arthur, who swore at the implications.
Ginny would undoubtedly refuse to even talk to Malfoy in the mood she was in now - which meant that she wouldn't settle the question of tomorrow night's dinner in time. There was no way that a responsible politician, particularly ambitious or not, could pass up this chance at such an opening. Luc Malfoy's trade dinner! Gods, what doors that would open... All that was asked was their influence in gaining Ginny's cooperation with whatever Draco was planning, and this silver haired, immensely capable aristocrat would take Arthur Weasley as far and as high as he could reach.
What was that he had thought before, about not becoming entangled in Malfoy plots?
His ambition warred with his natural concern for his daughter and his ingrained mistrust for the Malfoy. He had known the father, but he also knew the uncle - and he was beginning to take the measure of the son. Hermione’s and Harry's recommendations of the day before had caused him to think again, rather than to dismiss Draco as another Lucius. Even Ron had, very reluctantly, been brought to admit that Draco had (deep, deep down) a core of strength and integrity. And now that he had met him, Arthur was inclined to agree - although he saw the manipulation and the veiled ruthlessness, he could also sense the power and the responsibility.
And, quite frankly, there was one other thing that recommended Malfoy - Ginny herself. She had been looking miserable lately, pale, peaked and desperate – after meeting Malfoy, she had changed, had become more animated, more comfortable with herself, more independent. If it had not been for that, his anger at the manipulation would have awoken his wide stubborn streak. But because she had spoken Blood Vow, because she had somehow gained in self-confidence since meeting him, and because, quite frankly, he liked what he saw of the Malfoy so far, he would talk to Ginny. It was a small enough price to pay.
Of course, if he had known more of what Malfoy was planning, he might have been more cautious...
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CHAPTER 8 - Hogwarts
Hogwarts.
Watching it appear over the horizon, Draco felt an odd feeling of nostalgia for the days when he had, so innocently, roamed its corridors and sheltered within its walls. He had never really realized just how sheltered they'd all been, just how much had been kept from them for their own safety.
There were times when he missed Hogwarts, longed for the simplicity of the days when his biggest problem had been producing an essay Snape would approve of, and his greatest enemy had been Harry Potter, but that had been before his fifth year, before his father had died and he had been propelled into the real world, into the real Game.
There were times when he wished that he could go back, regain his innocence and revert once more to Draco Malfoy, the great ferret, the ruler of Slytherin, but it couldn't be. Mortals were given a set number of days on the earth and the gift of free will, so that they could live them as they willed. There was only one absolute - what was done could never be undone. In this world, even with the invention of time turners, there was no going back. One had to ride out the consequences as best one could.
Occasionally, though, life gives us all a chance to make amends.
McGonagall met him at the entrance to the Great Hall, still as straitlaced and prim as ever, regarding him with the same disapproving eyes and stiff manner that she had used through all his years at Hogwarts. In fact, he didn't think that he had ever earned a smile or a word of praise from the Head of Gryffindor - not once, not even after he had publicly denounced Voldemort and all his works. But he had long since ceased to care. Snape's silent, discreet support and Dumbledore's unconditional, unspoken acceptance had been enough to sustain him and dispel any doubts, and to help him, one of the few High Clan Slytherin children in the Order, to adapt to working with others not of his own circle - just as those others had had to adapt to working with him. It had been a learning experience all around.
"Mr Malfoy," she said icily, skepticism thickening the edges of her Scottish burr.
He kept his face completely impassive. "Professor," he answered, just as crisply.
She lowered her eyes first, a little disconcerted by the deceptive clarity of his gaze and the hint of something dangerous beneath the smooth surface - and by the uncanny resemblance to his father and uncle, both of whom she had taught, so many years ago. "Come in," she relented enough to say. "He is expecting you."
Draco nodded wordlessly, politely, and stepped through the door, into Hogwarts Castle for the first time in ten years.
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She watched him as they walked beside each other, searching for something she still couldn't name. Perhaps an indication, some clue, to show that this elegant, eerily familiar stranger was indeed the boy she had once known, who had once shown such courage and dedication for the Order. She may not have shown it, but she had felt for that boy, so many years ago. It couldn't have been easy, throwing aside all the years of caution and discretion and openly supporting them, despite the opposition of most of his friends and Housemates - the anti-Slytherin, anti-High Clan prejudice of the other members had not helped him feel welcome, either.
She hadn't been surprised when he left England immediately after the end. Self-contained and introspective, he had kept everything inside during the war, had focused everything he had on bringing the Dark Lord down, not caring about anything else. And then, when it was all over, when there was nothing and no one left to fight, he had had to face the reality of everything he had sacrificed and lost. So he'd run, but now, it seemed, he had come back.
But Lady, how he'd changed in the meantime. Tailor made, discreetly embroidered robes whispered of silk and linen, his shoulder length white blonde hair was pulled back into a queue and bound with a silk ribbon. His skin was still alabaster white, and with his hair and silver eyes he should have been too pale, but there was too much life in his face, too much character and animation. Too much power - even if his features hadn't been utterly perfect, the product of centuries of careful, selective breeding, he would have stood out in a crowd, because he held himself with all the unconscious pride of a man who has never doubted his position in the world.
He had grown into his face; where it had been pointed before, almost too sharp for a boy, with maturity it had fulfilled its promise – he had laughter lines, now, and other indications of emotional and physical maturity, making him look like a man rather than a porcelain doll. But the face was only half the story - the rest of it was locked firmly behind the enigmatic, deceptive eyes, and unless you knew him very well, there was nothing there to be seen. Before his father had died, he had been much easier to read - oh, he'd been discreet and impassive, but his body language and the tone of his voice had given him away every time; now, he revealed nothing that he did not want to be seen.
Draco Malfoy had grown up. And though she would never say it, she was quite pleased with what he had become.
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Albus Dumbledore had changed, in the years since Voldemort's defeat - he was a little greyer, a little frailer, a little more diminished from the figure Draco remembered from his first year. Nevertheless, he was still more than strong enough to rule over Hogwarts as he had always done - with an extremely delicate, velvet glove, and a hidden, hardly ever seen steel fist.
He stood up as Draco came in, a pleased expression on his face and a twinkling light in those faded blue eyes - but he didn't move closer, didn't give any indications of affection or open his arms for an embrace. He knew better than to do that, when dealing with Slytherins.
He loved all his students, from the golden, high-spirited Gryffindors, so brave and so ready for anything, to the cool, sardonic Slytherins with their ambition and their ruthless will, their odd sense of honour and their aloof manners. He, like McGonagall, had never said anything of this before, but, proud as he was of Harry, who had always held true to the light, he valued Draco just as highly because he had known the darkness intimately, lived it, and had turned away from it.
"Mr. Malfoy," he said, permitting warmth to colour his tone. "It is good to see you again."
The man across from him, so controlled and composed, permitted himself the hint of a smile. "Headmaster," he said, a little warmly, "It is good to see you, too." He sat down elegantly and took a cup of tea with aristocratic ease. "Thank you for agreeing to see me."
"Oh, I always have time for ex-students," he said absently. "I like to know what they have done with themselves." He paused, then said nothing more, thinking of all the ex-students he had seen on their way to Azkaban and the Kiss, wishing that he could have done something more to save them, but knowing logically that it would not have helped. Free will was a beautiful, deadly, double-edged blade. Only one of his lost students had ever come back, and even then, he had been almost broken and scarred beyond repair. But through his work with the Slytherins, trying to steer them away from the Dark, Snape had found some sort of redemption.
He, too, appreciated seeing past students who had found their way to the light.
"He is teaching right now," said Dumbledore with an oddly sad, but understanding smile. "But after this lesson, he will be finished for the day. You can go up and see him then."
Draco said nothing - he suspected Dumbledore knew all too well why he had come, and it had not been because he felt like seeing Hogwarts again. But the Headmaster knew, and understood, and for the slightest second, Draco hesitated. Did he really need to drag Snape back into the shadows? But it was too late now. He had come to Hogwarts, he had asked to talk to Professor Snape, and soon it would be known throughout the whole High Clan. And besides, Snape had been a part of this from the very beginning, not three days ago, not twelve years ago, but more than thirty years ago when Draco's grandfather had first given into overwhelming pressure and bent his knee, Lord Marcus Malfoy who had bowed to nothing and no one, to the self- styled Lord Voldemort. And Augustus Snape had watched, and rejoiced.
So now it was time for the game to end. He would finish it, this time. Once and for all.
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He walked through the corridors towards the dungeons, making his way through crowds of black-robed students of all ages and Houses. He wondered, absently, whether there were modern equivalents of himself and Harry Potter - the school bully (probably a Slytherin) and the school hero (Gryffindor, naturally). And whether they hated each other, because they were twisted reflections of the other, or because they were natural opposites…
Twelve years on and he recognised none of these students - he had the rather odd feeling that they didn't recognize him, and that for all of his notoriety in his school days, as soon as he had left he had been forgotten, but for the old year books and the dim memories of those who had known him by sight and reputation, if not in person.
How depressing. And how deflating. He was just amusing himself by thinking of what Snape would have to say about that, when a section of the wall slid away as he passed, revealing another, hidden passage lined with tapestries and flickering torches. Snape had known he was coming.
"And so it begins," the velvet voice echoed all around him, and he spared a moment to appreciate the room's acoustics before he went over to join Snape by his worktable. He had been here before, of course, as a student - it was Snape's research laboratory, where he brewed his most subtle, lethal potions. It was kept ice-cold year around, for storage and safety purposes, and the acoustics were needed when the utmost delicacy was required in the brewing. The merest hint of a sound could signal the readiness, or the ruin, of a potion; it was slow, subtle work, but the scions of House Snape had been potions masters since time immemorial.
Draco appreciated the subtlety and the skill needed to make potions, but preferred to work his will through verbal manipulation - the Malfoy had ever been plotters, webspinners. And although he also appreciated the dramatic potential of an underground, echoing cavern, he didn't share Snape's flair for melodrama or romance. "Yes," he said clearly, and not too loudly, so that it didn't echo. "It was exactly as you said. They have a catalyst, and will do everything they can to bring me, and everything that I stand for down."
Snape looked at him over the cauldron, through thin streamers of vapour. "What will you do now?"
Draco looked down at the swirling, almost clear liquid. "They're using the media, and public opinion," he grinned mirthlessly, "rousing the mob."
Snape snorted. He, too, had learned his muggle history.
Draco continued. "This is a popularity contest, judged by reputation and by the public's perception. I've already started rumours of an affair with Ginevra Weasley."
Snape added powdered copper, and the liquid turned an intense bronze green. "Weasley," he murmured softly to himself. "One of the more respected, lesser Houses, six well connected brothers, a father with an excellent reputation, and the all important connection to Potter…"
Draco had long since accepted the range of Potter's influence. That didn't mean he had to like it.
"Hereditary Gryffindors," mused the potions master. "Yes, an attachment to that family would be very good publicity." He pinned Draco with his penetrating black stare. "If," he held up a finger, ever the teacher, "If you can get her, and their, cooperation. And that is the most important part."
Draco didn't take exception to the lecture. He knew it was very good advice. "I have to talk to her," he murmured half to himself. "Because she still doesn't trust me." He looked at Snape, who raised an innocent, amused brow. "But perhaps if I enlisted help from other sources..." He smiled suddenly, a small, almost reckless smile that Snape, who had known him and his father and uncle almost all his life, recognised with a sinking heart. Mischief almost inevitably followed that smile.
"Tell me, Severus," he murmured conspiratorially, "how do you judge Arthur Weasley?"
Snape sighed. Just as he had thought. "Idealistic, yes, but not naïve, not anymore, and quite shrewd under the eccentricity. He loves his family, has definite standards and ideals, but is more willing than most of the Weasleys to see shades of grey, rather than black or white."
Draco tapped the pads of his fingers soundlessly against the workbench, his head tilting to the side as he thought. "Would you call him a realistic man?"
Snape slowly stirred his potion with long, deliberate, and smooth strokes. "Realistic?" Three strokes clockwise, three anti-clockwise. "Let us say that he hopes for the best, but can be brought to accept unexpected or slightly unsatisfactory situations if there is no other choice..." Snape placed a sprig of mistletoe, freshly cut, into the mixture and watched it begin to bubble. "He is the Weasley patriarch," he said, as if it explained everything.
In a way, it did. Draco supposed that he would act in much the same way as a Clan Lord, which was why he had proposed this idea in the first place. If Arthur Weasley could be brought to see the advantages of an alliance with the Malfoy it would fight half of his battles for him. For a long while, Draco stared unseeingly at the hypnotic process of the potion brewing, watching Snape's hands, so confident and skilled, work with utter confidence, watching the swirling potion that changed with every passing instant, watching the faint but definitely building surge of magic that surrounded the liquid, just waiting to be released...
And then he smiled, and walked out.
Snape looked up as he left, unmistakable amusement glinting in his eyes. A slight sound distracted him and he looked to his right, to the door that connected to his private apartments. It was half open, and a young girl was standing uncertainly in the doorway. "Uncle Severus," she said in a soft, but not childish voice. She was nine years old, and she had never been childish, or even innocent. "I had the nightmare again."
He could see the echoes, the ghosts of the dream in her eyes, see the shadows scarring the clear black gaze so like his own, so like his unacknowledged, unmentioned illegitimate brother Janus, who had been her father, before Snape found out about her existence and the circumstances of her short life. He had crushed Janus, taken her away from her old life, but still she had nightmares and probably would for the rest of her life. So much darkness at so young an age... He had done what he could, but feared it was not enough. He didn't pick her up, because after her nightmares she couldn't abide physical contact, but he led her to the bed and sank down to his knees to face her on the same level. "Julia," he whispered softly. "I'm here. I'll always be here for you."
She looked at him, so vulnerable despite her almost unearthly composure. "Promise?" she whispered, suddenly so young it wrenched his heart. He held up his hand, palm forward, fingers angled downwards, to expose the scars where he had sealed oaths in blood. "Promise."
Her tremulous smile broke his heart. She was so vulnerable. How could he enter into Draco's game, when the consequences might rebound on this innocent child? How could he not enter into the game, when if Draco lost, the consequences would certainly rebound on her? She put her palm on his cheek, her eyes all too serious. "I love you, Uncle Severus..."
He closed his eyes and bit down fiercely on his lip, almost drawing blood. Now, after all these years, now that he had someone other than himself to care about, he understood what it meant to be a Lord. And it was a terrible, terrible isolation.
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Arthur Weasley, his faded red hair thinning slightly, raised his head curiously as he heard the knocking at his door. They weren't expecting any visitors, and none of their children had said they were coming for tea, either. Opening it himself, old instincts causing him to finger his wand nervously at the thought of unexpected guests, he found himself staring into Draco Malfoy's silver eyes.
"Mr Weasley," Malfoy began politely, registering the surprise in the older man's eyes, and the left hand that was still hidden in the pocket of his robe. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
Arthur pulled himself back together. "No, no, not at all." He had known that Malfoy was back, but he hadn't expected to find him knocking on the front door. "Please, come in." He noted that Malfoy had waited until the invitation was made of his own free will.
He stepped aside, and Malfoy came in, brushing past, smelling faintly of sandalwood, his robes falling around him so perfectly Arthur had the brief, uncharitable thought that they probably cost more than he made in a single year. But he couldn't deny that they did emphasise the man's looks and bearing. Centuries of power, of breeding, years of training and careful cultivation - all of that and more were represented in this one, elegant man with old, jaded eyes. Molly turned around absently as he came into the kitchen, and stopped, frozen, with her wooden spoon dripping sauce onto the floor.
But he only smiled politely, somewhat remotely, and said, "Mrs. Weasley," as Arthur introduced him. He took the time to note that Malfoy didn't smile, or turn on the charm as he could have done - perhaps he knew that Molly didn't have the experience to play that particular game? Either way, it raised his estimation in Arthur's eyes.
"My apologies for dropping in like this," Malfoy said softly, over a cup of tea, "But I was hoping to talk to you about your daughter." Molly slowly put her teacup down and rose from the table, ready to annihilate him for the way he had upset Ginny, but Arthur looked at her in the way that all married couples develop over time, and she sat down reluctantly.
Arthur cleared his throat. "What about Ginny?" he asked neutrally, because he knew that any hint of untoward emotion was enough to put High Clan backs up.
Malfoy took another sip, managing to look aristocratic and commanding even sitting down on a ratty couch and drinking tea. "My uncle Luc is hosting a dinner tomorrow night," he waved a dismissive hand, "really, a political affair. I fear I am obliged to attend - and, well, quite frankly, I was hoping you would give me permission to escort Ginevra there."
Arthur's ears pricked at the thought of Luc Malfoy's very select dinners, where most of the country's trade policy was formulated over the dessert course. He would give his eyeteeth to know what went on at those dinners - and Malfoy knew it. Still, he hesitated. Malfoy was playing a very deep game here, and he didn't want to become entangled, lest he and his were pulled under...
"I appreciate that you've come to me with this, Mr. Malfoy," he hedged, "but shouldn't you talk to Ginny first?" Molly watched their guest with hard, suspicious eyes.
Malfoy coughed delicately. "Indeed, I have," he murmured softly. "Unfortunately, she didn't quite manage to give me a straight answer before she left to come back here – mostly, I believe, to avoid me." He looked apologetically at Arthur, who swore at the implications.
Ginny would undoubtedly refuse to even talk to Malfoy in the mood she was in now - which meant that she wouldn't settle the question of tomorrow night's dinner in time. There was no way that a responsible politician, particularly ambitious or not, could pass up this chance at such an opening. Luc Malfoy's trade dinner! Gods, what doors that would open... All that was asked was their influence in gaining Ginny's cooperation with whatever Draco was planning, and this silver haired, immensely capable aristocrat would take Arthur Weasley as far and as high as he could reach.
What was that he had thought before, about not becoming entangled in Malfoy plots?
His ambition warred with his natural concern for his daughter and his ingrained mistrust for the Malfoy. He had known the father, but he also knew the uncle - and he was beginning to take the measure of the son. Hermione’s and Harry's recommendations of the day before had caused him to think again, rather than to dismiss Draco as another Lucius. Even Ron had, very reluctantly, been brought to admit that Draco had (deep, deep down) a core of strength and integrity. And now that he had met him, Arthur was inclined to agree - although he saw the manipulation and the veiled ruthlessness, he could also sense the power and the responsibility.
And, quite frankly, there was one other thing that recommended Malfoy - Ginny herself. She had been looking miserable lately, pale, peaked and desperate – after meeting Malfoy, she had changed, had become more animated, more comfortable with herself, more independent. If it had not been for that, his anger at the manipulation would have awoken his wide stubborn streak. But because she had spoken Blood Vow, because she had somehow gained in self-confidence since meeting him, and because, quite frankly, he liked what he saw of the Malfoy so far, he would talk to Ginny. It was a small enough price to pay.
Of course, if he had known more of what Malfoy was planning, he might have been more cautious...
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