Author's Note:Title taken from my favourite quote from Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton . Beta'ed by thpoet/Kate, Loveis4ever/Samarie, and solemnlyswearx/Melissa. Amazing plot bunny adopted from Sandy/Snape's Talon. Thanks so much to all of you!
Here's a bit of background. The year is 1775, and this takes place seven generations before Ginny Weasley (the next female Weasley) was born. Each fic in this trilogy will have to do with a different generation of Malfoys and Weasleys. Hopefully the rest will explain itself.
This is my favourite fic that I've ever written, and I would really love feedback. A review would be greatly appreciated!
Chapter 1
In which a Malfoy attempts to gain respect.
--
Lydia
I often didn't pay full attention to my cousin Edwina — in my eighteen years, I had figured out she rarely said anything of consequence — so when I heard, "… is standing outside," I was startled. Did she say Optimus Malfoy? But, no, of course not. So I turned quickly and felt some mixture of surprise and amusement to see Edwina nearly hanging out the window in an attempt to see. I asked her to repeat what she said, but all I could hear were muffled words.
Frustrated and curious, I prompted sharply, "Optimus Malfoy, did you say? Here? At this house?"
But she just leaned out farther, and I wondered if this were because he moved closer to the house. I stood pouting another moment longer, tired of being left out of whatever it was Edwina knew, but those petty thoughts flew from my mind as I watched Edwina begin to slip. I grabbed her white chemise and heaved her back inside.
"Must you always do such things?" I snapped. "You're in nothing but your chemise! Your stays aren't even tightened!"
But Edwina was, as always, completely unruffled. "Can you even imagine?" she said, her voice breathlessly fast. "There's a Malfoy here! At your house! It must be true, what they're all saying…"
I wondered if it were really worth it to listen to the gossip Edwina was wont to say. But Optimus Malfoy was a fascinating subject, so, in spite of myself, I began to listen to my cousin again, who never noticed my concentration wavering even for a moment.
"If he's really trying to join the Ministry with Uncle Richard, well, I hope he knows it's never going to happen. It's absolutely…" Edwina looked frustrated, and her bottom lip came out. She snapped her fingers in a gesture of impatience.
She had forgotten a word, I knew. "Scandalous?" I suggested.
"Yes!" she exclaimed. "Precisely! It's scandalous, that's what it is. The Malfoy family has only been here two generations, and I find it revolting for Mr. Malfoy to try and take advantage of the troubled times in the Ministry by bothering Uncle Richard."
"Troubled? Because of the war with the colonies?"
"Yes, of course," she said breathlessly. "And not only that, but because, well, Optimus Malfoy should most certainly know he would never be welcome in the Ministry. With that money of his being so… new — why, it's revolting!"
"We don't even know how he made his money!" I exclaimed, my voice sounding lofty.
"Well, there have been…"
"Speculations?"
"Exactly. Many people believe that Optimus Malfoy is…" she trailed off and looked around the room, and then lowered her voice as she leaned toward me. "They thinks Mr. Malfoy is an assassin!" she hissed. I gasped, and then she went on. Of course this was by no means the first time I had heard this rumour — it wasn't even the first time Edwina had told me — but Edwina loved to have a good audience, and I had more than enough practise in giving her the responses she wanted. "Well, you know Orion was in Slytherin with him all those years ago, and Orion says Mr. Malfoy was nothing short of a criminal. And, you know, he does go away so often, and he can never be tracked. He's obviously doing something horribly illegal. How else would he have made his money?" Then she sat back up, panting a little; Edwina really needed to take more breaths when she spoke.
"I think he is," I conceded. "I can just see him being an assassin. What other explanation is there, after all?"
"And who even knows what he'll be trying to do next… He might even — even try to marry into one of the families, like the Blacks, or the Nigelluses, or even—"
"Or even the Weasleys!" I nearly shrieked as I burst into laughter. How we had gone from talking about assassins to this hilarious topic was positively beyond me; Edwina had a gift with conversation. Just the thought of a second-generation, newly-rich Malfoy — with some unknown but undoubtedly criminal profession — marrying into some of the oldest, proudest, and most powerful families was absolutely ridiculous. Especially my family, the Weasleys. I don't mean to be arrogant, but the Weasleys were, without a doubt, the richest, most powerful, and most respected of them all, since my father was the Minister for Magic, and set the standard for everyone's decorum.
I tossed my red hair a little and plainly declared, "Well, I would certainly never marry anyone like Optimus. He'll have to marry a Potter, or some other new family like that." I sat in front of my bureau.
"A Prewett, maybe," she agreed. Then she began fidgeting: she could never stand still for more than a moment. "Do you want me to tighten your stays?"
"Oh, of course. A little more tightly than usual, please, Edwina, or else my dress won't fit. Father ordered it too small… Anyway, about the Prewetts, I doubt they would allow him to marry one of their daughters," I commented, wincing a little as she began to pull harshly. My house-elf was far gentler. "The Prewetts have quite earned respect, you know. And marrying a Malfoy would put them back years of work. No one from a self-respecting family would ever marry a Malfoy, that's certain."
We loved to talk about things like this. I found the subject absolutely fascinating; my whole life I had heard about money and wizarding aristocracy, and, I must admit, we both loved to be at the tip of the social pyramid.
Edwina changed the subject suddenly. "Well, I heard that Gentry Nigellus has decided to finally settle down."
"Oh, really? With whom?"
"Don't act so innocent!" my cousin giggled. "Everyone can tell he's in love with you, after all."
I blushed faintly, not because I was embarrassed, but more because I knew I was expected to. "Edwina!" I scolded. "How can you say that! We only speak on occasion, after all." I tried to crane my head to look at her, but she gave another jerk on my stays, causing me to gasp. "Too tight," I choked.
"On occasion!" she exclaimed, ignoring everything I said except about Gentry. "All you ever do is talk to him. You're barely separable at balls and dinners and things like that."
"How ridiculous," I answered, and then faced her as she finished. "Do you want me to tighten yours?"
Edwina laughed. "How evasive you're being today!"
I rolled my eyes, again not disdaining myself to answer. "Do you want me to or not?" I asked, a little too sharply, already annoyed by the corset, not because it was too tight, but because it was cut high and forced the wearer to stand with their shoulders back, which was a very uncomfortable position to be in.
She grinned, presumably at my tone, and then grabbed the bedpost for support. I began to pull on the stays, working my way down her back.
"Why are you so quiet?" Edwina asked, squirming from standing still for so long.
"I was just wondering for a moment… what Optimus must think of us all. He probably loathes us."
Edwina shrugged, tossing her hair. I made a sound of disapproval at her movements, but then quickly finished. Then Edwina said, "Oh, why should we care, Lydia? You said it yourself — he doesn't deserve our respect." Edwina turned around, staring at me.
I looked confused for a moment, and I could feel my eyebrows furrowing. But slowly, slowly, I looked normal again, and I nodded sharply; I think I was trying to convince myself. "You're right!" I announced. "He is a Malfoy, after all."
--
Optimus
I stared up at the looming Weasley mansion. My eyes narrowed and, with mild surprise, I realised I was having a much stronger reaction than I would have thought. I breathed deeply, once, twice. But my eyes found the edifice again and I couldn't help but analyse it. It was of a strange, pale stone — most likely limestone — with three floors. The windows were all open, and in most of the rooms I noticed delicate lace curtains. The front porch had two long staircases going up to it, only a few metres apart, as if one wouldn't be enough. The house had four columns. They were simple columns, only slightly more ornate than Doric style, but it seemed rather elaborate considering most houses at the time had flat columns that were connected to the walls. Directly above the porch was a balcony, a large one. There were two chimneys on the house, one at either side, and the roof was slate. The house was rather square, because that was the style of architecture, and yet it held a sense of power and beauty to it. Plus, it seemed to mock me; it made me think of my own home, and how ornate it was by comparison; it made me think that I should have made my house plainer, and that I had done something wrong.
It seemed like I was always doing something wrong. I had a great deal of money, which I had thought would be enough to get some semblance of respect. Granted, I hadn't made it honestly, but I certainly hadn't been conspicuous about it either. I had heard rumours about myself — that I was an assassin. This was ridiculous; I would never sink that low. Not that it mattered how I got the money anyway. The end always justified the means.
So, really, as far as money was concerned, I was fine. It was just that this ridiculous society wouldn't budge! For the life of me I couldn't figure out what the hell these people wanted from me.
I was endlessly polite; I was generous; I had a beautiful house; I was a gracious and conscientious host. Really, in all respects, I did everything right.
And yet…
I wondered. Was it my money? I had worked damn hard for that money, but maybe they thought of it in a different way. Perhaps the rumours of the illegal way they thought I had attained it had reached the ears of the upper class, unlike I had wanted to believe. Perhaps they all took the assassin rumour seriously; I could understand why they would hate me if they thought I was an assassin. But I didn't think that was it.
But still, I probably had nearly as much money as the Weasleys had accumulated over generations, but maybe they thought the way I used it was ostentatious.
Perhaps they even thought I was ostentatious.
Not that I could see why, after all. There was nothing wrong with me. I had worked harder and accomplished more in ten years than all of these rich, "superior" people had done in their whole lives — maybe even in generations.
I had a lot to be proud of.
So why did they look down on me? It bothered me more than anything in the world. I was Optimus Malfoy, for God's sakes. There was nothing to be ashamed of.
They looked at me like I was scum, and every time they did I felt like taking their fancy little scarves and wringing their necks. What had I done? Nothing! All I had done was make something of myself, and I honestly couldn't see what was so wrong with that. Unless, of course, they had found out how I made my money, but I didn't see how they could have. It was all speculations, with absolutely no root in truth. I had only been a little immoral, honestly. It was nothing too terrible. I certainly hadn't been murdering anyone.
Why, just the other day I had tried to speak with a beautiful girl. Her name, I believed, from the one moment I had been able to speak with her, was Maria Flint. Absolutely beautiful. But, honestly, the girl spoke to me for one second, realised something (almost as if she realised she was making a grave social error), and quickly excused herself.
It was as though I was a plague! Why?
Sometimes I thought they might have something against me, not because they didn't know my career, but because my money was newer than theirs or something ridiculous like that. And, almost, I thought that might be it. It made sense, really it did. Why else would they refuse invitations to my parties and otherwise hate me? That's what they did—they absolutely abhorred me.
Suddenly I reached into my pocket and took out my watch. How long had I been standing there? Nearly a quarter-hour, I saw. It had been far too long. Without thinking a moment longer, I walked purposefully up one of the staircases and rapped on the door.
I did not care what they thought of my money. If they honestly thought I wasn't respectable company, then so be it. I would try again. I wanted to work in the Ministry. I knew if I could get Richard Weasley as one of my allies, then everything would fall into place. I would no longer be an outsider, no longer feel as though—
"Hello, sir," a maid said politely as she answered the door. At least she had some courtesy that the rest of this damn society was lacking. "Who are you looking to see?"
"I'm here to see Richard Weasley," I answered, hoping there was some semblance of superiority in my tone. "He's expecting me." I had talked to him for a few moments last week, requesting this meeting. He had agreed. It was strange to meet with him at his home, but this was the only time he had open; there was a great deal to do at the Ministry, and even I couldn't deny that he was terribly busy.
"Of course, sir. May I have your name so that I may announce you?"
"Optimus Malfoy," I told her. She walked swiftly down the hallway, and in what seemed like no more than a second she was back at my side.
"Please come in, sir. Mr. Weasley asks to see you in his study. May I take your hat?"
I handed the article to her carefully. She was just a young girl, and I didn't quite trust her with it. It were expensive—unbelievably so. Not that it really mattered. I could spend five times that much on every piece my clothing and not be spending too much.
With a sardonic lift of my eyebrow, I realised this was probably the type of girl these snobs of the society wanted me to marry. God forbid I court their daughters, touch their perfection with my unworthy hands.
Nothing, I thought at the time, would please me more than to someday be the best. I wanted all of these ridiculous families to bow down to me, not the other way around. Someday I wanted the Malfoy name to be even more respectable than Black, Flint, Weasley, or any other name.
I deserved it. They did not. What had they done to deserve it? Nothing. Nothing at all.
I thought of this as I was escorted to something that appeared to be an office. There were books lining dark bookshelves, with strong carvings in them. The desk was ornate, but it, too, looked like it could withstand anything. I reached out to the volumes of books. Why did he need so many? Maybe, I thought, I should buy more books. And yet… what did it matter?
I stared at a portrait on the wall. It was of a young girl. She must have been about sixteen in the painting, with flaming red hair that clearly told me she was a Weasley just as my own pale hair showed clearly my Malfoy ancestry.
Her small hands were folded in her lap, and her silk gown was light green. She was smiling in the portrait, but every once in a while a strange look came over her face. I wondered why.
The door opened. "Ah, Optimus," Richard greeted me in his deep, rich voice.
"Mr. Weasley," I said, hoping my voice sounded just as proud and casual. "I hope you weren't too busy."
"Not at all, not at all. I was about to go into the Ministry — you were a little late — but it can wait. There haven't been any disasters of late… I see you found my daughter's portrait." Suddenly pride came into Richard's voice, and a fondness that I felt was genuine.
I nodded.
"Her name is Lydia. It's rare for a Weasley family to have a daughter. Why, I had no sisters, and no aunts. I believe, though, that Grandfather had a sister, who I also believe was deceased by the time I was born."
I didn't exactly understand why I should want to know all of that, but I was told, so I nodded. It was strange, I supposed, that there were never any girls in the family. Lydia was lovely, I noted, taking one last look at the portrait.
I shook my head quickly, attempting to clear my thoughts. Richard was seating himself behind his desk, and was gesturing that I should sit in the seat in front. I took it quickly, but, I hoped, I didn't look like I was rushing in order to please him.
"So, why did you come down to see me?" Richard asked, his voice turning business-like and sharp. "You didn't tell me last week."
"I would like to work in the Ministry," I began, deciding to jump right to the business at hand.
"You would? And why is that?"
"Well, because I feel it is important to be so close to the people of the country, Richard," I told him, wondering how genuine the lie could sound. "I have never felt that… closeness, and I would like to. Perhaps I have been lacking in that respect. I feel I could help. I'm intelligent, hard-working, and resourceful. I promise you would be pleased with my work. I know these are troubled times, and the relationship with the colonies is becoming strained, and I hoped you could use another man."
"That is true," Richard answered, "and I don't doubt that you would work hard. But where do you intend to work?"
"Wherever you feel I would be most useful."
Richard stood, quickly. He walked to the window, and stared out at his land. He opened his mouth a few times, but eventually gave up. Finally he answered, "I'll consider your request. Would you come back next week?"
I knew he didn't need to wait a week; the answer was already no. But I would return anyway, because perhaps a week was long enough for me to come up with another reason or another way. "Yes, Richard, of course."
Then I swept out of the office without saying another word.
Well, that went nothing short of terrible. I grabbed my coat and hat, hastily put them on, and stormed out the door. I needed that job, and I wondered how I could get it.
--
Lydia
"Go down and ask your father," Edwina told me. "See what Optimus wanted!"
I pretended to think this was a stupid order, but for once Edwina's idea didn't sound stupid to me.
I ran lightly down the stairs and opened the door to my father's study. "Was that Mr. Malfoy, Father?" I asked.
"Hello, Lydia," he greeted me. His expression softened, because I had always been his favourite child.
"Yes, it was."
"Does he honestly want to work at the Ministry?"
"Yes, he does."
"You're not going to let him, are you, Father?" I asked quickly.
"Of course I can't," Father answered, looking tired. "He's a Malfoy."
I softly placed a hand on his arm, wondering why he looked so hurt. "I understand. You can't trust him."
"He was admiring your portrait," he said suddenly, gesturing to the other side of the room. I looked back at it, and blushed faintly. My portrait always looked strange — stiff, maybe. I always wondered if I really looked like that — like I thought I was better than most people, or something.
"Was he? I can't imagine why. I've never liked it, myself."
"You're the only one who feels the way," Father laughed, the corners of his eyes wrinkling a little so that I knew it was a real smile. "Everyone else thinks it's a perfect likeness."
If that was a perfect likeness, then maybe I didn't like who I was.
But of course I did! I was happy — truly I was. After all, I enjoyed my life, and all that went with it.
