Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Chapter 10: The Inner Workings
He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight. He will win who knows how to handle both superior and inferior forces. He will win who, prepared himself, waits to take the enemy unprepared. Hence the saying: If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself you will succumb in every battle. Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Nott was a very busy young man for the remainder of the morning, reluctantly setting aside his Transfiguration textbook in favour of the rich opportunity at hand. He paced his dorm room and nibbled on candied orange peel, which, in his opinion, was even better than powdered dragon talon for helping one think. The issue at hand was a complicated one and he approached it as one might a delicate Arithmancy equation, and with equal enjoyment. First off, establish the facts. Granger has shared several classes with him over the course of their school careers and he knew a good deal about her, even if they had never spoken. She was stubborn and opinionated, loyal, not overly concerned with appearances. She also craved acknowledgement; Draco and Pansy had always ascribed her frantic arm-waving in class as symptoms of Mudblood low self-esteem and general show-off-ishness, but Nott was of the opinion that she simply liked the possession of knowledge- and liked even better when everyone acknowledged her cleverness.
The immediate hurdle was clear: Nott had to be the first to get an audience with her. As he reviewed what he knew of Potter's female friend the inkling of an idea dawned on him. Chewing fiercely on his sweet, he fleshed it out, examining his angle and potential opposition. The initial contact would undoubtedly be the trickiest. Once he was satisfied with his plan, he put his stash of sweets away and grinned.
"Nott, my boy, you are brilliant," he told himself.
He needed to know precisely when Potter and Weasley had spoken with Miss Granger in regards to their little arrangement. That was accomplished by the simple expedient of bribing a first year to follow them- thirty Chocolate Frog cards and one promised eighteen inch essay on the properties of moonstone in potion making later, Nott had his spy. A suitable reason to visit was provided by Mrs. Greengrass on agreement that she would be first in line to visit with the future Mrs. Malfoy.
The hospital wing was quiet and stank of convalescence, of spilt potion and old wounds healing. He wrinkled his nose in a barely discernable gesture, as he had always done on his daily visits. Madam Pomfrey glared at him suspiciously, as she had always done lately. He sent her a cheerful smile and waited patiently for the customary patting-down. Satisfied that he was unarmed, she poked his bundle.
"What is that?"
"Swiss chocolates and Transfiguration homework for Portia, and this is a present for Miss Granger from Draco Malfoy, Madam."
Her cheeks pinked and he could see that she very much wanted to tell him to shove off. He pretended to wave back to someone at the other end of the room and said by way of escape, "There's Portia now, if you'll excuse me?"
He slipped away before she could argue, hurried to his housemate's bedside and pulled the privacy curtain. A sweet-faced second year looked up at him - or rather, his chocolate - with welcoming eyes. He sat next to her as she dove headfirst into the gold-wrapped package, letting her girlish chatter wash over him.
To the background noise of what 'horrid old Pomfrey' did today and how long it had been since the Ravenclaw in the bed across the room had washed his hair, he sorted and categorised and mentally assembled his wits to war. Convincing Gryffindors that the sky was blue was difficult enough unless they could run on out to see for themselves; convincing a Gryffindor that he was harmless would be much more so.
"-and then Dumbledore announced that he was taking over the Ministry with nothing but a pack of wild flamingos and three enchanted handkerchiefs."
"Pardon me?"
Portia's little face was accusing. "You haven't been listening to a word I was saying. You're up to something, aren't you."
"Would I be up to something?"
"Only if it suited you and it was important." She considered this and amended, as an afterthought. "Or if you were bored with keeping your head down."
"Cheeky. You know me too well, by God."
She leaned forward with the female's anticipatory hunger for good gossip. "Well? What are you up to?"
His gaze flicked involuntarily to Granger's bedside and her eyes followed. Precocious little chit. "Never you mind. How is the leg coming along?"
She pushed the hospital-issue blankets aside and flexed her leg. It was no longer the twisted and mangled caricature of a limb of two weeks ago but he inwardly flinched regardless. "I will never again have to suffer those ballroom dance lessons," she said with some satisfaction. She switched to a clinically detached voice and recited, "There will always be some deformation and scar tissue, though the scarring should improve with time. I'll have very close to a full range of movement and strength, especially if I take care to treat it as a normal leg. With luck, no one will be able to tell the difference when I'm dressed."
Nott examined the leg with her, his mouth smiling and telling her how good it looked, how fast it was healing. The raw red knob of her new kneecap stared at him, starbursting scars spreading from it like tentacles, grabbing him and pulling him back. He breathed in and smelled the fear, the dust of the stone passageways, the fine wool and sweat of dozens upon dozens of students jostling in a mass as the castle was rocked by another explosion, the students rolling like waves from one wall to another in an effort to keep their feet.
The memory of Professor Snape roared. Mr. Nott, Miss Bulstrode, get these children back to the common room and barricade yourselves in. Prefects and upper forms, wands out!
A parting of ways, one group reeking of salty fear and going forth to meet death. Except for you, Mr. Malfoy. Accompany Nott and keep your head down.
Third years in the vanguard in a Piper's army led by a shining boy, fists stuffed in pockets and whistling the latest Gryffindor mock-tune for a crying first year. They walked away from danger. Trouble was, danger was walking toward them.
Avad-
Serpensortia! Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!
Hell exploded in the passageway and three teenagers faced it down with children at their backs. A wall crumbled, Malfoy was surrounded and yelling for them to run, run, run and the screams, the screams, the children were screaming...
He inhaled sharply, pulling golden motes flying on the afternoon sunshine deep into his lungs, bringing with them the scent of the hated hospital wing and dragging him back to the present. Nott smiled benignly at the curious face of the little girl before him, seeing in it the face of the man who had twitched and spasmed on the rough-hewn floor with a snake twined around his leg.
"I imagine you'll be getting out soon, seeing as how much you've improved."
"Orla Quirke's mother says my father isn't coming back," she said, with poorly faked nonchalance.
"Orla Quirke's mother is a spiteful meddling hag and I hope her tongue rots out," he retorted, seething with indignation. She looked up at him with those big, big brown eyes, so solemn and so young and now so completely aware that Orla Quirke's mother had been right. Father was not coming back.
Nott looked away from the horribly lost eyes of his housemate and tucked the blanket back around her legs to give her time to compose herself. As he covered the ruined knee, the deep wellspring of anger barely hidden beneath the surface began to well up, boiling, twisting his insides. Damn all holier-than-thou adults taking such delight in crushing a little girl for her sin of being Portia Avery. Damn Avery for being so incompetent as to die and leave his baby girl alone in the world. Damn him doubly - especially - for being in that corridor, for opening fire on children. Damn Portia for grieving over a father in a mask, dying with foam on his lips as his child shrieked and bled and would one day know, and in the knowing would hate him and hate herself for being his.
Fucking war.
"Theo?" came her voice then, tight and shrill. "I wouldn't want to keep you and I should get to this homework."
Translation: don't make me cry in front of you.
He patted her knee - the good one. "I'll be back tomorrow, and if you need any help with that essay, just ask."
He pulled the privacy curtain behind him. Fucking war indeed.
Nott stalked to Granger's bed, thoroughly not in the mood for this. The notion of making more excursions to the hospital wing under Madam Pomfrey's benevolent eye was unsavoury though, and it wasn't as if he had much hope of winning the Gryffindor twit over anyway. Might as well get it over with.
He plopped down in a chair unceremoniously. "I'd like to help."
She stared blankly. "With the contract?" Naturally she asked none of the questions she should have. The woman had no instincts at all.
"No, but I have convinced Draco to give up some of those books he is hoarding. He's making notes right now, Potter will bring them by tonight. I want to help you with being a Malfoy. I'm sure you think a Malfoy does nothing other than be as unpleasant as possible to people he or she doesn't like, and wallow in their wealth. Keep on thinking that and you'll only prove to people that Muggleborns are know-nothing and unsophisticated beyond redemption."
Her eyes narrowed in distaste. "And what, exactly, is it like to be a Malfoy?"
Much better. Ask questions, be suspicious, make me prove myself. "For example, there is the traditional seat on the board of St. Mungo's. The board makes decisions as to who is accepted into the apprentice Healer program and what monies are spent on potions research. That seat goes by custom to the eldest Mrs. Malfoy, just as the governorship of Hogwarts goes to the elder Mr. Malfoy." He paused for a moment to ensure he still had her attention, if not her interest. "Four hundred hectares of vineyards in France, which provides almost the sole potential employment for the nearby village; a magical animal preserve on the Malfoy private island, sleeping partnership of two broomstick companies; and controlling shareholder of the Daily Prophet. Those are just the enterprises which are common knowledge and undoubtedly there are others. You, of course, have final decision-making control over the Malfoy estate, so all of this is now your problem."
She looked intimidated. Good. "Then there is the matter of society. As a Malfoy, you will be a cornerstone of European wizard society and these people will have expectations of you."
She huffed a scornful noise and plucked at the front of her robe. "Can you imagine me as a member of society? Really."
"No, I can't. That's why I am here." He leaned forward intently. "You scoff at what you take for the frivolities of the rich, but you cannot imagine the power wielded by these people. Society is more than a round of mere parties; it is the meeting of the most influential wizards and witches on the continent, people with connections, people with more sway over what the wizarding world thinks than even the Ministry. And you will be the very first Mudblood to be present as anything other than a servant."
"Don't you dare call me that."
He shrugged. "It's what most of them will be thinking. As a Malfoy, you will be important. As a Mudblood, you will be significant; not the token, but the representative of people like you. The pinnacle of the wizarding world will be reaffirming or reforming their opinion of Muggleborns- based entirely on you."
She chewed on her lip, hands fidgeting at her side. Weakness. God, did she ever need help. "Why would you want to help?"
"Someone has to. It isn't as if your friends can provide assistance."
She did not acknowledge this but continued to worry at her upper lip. He sat calmly, letting her think it through. Then, "What do you suggest?"
Asking him to reveal his plan without promising anything. Perhaps the woman had instincts after all. "You agreed to meet with certain people from Slytherin house?" She nodded. "Be polite and pleasant, especially to Mrs. Greengrass. Give that one anything she requests. Have someone fix your hair and wear this."
He handed over the cloth-wrapped bundle. She lightly ran rough fingers over the satiny material and unwrapped it, removing a pristine white dressing gown in a luxuriously sturdy damask silk. It was unadorned but for the sash, beautifully embroidered in black.
"That is a personal gift from Mrs. Greengrass," he informed her. "Thank her and don't say anything stupid. You are a Malfoy; you expect things like this."
"I am not a Malfoy," she said with disgust.
"You will be. I'll handle the rest. Are we in agreement then?"
She contemplated the silk of the dressing gown and then looked up at him, her eyes very direct. "I have no intentions of ever marrying that loathsome git. Mark my words, I will find a way out of this. However, I agreed to meet with the Slytherins and I will not allow people to continue with their ignorant opinions on Muggleborns if I can change their minds. So yes, we have an agreement. Just don't expect it to last any longer than the time I need to invalidate that contract."
Glory be, she was using her brains at last. He stood and bowed mockingly. "As you wish. I shall see you tomorrow."