Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.
AN: Well, I'm in the process of re-working parts of the story to be compatible with canon pre-1996. This basically means that everything revealed in the books that happened before Harry's sixth year – Hallows, Horcruxes, etc – it all true in the B&C universe. Sorry for the wait, and thanks for your support so far.
The Prince
They're shouting down the hall – rather, the Dark Lord is shouting, and Lucius is taking it badly.
The fresh ache on Livia' s arm gives her a comfortable sensation of belonging here, in this underground place; her fingertips caress it like feathers, this black skull that makes her so much more than Zabini, the younger. It's an outward sign of the darkness that crept through her, hours ago, when he'd grasped her wrist; luxuriously thick, numbing like creamy venom as it spread.
Other Death Eaters – and she likes that, other ones – keep their distance from the trainwreck currently unfolding in the Dark Lord's office, while jostling as quietly as possible for the best position from which to see it.
Because anyone could hear it.
"Fool, Lucius; you miserable fool – Look!" The Dark Lord's voice lowers in volume, becomes dangerously calm. "This article. What do you see here, Lucius? This line, right here."
"My Lord - "
"Read it aloud."
Confusion, but Lucius is trying not to show it. "The Dark Lord's young wife, Ginevra Molly Weasley - "
The Dark Lord cuts Lucius off. Still in that very reasonable, very disturbing tone he says, "Is that her name?"
Livia moves a little, and sees the woman in question. Skinny Ginny Weasley, well, well, well.
They'd called her that when they were all kids, with scraped knees and blazing eyes. And then later. When they were vicious and felt their power growing as they tore others down.
But now skinny Ginny stands silently behind the Dark Lord, looking every inch the politician's wife in her 1940s black dress and her sleek red chignon; Livia feels a delicious frisson of wrongness seeing her there. This situation has subtlety, has implications for miles. Tangled webs hang this place like tapestries.
"My Lord - "
"Is that her name."
It's a hiss so sleek you could almost call it a purr.
"No, my Lord." Lucius replies, flinching against his will as the Dark Lord slaps the newspaper down.
"And this?" He asks, indicating the picture on the front page.
Lucius trembles.
"What is this, Lucius? What is it?"
That cold, handsome face is a study in suppressed rage. His eyes burn white-hot. Those who are watching are enthralled and afraid, but they have to know – what will he do?
Lucius falls to his knees. "My Lord, I beg your forgiveness. I believed the Skeeter woman would use the approved photographs, my lord. My lord - "
"And the priest, Lucius?"
This is not an entirely unexpected question, though Lucius is not prepared for it to hit him like this, right in the middle of a different accusation. He gapes inelegantly.
"My lord - "
"My lord, my lord," the Dark Lord mocks, his voice rising to a dangerous volume, "Is that all I'm to get out of you? My lord!"
He has his wand in his hand, held loosely, but it's no less menacing for that. Lucius' eyes flick towards it and betray him. The Dark Lord's eyes narrow, ever so slightly. Livia holds her breath.
"Get out." He says at last, in disgust. The tension unwinds shockingly, the awful potential so suddenly gone that Livia feels like she's missed a step on the stairs, that kind of dropped-heart sickness. "Get out of my sight."
Lucius sags. His exit – a low, whipped-dog stumble that he tries to keep upright, as dignified as possible, while avoiding like death any appearance of defiance – contrasts sharply with the taut control of the Dark Lord. That's power. Livia can see it in every line of his body, in his face, in his tight gestures. He's the source of all power here – and none of it is currently in the possession of Lucius, who slinks past her in the hall like a child who's been slapped.
The Dark Lord starts to make plans with senior Death Eaters. The door is shut on the lower ranks, but Livia already knows the broad lines of the plan. They're going into damage control and when the priest and the reporter are taken care of – not to mention all the Death Eaters who had a hand in the debacle - they're going to shift onto the offensive.
This corresponds exactly with Livia's own new strategy.
"Yeah, I heard it," Draco says, folding his arms. "So?"
His gaze lowers to her left arm, lingers there. He hadn't been exactly enthusiastic about letting her into his room – his new room, underground – but Livia knows things he doesn't, and in their world that opens a lot of doors.
"So, we're all in trouble. Our whole faction, you, me, Blaise, even Bellatrix. And your position wasn't great to start with. You know why your room's right next to the Lady's?"
Even here, Livia has to be careful what she says. Power struggles within the army are one thing, but she's far too clever to be caught referring to the Dark Lord's inexplicable obsession in an off-hand way.
"Alright, why?"
"It's a test. That shit at school, the Dark Lord can see that two ways. One: you're secretly into the Lady and you're going to play Lancelot, undermine his authority. In that scenario he has you executed – eventually. Two: the Lady confided in you and you helped her out as a service to the Dark Lord. You feel nothing but respect for her and have no intention of starting anything stupid."
Draco looks at her speculatively. "Interesting. So how does scenario two work out? And where do you come into it?"
"I told you, I'm part of your faction. Lucius has brought us all down today, but if you're executed? Our stock falls. And I mean it really falls. Now, I know that you're as devoted to the Dark Lord as I am. As the Lady is. And the Dark Lord knows it too. But it doesn't mean a thing if it's not seen to be true, do you get it? If you don't spin this right, fast, it's your head."
Draco snorts. "I'm not an idiot."
Which is almost funny, because he's certainly acting like one. Livia bites down on the comment. It would be useless, and would antagonise him unnecessarily. Besides, he can tell she's thinking it.
"You have to be seen to be uninterested in the Lady. And the best way to do that is to be seen to be interested in someone else."
Light dawns. "You?"
Draco scans her, from the Mark she has deliberately left uncovered, to the hair she wears straight and parted to the side, like Weasley's. It's a subtle calculation. Livia's not sure how consciously Draco's going to pick up on it, or if he's only going to register that she looks less like Blaise today.
"Has this got anything to do with my devastating good looks?" he asks, eyebrow quirking. Draco has an irritating sense of humour.
"You're in a position to get in really good with the Dark Lord. What can I say, I like that in a man."
Draco's not actually bad looking. It's not going to be any great hardship, being with him. Nevertheless Livia pictures the Dark Lord standing over her, and Draco mistakes her darkened eyes and slight hitch of breath for something much more – high school.
"Great, we're going to be a power couple. Right? And I get a pretty tattoo and a pat on the head, and You-Know-Who decides he likes me better than dear old dad, and you get to walk in front of Blaise at the big victory parade. Is that basically what you're after?"
It's a reduction of her ambition to some petty sibling rivalry complex. He also thinks she wants him, and that gives him the very stupid idea that he has power over her. It could work her way, so Livia decides to let it slide. But he has to realise how very serious this is for her – for both of them – and she takes a risk.
"You have to earn the Mark, Draco," she says. "If you want to live, you will. But after that it's your choice, really – you can take my offer, get into power and become as valuable as your father, or you can be rank and file. Cannon fodder. Like your mother."
Draco hits her.
Of all the things Livia expected him to do, slapping her open-handed – throwing her against the wall like a rag doll – didn't even make the top ten. Tears spring to her eyes unwanted, and her face feels like it's been hit with a brick, a great dull thudding pain that shocks her with its crudity. She stares numbly up at Draco, her straight hair falling around her face, so unfamiliar, strands of it covering her field of vision like rain. Like static.
Anger rushes up to fill the void where her thoughts have been knocked from her head, hot anger, not like the steady cold flame Livia needs right now. She struggles to evaluate the situation, to assess effects, to weigh possibilities.
Draco looks as shocked as she feels, but there's something else – a flicker of violence. A deliberation in the way he breathes. Something in his stance that reminds her of someone else entirely.
Physical reaction overwhelms Livia and she flees, throwing her hood over her burning face, putting as much distance as possible between herself and Draco. She feels hot water spill down her cheeks and – smiles.
So, then, Narcissa was the key. And now Livia's unlocked something in her lost, sarcastic, bullying son – something different, dangerous.
Something useful.