Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter. The concept of a 'tai-pan' I borrowed from James Clavell. Don't sue me.

CHAPTER 5 - THE PRICE.



Lucius Malfoy knelt at his master's feet, masked, robed and anonymous; he knew that the Dark Lord could identify every one of the Death Eaters present here tonight through the Blood bond established by the Dark Mark. The obscene mark, visible sign of a Blood Bond, albeit a corrupted and twisted one, allowed the issuer, the bonder, to Call those marked, the bonded, to their side; to know their general location at any one particular time; and it allowed him to send sensations, or instructions, through the bond over long distances.

Lucius should know - he himself held Blood bond for every man, woman and child on the Malfoy estate. Unlike the Death Eaters and their lord, however, this bond was mutual - the original, natural form of the magic. Mutual protection and defense - their blood for his; his for theirs. Voldemort's bond entailed much blood shedding on the part of the Death Eaters, and none on Voldemort's part. Not for the first time, Lucius cursed the circumstances that had made it necessary for the proud, powerful Marcus Malfoy, the father he had always worshipped, to join with the then Tom Riddle. He cursed himself for the necessity of following in his father's footsteps, and he cursed his younger brother's ambition, the ambition that had taken him to the heights, and could make keeping that position more than perilous.

He couldn't say that neither he or Luc hadn't benefited from his association with Voldemort - but even so, the cost was far, far too high. The Ministry was already almost virtually certain that they were both Death Eaters - there was no proof, none at all, but what was that when the price of discovery was Azkaban, the complete confiscation of all Malfoy assets and money not squirreled away overseas (and Luc and his connections had made sure there was a lot stored off shores) - and, perhaps worst or all, the seizure of the estate, of the land that had been in the Clan since the beginning.


Without the land, the Malfoy were nothing. His father had known that, but had thought the risk justified - he and Luc had known that, but had joined anyway, had been willing to take the risk. At that age, they might even have enjoyed the deception and the challenge - Gods, but they'd been so young - but they had to have been, had to have the extreme certainty and arrogance of youth to have done what they had done...

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Luc had had very little to lose - it had been the only way to power, when a strong tai-pan had already been at the helm of the House, and a strong heir had looked set to follow him. He'd had no chance at all of becoming the Malfoy - at least in the House the leader was more or less elected, the only absolute criterion being that they had to be a scion of the House, of the de Sauvigny blood.

He'd been a scion of the blood, but unacknowledged - he'd first needed to find an influential member of the family to vouch for him, and then he'd needed to dominate the Clan so completely that they would ignore his name and his connections to the Malfoy, his mother's strident opposition and his rather...shady reputation. He ruled half of the younger generation, his peers - the other half supported Caine, his half brother and his biggest rival.

The issue had split the Clan - Slytherin against Gryffindor, the more progressive and ambitious against the traditional and conservative. Luc had promised, if he took control, to take the House into the future - to expand and restructure, to turn it from an influential English firm with outposts throughout the former British Empire into a global empire. He was a Malfoy, with corresponding ambition - and he had a vision, an obsession - one that he could almost taste, it was so near. All he needed to do was to get rid of any and all opposition standing in his way.

Hence the move to join the Death Eaters - he'd used the raids and assassinations and "accidents" to eliminate his rivals. Subtly, otherwise it would draw unwanted attention. Quietly, so that his reputation was spotless, his word unchallenged. Since leaving Hogwarts, he'd had no association with the Dark Arts at all - he'd moved in the correct circles, showed signs of moving away from the High Clan's more dangerous side, and had learned to make himself both accepted and liked by the general populace.

He'd played the Game, and it provided adequate cover for his activities as a Death Eater assassin - he'd executed every single one of his de Sauvigny rivals personally, taking great pleasure in it, and mourning the next day. It was hypocrisy of the first order, of course - but some things were necessary, if his goal was to be achieved. Take what you want, and pay for it. He'd wanted, and he'd taken, and he'd known, deep down, that one day payment would be due. But not today, and not tomorrow...and not the day after that. Not yet.

And now, fifteen years after he'd stood, pale and, if not grieving then at least solemn, at Caine de Sauvigny's funeral, with feral triumph running like blood through his veins, and had accepted with the proper gravity the mantle of tai-pan, payment had come due. Voldemort was back, and he was demanding a choice. Return to the fold, or see everything he'd ever wanted, everything he'd built and shaped and created, threatened by the very force he'd used to gain it.

Oh, Lucius...what happened to the certainty, to the fire and energy of their youth? They were thirty-six, thirty-seven, coming into the prime of their lives, and they'd seen enough blood and death to last a thousand lifetimes, had so much blood on their hands that it would never wash off, and they had, knowingly and willingly, forfeited any chance of redemption long, long ago. It had been worth the price, once...perhaps it still was, when he saw what he had made of the House, when he felt the warmth and acceptance of his adopted family, when he looked into his nephew's eyes - both of them - and saw what they would one day become.

Luc had paid too much, in blood, innocence and pieces of his soul, to ever let anything or anyone threaten it. He had too much to lose now - the Dark Lord's summons would go unanswered, and he would take the consequences as they came. But it hurt - oh, yes, it cut to the soul, the knowledge that Lucius, for the exact same reasons, had decided to go back...Lucius, my brother, oh my brother, my friend, my confidante...if you come for your son I will keep him from you - if you come against me, I will destroy you...

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He was weeping.

Luc Malfoy was weeping.

Snape, slouching tiredly in a chair in the Hospital Wing, watched in almost horrified fascination as the man he had known since the first year at Hogwarts wept slowly in his dreams. He'd never seen Luc cry - not even when Kate had been hit by a bludger and had never woken up from her coma, not even when she'd died. Not even at her funeral in a windy muggle cemetery, when he'd turned his back on the light and embraced ambition, the promise of power and an obsession that would let nothing stand in its way. There'd been nothing left, by then, but the obsession.

Oh, Gods...Luc was the most controlled of men. Something must be seriously bothering him, if it led to tears, even in an exhausted sleep - the last thing he, Dumbledore and Hogwarts needed was for him to have a nervous breakdown now. Snape pulled himself up. Not that he was any better - his dreams were haunted by memories, nightmares, images of his past and his foolishness; why had he ever thought that Luc was any different? Because Luc Malfoy gave the impression of invincibility and omnipotence - the always composed, always capable tai-pan, who could easily shoulder everybody's burdens, mediate in hostile disputes and still run a business empire with style.

He always had, even at school - Snape supposed that he'd just vaguely assumed that Luc didn't have a guilty conscience, that once the end had justified the means and the act was done, it was finished and forgotten about. That was the High Clan way, after all - and what was Luc, but the epitome of what the High Clan should be? Powerful, ruthless, ambitious, diplomatic and exquisitely mannered, always controlled, never tiring or complaining, strong and sure and more than capable of holding, defending and if necessary avenging whatever and whoever he thought of as his.

And most of all, a High Clan Lord was flawless. Above petty flaws and everyday concerns, he was larger than life and incapable of mistakes.

The form lying on the white hospital bed, breathing a little slowly and hoarsely, skin paler than usual and eyes dark shadowed, the hands, usually so capable and expressive, lying still and curiously vulnerable, and tears leaking out from under his eyelids, was not a Clan Lord. He was a man.

A remarkably strong, intelligent man, with enormous determination and strength of will; a dangerous man, subtle and silent, swift and strong; a controlled man, who, in learning to control himself had learned to control others. A scholar, a warrior, a leader - a Clan Lord. But just a man.

For the first time, Snape looked beyond the illusion and the mask, and saw the man.

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In Hogwarts that night, at the feast, all the talk was about their new DADA teacher - for once, the students said, Dumbledore had got it right - this one was actually capable of living up to his title. Even if someone had heard, somewhere, that he was a Malfoy, of all things... Thanks to his spectacular collapse, he was not in attendance at the feast or the Sorting, so Dumbledore introduced him in his absence.

"And so, dear students, another year, another Defence Professor," he said, wryly. The students, those above first year, all agreed with mocking smiles. Well, the Slytherins did, at least - the other Houses were too polite, and merely chuckled.
"Most of you would have had first hand knowledge of his abilities," here, some of the students, those who actually had seen him action, agreed wholeheartedly. "And we are, all of us, more than thankful of that. Unfortunately, such a courageous effort," here, Snape stifled a most inappropriate snort, thinking of what Luc would say to such praise, "has left him incapable of attending the feast. So I will introduce him anyway, seeing as you will all no doubt meet him at some time in the first week. Professor Lucien Malfoy..." anyone not in Slytherin, with the exception of Harry, and Marc de Sauvigny, stiffened in surprise, "has kindly given up one year of his time to be this year's DADA professor. I hope that you will make him welcome, and will treat him with all the respect he deserves."

And with that, he resumed his seat, leaving the Hall in an uproar of speculation. He was a Malfoy? But he'd fought against the Death Eaters - he'd been on their side. Some students shook their heads. He was dark haired - Malfoy were fair. It was a fact, like saying Gryffindors were brave, and Slytherins were sly. He couldn't be a real Malfoy, could he, if he was black haired? Others, those whose parents worked in the Ministry or the corporate world, knew the name Luc Malfoy - knew it all too well, and the reputation that went with it. They asked what he was doing at Hogwarts, when he had so many other responsibilities. Did he have some hidden motive? A secret agenda? Perhaps he was worth watching...

And all wondered what this would mean for the Houses - he'd been a Slytherin, right? Just like Professor Snape? Did this mean that he would favour them over the other Houses? Did this mean Malfoy would get away with even more than he already did? Only the select few who actually knew Luc Malfoy, knew his past and his secret, knew what this really meant - Luc Malfoy had made his choice. And he'd chosen Dumbledore.

This was a challenge, a flaunting of his wealth and his power and his resources, all of which would now go to Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix; and it was a gauntlet - come and take Hogwarts now, if you can; come and take the students from under my protection.

Come and get the Malfoy Heir and the Boy who Lived, if you dare.

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Albus Dumbledore, later that night, sat down in the same chair Snape had, and watched over Luc. He remembered him as a young boy, dark haired and pale skinned, with shadowed silver eyes. Even then, he had seen the potential in the eleven-year-old boy - he'd also seen the ambition and the lengths to which, if pushed, he would go. Oh, he would shine, one day - but whether for good, or for evil, he simply couldn't tell.

Dumbledore was certain that Luc had indeed gone to the Death Eaters after Kate died - the sudden, violent snapping of a soul bond, of a romantic bond that bound two souls together for life - could be traumatic even for fully grown wizards; Merlin only knew what it had done to Luc at seventeen.

But he also knew that Luc had no further use for the Dark Lord - in fact, had too much to lose if he did return - and so would throw his considerable weight behind the resistance. And so he had felt safe in asking Luc to teach at Hogwarts, even for a year - having another highly skilled operative, other than Snape, defending Hogwarts could be nothing but beneficial...and he was good with children. He could indeed teach them something useful - perhaps if some of that formidable discipline and self-control rubbed off onto the more volatile students...? He wanted to keep Draco away from the Dark Lord. If he could keep just one student from the Dark, it would be more than enough.

Dumbledore had tried, long years ago, to turn a brilliant, charismatic boy towards the light, and had lost him to sheer chance and the weight of ambition. Others had followed, or gone with him - Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape, Rayden Lestrange, Brandon Avery...he had failed spectacularly, with that year. Just one of the Lords of Slytherin - the High Clan children who had dominated the Serpent House since their third year - would have been enough to bring the wavering High Clan families onto Dumbledore's side. But to have them all - all! - join the Death Eaters had been an unparalleled disaster. They had lost the High Clan, and the Slytherins, completely.

But at least one of them had come back...and another had, with his acceptance of the DADA position, indicated his willingness to return. There was no such thing, to his thinking, as too late. Standing up slowly and carefully, he smoothed Luc's hair in an oddly tender gesture, pulled up the covers and put a hand to his forehead in gentle benediction. Then, with a last, backwards look, he blew out the lantern and silently closed the door behind him.

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