Disclaimer – I don't own Harry Potter. Don't sue me.

CHAPTER 12 - GHOSTS OF THE PAST


Back at Hogwarts, Brandon looked down at the Hogwarts yearbook for 1977, a book that he now wished he'd never opened. In the interests of curiosity, his main besetting sin, he'd agreed with Draco that the coincidence of his mother's name was too interesting to ignore. It was interesting, oh yes...but he could have lived without that particular knowledge. The pictures of his mother (undoubtedly his mother) wearing Slytherin robes and hugging a teenage version of their DADA teacher - who was hugging her back as if he had the right - were all too damning.

Ben Greyson's face was open, pleasant - he was sandy haired, with clear blue eyes and friendly features...his father had the same features, his mother the same colouring. Kate's hair was rich and dark, she was quite beautiful, but she didn't have the clear-cut elegance of centuries of selective breeding...and her eyes were green. But Lucien Brandon Malfoy - at fifteen years old, and even now - looked far more like Bran than Benjamin ever had, even allowing for shared features and Kate's blood. And the eyes, the silver eyes, were the key. Bran's eyes were the same colour as Luc's, as Draco's, and as Draco's father. It was undeniable - completely incontrovertible - and it was clearly impossible. Five or six years lay in between Kate's disappearance and Bran's birth...

He wasn't sure that he wanted to believe the evidence of his eyes and his magic. Because it was true, no matter the fact that Kate and Luc had not met in twenty years, no matter that she had been wed to another man a full nine months before Bran's birth...

He was Luc Malfoy's son.

And that meant that his mother had lied to him, all his life; she'd known, surely she'd known of his paternity…of course she had, otherwise she wouldn't have tried so hard to ensure he knew something of the High Clan, of the Game. All those late night fights between his parents were now explained - her insistence on his extra education - the languages and the etiquette, the history and the philosophy, and most of all the discipline she had always expected of him and that he had always hated...

She'd expected him, from a very early age, to be intelligent, articulate, and self-controlled, subtle, cynical, and self-reliant. He supposed she'd been preparing him for the day when he encountered the High Clan and the truth of his birth, but at the time he hadn't quite appreciated that...he'd been much too concerned with pleasing his father - the man he'd known as his father - by ruling his school and his classmates, on field and off, and sowing his wild oats, as his father had once put it.

He'd been the perfect Gryffindor - popular and well liked, up to every challenge and dare, and too secure in his own immortality to even think the world was a dangerous place. A natural athlete physically, mentally and magically, he'd been successful at everything he'd turned his hand to, and he'd never thought of himself as innocent or, indeed, as any different from anyone else.

The first time he'd met the true Draco Malfoy, he'd recognized the epitome of what Kate had tried to mould him into, and he'd been, despite himself, despite the scepticism instilled by his father's disparagement, quite impressed...perhaps enough of his mother's strictures on subtle authority and self-control had sunk in for him to appreciate just how much influence Malfoy wielded, and with what skill...but it had been purely academic appreciation. He'd not identified with Malfoy, not classed himself as one of "them" - he'd been an outsider, different from them with their High Clan ways and their Death Eater forebears.

And now, it seemed, he was indeed one of "them", by blood, if not by birth and upbringing...and he could no longer hold himself aloof in his superiority. His father was not an influential Auror liaison with a spotless reputation; his family was not upright, sturdy and moral New England stock.

His father was an ex-Death Eater, a bastard son who hadn't kept to his place but had taken control of a trading House (instant upper class disdain manifested) by murdering anyone else who stood in his way...oh, he knew there was no proof, but everyone knew it - just as they couldn't conclusively prove who'd slaughtered Caine de Sauvigny, his main rival and half-brother, but were all but certain that it had been Luc. He was a conscienceless, remorseless killer and he felt no regret or guilt for the crimes he had committed, but instead regarded them as the necessary price for success.

His family...well, his family on his mother's side he knew - a muggle aunt and uncle and cousin, who, from all he had heard, were quite...well, vulgar was really the only word he could think of, no matter how top-lofty that sounded...and there was Harry Potter, whom he'd met once or twice and thought quite modest, despite his fame - or perhaps because of it. Had he not been a Slytherin, and Potter a Gryffindor, he thought he would have honestly liked him...

And on his father's side - House Malfoy, the oldest, coldest and most powerful Clan in society, respected, or perhaps feared, throughout the wizarding world...notorious, throughout history, for their ruthlessness and their intrigues...more than capable of taking what they wanted through overwhelming force, they preferred the more subtle, less obvious methods that would draw less attention to their land and estates, and would deflect the more boldly ambitious warlords' greedy eyes elsewhere. Ruling through manipulation was much easier than ruling through force.

As for the House, well, it was just as ambitious and ruthless as the Malfoy, with a past just as notorious, although it had been relatively clean since the balance between Slytherin and Gryffindor children had begun to shift in Gryffindor's favour - the stories about Jean-Marc's son Mikhail's...expansion...into Hong Kong had been legendary...and Luc's ascension had provided more fodder. How an unacknowledged, bastard son had even come near the seat of the tai-pan had become legend almost immediately after he took over, and it got wilder and wilder with the telling. He was ambitious, ruthless, and brilliant - his name was spoken with awe in the financial quarters of both Diagon Alley and Muggle London...

So here he was, Brandon Greyson/Malfoy, with a mudblood for a mother and a "prince of the highest High Clan" for a father...the child of two almost opposite extremes.

And the Lady only knew what that made him, or what he felt about it at the moment.

As for how it all came about, what factors had led to this crazy situation...

He closed the book slowly, shutting off the sight of all the photographs looking out on the real world, trapped in a happy memory or a triumphant moment of time - such as the 1977 Quidditch final, Slytherin v Gryffindor - a game that was legendary even now. He knew the story: Gryffindor's wonder team, the veritable Gods of the school, against the Lords of Slytherin, the elite circle of aristocratic Slytherin High Clan heirs - so completely matched that it had been more than three hours before, after a furious chase involving spectacular aerial acrobatics, Slytherin seeker Katherine Evans had finally snatched the snitch right out of James Potter's hands...and had received a bludger straight to the head, smashed deliberately and maliciously by Sirius Black...

Only Dumbledore, the other Lords, and the former Slytherin head of house, Professor Carus, knew how close Black had come to death when Luc realized who had hit that bludger...

So Kate had died, or disappeared, and everything had gone to hell after that. Within a year, Voldemort had become more than a crackpot nuisance, most, or indeed all, of the Lords had bent knee to the Dark Lord, and the world turned upside down and inside out.

From talking to Kate, Bran knew that during their sixth year, the Malfoy brothers had not yet contemplated joining Voldemort's crusade – so what had changed in twelve months to see them both turn towards him?

And he did know they were both Death Eaters, or at least they had both been, and Lucius still was - you couldn't stay for any amount of time in Slytherin and not learn of the affairs of the High Clan. Rumour ran on wings throughout the whole of the wizarding world, and Slytherin was a hotbed of intrigue, speculation, rumours and gossip – especially about the major players of the Game.

As much as was known about them, there was much that was hidden, or that wasn't discussed, and playing without knowing all the rules and all the information was a major disadvantage. Such as the knowledge that he himself was now a very valuable pawn, and his mother even more so. Now he knew why the others stared curiously at him and then at Luc, why his unconscious use of his wandless powers, far more common now than it had been before he'd met Draco, caused others to raise their eyebrows in unspoken speculation.

And possessing that small, vital piece of knowledge - not just supposition, but knowledge - he'd be able to contribute his own part to the Game. But he would be even more crippled if he only knew one fact, and not the vital background information – so  he asked. If he was, indeed, a child of the Malfoy, then he had a right to know, to understand.

He would ask Draco.

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They were lounging outside on the grass, underneath some shady trees, watching the clouds in the blue, blue sky - at least Bran was, he rather thought Crabbe and Goyle were off in their own little world, somewhere beyond the ken of anyone who could think for themselves. Nick had closed his eyes and was lying, sprawled flat out on his back, 'meditating', and Marc, quite conspicuous in his red and gold trimmed robes, was nonetheless quite comfortably lounging with his head pillowed on Nick's stomach, also meditating.

He had noticed that the Slytherins were quite unreserved about casual touches, between both male and female, especially when both were of an equal rank. Between Nick, Marc, and Draco, the touches bordered on intimate – he'd remarked on this, once, and Nick had only shrugged and said that the ardeur tied them all together, and touching reinforced it. He'd smiled with almost feral mockery, and added that sex reinforced it even more...

Bran hadn't had the courage to pick up that gauntlet.

Leaning back, lazy in the afternoon sun, he'd been thinking of the revelations of the morning, and about his father, Luc Malfoy, the tai- pan, and his rather…unusual relationship with Snape. He'd had the feeling that it all related back to the Death Eater days, running so deep it was still valid today - and that it could have a very significant impact on the war they all knew was coming. Incomplete information could be fatal...

So turning to Draco, sitting cross legged in the lotus position, still managing to maintain an air of dignity, he stared at him until the eyelids had lifted in that blank, serene face, and silver eyes stared with mild curiosity into his. "Snape and your uncle haven't come back yet?" he asked almost absently, thanking his mother for teaching him tact and indirect speaking.

For all his lessons, he was still only a learner - he hadn't had much practice putting his skills to use. Draco had been playing verbal games all his life.

"No, I don't believe so," he murmured noncommittally, blocking the question.

The look in Draco's eyes - dispassionate measurement - daunted him for a moment until he reminded himself that he, too, was Malfoy – for what it was worth, unacknowledged as he was. He squared his shoulders and met those Slytherin eyes steadily.

"Do you suppose they're lovers?" he tried for shock value, this time, but was spectacularly unsuccessful - Draco's eyes reflected only amusement at Bran's frustration.

"Not now," came the reply almost absently. At Bran's scowl, he gave up and laughed. "Not this time, and not for a while, from what I know..."

Finally, Bran conceded defeat. "Why not?" He asked bluntly. The two de Sauvigny boys had opened their eyes halfway and were watching them both, veiled eyes amused beneath their concealing lids. They seemed to be indifferent to the conversation, but he noticed that they were concentrating beneath their masks...

Draco smiled thinly. "Do you want the short version, or the long one?"

Bran affected a bored yawn - not a particularly obvious one, because that would be rude, but a small, languid one. It was, he supposed, the equivalent of languidly waving his scented handkerchief, or taking a pinch of snuff... "By all means," he drawled in his best High Clan accent, as if he were affected with terminal ennui, "let us have the long version; I vow, we've nothing else to do today..."

Eyes laughing, Nick reached over and swatted Bran's arm. "Respect your betters, Yank," he half scowled. "And besides, your accent is bloody awful..."

Draco cleared his throat half seriously, and Nick turned his attention dutifully towards him. The look in those silver eyes was enough to quell any levity. "What you must understand," Draco's voice was now quite serious, "is that however many years ago, Voldemort was not nearly as feared as he is today..." he inclined his head in acknowledgement of Bran's half flinch at hearing Draco say the name so casually.

"He was regarded as something of an eccentric, a crackpot guru much like all the other cultists who abounded in the Muggle world, living in communes and exploring their spirituality. His message of racial purity was seen as old and stereotypical, and his promise of a new world nothing more than any of the other would-be revolutionaries of the century had ever preached. He had very few followers, and they were only those with nothing to lose by going against the current authorities."

Bran nodded - Professor Malfoy had been teaching all of this in DADA, but on a general basis. Here, he believed he was going to get a more comprehensive, detailed view...

"One of his earliest followers was Augustus Snape, Professor Snape's father. Even then, the Snapes had little money and less legitimate power – they had just enough to get by, and maintained their status in society because of their brilliance with Potions; the Snapes have always been Potions Masters, going back to the very first. But Augustus wanted more than that - he wanted to wield real power, real influence, but couldn't do that under the current Ministry. Hence his devotion to Tom Riddle, a half blood son of a third rate House - had matters been otherwise, he would never even have spared the man a second glance."

Bran smirked. Draco would never be accused of favouring class equality...

"But to lend real credibility to his cause, Voldemort needed the support and backing of the powerful players, the leaders of the High Clan. He played on their prejudices, their grievances, their desires and their ambitions, talking of the pitiful economic climate breaking many of the old Houses, blaming it on the Muggles and their wars and secret weapons build up, playing on their fears of the Muggles rising up and turning against them, and promising them a return to the old days when the High Clan ruled supreme, without the interference of the peasants..."

Nick nodded. "Tell them what's going wrong, what they should fear, and then give them someone to blame – it's how Hitler got into power, how he convinced an otherwise rational populace to do what it did."

Bran raised a brow. "I thought you Slytherin elite didn't approve of anything to do with Muggles."

Marc laughed softly. "Luc always says that as long as they're willing to give him money, he doesn't care whether the customers are Muggles, wizards or anything in between. The House operates fully in both the Muggle and the real world, and he deals with Muggles everyday; to do that, you have to know all about them and their world…"

"A very practical man," mused Bran, mentally reevaluating his biological father.

"Oh, yes," murmured Draco. "But then, he's had to be..." he uncurled from his lotus position and stretched out on the ground, crossing his hands under his head. "Gradually," he continued, "gradually more and more High Clan Lords and scions crossed over to his side, lured by the promise of what everything they wanted to hear, until really the only influential Lords not on his side were Marcus Malfoy, my grandfather, and others who were, in the larger picture, quite irrelevant – but the Lord of Clan Malfoy was the one feather Voldemort needed in his cap to convince all the doubters, and Marcus failed to comply."

"What?" interjected Bran, thoroughly surprised. "I thought the Malfoy would be the first to join."

Draco only looked at him, and Bran had the grace to flush.

Ignoring it, the sprawled and supine Malfoy heir went on. "He had no need to upset the status quo - it was all too favourable to him as it was - but he had reckoned without Augustus Snape, who was bound and determined to see his Lord succeed at any cost. He'd already managed to secure Malfoy patronage for his only son and heir, who had now gained the friendship - if not the trust - of both the Malfoy brothers..."

"He tried reasoning, first, and then bribes and promises. When that didn't work, he turned to threats, and finally to sabotage – some planted evidence, enough to bury even Marcus Malfoy, in the hands of an ambitious, well-connected auror with more zeal than sense, and no responsible Clan Lord could ignore such a threat. Conveniently for Snape, news leaked that this auror had important evidence about well-placed Death Eaters, and that the information would shock the wizarding world to its core. He did everything but outright accuse Marcus of being a Death Eater – certainly it was more than implied."

Draco's smile was thin and strangely bitter. "My grandfather would not be bribed, or reasoned with, or threatened, so when manipulation failed, it was time for force. Marcus broke into his house the night before the release of the information, and found the auror dead in a most horrific manner, along with his family and his servants, and the information gone, with the Dark Mark in the sky above the roof. Two days later, he found out where the information was, and the price for its retrieval..."

He broke off, flicking his hand. "I don't know the exact details, and I don't think there is anyone still alive, other than Voldemort, who still does; suffice it to say that things got worse and Marcus was drawn deeper and deeper into the shadows, until at last even his will was broken down and he gave in - and the Lady knows what threat prompted that - finally bending his will to the Dark Lord's. And then Snape's final revenge struck."

Marc raised brilliant blue eyes to Draco's silver - they could have been limpid with mockery, and no doubt they should have been, had these been normal circumstances. But something of the story they were hearing had come through to them - the hopeless story of a man fighting against overwhelming odds and slowly being dragged under. It was almost Gryffindoric, really...

"Marcus thought to turn traitor against his new Lord." Draco's voice was impassive and colourless, and his face was empty - all signs that what he was saying was affecting him deeply. "He set up a meeting with an influential Ministry member who trusted him enough to believe his word over the word on the street, saying Malfoy had turned, and could no longer be trusted. Somehow Snape got word of it, and sent word of his own to another foolish auror with more zeal than sense, advising him anonymously that a notorious Death Eater would attempt to assassinate a ministry member on that night, and to be extra vigilant..."

Nick made an almost silent hiss as he realized where this was going, and a half instinctive avert sign with his hand, almost as if he could will away what was coming. But the lifeless voice continued.

"There was indeed an attempt on the ministry member's life - unfortunately, the ministry member was killed and his house destroyed, along with the Death Eater, who was identified as a young sprig of an aristocratic Russian family, the overzealous auror and another, anonymous body that was never identified; and any witnesses to Marcus Malfoy's death and innocence were eliminated with one throw of the dice."

He smiled mirthlessly. "But word spread quickly enough through the High Clan grapevine. It was the very next morning when the two Malfoy brothers were awakened to the news, delivered by a triumphant headline in the Prophet, that their father was dead and the Ministry suspected him of having close ties to the Death Eaters. They very nearly lost everything in that investigation."

Crabbe and Goyle, who had been listening to this, blank faced and vacant eyed, suddenly chose to speak up. "I thought," said Crabbe with malice glinting in his rather small eyes, "that the Malfoy were all powerful and all knowing?"

Bran, Nick and Marc blinked at this show of independent thought, but Draco didn't turn a hair. He had known of this, they realized. Had known that Crabbe and Goyle could think for themselves, and could pose a potential danger; he played a far deeper game than they had previously thought.

Draco's eyes were utterly blank as he turned to face his two henchmen. He didn't bother to say anything, simply let his power flare slightly, let it brush tangibly against the air and the skin, alerting him to the level of his power, should he choose to unleash it. The reminder was hardly subtle, but clearly effective. Crabbe and Goyle backed down - at least for now.

He continued on as if there had been no interruption. "The two brothers, already slightly disillusioned from the knowledge that their father had bent knee, although they had known it was coming for a long while, were quite upset by his death and the subsequent investigation - upset and outraged by both the elder Snape and by the Ministry..." he paused, reflectively, and then continued. "And then, almost a month later, Luc's only anchor, Kate, is killed by a bludger, leaving him quite undone..."

Bran frowned. "But she didn't die," he pointed out, "she disappeared."

Draco nodded. "I have always found that to be rather too convenient – perhaps there's something more to that, too. And then two weeks later, Augustus Snape was found, the victim of a slow and horrible death, exquisitely painful and quite imaginative..."

"There was no Death Eater retaliation?" asked Nick, always practical.

"No," Draco said in bitter amusement. "You see, that was the price of my father's Dark Mark."

Dead silence fell. A line had been crossed, something put into words that had never before been said. Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater - they all knew it, but it had never been admitted openly between them.

"Revenge?" ventured Bran, braver, or perhaps more foolhardy than the other two.

"Is it not the new Lord's duty to properly avenge his predecessor's death? And to ensure the survival of his Clan above his own wellbeing? If he had not joined, Voldemort would have made short work of an inexperienced, sixteen year old boy; perhaps he thought he could keep himself aloof, and not be sucked under, once he had fulfilled his purpose for joining. Perhaps he knew exactly what he was getting into, and had decided to make the best he could of it."

"And Luc?" asked Marc, fascinated and repelled by such coldblooded machinations, mixed with the passion that ran through everything the Malfoy did. The key, he supposed, was to harness it...

"Luc knew exactly what he was getting himself into, and was more than willing to pay the price; of course, there were easier ways of eliminating the competition for tai-pan, but none so quick or so...sure. And there was the extra bonus of another revenge - against Snape, yes, I'm quite sure that he was in on that - but also against Black, against the Ministry who had so callously invaded their grief and their mourning, against the whole world now that there was nothing but cold ambition to live for..."

"Why not against Voldemort, who started the whole process?" asked Bran, the outsider who saw clearly to the heart of the matter.

"Ah, now that is the point: you see, they could achieve revenge against Snape, and against the Ministry, and against the rest of the world, if they took the Dark Mark. If they went up against Voldemort alone, especially then, then perhaps they would have died, and the Malfoy line with them. Perhaps it would be easier to do what could be done and to leave other, larger, more difficult considerations for later, when they were stronger, more sure of themselves."

"They are stronger and surer now," said Nick quietly. "But why has Lucius gone back?"

Draco sighed, closed his eyes and shook his head. "I don't know," he murmured finally. "I honestly don't know." But looking into those eyes, Nick saw the deception there, saw the lie at the bedrock of the half-truth, and wondered just what Draco was playing at. The other two, Bran and Marc, not being so familiar as Nick with Draco's moods and expressions, saw nothing amiss, but to Draco's right hand, there was just the slightest hint that something was wrong, that there was something left unsaid, something very, very important.

As they got up off the ground, groaning good naturedly about tired muscles and old age, the intensity of the former conversation was lost, and they reverted back to fifteen year old boys. But still, not looking behind them, they were not aware of the calculation deep in the usually blank eyes of Crabbe and Goyle, who had been told to watch out for signs that the Malfoy were considering any disloyalty...

Only Draco knew. And he had been ordered to plant the seeds himself, and then to let them grow...and then to ignore them, when the time came...He hoped his father knew what he was doing.

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