A/N - I am a law student. I have no idea how a business is run. My apologies for any huge mistakes.

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

CHAPTER 13 - THE LORD'S MASKS


The headquarters of the House of de Sauvigny were located in the border between wizarding and Muggle London, where the great Jean-Marc de Sauvigny had first established his trading House two hundred and more years ago. Since then, it had grown into an international empire, spanning most of the globe, existing simultaneously in both the wizarding and in the Muggle world.

After all, Muggles spent money just as readily as wizards did, and there were much, much more of them. The latest tai-pan had adopted this approach - being a deeply pragmatic man, he'd seen the benefits and had embraced his dual role with rather more enthusiasm than some of his peers thought necessary, or even seeming.

They said he consorted too much with Muggles, was too friendly to Muggle- lovers and half-bloods. He'd only laughed and said that the Muggles had more money, and better ways of managing it. And if anyone had a complaint, they were welcome to address it to him personally...and to answer for it, if he thought it justified.

He'd settled down somewhat since he'd become tai-pan, they said - oh, yes, he'd been wild back then...was still wild now, if it was called for. He hadn't buried everything that had brought him so far so fast - he'd simply pulled a more...acceptable mask over the true face of Slytherin ambition, and had partly fulfilled the need that had driven him to use it. Responsibility and the challenge of his position had given him maturity and purpose; a real family had given him stability.

And the power had given him the added lustre of being more than Malfoy's bastard brother.

In the fourteen or fifteen years since he'd become the leader of the Clan, since he'd taken on the responsibility of his suddenly orphaned nephew Marc and his much, much younger half brother Nicholas, he'd turned himself inside out to gain acceptance and be welcomed in polite, non-High Clan society, and had learned to function and succeed in the alien, Muggle world. He'd abandoned the more overt signs of his High Clan heritage and had learned to employ moderation and conformity - and he'd quietly, subtly grown in power and influence until he was, finally, one of the major players on the board - powerful enough that nothing and no one would ever touch him again.

He'd become the tai-pan, instead of the bastard Malfoy.

And, as tai-pan, he had certain responsibilities - he was bound to appear at the emergency board meeting he'd ordered two days ago, when he'd first had confirmation that the Dark Lord was targeting the House. The fact that he was hung over, nauseous, unshaven and in considerable emotional shock was immaterial - he was the tai-pan, and it was his duty to lead the Clan through these dangerous times and into better, more peaceful ones.

No matter that he wanted to curl up in the shadows, to find oblivion again, to smash something, anything to relieve this pain slowly boiling over inside; he was the Lord, and the Lord was above such self-indulgent things as self-pity or apathy...the Lord acted for the good of the Clan, always, and was more than able to handle anything the world could throw at him and the Clan, no matter how he was feeling at the time.

The Lord could handle anything and everything, he always had the solution, he was perfect and invulnerable and far above mere mortal men.

The Lord is wed to his land, and the land is wed to him...

And so, because of his duty, because of his love for his family and his family's love for him, because of his responsibility and the discipline ingrained in him since childhood, he fought his way free of his sleeping companions, donned his robes, and all but staggered out of the door, down the stairs past speculative, calculating eyes, and into the street, where he leaned sickly against the brick wall.

It took a superhuman effort of will to control his heaving stomach.

What would Lucius think of him now? He vaguely recalled talking to his brother, asking if he was going to kill him, but as soon as the adrenaline rush had passed and clarity of thought was no longer needed, he'd fallen back into his incredibly reckless alcoholic and drugged stupor, and had passed out again.

No doubt Lucius would raise an eyebrow, look down his supremely superior nose and say nothing, letting his very silence speak for him instead - the man was a master at such subtle games, most of them petty but effective. He could all but hear the cold voice, coolly arrogant, not amused but cynical, expressing his well bred surprise at his presence here outside this house, instead of at his own board meeting. (What are you doing here, Lord of the de Sauvigny? Do you not know that grave danger knocks at your gates even now?)

He hated it when Lucius was right. Lady, Lady, Lady, he was such a fool...

With no time to do anything more than wash his mouth out and run his hand through his hair, he transfigured his robes into formal muggle wear, despairing at the crushed material, and then apparated silently, discreetly, to the back of a marble-fronted brick building in central London.

The de Sauvigny crest was discreetly displayed near the front gates that were opened at his approach - discreet bellmen, impassive in their uniforms, forbore to greet him as they saw his dishevelment and his eyes, instead opting for a slight bow, hoping he wouldn't notice them.

No one wanted to be noticed by the tai-pan in this mood...

Wearing a black dress shirt, jacket and slacks, with his black hair mussed and his eyes shadowed, he moved through the building, spreading wary silence behind him as he went. Every move was smooth, every glance terrifyingly neutral, every action calculated...unconsciously, all the employees in the building, both wizard and muggle, watched him cautiously, sensing the threat lying under the normally smooth façade, closer to the surface now than it had been for a very long time. 

Normally when he walked into the House's headquarters, he had a word for all the employees, greeting them by name, talking to them of their work, of their progress...but today he stalked straight to the top floor, enveloped in a cloud of cold, cold silence.

No one was foolish enough to draw attention to themselves.

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Inside the old, wood panelled conference room, with its air of respectful, awed silence, the members of the board could actually feel their leader before he arrived. There were twenty of them - ten wizards and ten Muggles - a wizard and a Muggle pair managing each of the nine zones of the House (England, Asia, Eastern and Western Europe, the Middle East, Africa, North America, South America, and Australia), and Luc's right hands, his main advisors in the wizarding and Muggle worlds.

Every one of the wizards on the Board was of de Sauvigny blood, but the muggles had been handpicked and hand trained by Luc - they were utterly, completely loyal, and would theoretically balance out any ambition or disloyalty in the direct scions.

Luc controlled the whole, keeping his finger on and regulating the heartbeat of the House through fortnightly reports from his managers, and with his shadows who, if necessary, could act in his stead in situations where direct intervention could be...difficult.

All twenty in the room knew each other well, and, knowing their leader, they exchanged concerned looks when they felt him coming, felt the cold anger and the unconscious leakage of power that was normally tightly shielded.

Something was wrong.

When he entered the room, they knew it for certain. Normally the most composed of men, always well groomed and well elegantly dressed, he was unshaven, rumpled, and quite alarmingly pale...he had faint smudges under his eyes, which were still slightly dilated and a little glazed.

Dominic de Sauvigny, the wizard manager of North America, wondered just what had affected Luc so badly that he resorted to drink and, yes, drugs, to solve it - he hadn't seen the man this discomposed since...well, since a very long time ago. Having gone to school with Luc, through seven years at his side in Slytherin, enduring the prejudice and fear of the wizarding world - it had been even harder for Dominic, who had been born of Gryffindor parents into a predominantly Gryffindor family - he knew that Luc had had his share of bad times along with all the good.

But very, very rarely had he ever resorted to artificial methods of reaching oblivion. In fact, come to think of it, the last time he'd been this upset had been just after Kate had died.

Teaching at Hogwarts must have stirred up some old memories, along with the very nasty hornet's nest they found themselves in now. It was true, what the old saying said - eventually, all your actions and your choices came back to you. And they were coming back on Luc and all who had supported him with a vengeance.

Dominic had been one of the first to willingly forsake Caine, the rightful heir, for Luc. He'd entered Hogwarts as a painfully naïve boy, his cousin Michel with him, certain they'd be sorted into Gryffindor, and had been shocked to suddenly find themselves wearing green and silver. They'd have been dragged down within the first month if Luc hadn't taken an interest in them - no doubt he'd seen them as his first converts...slowly, they'd come to see the advantages of Luc as tai-pan, and slowly, they'd come to the point where they would both of them kill to see him there.

Dominic had killed, willingly and knowingly...he'd torn his own family apart to see Luc as tai-pan, to place him there instead of golden-haired Caine. He'd torn his own soul apart, to see the House rise again, to see it once more as it must have been in Jean-Marc's time, one of the first of the High Clan, spanning the entire British Empire on which the sun never set...

He hadn't joined the Death Eaters. At least Luc hadn't asked that much of him - to this day, he still didn't know whether he would have taken the Mark if Luc had asked. He suspected, in the deepest part of the night, that he would have - oh, Lady, he would have done anything, anything... Slytherin's golden child, Luc with his shadowed eyes and his shadowed soul, his rueful smile and his passionate dreams, had such a hold over him, over all of them, that he'd have killed Caine himself, if he had to...

And as for Michel - sensitive, dreamy Michel, who'd never seemed fitted to Slytherin - Michel had been just as captivated by Luc as Dominic, but it had been more of an intellectual fascination. He'd been fascinated by the mind, not the vision - and that curiosity and Michel's uncanny gift for insight had seen him rise to become Luc's wizard right hand. And that insight, driven by loyalty, inspired by the sheer scope of the undertaking had led him down the road to hell when he'd used it to help Luc drive the House apart, ambitious against conservative, Slytherin against Gryffindor, Luc's followers against Caine's - oh, they'd brought the whole Clan to its knees and rebuilt it from the ground up. And in the doing, both he and Michel, and all the others who'd helped, who'd believed, who'd killed, had bound themselves so securely to Luc's star that there was no separating them - if he fell, so did they all, and the House with them.

Sheer will had broken it, sheer will had built it up again, and now only sheer will could keep it from total destruction.

But that was the problem, he supposed, when they relied so heavily on one man. That one man's choices came back to haunt them all.

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Looking around the long, wooden table, Luc saw the ruling body of the House, his cabinet, one supposed, looking right back at him. Ten of his cousins, who had all stood with him during his takeover of the House, all of them bound to him now, just as surely as they had been when he'd been twenty-two. Ten Muggles, hand picked and hand trained, let into the secret of the wizarding world, but who functioned mainly in their own world. They all owed everything to him, and knew the consequences of disloyalty.

Guided by him, they ruled the business. He alone ruled the family, and that was with velvet gloves...he'd learned, over the years, that the less direct force applied, the more manageable his unruly, independent family members were. Most of them being Gryffindors, even now, they tended to rebel against direct authority - any interference in their lives, unless they expressly asked for it, tended to cause resentment...

He'd found it very different from his own family, the Malfoy - perhaps because the House was predominantly Gryffindor, perhaps because there were simply more of them, and they were scattered all over the world, let alone Britain...the Malfoy had always been a very small Clan, usually only the Lord and his Heir, with maybe a brother or two...daughters were very, very rare.

Taking over the House had only been the first step.

And now, for the good of the whole, he'd have to display the iron fist beneath the velvet - he'd sent out the word, as soon as he'd woken up after the attack on the Hogwarts Express, that all the scions were to have discreet shadows, but he feared that would not be enough now.

Hence this emergency meeting.

The reports came in, from all over the world, from all zones. Branches of the House, both the business and the family, had been attacked - in some places almost destroyed, in others barely damaged, thanks to timely intervention. His Muggle managers, perhaps not fully grasping the situation, talked of random, or not so random, terrorist attacks - the wizards knew better and eyed him askance, as if knowing full well that his actions had brought this down on them.

In a way, he had - but it would have come anyway. The House was the single largest trading house in the wizarding world, one of the largest in the Muggle world - certainly, they were one of the largest contributors to wizarding and Muggle England's economy. Bring the House down, whether the tai-pan is a renegade traitor or not, and you can seriously damage the economy with one stroke...

The knowledge of his former allegiances would only be useful as a wedge - drive the House and wizarding society against him, and perhaps he would be removed, eliminating him from the picture, along with any and all resistance he could offer, without a single curse being cast. His successor was a fifteen year old boy - untrained and untried - he would be either a puppet or an easy opponent.

Luc knew the House would stand with him, as they had done fifteen years ago. But the rest of society, however...

As he thought, the reports continued. Attacks on the branches, attacks on the various houses owned by the family around the world, assassination attempts luckily foiled by the shadows, death threats - and a run on their stock that had pushed share prices lower than they had been in years...that was a worry they would have to look out for.

Somewhere, Voldemort had gained a supporter who understood the Muggle Stock Market. It seemed another Muggle company, backed by a Death Eater or not, was trying for a hostile take over...they would have to fight on both fronts, meaning they would have to divert important resources from either of the fights when they would most be needed.

The reports went on, the managers speaking more and more warily as his face became impassive, his eyes cooler and cooler, his demeanour subtly changing, the force and will he had had fifteen years ago becoming more and more apparent as the already strained mask of normality was stripped away.

Slowly, Luc was reaching deep within himself to find the strength he would need for this fight, the strength and the belief of fifteen years ago and had buried deep in the hope it would no longer be needed. As he reached deeper, as he cast away the reserved, mildly authoritative mask he had used as tai-pan, he found himself becoming more and more Lucien Malfoy, the intense, predatory, ambitious man who had clawed his way from bastard son to Clan Lord on nothing but charisma and determination.

Now he had to stay Clan Lord no matter what Voldemort tried to throw at him, keep his whole family and the students of Hogwarts safe, keep Lucius from killing him (whether willingly or not), eventually defeat the Dark Lord, and finally, stop a godsdamned run on his shares.

A Clan Lord's work was never done.

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Inside the Ministry, an anonymous packet, delivered by an anonymous, unmarked owl, found its way to Benjamin Greyson's desk. A conscientious worker, Greyson was hard at work when it was handed to him, so after he finished his reports, he turned his interest towards the packet.

There were no markings on it, other than his name and where he could be found - mildly intrigued, but wary of any traps, he checked it first. There was nothing dangerous in this packet - well, nothing overtly dangerous, anyway. What was contained in the sheaf of paper was another story.

Slitting it open, he took it out and couldn't control the way his eyes widened when he skimmed through the papers. Did he say that there wasn't anything dangerous in this packet?

Had he been anything like the Death Eaters he hunted, no doubt he would have chuckled evilly...but he hoped he had more self-control than to act in such a clichéd manner. Instead, he settled for a small, mirthless grin, his honourable nature momentarily overwhelmed by a feeling of triumph and almost unholy delight.

At last, he thought grimly. At last, just what I was looking for.

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Back at Hogwarts, recovering in his chamber deep in the depths of his familiar, safe dungeon, Severus Snape clutched at his arm, hissing in pain and surprise. So soon? He had at least thought they would have time to fine- tune the prospective plans... Quickly, moving before the ache could build into agony, he moved up the stairs and out of the castle, squinting in the blinding sunlight, and into the cool darkness of the Forbidden Forest, before apparating to meet his fellow Death Eaters at the agreed rendezvous point.

He didn't notice the four children seated under the trees watching him curiously, calculatingly - or the other three he had passed, speculating as to what exactly had happened to put him in such a lather.

He didn't notice them follow him until it was too late, until they had all seen him push up his sleeve to clutch again at the Mark, until they were curious enough to wonder just what Voldemort wanted on a Saturday afternoon, and at Diagon Alley, as they (a/n conveniently) heard Snape muttering to himself. The fact that Snape was a Death Eater had come as a surprise to only three of them - Hermione, Ron and Brandon's more jaded companions had, not being shocked, seen more into the implications, and were worried.

Luc was out there on his own, no doubt somewhat discomposed, if what Draco, Nick and Marc suspected was correct...Harry was simply curious because he was a Gryffindor, and after four years fighting Voldemort had developed the idea, no doubt driven by guilt, that he had a responsibility to thwart Voldemort's schemes wherever and whenever he could.

Worried about their uncle, or about Voldemort's newest victims, neither group stopped to think about the consequences...two groups of children, separately, because neither was aware of the other's existence, quickly made their way back to the castle and headed for the nearest fireplace connected to the floo network.

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Lucius Malfoy shut his eyes slowly, painfully. It had begun - and now he would have to choose. And this time, he wouldn't have the luxury of avoiding the consequences of whatever decision he made here...

Neither outcome was particularly palatable. He would simply have to choose the outcome with the most advantageous consequences, the lesser of two evils...

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Knocking timidly, an aide came in and whispered in Luc's ear, delivering a handwritten letter bearing the Ministry's seal - more specifically, the seal of the Minister of Defence. Expressionless, he opened the letter, and showed no reaction at what he saw within - but Michel, who knew him very well after all this time, could see the almost imperceptible dilation of the pupils denoting shock and anger...

Folding the parchment up, tucking it into his jacket, he rose from the table gracefully and with a cool, appraising glance at all around it, dismissed them with a nod. He was standing at the window and staring out at the street below, hands loosely held behind his back, when Michel, the last man out, looked back one last time before closing the door.

The Clan Lord was invulnerable. Then why did Luc look so bowed?

Sensing Michel's gaze, he turned around, grey eyes steady, and smiled mockingly, much as he had done so many times at school. Really, Michel, it seemed to say. How could you doubt me? Of course we'll come through this. Am I not invincible?

The Clan Lord was back. And because he had believed it before, and his faith had been justified, because he felt he had to believe it, because he wanted to believe it, Michel felt comforted by the sight of those confident grey eyes and the half smile.

Of course they would get through this. Was Luc not invincible?

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