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CHAPTER 18 - RECOVERY


Caius Draconis Malfoy, the new Lord of High Clan Malfoy, laid his palms flat against the invisible, undetectable barrier that separated the Malfoy land from the world Outside. He was still bleeding, and the blood on his hands was absorbed into the Veil, confirming his identity as surely as muggle handprint scans and DNA tests did. With a subliminal hum, the world...shifted, twisted...the Veil seemed to shimmer, to solidify and become almost visible - and then it...parted. And revealed a green, ancient land, magical in its very timelessness, and a deep, fundamental power that seemed to run like blood through the veins of the land...like rivers of fiery blood through the very bedrock itself. Here...here was the Heartland.

Here was Draco's home. And he had never been so glad to see it.

There were three main towns under Malfoy jurisdiction - every one of them an exclusively magical settlement much like Hogsmeade, without the interference of Hogwarts students. Most of the villagers were content with life as it was, and only a very rare minority ever ventured Outside, because they wanted adventure, or independence...some, like Owen Llyndas, simply wanted out.

Approximately the same age as Draco's father and uncle, Owen had left his family and his home for the Outside world when he'd been sixteen...and as far as he knew, had not been back since. And yet here he was, in Auror's robes of all things (and why hadn't Luc or Uncle Rayden told him of this?) waiting for the sad little procession of Draco, his six fellow students, his uncle and Snape and Rayden and his father's...corpse, as if he'd known they were coming.

Of course he had known - they'd all known it, when the blood bond snapped, when the brief, terrifying feeling of (emptiness? It had been the first time Draco had not felt the magical link to his father, to the Lord) or perhaps the feeling that he had no ties to anyone or anything, and that everything that had once anchored him (the Covenant, the Blood bond, the father-son bond) was gone, and he was alone in the world.

It was a terrifying feeling to a people who were bound to the Lord almost from birth. He wondered, absently, whether any of the Gryffindors, many of whom he knew had no ties or no bonds, ever felt the terrible loneliness of the true individual, of a man alone in the world. Without bonds, without a Clan, without land, without people who relied on you and on whom you relied - was that what true independence was? Was that the legacy of the Renaissance and the Revolution and their emphasis on man, on individualism, on democracy? He didn't know how Owen Llyndas had stood the separation all these years.

As they got closer, he could see the two others standing by Llyndas' side - the two remaining members of the Nine Companions, the two who had survived answering Draco's call to the Hogwarts Express. There had been another, the ninth, who had stayed behind to guard Lucius...but after Lucius had been captured in his absence, when he had not been there, he would have committed suicide in his shame and dishonour, to accept responsibility and to assume the guilt. He had not fulfilled his duty, and his Lord had died because of it. Nothing less than death could assuage his shame.

The two Companions dropped to their knees as he came level with them - behind his back he could feel Potter and his friends' astonishment and amusement, but this was more important than childish quarrels or embarrassment. "My lord," they said softly, fervently, and then looked up at him with utter faith and belief in their eyes - now that he was the Lord they believed that he could keep them safe, that he could keep the land safe, that he could perform miracles and jump tall buildings in a single bound. He almost protested out loud - he was not the Lord, he couldn't be the Lord, he couldn't solve his own problems, let alone everyone else's...he was not wise enough, or ruthless enough, or even strong enough to carry them all and the land as well...he was only fifteen, for the Lady's sake!

He didn't deserve the faith in their eyes.

And then he looked into Owen's skeptical eyes - dark eyes of a man born and bred Beyond the Veil but who had grown up and matured in the real world, of a man who had lost his belief in the myth of the Malfoy and who had lost something fundamentally precious...and deep, deep down, wanted, no, needed to regain that belief, but didn't believe that Draco could ever measure up.

He looked into Luc's eyes - light, silver eyes of a man also born and bred Beyond the Veil who had grown up and matured in the real world, in pain and blood and ambition, but despite all the bitterness and the pain and disillusionment had never, ever lost his belief in the magic - perhaps it had been the only thing to sustain him, the dream of the land Beyond the Veil and the heart of the Grove - deep, dark, tangled and mysterious and pulsing with all the magic and the mystery and the power that was the heart of Clan Malfoy...

Luc had had a hand in his shaping, in his raising, in his moulding, and he believed that Draco could be everything he had ever dreamed of becoming, everything that the Clan Lord Malfoy should be and ever had been...fifteen years old or not. And, strengthened by that belief, challenged by the skepticism in Owen's eyes, driven by the memory of his father's eyes and the thought of vengeance, he held out his hand, palm upwards, to the people who were now his.

They took the blood that still ran freely from his wounds (this is my blood, which shall be given up for you...) and drank it, and he could feel it, feel the bonds forming and solidifying, feel them as a part of him that he could, if he wanted to, control - if he tugged on that, if he squeezed on this, he could break them, or heal them, or destroy them completely. Blood had dripped onto the Veil, onto the Earth, and had been absorbed - he could also feel them as separate entities to be controlled, or healed, or broken...and he could feel that they, too, could, if they chose, if he broke the Covenant, heal, or break, or destroy him too...

One by one they came - the villagers, the servants, the people of the Malfoy, to pay homage to their new Lord and to renew and reaffirm their vows and bonds. Every single one of them, from the oldest grandparents to the infants only a day old, partook of the sacred wine as he bled, and gave themselves over to him, in the trust and belief that he could walk beside them in the good times and carry them in the bad, that he was strong enough to shoulder the burden and the responsibility, that he was wise enough to chart a course through these treacherous times, and that he would never, ever abandon them.

He looked into Luc's silver, silver eyes, and saw the one thing that Luc had always, always kept hidden from him before - the intense, soul deep desire and the need to be where Draco was, to receive blood bond and to walk in the Malfoy grove as Lord, not as bastard son, not as the tai-pan. Luc had wanted, all his life, to be the Malfoy...but he had stayed his hand when Voldemort could have brought them both down, he had saved Draco's life when he could have watched and have everything he ever wanted fall into his hand without lifting a finger. Because he was a bastard son. Because he, too, bore a Dark Mark. Because somewhere, deep under the determination and the ambition, was a man who believed in the sanctity of Clan Malfoy, and would not come to the leadership with wrongful blood on his hands, as the boy had done with the de Sauvigny.

Perhaps just because he loved his nephew.

And then he blinked, and it was gone.

With a curious smile, he turned away, leaving Draco and the others alone with the crowd, and walked towards the Castle rising in the distance - a lone figure with one last thing to take care of, before his Lord could enter in triumph and take his rightful place.



Luc walked into the Castle, the ancestral home of the Malfoy, and experienced the same thrill of pride and, to his deepest, most secret shame, covetousness, that he always did. It was a fortress on the outside, with sheer, grey, stone walls to compliment the formidable magical wards and defences, and a luxurious, magnificent palace on the inside...and it was his home in the real, truest sense of the word. He belonged here, as he didn't belong in the sprawling country seat of the de Sauvigny - but then, he'd always been good at compromising and making do. In his experience, asking for everything inevitably meant you got nothing at all. He'd learned, over the years, to settle for what he could get, and had turned his energies towards supporting others in their reaching for everything and more.

Hence this one last item of unfinished business, which stood in the way of Draco truly becoming the Lord.

Striding on soft, silent feet through the corridors he had grown up in, had played and ran and quarreled in, he moved with utter surety towards his destination, any house elves he saw moving instinctively away from him, wary of the determination in his step and the cold, terrifying purpose in his eyes. Long, long years serving the family had taught them to recognize the danger signs - and also never, ever to interfere in a family quarrel...

He reached the east drawing room and entered silently, but nevertheless she heard him and turned around to face him, her cold, beautiful face utterly composed and unsurprised.

"Hello, Narcissa," he said softly, almost sibilantly.

She didn't flinch, didn't raise an eyebrow, did nothing but stare at him with cold, empty blue eyes.

"Is he dead?" she finally asked.

He looked at her, with her perfect coiffure and her perfectly made up face, her perfect gown and manner, with her ice blue eyes disdainful and arrogant. She looked at him, with his torn and bloodstained Death Eater robes and his bloodied hands, with his hood down showing his mussed and disheveled hair, his face set and white and his eyes feral in their fixed intensity. They'd always hated each other - she, because he was a bastard who to her mind should have been drowned at birth, but refused to know his proper place, he because she knew nothing of responsibility or duty or honour, and hungered blindly for power for no real purpose or goal. Over the years, more and more reasons became apparent, and the hatred grew and grew...

Until this.

"Yes," was all he said.

"So you have finally got what you wanted, then?" Her voice was tinged with scornful amusement, as if the thought of Luc's most secret dream was unbearably diverting.

He smiled, and it was not by any means a nice smile. "Not quite," and his voice was silky, purring, and it sent a warning shiver down her spine. She took a step back, only to come up hard against the window - as she turned to look, the latch clicked shut with awful finality.

He didn't move. "You did not come out to greet Draco," he said with dangerous softness. "Perhaps the thought of becoming the Dowager was...insupportable."

Something in the way he said that terrified her. This was not Luc Malfoy, who could have been great but who had crippled himself when Kate died (and hadn't that day been sweet). This was a man, a very dangerous, unpredictable man whom she had never before seen - a conscienceless, merciless, feral killer...

She tried to back up even further, but it was not possible. She was held in invisible, unbreakable chains. She raised her chin and treated him to all the withering contempt she could muster. With a light, brittle laugh, she said, "Perhaps the thought of watching the wonderfully affecting scene was enough to make me sick. The belief the peasants have in their little rituals would almost be touching, if it weren't so pathetic, and if it wouldn't be shattered when the Dark Lord comes."

He smiled. She almost flinched. "Dear Narcissa, but that didn't stop you from spilling all you could to your Lord." She opened her mouth in instant denial, but he flicked a hand and an invisible force closed around her throat - not squeezing, not yet, but warning. "Dear, dear Narcissa," he moved closer and closer until he was chest to chest with her, his head bent so he could whisper softly, his voice sibilant and almost crooning, "If only you'd truly listened to the old tales - then you wouldn't have fucked up" (she flinched as his voice lashed out) "your advice and told Voldemort the exact thing that would free us all from his rule..."

She was quivering, despite all her determination, and she knew he could smell her terror - he lowered his mouth and pressed smooth, incredibly gentle kisses on her shoulders, her neck, and inhaled the scent of her fear and the reluctant desire he'd deliberately aroused with the contrasts of his threats and his gentleness...when he came to her ear, one of her most erogenous zones, he whispered again, almost inaudibly, "If you had only kept him alive for, at the most, six more months, the Veil would have failed on its own, and you would have been able to have your so-desired, so- dreamed of revenge...but your lust for power and your hatred all drove you to destroy him - and with his death, with his...sacrifice" (she shivered) "with your long awaited revenge, the failing, corrupted Covenant was replaced with a new, untainted Lord..."

She froze - all thoughts of Luc's rumoured prowess as a lover, all thoughts of pain and desire and twisting him around her finger with sex were shattered as she processed what he had said.

"The Dark Lord won't be coming any time soon," he murmured in satisfaction, "and you will not be getting your soulless claws into the new Lord...in fact, you will no longer sink your poisoned claws into anything, anymore...dear, dear Narcissa..."

With a final effort of will she broke the hypnotic spell of his voice and tried to jerk away, only to find the phantom pressure gone and a real, flesh and blood hand at her throat.

Luc had always liked to take care of his own dirty work.

She had one last second to look into his pitiless, remorseless silver eyes (so like Lucius', so insufferably strong, so willing to take on any amount of pain for their cursed "greater good") before the world was replaced by a rush of blood red, excruciating pain. And then, eventually, after an eternity, after an age of nothing but agony, Luc allowed her world to go black, and then eventually fade away to nothing.

Looking down at what had once been a beautiful, soulless woman, Luc felt nothing, only a distant pain and fatigue. "This is not revenge," he murmured more to himself than to her shade. "This is justice."

And then he walked out, and closed the door, without looking back once.



It was some time later when the rest of the procession made it through the doors of the castle - the crowd, and the necessity of reaffirming their Vows, had delayed Draco and the rest by some two hours, and in that time, much had happened. The house had been draped in black, and the Great Hall had been prepared to receive the late Lord's remains - a bier had been constructed and every superfluous trapping had been cleared away, leaving only the bare bones of the original castle. Just so would Lucius depart - taking only what he was originally born with, and nothing else.

And the door to the eastern drawing room remained firmly closed - the house elves, wise to the unspoken undercurrents of their masters, knew better than to interfere with whatever had occurred behind that door...

But Harry, Ron and Hermione were not so tactful. As the group all walked past the closed door on their way to the hall, they all sensed the evil that had gone on inside, but the others, High Clan born and bred, merely exchanged wary glances and decided to leave well enough alone. The three Gryffindors found it irresistible to peek, and so eased the door open and all but tiptoed in, rushing out almost immediately after. Hermione was sheet white, and having trouble breathing, Ron stumbled against the wall and tried not to retch, and Harry simply hugged himself and shivered as if he were icy cold.

Looking at them, the others all closed their eyes in resignation, Snape and Rayden's eyes wearier by far than the childrens', because of them all, they knew what they would find behind the door. But nevertheless, they opened it and went in.

Ten minutes later, Rayden and Snape were quiet, staring out the window; Draco sat completely impassive, forcing himself to look at the grisly sight; Marc and Nick were sitting by themselves, (strangely Marc seemed to be more composed than Nick, but he was the one in training to be Clan Lord...) and Harry, Hermione and Ron steadfastly ignored the very obvious problem. Brandon, his senses numb for now, watched them all in something very like fascination.

Not one of them had freaked, or screamed, or shouted...they'd tried, very hard, to act as if there wasn't a very messy dead body not five metres away from them - in the case of the High Clan members of their group, they'd succeeded admirably. They hadn't even blinked. The Gryffindor dream team, as he'd heard Professor Snape call them once or twice, had reacted at first, but had soon after regained their composure, if a little shakily. Even Ron, perhaps the most open of them all, had managed to get a hold of himself. So this was what his mother had called the British "stiff upper lip". It seemed some things were common to all British people, not just any single class.

And some things were very definitely the sole area of the High Clan - there, in the flesh, was Rayden Lestrange, the Minister of Defence (and wasn't that a kick? The man was almost certainly an ex-Death Eater) whose job it was to uphold the safety and laws of the wizarding people, and he looked down at a very grisly execution and said nothing, remarked on nothing, and pretended to not even notice it all. So, too, had the other High Clan children - they'd taken one look at it and turned away, putting it from their minds.

It was a vengeance killing, of course - Luc's work, he was more than sure of it (why didn't he admit it outright? It was his father's work; his father was an ex-Death Eater and a murderer, a killer the likes of which he had never seen, a man whose ruthlessness was infamous in all the worst and darkest circles).

And they all knew, and they all said nothing. Some things were better left alone.

A light, almost inaudible step, Rayden's white head came up, followed by Snape's, his eyes haunted and his face grimmer and darker than ever. A small, almost rueful hiss, (wasn't it strange that he could interpret sounds, gestures and glances now? He must be becoming more and more used to Slytherins), and the door opened to reveal Luc, (his father) dressed in clean robes and with his face and hands now washed clean of blood. It was surprising how, now that he was cleaned up and once more dressed in normal clothes, he had once again resumed the pleasant-but-still-slightly- aloof mask he wore everyday. There was no sign of the cold, analytical ruthlessness that was such a part of his soul. He was Luc Malfoy, safer than his late brother, fit to rule a House that stood halfway between the High Clan and the rest of society, with an attitude to match.

He said nothing - Brandon wasn't sure there was anything to say. Narcissa Malfoy's remains said it all - and it was all damning. Finally Draco spoke - perhaps because he was now the highest ranked among them, and they had let him take the lead, or perhaps because it was his mother's body there on the floor, and that had given him the right. Bran wasn't quite sure.

"Why?" was all Draco asked of his uncle.

Luc slowly pulled his gaze away from the rest of them and from what had once been a woman and turned it towards his nephew's - it was an expressionless gaze, if such a thing could be said. "I thought you had enough blood on your hands."

Snape flinched, then quickly controlled it. Rayden winced, imperceptibly. Nick and Marc pursed their lips slightly. But Draco did nothing. "This was my right," Draco said eventually. "He was my father."

"She was your mother," was all Luc said. "And he was my brother."

Silver eyes met, and locked, and eventually Draco lowered his gaze. Magnanimous in victory, Luc offered one last explanation. "I would spare you the further stain on your soul, Draco. Let it lie on mine - one more death will not change my fate, one way or another..."



Snape made the mistake of sneering at just the wrong moment. Whirling, Luc thrust his hand out at the potions master and the force of his ardeur flung the man backwards into the wall, pinned him against it so that he couldn't move, and was stuck with arms spread eagled like a macabre, ragged scarecrow against the delicate ivory and gold wallpaper. They all hissed in shock, in fear at the sudden surge of power (Snape was a very powerful wizard, for all of his disdain for "foolish wand waving" - Luc had smashed through his shields almost effortlessly) but the feral light was back in Luc's eyes and the vicious rage that had momentarily been assuaged by Narcissa's very nasty death had returned in full.

This was another facet of the Malfoy passion. Uncontrolled temper was dangerous, but was rarely provoked or even encountered. The dangerous, ice cold feral rage was far, far worse. In this temper, unforgivable acts seemed all too plausible, even reasonable...and the bonds of a lifetime, already weakened by Snape's earlier revelations, could be smashed beyond repair. Luc was not in the grip of uncontrollable temper or rage. He was quite, quite lucid, capable of stunningly quick thought and reasoning processes - but he was in the mood for violence, the earlier bloodshed only whetting his deepest, darkest appetites. The scent of fresh blood only pushed his animalistic, instinctive side even further towards the surface.

"You were saying, Severus?" he asked almost pleasantly.

Snape opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it and seemed to sag, until the magical bonds were the only things holding him upright. Rayden made as if to protest, but then thought better of it and subsided. He wasn't going to step between Luc Malfoy and his prey.

When Snape finally opened his eyes, he had stripped away every pretence, every Mask, every defence he had ever employed to save face, to protect himself, to disguise his true intentions. This was the real Severus Snape, something that no one had ever truly seen, least of all Snape himself. The black eyes were full of guilt, of self-loathing, of pain...it was almost too painful, too intimate to watch. The others all looked away in discreet courtesy, but Luc, the interrogator, the questioner, judge and jury and, if needed, executioner, watched and analysed with pitiless silver eyes.

"I would apologise," he finally managed to choke out. "Lucius wanted me to end it, and I had not the courage..." he forced himself to meet those eyes. "There was too much between us, and I could not do it no matter how hard I tried..."

"You nearly broke us all," Luc said mercilessly.

"I could not!" Snape hissed suddenly. He closed his eyes again in defeat, "I could not..." his voice trailed away into silence.

Still Luc watched. Finally Snape raised his head again and looked almost defiantly into Luc's eyes. "You know as well as I what stands between us, Lucien. Between all three of us. There was too much unresolved, too many unspoken issues...too many ties, sealed incestuously with blood and sex and death. I could not press that blade in."

Rayden was nodding unconsciously. He knew, he had watched, over the years, as the two brothers and their reluctant companion were bound tighter and tighter, thread by thread, intimacy by intimacy. He also knew that Luc or Lucius, had they been in Snape's position, would have had the strength and the necessary ruthlessness, the willingness to hurt others and even themselves if they thought it justified, if they thought it for the greater good.

That was not always a good thing.

Rayden didn't blame Snape, really...not being of Malfoy blood, neither of them would have had the strength to kill Lucius. He had simply shone too brightly for them to even bear the thought of quenching that light - it had taken another with the requisite strength to do what had needed to be done. Snape was not Malfoy. Rayden was not Malfoy. And that was the joy and the terror of it. Blood sheds blood. The king is struck down by his successor. Perhaps it was a good thing that Snape had not been strong enough.

Luc was still pinning Snape against the wall, staring through him blindly. Seeing something dark and dangerous swirl in those eyes, Snape was reduced to almost begging. "What would you have me do, Luc? Even my skills with Potions cannot bring him back - I cannot put a stopper in what has already occurred..."

Slowly, Luc's eyes refocused. He looked at Snape for a very long time, and a slow, slow, feline smile began to form on his lips. Involuntarily, Snape pressed himself back against the wall, for he had seen that smile before. "Well," purred Luc, "perhaps there is one little thing you can do for me..."

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