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


CHAPTER 19 - LOOSE ENDS


Severus knew that smile, knew that tone of voice - and it meant nothing but trouble. But what else could he do? He slumped even further down in his chains - "What?" Distressingly blunt, but he was too tired to play games anymore.

Luc, strangely enough, looked to Draco, as if for permission. When Draco raised a questioning brow, he offered his hands (and everything they were capable of), palm upwards, not to the new Lord, but to his nephew. To his brother's son. A request from an uncle to his nephew - the same uncle who had killed Narcissa himself rather than let Draco bear the price, the godfather who had sworn to protect him from anything and anyone who would threaten him. Clever Luc, to shape his request in that way - one of the most sacred relationships in the High Clan - or perhaps, knowing the oddly honourable streak in the Malfoy psyche, it was sincerely made, politics taking second place to honour...

Draco knew what he was offering. They all knew. It would rock the foundations of the wizarding world and make them any number of enemies - or rather, it would bring them all out into the open. And if he were caught, if it was not interpreted correctly, it would condemn Luc, in all eyes, beyond all hope of recovery.

Some things simply must be done, no matter the consequences. Better he take the risk than Draco.

With understanding in his eyes, fifteen year old Draco Malfoy, who in the hours since he'd taken over his father's mantle had matured immeasurably, formally inclined his head in the High Clan manner of acceptance. "So be it," he murmured finally.

Luc nodded, and then turned back to Severus and Rayden. "Listen," he said quietly, seriously. "This is what we will do..."

*******************************

Oh, Luc, thought Snape with ancient grief...how much can you carry, how much can you take, before you break? Can you carry the young Lord, still grieving and shocked, who is not quite as strong as he tries to appear? Can you carry us all when you yourself are still bleeding?

How far would you go for those you love, Luc?

Meeting Luc's eyes before he left, he saw the answer he had always, subconsciously known.

All the way. As far, and as long, as he could.

*************************************

Midnight.

Asleep, safe in their bed, Thomas Goyle and his long-term mistress, Serena Parkinson, didn't hear the latch open soundlessly, or hear the silent, purposeful movements of the assassin. They had passed out, drunk on celebrating their victory over Lucius Malfoy, whom they had both admired and hated, emulated and despised. But they woke up eventually, before the end, to face the true consequences of fucking with the Malfoy.

In quick succession, others followed. Parkinson. MacNair. Nott. Bulstrode. Flint. Wilkinson. Every single Death Eater who had been present on that day and who had watched Lucius die. Even the ones in custody. Perhaps the only exception was Wormtail, but getting at Pettigrew would take more than he was willing to give at the moment, even for Lucius. No, it was best to wait until later, until the stage was set, and bring master and the servant both down together.

Every single Death Eater who had been present at the Veil, with the exception of Peter Pettigrew and Severus Snape, was executed that night in the ancient manner of a vengeance killing, taken in their beds, in their mistresses, in their studies, in their euphoric glee at finally besting the Malfoy, no matter that the Aurors had intervened at the last minute. Lucius Malfoy was dead. And, like the last time they had brought down a Malfoy, almost twenty years ago, there was only a young boy to avenge him...they were safe from any possible reprisal. He wouldn't challenge the Dark Lord himself.

They were, all of them, quite rudely disillusioned.

When it was finished, the silent killer left as he entered - silently, imperceptibly, leaving no trace. Only one identifying mark was left - an indication, a sign, which said everything that needed to be said. And nothing else.

*******************************************

And the other item of business that night, an act he had not asked permission to perform, for which he no moral or traditional authority - well, this he would do because he, himself, Luc Malfoy, wished to, and for no other reason. Oh, he could make up a cover story about regaining face and credibility, but the truth was...

It was murder, and he didn't care.

This act would not serve towards the greater good or towards the furthering of a goal, it would not, in any way, make life better for any under his care...it was pure self-gratification, and it was quite, quite unlike him to act in such a selfish manner. In fact, he was not sure he'd ever done anything just for himself, not for ambition or for the Clan.

It was surprising how good it felt. Not for the first time, he was grateful for Snape's unparalleled skill with poisons...

***************************************

Dane Harcourt was getting old, and he didn't like it. He could feel forty creeping up slowly behind him, and watching all the younger, fresh faced new recruits, all so eager and idealistic, didn't help him at all. Surely he had never been that innocent, so sure of the righteousness of his Cause and his chosen path. And then he smiled. Of course he hadn't. He was High Clan Slytherin, and always would be, no matter where life took him. He had never been that innocent - it had been trained out of him before he started school by his father in the name of discipline and education. His father had never been a Death Eater, but had had the same expectations of his children, the same values and standards, as even the strictest of the darker, older families.

It had been a shock to find out that not all parents taught their children with the Cruciatus...

After his father was killed by Death Eaters, Dane had made the decision to become an Auror - to publicly turn against the Dark Lord and any who supported him. It had outraged his classmates and even some of his own family, and if he had not been the Lord the whole Clan would have disowned him. As it was, there had been discussion of it...

The Aurors themselves, who had been desperate for new recruits, had almost refused him. It had taken nearly two years of constant antagonism and distrust, of training directly under Mad-Eye Moody himself just in case he proved to be a spy, before he was even marginally accepted. He smiled somewhat wryly. He still wasn't completely sure whether Moody trusted him.

However, at the grand age of thirty nine, after nearly twenty years as a full Auror, he was acknowledged as a valued part of the Corps, if not a particularly liked one. His expertise in High Clan thinking, his knowledge of their methods and their mindset had been invaluable in the last war against Voldemort and it seemed as though it would be needed again soon. He sighed, closing his eyes tiredly. He had returned, even if Fudge refused to acknowledge it, and he was gearing up to launch a full scale war waged with terrorist tactics, aiming not for revolution this time but for outright destruction.

And the allies they had weren't much help. Yesterday's farce, and the resultant infiltration of Death Eaters into the Ministry building itself had started a panic that was psychologically devastating. Damn Greyson. Damn him and his zeal to the lowest reaches of hell. He had brought things to a confrontation they hadn't been ready to face, and had caused chaos on an unimaginable scale. Diplomatic immunity or no, if Dane hadn't been a sworn officer of the law, he would have killed the bastard himself.

Still lost in cold outrage, he didn't hear the junior aide knock and stared right through her until his eyes focused again. She squeaked as she met his jaded, ancient eyes, remembering all the stories she'd ever heard about Dane Harcourt... And then remembered herself. "Ah, sir, Auror Moody says you're to come immediately, sir."

He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing and kept staring at her. She flushed painfully, but still managed to meet his gaze. Finally he almost smiled, and flicked his hand, dismissing her.

It was time to go see what was so urgent.

************************

The Clarington, one of the major hotels in wizarding London, catered for aristocratic and wealthy patrons, and delivered service to match. That meant exquisite food, music, décor, invisible staff and utter discretion. Perhaps Thomas Goyle and Serena Parkinson had thought they would be safe here.

Apparently that was not so.

Moody met him at the door to the suite, face even grimmer than usual. "Look at this," he said curtly.

Dane followed him in curiously. "Death Eaters? Killing these two?"

Moody snorted. "Not unless they've changed their signal since the last time."

Dane stopped and stared at Moody. He didn't like where this was going. But he made himself go on. Yes, it was exactly as he remembered from twenty years ago - Augustus Snape staked out on the cobbles of Diagon Alley, broken almost beyond recognition...just as these two were. Terrified even in death, still frantically trying to escape - and there, over their left forearms this time - not over the heart, as last time - running through the bloated abomination of their Dark Marks (and another pair of Death Eaters outed), were three parallel diagonal slashes, running diagonally from top right to bottom left.

He bent down to take a closer look - the junior officer in training, who had heard wild stories about Harcourt, bending down with him - and made a soft hissing sound in satisfaction. "You know what it is, Moody," he said looking up at his mentor. "Why did you bring me in?"

"I don't know shit about what this is, and you know it," said Moody irritably. "You're the High Clan expert. You tell me what this is and who did it."

Dane only sighed, conscious of the fascinated rookie. "It's a vengeance killing," he said shortly. "A ritual execution, all done exactly as the Law demands." The rookie opened his mouth, but Dane forestalled him. "The ancient tradition, the High Clan Law, allows killing done in vengeance - an eye for an eye, a life for a life. There is no punishment, no crime, in a vengeance killing. It's perfectly legal, except that it does tend to start blood feuds." He smiled somewhat grimly, thinking of how close he had come to treading this same path. "You can see it here - the mark of the killer, so that the Lady, and everyone else concerned, can see who took this life, and judge whether or not it was justified." He indicated the three diagonal cuts on the arm.

"Do you know what that symbol means, Smythe?" he asked the rookie.

"No sir," Smythe flushed. Dane didn't snort, as Moody did. He was a good kid, a little wet behind the ears maybe, a little naïve in all his Gryffindor idealism...but he had potential. It was not his fault he was straight, conventional middle class.

"It's the symbol of Clan Malfoy," he said. "Now what does that tell you?"

"That a Malfoy did it?" Dane fought not to wince.

"Why? And which one?"

"For vengeance, like you said...vengeance for what?" Smythe asked belatedly, finally showing that he did indeed have independent thoughts. "Does this have something to do with what happened yesterday?" He stopped to think it through. "Luc Malfoy got away, and so did the son, Draco. That leaves Lucius, doesn't it? Was he killed?" The look on Dane's face answered his question. "So this was either Draco or the uncle, Luc."

"And is a fifteen year old boy capable of doing this?" he asked excitedly.

Dane smiled cruelly, momentarily smashing his illusions. "Yes," was all he said softly.

"Oh." Smythe swallowed. "Then how do you know who did it?"

"The symbol," Dane said. "This is the symbol of the whole Clan - past and present and future. Had the Heir done this, he would have used his own individual mark, to show that he avenged his father, acting as a son. The use of the Clan's symbol indicates that the vengeance is taken on behalf of the whole Clan - and that suggests an enforcer. An avenger chosen to fulfill the revenge..."

"So Luc?" asked Smythe.

"So it seems..." he murmured softly. "If so, there will definitely be more like killings..." he looked up, amused, at the horror on Smythe's face. "Surely you didn't think that only these two participated in Lucius' death?"

Almost on cue, another Auror came into the room and whispered in Moody's ear. "There's another one," he said grimly. "And about five others scattered around that we have found. And..." he looked down at Dane with a very sour face. "It looks like you're right, Harcourt. The Malfoy is dead. Lestrange himself condescended to send us word."

Dane smiled unpleasantly. Rayden Lestrange, one of the Malfoy brothers' best friends, whose money had taken him to the position on Minister of Defence, was not one of Moody's favourite people. But no matter how bitterly Moody griped, the fact was that Lestrange was a very capable administrator who knew how to play the Game while remaining true to the spirit of his job... He was, quite simply, too aristocratic for Moody's taste. And he was too close to the Malfoy and the darkest shadows of the High Clan for Dane's.

"What does the esteemed Minister have to say about these killings?" Dane was sure that Rayden knew what was going on. The man knew everything, through sources that he himself was quite comfortable to remain ignorant of.

"The esteemed Minister, Mr. Rayden Lestrange, calls the killings acts of justice and, while he does not condone them, he does not condemn the perpetrator for acting as he was, by all the laws of the God and the High Clan, only too entitled to act..." The other auror, (Owen Llyndas? What was he doing here?) quoted sardonically.

Moody scowled at him too. "What are you doing here, Llyndas? I thought you'd gone back home. And come to think of it, don't you come from Malfoy land? You shouldn't be anywhere near these killings."

Llyndas smiled unpleasantly. "The minister commands, and I obey. The Malfoy speaks, and I do his bidding."

"Which one comes first, though?" Dane asked, equally sardonic.

Llyndas smiled, half bitter, half rueful. "That is the question..." He looked Dane in the eye. "And I think you know the answer better than I."

Moody swore at them both. "Enough High Clan mumbo-jumbo. What do Lestrange and the Malfoy have to do with this?"

Llyndas turned black, black, fathomless Welsh eyes on them. "I have told you the Minister's statement. Caius Draconis Malfoy, the new Lord of High Clan Malfoy, wishes to make it clear that the killings are only against individuals and not their respective Clans - the Malfoy have vengeance feud only with the villains who killed their late Lord."

"Well, that's nice to know," Moody mocked. "And what about the tai-pan?"

The Welshman looked blank. "What does the Lord of the de Sauvigny have to do with this?"

Dane hissed in annoyance. "What of Lucien Malfoy?"

Those black, black eyes were filled with ancient knowledge and truths. "He does what he must. As, in the end, do we all." He smiled gently. "Leave it alone. Just leave be."

Moody drew himself up, sputtering. "If you think for one moment..." Dane held up a hand, cutting him off in mid-flow.

"No, sir. He's right." He abandoned years of dedication to the laws of normal society. "Leave be. There's ancient right on their side - and if we go any further, we'll meet with nothing but blank faces and High Clan eyes."

"Do you think I care about that?" Moody demanded.

Dane smiled almost sadly. "No, sir. But two and a half thousand years of tradition and power are against us. We cannot challenge the Malfoy over this - they are too much in the right..."

******************

It seemed as if Moody would come around, when one last interruption occurred. Ben Greyson had been found dead in his rooms in the Ministry building. No, not another execution like these - apparent suicide. There was no trace of magic, no trace of coercion, no evidence that any foul play had taken place. No evidence that Greyson, who had caused them all so much trouble, had done anything but slit his own wrists in the shower. The angle of the cuts was consistent for that of a right-handed man, lying down in the bath, there were no bruises on his body or defensive wounds. All the blood had, quite conveniently been washed away by the running water...

There was no suicide note, but the Dark Mark on his forearms had been damning enough. So Greyson had been a Death Eater, working towards bringing the House and the economy down, and perhaps even eventually preparing the way for his Lord in America. It would have been all too plausible, if it hadn't been for his pricking instincts, and for the fact that he had, indeed, recognized Greyson's wife, and remembered where he had last seen her.

It was too elegant. It was too neatly designed to encourage a cover-up and a deep burial in the darkest, oldest graveyard for incendiary files. And it freed the woman who used to be Kate Evans and her son, who bore such a strong resemblance to his real father... Luc Malfoy, who did what he must, who killed for vengeance and for face, for duty and for protection - and had also stepped over the line of what even the ancient Law would allow, and had killed out of desire.

If it could be proved, it would destroy everything Luc had ever worked for. So to take that kind of risk would be madness, wouldn't it? And quite uncharacteristic of the man Dane knew. That was a definite reason that should have pushed Luc out of suspicion - if Dane hadn't known just how much Luc had loved Kate...and just how far the man would go for those he loved.

Of course he had done this.

But Dane, who had never had anything even remotely approaching what Luc and Kate had shared, who had seen how devastated the tai-pan had been when she 'died', and who had been heartily wishing he could kill Greyson himself, found himself bowing to American pressure and agreeing to cover the 'unfortunate incident' up, to forget it ever happened, and to blame it on a lingering wound received heroically, trying to save Lucius Malfoy from those who would try to take him away...

Some things were better left alone.

*********************************

Kate stood at the window, looking towards the land she had only ever seen with her own eyes once, and the man who had introduced it to her. Twenty-five centuries it had been protected and supported by the Malfoy - they would do anything to see it safe. Whatever the price, it would be paid. Whatever the need, it would be fulfilled. No hesitation, no questions, no regrets. That was the strength and the curse of the Malfoy - their ties to the land and their duties and their obligations. Their responsibility.

She had sensed it in them, even as a first year, even on her first night as a mudblood in a completely aristocratic house. She hadn't known then why she'd been put in Slytherin - all she'd known was that her fellow dormmates were all watching her with blank, calculating eyes, even the ones that looked like they could be more than just cruel bitches. She'd known that if she didn't get some kind of protector, some kind of authority to back up her presence and the need for her continued presence, she would be torn apart. Perhaps not physically, but they would certainly try to break her spirit. She knew they were more than capable.

She'd picked the most powerful figure in first year - well, not the most powerful, because she knew, even then, that Lucius Malfoy was not for her - but certainly his right hand. The younger brother. The bastard. Luc. Less bound than Lucius by duty and tradition, perhaps a little more flexible and reckless, an easier mark but paradoxically more ruthless in his strength of will and determination, he'd had no land and no people to bond to and to make a Covenant with. He had nothing to give life meaning, except to take over a House who didn't acknowledge him, to rule a family who wanted no part of him, at the moment.

That had been a goal - a very long term goal. She'd given him a purpose, something to live for beyond ambition and his ultimate goal. Uneasy alliance had turned to friendship, friendship had become love, and love might have become something else, if it hadn't been brutally cut off in mid-flower.

They had both changed since then, in so many ways - they were older and more cynical, less willing to trust in fate but more than ever aware of its power. Luc had become a man - a powerful, sophisticated, capable and potentially dangerous man who had learned to love his family and to find friendship with Gryffindors and muggle lovers. His eyes were darker, more experienced, and any trace of naivete or innocence had been burned out long ago. He was an alpha male in his prime now, as opposed to the youth he had been at seventeen.

And she - she was older, and she had learned to compromise, to accept what she could get rather than aiming for the moon. She'd married a man she hadn't loved and had lived a life she hated for fifteen years, all her happiest moments revolving around her son, who had, from the very first, been focused on his father rather than on her. She had been willing to fight for her son, but not for herself. She'd learned to survive in the real world - not the High Clan of her school days and not the muggle world of her childhood - and the years had left their mark in her cool acceptance of what couldn't be changed and in her ability to endure.

They were both of them no longer the same people - and the relationship, the bond, no longer felt as comfortable, or as right, as it had back then. She could no longer read him like a book and he could no longer discern her emotions with a glance. They couldn't anticipate each other anymore, and it hurt more than she liked to admit. She'd said nothing yet. But she'd let it show, for the merest moment, the one and only time he'd met her eyes since they'd seen each other in the hearing room. He'd looked away. He couldn't face her - couldn't look at her and remember what they had once had, perhaps didn't want to remember it.

She knew he didn't remember the night Bran was conceived. The one night she'd dared to come back, in secret, to Britain, to see her sister who had just found out she was pregnant. She'd come home one last time before she married Ben and committed herself to life in America, and she'd thought it would be safe, coming back for one night - slip in, and then slip out with no one the wiser. It hadn't been quite that easy.

She'd been taken by Death Eaters, on her way home - just for the one hellish, seemingly unending night. And she'd been given to Luc - an act of blind chance, or perhaps even a double-edged apology from Fate, belated though it was. He hadn't recognized her, he'd been so high on dranath and muggle spirits, and nor had anyone else...but she'd known him immediately. And it had broken her heart.

One night. One guilt-ridden, hurried and perfunctory coupling to satisfy the watchers. And then it was done.

She went back to America, married Ben, employed a whore's trick she had learned of in whispers in the Slytherin dormitory, and promptly delivered Brandon, approximately nine months after her wedding. And after she'd done her duty, she'd turned a cold shoulder to her husband and turned all of her attention towards her son.

She didn't know what would happen now. But what would come, would come, and it would be soon. She could feel it in her bones.

***************************************

At Hogwarts, the students were sitting down to a leisurely Sunday morning breakfast, oblivious of the momentous events outside the school and of the shifting power balances. Only the Slytherin table, most of whom had been aware of the plot against Lucius Malfoy, showed the slightest hint of tension - and that was well hidden. They were worried, oh yes, but damned if they were going to show it.

Minerva McGonagall, who probably knew less about what was going on than the Slytherin students, was nevertheless very worried. Something was wrong, she could sense it. And it had something to do with the owls that had arrived last night at dusk. As she watched, the owls came in again - letters were delivered to Pansy Parkinson, Crabbe and Goyle, looking lost without Malfoy, received matching letters, as did Nott and Bulstrode and others...official Ministry letters, by the look of them.

They showed no reaction. Absolutely nothing. And that was what told her something was very, very wrong. Before her eyes, they pulled a Mask of impassiveness over their features and shut everything in.

And because she was focused on watching the Slytherin table, she didn't see the owls delivered to the students at other tables, from other Houses. But then, Gryffindors never did.

*****************************************