Chapter Eleven: Interlude

Happiness. She had finally found it, and with the most unlikely people. The boys and girls at her side represented the highest aristocracy of Britain, a force that commanded easily and bowed reluctantly. The first few days had been awkward, but no one could claim that she was stupid or ignorant. Stupidity could only be inherited, and several months spent in the Malfoy manor had cured her of the latter.

Besides, there were always the angular, intense eyes of Blaise Zabini to point out the way.

However, the children of Slytherin grew to like her, their hard features softening to mere cynicism. It was difficult to actively dislike her, and their dislike melted away within weeks. Laine had the rare ability to draw attention with the stiffening of a hand, or the closing of the eyes, or the subtlest flicker of a smile; her pale, sharp face held an understanding of their lifestyle. But above all, she accepted and loved it like her own, because it was beautiful. So beautiful, and…and dark and rich beyond compare. She had never cared much for food, yet the deep philosophy and intellectualism of the serpent's House sated her mind. Whenever they were tired but calm, they sat in the circle and discussed everything imaginable, or perhaps not. But when she or Draco or Blaise laughed, the purest and brightest of sounds rang out. And when they were certain that no other eyes were watching, they played like other children under the dazzling sunlight, young for minutes before catching themselves once more.

In the process of gaining acceptance, Laine's story had gradually seeped into the pool of common room gossip. Although she never actually heard the conversations, Blaise had one day leaned back in his chair and, rather offhandedly, mentioned it. To her own surprise, she had shrugged and continued watching the fire licking at the grates. Fortunately the other Slytherins dismissed the matter, maybe even respected her more for it. An education with the Malfoys, albeit brief, was worth much in their eyes.

More time had passed before she learned their secrets. Blaise, in particular, was unwilling to give his away, but then he had looked into her dark and ancient eyes, contrasting sharply with her childlike face. And he had relented and begun to talk with this natural but not natural-born aristocrat.

How he had longed to make clear his goals! Life as the second born son provided few real opportunities, and more so when the House emphasized neutrality upon pain of disownment. But then there was Slytherin, a House that had earned his loyalty too. Raw, hungry ambition, more often seen in others, lit a burning fire to his words, and he told her all this with the most confident of smiles. She listened, fascinated, for it was her one introduction to the power games.

He wanted to become the Merchant Prince, the head of the dozens of trading companies of Britain, the hand constantly grasping the neck of the country's economic flow.

Once he had told Laine, he spoke freely of the topic, and everyone knew of his aspirations. They had begun the rounds of calculations that would carry on into later lives, and they pondered Zabini more than any except Malfoy.

In the meantime, they mostly forgot the Gryffindors, except for Laine. Times came when they behaved so outrageously that the others were forced to take notice and, often as not, retaliate. Draco preferred not to, but the urge was strong and he felt his own superiority. Even stronger was Weasley's marked inferiority. But…he managed to forget them, unless they made their presence. And then it was war.

As for Laine, she couldn't deny her love for her friends, but the tiniest of lingering thoughts slipped about her mind like the winding, twisting fall of ribbons. The perpetual what if. She had seen with her own eyes the sort of person Potter, boy hero was, but she hated to simplify. What if the other Gryffindors were better?

What if…what if…

The first year ended, and the Slytherins swallowed the bitter injustice of the House cup in the face of their screaming, cheering opponents. Already they sensed the taint of prejudice, sinuous and evil. The prejudice of the professors, Dumbledore, the rest of the school turned against them. But what could they do, but accept it and move on?

Draco and Laine emerged head to head as second and third in the class, respectively; only Hermione Granger ranked above them. At the Malfoy manor, Lucius noted that briefly but said little more. It was apparent to both of them that he was preoccupied with events at hand, the failed rising of the Dark Lord, the infamous luck of one Harry Potter…

Still, they spent a pleasurable summer, mostly on the Malfoy estates but occasionally flitting between the summer chateaux of old family friends. And always, whether they were on the lonely beaches of Normandy, or the coastline of sun-soaked Nice, or the countryside in earthy, rustic Tuscany, always there was Draco's silvery laugh. Perhaps the students in school despised him and Blaise for their easy confidence, but Laine tended to build her radiant joy upon theirs. She responded with the same manner, the same bearing, the same confidence.

Towards the end of holiday, she had even found the time to visit her own lands. She heard her footsteps melting into the silence; she saw the house elves running up to meet her in the main hallways. Pride, fierce and passionate, swept over her heart as her eyes swept over everything that would one day be hers and that she swore she would return to. Laine had felt the surge of emotion in Draco whenever they stepped into the recesses of the Malfoy estates, but she could not understand his attachment to something so dead. And now, just now did she reach the epiphany. The house, the grounds were alive with a potent magic―the undercurrent that ran quick and strong in her very blood.

But that day, the chairs were empty, and the faintest scent of decay hung in the air. Then she had to leave, bidding the land an unspoken farewell.

From behind, Lucius smiled slightly as he watched the heiress and the Goldwing house.

School began again in September, and by then the family could adhere to a schedule that afforded no time for mishaps. But in all reality, neither that year, nor the one that followed excited them. They knew their places well and strived only to maintain them, because the real world demanded the attention that could not be squandered on little things.

There were whispers in the highest circles that gathered in the lowest places, hushed voices that hinted at a violent rebirth of their Lord in the near future. Lucius occasionally graced these meetings with his attendance, looking supremely confident and unconcerned through them all. In the privacy of the Manor, though, he spent long hours watching over the lush green slopes through the window of his study. He inhaled deeply, and he smelled the prickling scent of revolution, of unstoppable change. He knew that he would take part in it, and when the sepulchral figure of the Dark Lord rose from the draught of the dead, he knew that he himself had made it possible with a murmur of consent twenty years ago.

Who was the Malfoy, who thought that he could interfere with what had already passed?

In the meantime, his heart swelled with an invisible pride whenever Draco's intense, brilliant gaze met his eyes. It was also true for Laine, to a lesser extent, but nothing even remotely compared to the fierce animal joy of seeing his son, the man-child of his own blood and flesh grow into a leader he would have obeyed without question.

As such, Lucius did not hesitate to intervene in school incidents, while professors and students alike gossiped about the ridiculous amount of influence he had over Draco's school life. But he bore it by refusing them the dignity of a reaction…and Draco dealt with it on his own, in his own manner. It was a manner that belied what he could do, for Lucius had impressed it upon him the reasons for seeming insignificant, weak, pathetic.

The world was wrong when a shapeless, ruddy face presided over the rolling hills, the glittering cities, the flowing magic of all Britain. Natural law dictated that the void be filled, and soon people exchanged fluttery gossip about the tall, straight, shadowed figure standing a full head above Cornelius Fudge. The man commanded respect and attention, all that Fudge struggled to achieve. He asked few favors and returned even fewer, but the usual political speculators dared not gamble on his actions. After all, he was Lucius Malfoy, not to be questioned.

The same figure drummed his hands on polished mahogany desks, then raised the black robes of the Dark Lord to his impartial lips. He watched the torture of the Potter boy and the subsequent rebirth of the monster to whom he owed fealty. And he made a surprise appearance in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic as well…

But even the luck of the Malfoy runs out eventually.

Soon he found himself being promenaded through the halls as a prisoner compelled to speak to any petty official who wanted a share of the spoils. Calmly, cynically he answered their questions, if only to shut them up for a few minutes. He was always checking the silver watch on his wrist, too; it informed him that time was drawing to an end. He could hold on for so much longer, and then―and then they would be on their own.

They already knew, but he doubted that they had seriously considered all possibilities. It was summer, and they would be returning soon, returning to a place that was theirs by right, not for any of the Ministry bastards to take away.

AN: I don't know what I think about this—short? It's just an interlude to cross the five years or so between the sections of the fanfiction. Review away and I'll see what I can do about writing faster.

l8er
-cybErdrAgOn