DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. I'm borrowing them from the esteemed Joss Whedon and J.K. Rawling.
SPOILERS/BACKGROUND: Everything from BtVS Season 1 to Season 6, AtS Seasons 1 to 3, and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
Reviews always welcome!
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CHAPTER 29:
LEARNING TO STAND ALONE
Willow was lonely.
Sunday morning had dawned; it seemed like much more than a day since Buffy had left. They had only been apart once this summer, and the bite of separation had not been so harsh when she was with Harry. She sought the company of Hermione and Ron whenever she could, but they could neither sit with her at meals nor visit her in the Tower, and she was not naturally a very outgoing person. She found herself spending a lot of time in her room, trying to avoid as many of the other Slytherins as possible. Without Buffy here, she felt vulnerable; Buffy seemed to have a knack for the politics within the House, and a force of personality that convinced people to leave the two of them alone.
She was seated at the desk in her room, writing another letter to Harry. They had exchanged two apiece already since the previous Tuesday, and they had been the high points of her weekend. Harry had apparently stopped caring whether or not his mail was being watched; his letter to her were getting more and more beautiful, so much that affection seemed to radiate from them at times. Writing to him now, she was beginning to understand why; he had been completely alone amid a hostile crowd at the Dursleys all summer. She hadn't even made it two days in a similar situation before she was straining for something to hang on to.
The bell tolled for breakfast, and Willow sighed and put down her quill.
The trip down to the Great Hall seemed to have grown longer with every meal since Buffy had left. She felt like there were eyes on her from every direction. She had never been good at keeping secrets, and she felt like she was keeping more secrets than an Egyptian tomb at the moment. She felt as though the guilt had to be written in her face whenever anyone so much as met her eyes.
She reached the hall at last, and took her customary seat at the end of the table. There was no point in trying to sit anywhere else; you had to play power games to move up towards the head of the table, and she hadn't the faintest of idea of how to do it. Sitting down with the first-years was her way of acknowledging that she wasn't pursuing anyone's place at the table; she had a feeling that there was some way she could have had she wanted to, since Draco had actually invited her to the head of it once—though that had been more for Buffy than her—but she had no clue how she would play the Slytherins' Great Game on her own.
"Lonely?" a voice asked.
Willow turned to see the Bloody Baron seated beside her. "They make you sit at the end of the table, too?" she asked.
The Baron chuckled grimly. "I sit where I wish," he said. "As could you, if you wished."
Willow laughed wryly. "What? Go up and push Millicent out of her seat?"
"Perhaps not so directly," the ghost mused. "But you've already been invited to the head of the table once. You could move up fairly near Millicent whenever you wished."
Willow gave him an honestly puzzled look. "Why would I want to do that?"
The dour-looking ghost suddenly laughed uproariously, drawing more than a few questioning stares from up the table. "Understandable," the Baron admitted a moment later. "But you'll find that the Game is hard to escape."
"I'm doing everything I can," Willow said.
"Precisely," the ghost said, smugly, as though he had just made a point. "And everyone can see that, which means that you are playing the Game. Visibility is a measure of influence, and you've made yourself visible by placing yourself down with the first-years, despite being a sixth-year, second in points, and an ally of the current leader."
"She's a friend," Willow corrected him. She wasn't as annoyed as she sounded, though; it was nice to have someone to talk to, even a dead person.
"Not in their minds," the baron said with a nod towards the head of the table.
Willow shrugged. "They don't know me very well, then."
"No one does," the baron explained. "Which is another reason you're playing the game without realizing it. Being an unknown can be both an asset and a liability."
Willow put her hands to her temples. "Ergh. This stuff makes my head hurt."
"Perhaps an example?" the Baron asked, detecting an opening, and Willow realized that he was more perceptive than he looked. She really was curious, even if she had no intention of playing this 'Game' herself. She looked at him, and realized that he was looking up the table. She shrugged in acceptance a moment later, and followed his eyes as best she could.
"Look at young Vincent," the baron said. It took Willow a moment, since she hadn't spent much time learning the other Slytherins' names, but eventually she spotted the child he meant. She remembered the solemn, vaguely Italian face of Vincent Byron from the Sorting ceremony. He was seated perhaps nine people down the table from where the line of Slytherins playing the Game actually began; Willow had separated herself by several yards along the bench.
"Young Mister Byron started near the bottom," the baron explained. "Vincent's father was a Ravenclaw who married a—well, a rather rebellious daughter of the ancient Giovanni family in Florence."
Willow accepted this mutely, remembering quickly from one of her History of Magic textbooks that the Giovanni were one of the greatest families on the European continent, though most of their children went to either Beauxbatons or Durmstrang.
"He's showing a lot of promise," the baron explained. "And the more he succeeds, the more people will remember that he is the son of a Giovanni and not the fact that his mother was all but disinherited and his father was a peasant. The lad is good. He's won six points for Slytherin already, which is excellent for four weeks in summer session."
"So he's moving up," Willow guessed, actually enjoying the lesson, but wondering where it was leading.
"Indeed," the Baron agreed. "But the important thing for you here that you ought to keep in mind is that he's sandbagging."
"Um … OK …"
"He could sit two or three places further up the bench if he wished," the baron explained. "Just by getting up, moving up a few places, and asking to sit down. The others would shift down to make room for him."
"Maybe he doesn't feel ready yet?"
"Oh, no," the ethereal figure chuckled grimly. "His mother has taught him well. You see, he knows that those six people or so ahead of him … three on either side of the table … are, like most Slytherins, very attached to their place at the table. He's risen ten places already in four weeks. The next few know that he could pass them at any time. However, by allowing them to keep their places at the table, he gains a measure of influence over them."
"All right …" Willow shrugged. She couldn't help thinking that maybe Vincent just felt like sitting where he was sitting. Maybe there was a girl nearby that he liked—did eleven-year-old boys like girls? Or was he still at the cootie stage? Or maybe he had a few friends that he wanted to sit beside.
"So he's sacrificing status in the eyes of the rest of the House," the Baron explained, "in exchange for influence over those six. Perhaps only one or two of them. Or, perhaps, over none of them at all, but simply to keep some people higher up the table from guessing at his motives."
Willow took another look at the solemn eleven-year-old.
"So … what does this have to do with me?" Willow asked.
The Baron grinned. "Vincent is sandbagging four, maybe six places," he said. "How many are you?"
"None," Willow answered immediately, but with a sinking feeling, she realized where the Baron was headed.
"Fine, fine, have it your way," he explained patiently. He seemed to realize she had gotten the point, because his grin took on a knowing look. "How many do you think that they think that you're sandbagging?"
She looked up the table. Draco had invited her to sit at the head of the table, but that was when she was with Buffy, and the two of them together had scored fifty-five points in a day.
"A few," she admitted, realizing that she was making an understatement. "More, if Buffy comes back and they're all about these 'alliances.'"
The Baron inclined his head to her in a measure of respect, as though she had just learned an important lesson. "They are indeed, Miss Rosenberg, they are indeed. But don't underestimate yourself as an individual. You've played almost none of your cards, but do you really think Bulstrode could stand against you in a duel? Barclay? Gandersworth? Avery? Sheffield? Delacroix? Sloan?"
Willow hesitated, on the verge of stating the obvious, that she was not about to go around challenging people to duels. But that was clearly not the Baron's point. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "I'm only halfway through the third-year stuff, but yesterday in the library, I browsed through one of the seventh-year books and found the Draconian Contra. I've done that one."
"And you've already shown more power than anyone who's never taken the dueling floor or attended a single class. What you did with Torrence was not only noble, but impressive. Malfoy might have been able to pull that off. Bulstrode and a few of the other prefects, possibly. No one else. And what you did to Peeves was absolutely magnificent," he added as an afterthought, with a feral laugh.
"So I sit down here because I don't want to fight anyone, and all they do is think about how I might want to fight them someday?"
"Pretty much," the Baron admitted cheerfully. "Oh, mail's here!" he quipped, glancing upward at the flock of owls entering the room. A moment later, his eyes widened. "I think you've just won another status point, if that's coming to whom I believe it is."
"Huh?" Willow asked, but a moment later, she saw what he had. The Malfoy great horned owl was ghosting in above the rest of the flock, soaring like an eagle above the smaller, younger, more exuberant birds below. It waited until the flock had thinned a little before circling down to land and deposit an envelope and a newspaper at Willow's place.
"Umm … thanks," she said. "Didn't expect to see you here." The Baron chuckled beside her, and whispered softly in her ear, "well done." The owl cocked its head at her curiously, and she cocked her own at the ghost, but then she understood. She had just casually addressed the Malfoy owl—the owl of the current ruler of the Slytherin roost. That had to be a status play of some kind. Everything was, after all.
"I just can't win," she whispered back to the Baron self-depreciatingly. Being a vegetarian, she didn't have any meat on her own plate to give it, so she levitated a small piece of beef out of a nearby soup cauldron over to the owl in payment. It accepted it with a grateful hoot, and Willow couldn't suppress a smile. The owl was the only creature at the table whose appetites she could understand.
She glanced at the letter. It was from Buffy. She supposed she should have expected that; it didn't seem likely that Draco would be sending her anything, but Buffy was going to be home that night. She wondered what was so important that she had to have heard about it in the morning. She slipped it open and read.
Hey Willow,
It's been a rough weekend up here. I think I'm going to have to stay up here for a while. Drake's going to need me. Check out page 3.
Hugs,
Buffy
Willow read the letter again, and then a third time. A while? How long was a while? Another day? Days? A week? Weeks? Nervously, she unrolled the Daily Prophet that the owl had brought her, and turned to page 3. Her eyes widened in shock.
Narcissa Malfoy Murdered
MALFOY MANOR — Lady Narcissa Malfoy, wife of revealed Death Eater Lucius Malfoy and dowager of one of the wealthiest families in Britain, was attacked and killed on Saturday afternoon, Department of Magical Law Enforcement officials confirmed last night. The attack occurred just after nightfall during the Lady Malfoy's evening walk in the manor gardens. It is not known how the attackers got within the grounds, or if they escaped with anything of value.
There were signs of a short struggle, but DMLE investigators say that it appears to have been extremely one-sided. Narcissa's body was burned with the rare Flaming Flood, a powerful weapon researched by Sirius Black in his seventh year at Hogwarts.
Lady Malfoy is survived by one son, Draco, 16, a prefect of Slytherin House at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Draco was spending the summer at Hogwarts. He was at home visiting his mother when the attack occurred, but was not present at the time of the assassination.
Draco spoke to Prophet reporters briefly late yesterday evening and indicated that he would not be able to return to Hogwarts for the duration of the summer. Because of his father's exile, Draco is now the acting Lord Malfoy. A formal inauguration ceremony will be conducted on 31. August, during the break between summer session and fall term.
Willow's first reaction was understandable horror; Draco's mother had been murdered? Then her shoulders sagged, and she cursed herself for thinking self-interested thoughts at a time like this, but couldn't push them away. This sounded like it was going to take weeks. Buffy was going to want to be close to Draco for this, especially because it sounded like she might be all Draco had at the moment. However, one weekend had already been bad enough. The thought of going weeks without her friend was hardly encouraging. Giles and the others had sent occasional letters, and Harry's letters had been beautiful, but nothing could compare to having her best friend actually sleeping in the same room with her.
She sighed as she pushed her way back from the table, giving Hermione a sad shrug across the room as she made her way to the exit. It looked like her books were going to be all the company she would get in the Tower for the next few weeks, and she was probably not going to make any new friends in Slytherin, not while she continued to insist on remaining friends with Hermione. And Harry. She shuddered to think of how she was going to deal with that when the two of them became public.
She reached her bedroom, but somehow, the thought of being alone even here for the next few weeks made even this little haven seem stifling. She sighed wearily as she picked up her books. It was just after breakfast, but she was already tired again. She took one look at the familiar books strewn around the room, shook her head wearily, and curled up on her bed. She didn't really expect to get any sleep, but she finally drifted into an uncertain doze.
Her dreams were troubled.
* * *
"How is she?" Lucius asked.
Voldemort smiled. "Definitely making progress."
"Not utterly out of her mind?"
Voldemort's smile only broadened. "Should she be?"
"Most people would be nothing but a vegetable after that."
"We are not talking about most people," Voldemort reminded his flaxen-haired servitor. "The last time someone withstood my Imperius, I was younger than your son. There are Occlumency-specialist Aurors at the Ministry that don't have a quarter of her mental armor."
"Our sources said she was stronger than most Slayers."
"Our sources were understating their reports …" Voldemort suddenly paused, as a now-familiar sensation, like being watched from within a distant cloud, prickled into existence at the back of his awareness. He threw up his strongest Occlumency wards immediately, and continued as though nothing were abnormal, "… about the extent of Dumbledore's preparations."
Lucius looked puzzled, and Voldemort sent him a venomous look. There was a tray next to the throne with a small decanter of absinth, a single shot glass, and a small bowl of sugar cubes. Voldermort poured himself a glass, lit a sugar cube aflame and popped it in, and quaffed the shot. He fixed Lucius with a significant stare as he did so, keeping an iron grip on his thoughts.
"Our agent at Hogwarts assures me he has not been detected, my lord," Lucius ventured.
Voldemort relaxed. Lucius was a fool, but perhaps not a complete fool. He had far great a tendency to overestimate his own cleverness and charisma. People who overestimated themselves were dangerous allies, but Lucius was an unfortunate necessity at the moment.
"He has not been detected, perhaps," Voldemort agreed, keeping a careful rein on his thoughts, "but perhaps that is also because he fears to take risks to get us the intelligence we need."
"The episode with the wolf has made him more … cautious."
Voldemort nodded inwardly. Lucius was beginning to realize the situation. His words were getting more natural, but he hoped that the flaxen fool had not given anything away in the past few moments. Voldemort had always secretly despised Divination, but one did not need the Sight to know that Lucius was going to get himself in trouble someday overestimating his own grasp of reality.
"Caution is good, but we're on a schedule. There will be a shakeup at the Slytherin table tomorrow. Have him take advantage, if he can."
Lucius looked puzzled again for a brief moment, and Voldemort hissed inwardly, but he covered it quickly. "Of course, my lord. I'll see to it immediately. By your leave," he finished, withdrawing.
Voldemort breathed a sigh of relief, and took another shot of absinthe. The mind-altering drink helped block mental attacks, even though it impeded a person's ability to launch them oneself. A few minutes later, the sensation of being watched faded out like a cloud evaporating. He withdrew a silver pocketwatch from within his robe. It was after breakfast time at Hogwarts.
He grinned. Get some sleep, Willow, he thought smugly. You might need it tomorrow.
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Author's Notes: Thanks again to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! Fair warning: the next couple of chapters are going to be more Willow-centric, just to keep the story timeline consistent, so there might be a bit of hanging in limbo there.
Coming Soon: Chapter 30, "The Force of the Game." Willow finally gets sucked into the Slytherin power-politics game at last … and in dramatic fashion. Love and politics. Do. Not. Mix.
Sneak Preview:
"Rosenberg!" a voice behind her called. Willow sighed and stopped. There was no way she could pretend not to hear that.
[…]
"Um … do I know you?" she asked cautiously.
Pansy smiled depreciatingly. "Pansy. Pansy Parkinson. Sixth-year prefect. Just got in from Bristol yesterday night."