"I'm not sure I can give you an answer to that question," Lucius said thoughtfully. "Not without making you understand what it is to be Slytherin."
The smell of rain and candle wax filled the small interrogation room; outside, the waves crashed against rock, and during the rough crossing Percy had been unable to tell where the sea gave way to overcast sky. "We have time," he answered. "I'd like to understand."
Lucius looked at him for a long moment in silence, weighing him. Percy forced himself not to drop his gaze.
"Do you know, I believe you would," Lucius said finally, almost to himself. "Well, then. Your mother taught you a song when you were a child, do you remember it? 'The Houses at Hogwarts are four for the Founders...'"
"'The Lion in summer, as brave as his roar," Percy recited automatically. "'The Serpent in autumn, the canny and clever; the Raven in winter, the storehouse of lore; the Badger in springtime is fierce and loyal, and all those four Houses shall stand evermore.'"
"There are more truths hidden in that song than most people ever understand, child, and this is one: that the qualities each of the Founders valued were far more specific than they are widely acknowledged to be." Lucius drew his fingertips idly through the flame of one of the candles, watching the shadows waver across the table. "For example, Godric Gryffindor valued not courage, but a certain kind of courage - a thoughtless, physical, headstrong kind that causes Gryffindors to rush in where angels fear to tread. In every generation, this kind of courage produces a handful of heroes and a battalion of cannon fodder. Godric himself was not blind to that fact, which people would do well to remember when they denounce Slytherins as manipulative."
Unbidden, an image of Ron sprang to mind - Ron, always half a step behind Harry Potter, whatever trouble Harry plunged headfirst into. One ill-aimed Avada Kedavra meant for Harry... Percy swallowed, and wished that Ron had taken his advice all those years ago. "And what specifically did Salazar Slytherin value?"
Lucius smiled. "A Hogwarts Sorting is really a sorting into lifelong roles, have you seen that? Gryffindor House, from its inception, was intended to breed soldiers; Ravenclaw, teachers and researchers; Hufflepuff, the foundations of society, the people who see to it that things are done and not merely talked about. Slytherins - we are meant to be kingmakers, gatherers of intelligence, ruthless negotiators, assassins when negotiations fail. For a thousand years our hands have crowned the rulers of the wizarding world, kept those crowns secure or toppled them and the heads underneath them. We are prouder than Satan, every one of us, solitary and secretive, and our first, best weapon is betrayal."
And that sounded for all the world like a warning - but why? "So you don't even trust each other, then?"
"When a Slytherin says 'I trust you,' what he really means is 'I know how you would betray me, and when, and for what gain, and I believe that I can keep you from doing it.' This is, perhaps, a greater statement of faith than it sounds, and it allows us to form alliances among our own kind on our own terms."
And now, finally, they were getting close to the mark. Percy shifted in his chair, pulling the sleeves of his robes down further over his wrists against the chill seeping out of the stone; Lucius' eyes, tinted golden in the candlelight, followed his movement idly, and Percy thought uneasily of the frayed hand-me-down robes he had grown up wearing. The robes he was wearing now were not expensive, but neat and new. Lucius' were new as well, he saw, somber black over a pristine white shirt open at the collar. His hair spilled over his shoulders in a smooth flow lit amber by the fire, and Percy wondered, not for the first time, how ten years in Azkaban had left so little mark on him. Bellatrix Lestrange was completely mad now, submersed in silent hatred like a grindylow in lakewater, her hair floating in snarled tendrils around her face. Percy had not been allowed to see her alone, and after a few abortive attempts at questions he had been just as glad of it. He was terrified of her, and furious with himself for being terrified, and he wondered if anyone ever really grew up.
He'd let the silence stretch too long. Percy wasn't a child anymore, all gangly wrists and shabby cuffs, afraid of the bogeyman in the dark. He was a Ministry official, good at his job, and he had questions to ask. Lucius might have the vaunted Slytherin slipperiness down cold, but a man didn't live sixteen years with Fred and George without learning something about getting answers out of evasive people.
"Mr. Malfoy, I'm still not sure I understand why you and the other Death Eaters didn't turn to the Ministry for protection when Voldemort first rose again, while he was still weak, if you didn't want to wind up serving him again."
Malfoy's mouth curved in a thin, unnerving smile, and he rose to move over to the window. In anyone else, Percy would have called it pacing; but if Lucius Malfoy had ever made a move without some purpose, Percy had never seen it.
"The besetting sin of Slytherin House is pride, young man. Pride in our race, in our House, in our lines; pride in our ability to ultimately turn any situation to our advantage, even if it takes years of careful tending over a long string of defeats. Pride in our ability to face any circumstance by ourselves and emerge victorious - your young friend Potter would have made a good Slytherin in that regard, though a poor one in many other ways. We didn't go to the Ministry partly because this was Slytherin business - Tom Riddle was one of us once, and it goes against the grain to turn to others to help put out fires in our own house."
Percy dipped his pen in the inkwell and looked back up at Lucius. "But there are Slytherins in the Ministry, Purebloods, surely..."
Lucius glanced back at him, examining him with a gaze that somehow stripped away all the trappings of position and efficiency that Percy wore like a shield, evaluating him in some balance. "I remember you as a child, you know," he said quietly. "I remember meeting you and your family in Diagon Alley every year after my son started school at Hogwarts. I remember the dusty, threadbare robes and second-hand books, and how you were always dirty from the floo network, children and parents both, when everyone else in the store was clean. Second-hand books, second-hand cauldrons, second-hand wands, holding you back from accomplishing things that children with more suitable materials mastered with ease. But your prefect's badge, your Head Boy badge, those were always clean, weren't they?"
Percy swallowed convulsively. He remembered those meetings too, oh yes, and how small and soiled he'd felt next to the immaculate, beautifully dressed Malfoys. "I don't see what this has to do with -"
"There's a portrait of your great-great-grandfather in the Ministry building - you know that, of course. Josiah Weasley, second in line for the Minister for Magic position itself, head of the Council for the Exchequer, holder of an electoral seat on the Wizengamot. Your family has served the wizarding world in that bustling hive of bureaucracy for generations, and what does your father do now? How often is he gone all night on raids, and what does he get paid for it? House elves are better rewarded for generations of service."
"But - the Ministry - " It isn't their fault, Percy wanted to say. It's his. He never wanted anything better, not even for our sakes.
But he couldn't say it. Not now, not to Lucius Malfoy. And he couldn't defend the Ministry, the only place that had ever appreciated or had a use for his talents, without speaking against his father.
"The Ministry must at least appear to reward effort and not lineage," Lucius finished, not unkindly. "But there are ways of rewarding both. Ways of recognizing a family for hundreds of years of contributions to the wizarding world, which should surely count for something."
"Yes, of course it should, but I'm not sure I understand what this has to do with my question."
"The Ministry is sometimes too quick to throw valuable wizards to the wolves, or to let them fall when they could easily be caught," Lucius said simply. "Whether it was the right decision or no - and it might have been wrong - we simply dared not trust them. Do you understand a little better now?"
Pride. Insularity. Wealth and power. His parents sitting at the table in the candlelight, poring over accounts, trying to find a way to make his father's pay stretch when there were four places to put every galleon. The balance of loss against gain, and the examples set before the Malfoys of how very far it was possible to fall.
"Yes," he answered. "I do."
Not long after dawn Harry found Malfoy in the cool shadows by the lake, sitting on a large flat rock with a dozen small Slytherins sprawled on the grass beside him, all of them holding a thin text that Harry didn't recognize.
"That's right, Jordan," he was saying as Harry drew closer, and the boy glowed with pride. "That way is best and easiest, of course, but suppose you can't do that? Some principalities can't be conquered by massacring the ruling line and moving your own government in lock, stock and barrel. Suppose you have to conquer by military means - how can you do that in a way that will ensure that you hold what you've conquered?"
Half a dozen hands shot up. Harry slowed, staying in the shady cover of the trees. None of them had noticed him yet.
"Yes, Melissa?"
"Strike first and strike hard, and then don't strike again," answered the student, a little girl with flaming hair that made Harry suspect a Weasley in her lineage. "Know all of the violence you'll need to secure your position before you get started, and then do it all at once."
"And why should we do that?"
"Because people don't care who rules them as long as their lives can go on like they were before," she answered promptly. "They'll just want the war to be over. And if you don't keep on doing things to them like quartering garrisons there and hanging people and stuff, in a few years they'll forget all about what you did as long as they're not worse off than they were before."
Harry wasn't entirely sure that this was an appropriate curriculum for small children.
"And why don't we want them to be worse off than they were before? Miriam?"
"What good would they be if they were?" the girl in question pointed out in an eminently practical tone, rearranging her robes fastidiously around her knees. "You'd always have to be putting down rebellions and things. You won't have taken the land just to have it, you'll have taken it for a reason, like it has a good cash crop or a strategic port or something. You can't use those things without the people living there unless you want to kill them all and move all your own people in, and that'd be a pain in the -"
"Thank you, Miriam, you're quite right," Malfoy said dryly.
Jordan leaned in and spoke to Malfoy, quickly but too quietly for Harry to hear. Malfoy shut his book with a snap and brushed invisible dust off his robes.
"That'll be all for this morning. Tomorrow we'll discuss smaller-scale applications of the theory. Get along to breakfast, the lot of you." To Harry's surprise, Malfoy stood and came toward him as the children raced noisily back toward the hall. He didn't seem surprised at all to see Harry there, and Harry wondered if Jordan had told him they were being watched.
"Can I help you with something, Potter?" Malfoy asked, clearly rather displeased at having his lessons interrupted.
"Malfoy, tell me you aren't teaching Machiavelli to twelve-year-olds."
Draco lifted an eyebrow, looking mildly surprised, and Harry felt himself flush - for a moment there, Malfoy had very nearly looked at him with genuine interest, and it wasn't an entirely pleasant feeling. "I would never have pegged you as the sort of person who'd know that text when he heard it."
Harry looked away, out at the sunlight glowing on the surface of the pond. "Do you think I didn't learn anything from Sirius' death?"
"That would have been my first guess," Malfoy informed him with an indifferent honesty that was worse than any number of taunts.
"Well, you were wrong," Harry said sharply, then took a deep breath and reined in his temper. "Listen. I just came to ask... don't bait Ron this afternoon, all right? And don't ask him about Hermione."
For a moment, Draco looked just like his mother. "Why on earth would I ask after Granger?"
Oh, I don't know, because at some point in the last seven years you decided to try not being a bigoted little snot? Harry nearly snapped, and clamped down on that too. Malfoy would have to choose today of all days to be stunningly annoying. "Malfoy, can you just listen to me and not piss him off, please?"
Draco was silent for a moment, staring at Harry with an unreadable look. "Thank you for that advice, Potter," he said eventually. "I don't think it would ever have occurred to me that it might be a bad idea to annoy a snap-tempered Auror who has hated me with a rabid passion for fourteen years, is looking for someone to blame for his sister's death and his brother's defection, and has the authority to throw me in Azkaban without so much as a writ from a star chamber. After all, what's the wrath of the Ministry of Magic, such as it is, compared to the pleasures of an afternoon spent in petty indulgence of a schoolboy grudge?"
"Malfoy -"
"My God, Potter, I knew you didn't think well of me but I had no idea you thought I was too stupid to come in out of a rain of frogs. I'll be sure to keep that in mind in the future."
"Will you just -"
But Malfoy was already walking away, back toward the castle, leaving Harry cursing at the water behind him. When he was out of sight, Harry picked up a rock and flung it into the water with all the force he could pack into a sidearm throw. It hit the surface of the lake with a satisfyingly heavy plunk, sending a small fountain up to shatter glittering in the sun.
There were dark circles under Malfoy's eyes, making him look even paler than usual. It made Harry feel inexplicably guilty to wonder how much sleep Malfoy had gotten the night before and why exactly he was in such a filthy temper, though, so he shoved the whole episode resolutely out of his thoughts and headed back in to breakfast. His need for coffee was reaching the critical mark.
Ron would be there in a few hours. The thought wasn't nearly as much comfort to Harry as it ought to have been.
Defense Against Dark Arts was double this year, Slytherin paired with Gryffindor in the morning and Ravenclaw with Hufflepuff in the afternoon.
It always seemed to be Slytherin and Gryffindor. Harry had suspected the teachers of being involved, to a man, woman, or dubiously gendered mythological creature, in a plot to drive all Gryffindors stark screaming mad until he'd found himself on the other side of the desk and really started pondering the issue. There was no pairing Slytherin with Hufflepuff until the Hufflepuffs got old enough to get their feet under them because, dear God, it would be like pairing off snakes and baby birds. The thought of pairing off Slytherin and Ravenclaw filled Harry with uncomfortable visions of Slytherin's ruthless machinations backed by Ravenclaw's cold brilliance, which led in turn to visions of jackboots becoming a part of the Hogwarts uniform, and that was also a bad idea. So Gryffindor it was, more or less by default; but that realization was cold comfort when Harry compared it against seven years of tooth-grinding annoyance in double classes, and he doubted that it would make his own students feel any better either. It certainly wasn't likely to placate Lissa O'Reilly, a Gryffindor third-year with a face that tugged irksomely at the edges of Harry's memory - she had just had the entire left side of her body paralyzed by a Slytherin boy who had apparently not yet grasped the concept that a countercurse was by definition not meant to be a first strike.
Harry knelt beside her where she'd stumbled and caught her wand in mid-flick, interrupting whatever hex she'd been about to hurl at the boy. "Hold it, the pair of you! Lissa, here, finite incantatum, can you move your arm again? Good. Jack, I've told you a dozen times that you're too quick on... the draw..."
...a child's voice saying Strike first, strike hard, and don't strike again.
Harry let out a very slow breath. "Jack, come here. No, don't look like that, you're not in trouble. The rest of you gather 'round too, I want you all to hear this."
His class settled in around him, twenty-five thirteen-year-olds plopping down cross-legged on the floor or standing with hands stuffed in their pockets. They were at an age where the boys were beginning to hover protectively over the girls and suffer the girls' genial contempt for it - or at least the Gryffindor boys were, anyway, and sometimes Harry wondered at Jack's unfailing tendency to throw every ounce of magic his slight body could channel at Lissa. Lissa was getting bloody good at dodging curses, and for the first time it occurred to Harry that Jack might never carry her books to class for her but he might well have pre-emptively saved her life.
"Listen up, the lot of you. I've told you before that defense against dark magic can be as much a matter of fast reflexes as skill at countercursing, and I meant it - speed is one of your best allies. But if you don't control it, it can backfire on you, and we're here to learn how to defend against attack, not to learn to attack first."
"Isn't the difference just a matter of who gets to their wand first?" a Slytherin girl asked with what looked like real curiosity under her habitual sneer.
"No," Harry answered firmly. "It's wrong to attack first unless you know for a fact that your life is in danger, and even then you have to be very careful about it."
"Why?" Jack asked in genuine perplexity. "If you know someone is going to try to kill you, why do you need to wibble about instead of getting to them first?"
"Because you can never be completely certain about what someone else will do," Harry answered. "You're Slytherin, you've learned to be careful not to assume that someone will always be on your side just because they're been on it once or twice. Well, the same thing works in the other direction. Just because -"
"Professor Potter," Minerva said from the doorway.
Harry glanced back over his shoulder. "Yes?"
"The Headmaster sent me to finish your class for you. You're wanted at a meeting in his office."
Feeling suddenly reluctant, Harry stood. "Thank you, Professor. We've been practicing countercurses to Impedimenta, but just now we were talking about why you shouldn't strike first without very good reason. Mind Professor McGonagall, you lot, and remember your essay on poltergeists is due on Monday - fourteen inches, and don't think I won't notice if your handwriting suddenly becomes huge."
"Ron Weasley's here," Minerva said quietly as he reached the door. "He wanted to speak to Draco first but Severus wouldn't let him, and they're both in a fine temper. Good luck."
"Thanks, Minerva," Harry sighed, and made for the Headmaster's office.
