Chapter Ten
Draco was fourteen when he was introduced to the underworld.
Christmas in Hogwarts was usually a cheerful affair, with the halls decked in holly, carols ringing down the corridors, and the castle filled with a festivity, but this year, something felt different. It was an unusually cold winter, the snow piling so high that it blocked the doors, and even the thick stone walls and roaring fireplaces couldn't entirely keep out the chill.
As usual, Draco was heading home for the holidays. After breakfast, they hurried into cars which took them from the castle to the train platform to board the Hogwarts Express. Even though Draco couldn't have been exposed to the cold for more than five minutes, he was covered in snow and half-frozen by the time he stumbled into a compartment, shivering madly.
"What the hell is wrong with this weather?" Pansy said, shuddering as she slid into the seat across from him, unwrapping a soggy fur scarf from her throat. "Did someone piss off Father Christmas or what?"
"Right?" Draco agreed.
Blaise took a seat next to him, and despite himself, Draco scooted a little closer. Even though he wore only a light parka, he didn't look affected by the cold at all, radiating warmth. However, when Blaise began to shift around uncomfortably, Draco remembered how he disliked human contact and stopped.
A few hours later, they arrived at King's Cross Station, and once again bracing themselves against for the winds, said their goodbyes hastily and hurried outside. While porters took care of the luggage, parents onto their children and hurried into the warmth of the waiting cars. Draco stepped from the door, scanning the crowd. He spotted Mother's immediately, looking as resplendent as always in a snowy ermine coat, but when he saw that there was a person standing next to her, he was astonished.
"Father?" Draco exclaimed. Other than his departure to Hogwarts during his first year, Father had never sent him off or welcomed him home. However, as he hurried over, he couldn't help but to feel a twinge of disappointment when he saw that Father was, as always, talking into his phone. Mother reached over immediately to embrace him and kiss him on the cheek, but once she was done, the three of them hastened into the car.
The interior of the limousine was blissfully warm, and Draco settled down comfortably, glad to be out of the cold. He glanced at Father, wanting to ask what the occasion was, but seeing that he was still busy, turned to look out the window instead. Christmas trees stood proudly on squares and twinkling lights were strung up across buildings, meant to incite a festive atmosphere, but with the grey skies and icy sidewalks and not a soul on the streets, failed miserably.
As they made their way through the city, Draco frowned. When Father concluded his call and put down his phone, Draco asked, "We're not heading home, are we?"
"No, not this time." Father said. He glanced at him and smiled. Father always looked stern and cold, so smiles were rare surprises. "We're going to my workplace. It's about time you saw my company."
Draco's eyes widened in astonishment. He knew that Father was the founder of Malfoy Investments, and that was about it. He had never been to Father's office nor met any of his colleagues before. In the past, he had wondered what Father's company, which he would eventually end up taking over in the future, looked like, but after being told that he was too little, stopped asking. Now that they were on their way, Draco felt a thrill of excitement run down his spine despite himself.
"Lucius, I know that we've talked about this, but are you sure?" Mother asked. She usually went along with Father's plans happily, but this time, her face was pale. "Perhaps in another year…"
Even before Father could speak, Draco had already responded reassuringly, "Don't worry, Mother. If I'm going to inherit the company, I'll have to see it eventually, right?"
"Of course, darling, of course…" Mother smiled, but her features were still traced with worry.
They arrived at a massive stone building, clearly the largest structure in the area. While its grandeur was certainly awe-inspiring, it was also slightly menacing, the cold grey limestone radiating a feeling of intimidation. The limousine stopped, and they stepped from the car. Waiting attendants hurried over, shielding them with umbrellas as they made their way up the front steps and entered the building.
The lobby was majestic, a massive stretch of space filled to the brim with people despite the miserable weather. The room rang with the sound of ringing telephones, assistants hurried about delivering stacks of documents, and lines of people stretched from the counter waiting to be served. However, Draco didn't have time to appreciate the scene before him. He barely caught a glimpse before he was ushered into a lift, and taken to the top floor.
They crossed a few hallways and entered a meeting room filled with a dozen people. Immediately, Draco felt uncomfortable. Some of those in the room looked terrified, shifting about or subtly dabbing their temples with handkerchiefs, eyes flickering about nervously. Others looked relaxed, clearly in power, lounging in their seats and smirking. However, the moment Father entered the room, everyone straightened.
"Took you long enough," commented a man with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard, his words heavy with a Russian accented.
"Could you blame me, Dolohov?" Father responded easily. "I was picking up a special guest for today's meeting."
Chuckles followed as they made their way to the front of the room, where the seat at the head of the table and two beside it were empty. This time, everyone's gaze now turned curiously to him. Draco felt self-conscious. Should he say hello? Or should he smile and wave? In the end, he chose to imitate what Father always did – he lifted his chin, schooled his face into a mask of impassivity, and gave a cold nod.
It was the right decision. Father's voice was laced with approval as he placed a hand on his shoulder and said, "This is my son, Draco. He will be observing our meeting today."
A few attendees offered him murmured greetings. Draco acknowledged them with a tilt of his head, and took his seat next to Mother.
Father had called him a special guest. He had approved of the way Draco greeted his colleagues. Draco felt rather childish, since it was only a few simple compliments, but he was delighted.
"Quirrell," Father turned to a man with a massive turban wrapped around his head. "What was it that you wanted to tell me?"
"I-I'm getting close to taking the Philosopher's Stone," Quirrell spoke with a stutter, and sounded terrified. "Lord Voldemort w-wants me to carry through with the heist, but w-we m-might need a bit more funding…"
Father's face turned dark. "Do I need to remind you that you still owe me quite a substantial sum?"
"N-no, Mr. Malfoy," Quirrell said immediately. "B-but the Dark Lord insists on having the Stone, and I won't need much money. Only a little…"
"Where's your proof?" Father asked coldly.
Quirrell's eyes darted towards Father, not to his eyes, but rather, to his left wrist. Draco glanced over. Father was dressed immaculately in a sleek grey suit, but peeking from the hem of the sleeve were a few strokes of a black tattoo. Draco knew that Father had a tattoo of a snake and skull inked into his forearm, but as he glanced around the room, realized that Father wasn't the only one. Dolohov's sleeves were rolled to his elbows, proudly bearing the mark, and the lacy sleeves of a petite woman who regarded the proceedings with a bored expression revealed the same tattoo as well. Even though the majority of the people in the meeting wore long sleeves, it was difficult to tell who had it or not, but including Father, Draco counted at least four.
"Where's your Mark, Quirrell?" Father asked quietly. "If the Dark Lord entrusted you to a mission as important as the Philosopher's Stone, why wouldn't he have given you the Mark?"
Quirrell blanched. The tension in the room increased, everyone shifting uncomfortably, and Draco felt a twinge of fear. What were they going to do to Quirrell?
"Is it because he couldn't trust you?" Father continued. Every word was as cold as ice yet filled with contempt. "Or is it because you're too incompetent for him to consider you a Death Eater?"
Quirrell began to stutter incomprehensibly, babbling in terror. Father sighed, and silenced him. "Go. Tell Lord Voldemort to send me an update regarding the Philosopher's Stone, and if I'm feeling generous, I might write you another loan for your pathetic little heist."
"T-thank you, thank you…" Bowing and thanking profusely, Quirrell hurried out, leaving the doors swinging in his haste to leave. The meeting room once again descended into silence.
"What an idiot," said the woman with the lacy sleeves and tattoo disgustedly.
"What the Dark Lord sees in him… I have no idea." Dolohov shook his head in disappointment.
With that, the meeting continued. The topic of the conversations remained to be largely about money, but Draco was stunned by the businesses that were being funded. Dolohov needed a loan for his arms trade. Alecto Carrow, the woman who had spoken earlier, required funding for the assassination of a politician. And a man named Yaxley discussed the terms of a repayment for a loan regarding a branch of his organ trafficking ring. While these topics made Draco anxious, they spoke of it as if it were the most natural thing in the world, going back and forth amicably until an agreement was settled upon.
What was Father's business truly about? For his entire life, Draco thought that Father's work dealt with companies and enterprises and ordinary things, but it was evident that everyone in the room was a gangster or criminal of some sort, and Father gladly funded their work.
Draco didn't know what to feel about it. Despite himself, a part of him was in awe. Father was a powerful man, working with the world's greatest mafia lords, and which child hadn't wished that their lives were like that a thriller movie, playing the role of a hero fighting the bad guys or being the leader of a powerful criminal underworld? At the same, Draco was terrified. Dolohov's shipment of guns was going end up killing people. Carrow didn't care for the civilian casualties of the assassination, and Yaxley cared more about the organs than the people which they came from. Their utter disregard for the consequences, which largely involved human lives… as hard as Draco tried, he couldn't justify that. Even though Father seemed to be unaffected by it, Draco couldn't bring himself to do the same.
As the meeting continued, Draco noticed that Father changed depending on the person he was talking to. When he spoke with those bearing the same tattoo, he was amiable, treating them like old friends, and generous with his deals. However, with those without the mark, he was different. Despite them being the subordinates and associates of those with the mark, Father was cold and contemptuous with them, rejecting their ideas without a second thought and leaving them trembling with fear.
After an hour, the meeting ended, and the attendees filed out. Dolohov, Carrow, and a few others lingered, speaking with Father for a while longer, but once they were done, turned to Draco. Dolohov gave him a wink before he left, Yaxley a firm handshake, and Carrow a kiss on the cheek, though Draco had to force himself not to gag at the sickly-sweet perfume she wore. He returned every farewell courteously. Once the room was empty, Father turned to Draco. At home, Father was usually stern and aloof, but now, he looked the most pleased Draco had ever seen him.
"You left a very good impression today, Draco." Father said approvingly. "My associates now know that the future of the company is in good hands."
"Thank you, Father." Draco replied simply. A part of him leapt in delight, but he remembered the conversations he heard, and hesitated. "Father, forgive me for asking, but what is Malfoy Investments really about?"
"Well, the company works with ordinary businesspeople and-" Mother started brightly, but Father cut her off with a glower. Mother quailed beneath the glare and fell silent.
"We work for Lord Voldemort." Father answered. He looked as composed as always, but a flicker of pride laced his words. He turned to Draco seriously. "There are a lot of businesspeople in the world, and competition is harsh. It is especially difficult for those in our line of work to attain power, and even when we do become powerful enough, safety is always an issue. Lord Voldemort gave us a choice – to follow him, receive power and security, and take down the competition. This was an easy choice for me to make. Now, there are a group of us, each of us specializing in different domains, but all of us loyal and working for Lord Voldemort."
"The people with the tattoos?" Draco asked.
"Yes." Father rolled up his sleeve. Draco leaned over to glance at it. Even though it was just a tattoo, Draco felt himself shiver involuntarily. There was something strangely menacing about the way the skull's glare, and something dangerous about the way the snake slithered its way down the forearm. "This is the Dark Mark. Only Death Eaters, those who have dedicated their lives and enterprises to Lord Voldemort, and those who Lord Voldemort trusts, may bear this mark."
Draco nodded solemnly. It explained Father's amicability to those with the tattoo, and his hostility towards those without.
"As for Malfoy Investments, we take care of the financial part of the Lord Voldemort's empire. Whenever the Dark Lord or his Death Eaters require monetary support, we are the ones to provide these resources. Of course, the sums they need are often quite substantial, but I have never worried about them being unable to pay the debts. Lord Voldemort always profits from his businesses, and the money is always returned in full."
Lord Voldemort… profits… businesses… Draco remembered that the businesses involved an arms trade, organ trafficking ring, and a political assassination. All of which were undoubtedly illegal and would result in lives being killed.
Draco was conflicted. People were going to die! Was it really alright to profit off of people getting hurt? Was it really alright to fund these lines of work? Yet, at the same time, a part of him couldn't help but to be excited. There was something intoxicating about the idea of being a kingpin in the underworld, wreathed in power, working with Father…
"Do you have any questions?" Father asked. Draco looked up, startled. He must have seen the conflict on his face.
Draco swallowed and shook his head. "No, Father."
"Good." Father smiled.
A sudden thought flickered through Draco's mind, and this time, he couldn't stop himself from asking, "Will I have to bear the Mark?"
Father glanced at him in surprise, then chuckled, reaching over to ruffle his hair. "Perhaps."
With that, the three of them swept from the room. They made their way through the hallways, crossed the bustling lobby, and hurried into the car. As they headed home, Mother held Draco's hand tightly, her face creased with worry, but Draco hardly noticed. A part of him was thrilled at the prospect of bearing the Mark, of becoming a member of an elite group of the world's most powerful individuals. But at the same time, he had never been more terrified in his entire life.