Draco received word that Evan, Flora Carrow, and Erik Crabbe were missing from Durmstrang, but he supposed wherever they were, Theodore Nott was with them. It's just as well. With the coalition bearing down on Georgia, the Dark Lord would have ordered his personal favorites to be evacuated, as apparently losing slowly is an acceptable policy.
Presently, he was overlooking the magical city of La Habana in the verdant veranda of the property the Death Eaters had bought four years earlier. He would have needed a cigar to complete the picture he had in his mind, but he supposed he never liked them, nor did he particularly care for the firewhiskey that was offered him. It did, however, remind him of home. He had experienced quite enough of travel, quite enough of undiscovered country, and quite enough placelessness in the last few years. What he wanted was what the Lord Voldemort had consistently promised and consistently failed to deliver. He wanted his home.
The Malfoy Manor, if it was not destroyed, waited empty for his return. The great Black Tapestry waited for a new generation to continue the long tradition of purity of blood, purity of spirit, and purity of magic. If there were elves still tending the halls, he felt truly sorry for them; he wanted nothing more than to show the reserved appreciation they had come to expect from their masters. Other servants of other families may have come to expect hugs or loud songs of plaudit, for all he knew or cared, but the breed that had cared for the right sort discerned the genuine praise with no wasted effort, no pointless social dancing; it was like intimacy in its transcent of politeness and excessive care.
"Draco." The voice belonged to his aunt.
"I am aware of why I am here," he said. "Would though that I could join the fray, my blood is simply too important to spill on the battlefield. Tell me, though, Aunt Bella, will there be another Goyle if we lose him?"
"The Goyle family has their role and we have ours," his father said. "Consider it this way. For what purpose did you assemble your vassals?"
"Their own protection," he answered.
"Indeed? You value the likes of Derrick and Bole so highly?"
It was perhaps the one answer the Lord Malfoy had not expected.
"No, enough of them I was using for my purposes, but my principle purpose was to protect the students of Hogwarts. With another veritable gang going about, it made sense to assemble and keep from being overrun as individuals. Primarily, we were safeguarding the younger years, if with a priority for the purer over the less pure." He still remembered the incident that forced him to compromise the principle. A pity it could not have worked out better. Whenever I think of that year, I think we could have saved the school.
"Then act now for the same purpose," his father admonished. "You spoke highly of Miss Parkinson's abilities as a negotiator, and we have brought her along with us."
The suggestion was posed as if he had time to think it over, but the meeting was about to begin.
Essentially, a council of dark wizards had formed. More reclusive than the African variety, it had taken a crisis to have them all out of the woodwork, but the die was cast now. From the southern tip of the world itself, the last surviving dark wizard of the Selk'nam, Yantén Shénu, who wore a tall, pointed hat and furs of diverse types, was the first to speak and quite possibly the most honored guest. He had survived, thus far, for two hundred years on a potion that according to friends and enemies alike, with every drink made him half as old and twice as mad.
"Espero que hemos conocido que necesitomos unitar," he said, bastardizing the Spanish somewhat. It was not his native tongue, but it was the most widely spoken language of Latin America, and as such had been chosen as the official language of the summit. "En Africa, los brujos oscuros han conocido que tendra un lider mal. No tengo esperanza que Los Magos de La Luz va a dejer sin la paz deseada. ¡MAGIA OSCURA VA A CONTINUAR EN SUDAMERICA!" He raised his wand, which appeared to be carved from some sort of bone with blood dripping out of it and muttered some unknown curse at the witch with the misfortune of sitting next to him. "¡TENEMOS PODER!" The witch's exposed skin turned blood red and ghost white; a blood-curling scream obscured whatever the wizard was heedlessly saying.
"Apparently, he's used that trick before," Parkinson said as she arrived. "The victim loses all sanity and becomes a killing machine. It's not a directed attack, but it keeps enemies away from him."
"I truly do not care," Draco said, grateful his father was elsewhere, probably fighting alongside Aunt Bellatrix. "What of the battle?"
"Both sides are being cautious, so it's hard to say what's going on exactly. We found out pretty quickly that the Order has more people than we predicted, so we're taking it slowly, as we are not on a time limit."
"I see."
He understood that she probably knew less than his other vassals, but he could not competently advise them from the meeting, even if he did have a mental link with them, so his father was correct in telling him to focus on the delegation. All the same, he could not help but be concerned. As much name-recognition as he had enjoyed in Britain thanks to his family, none of that helped him since leaving home, and his vassals had remained faithful through the destruction of Hogwarts; they even disagreed with the Dark Lord by refusing to blame him for the loss of the school.
Returning his attention to the meeting, it seemed it was time for the Brazilian delegate to speak. He wore a green business suit, remotely passable among muggles, except perhaps for the necklace he wore, which seemed to have animal teeth protruding from it. With a wave of his hand, he appeared to treat the transfigured with to a quick death, if not a painless one. He quickly explained that no further outbursts that disrupted the order and progress of the meeting would be tolerated.
"What are they saying?" Parkinson asked.
"I thought you were decent with Spanish."
"I am. You're the Legilimens, though. What are they saying?" she asked, pointing at two witches across the room. They were whispering to each other, each dressed in black with veils. If he had to guess, they were the representatives from Nicaragua, the land of widows, though he had not heard how the appellation had been assigned. There is so much of the world about which I know nothing.
"It's something private. There are limits to which I would think wise and proper to delve into the secrets of a strange witch."
"Perhaps so," his vassal ventured. "I should not like to see you run afoul of more than you have already. Have you heard from Padma lately?"
"She no longer believes me to be faithful," he said, though he had never read any explicit confirmation. Really, it was enough that she never wrote to him, and the plans to make India into a new home for the Death Eaters had mostly fallen through. It was too large of a country for anything that ambitious to have worked so quickly as we needed it. Even if they would gain from our instruction,it would be the height of arrogance to expect them to recognize this, and even worse to expect they would take it in place of something practical, and offer in exchange their loyalty. When Burma was ours, there was a chance, but now we have all but lost our foothold in Asia.
The Imperial Ministers were rightly afraid of the magical threat presented by Voldemort himself; they had tasked their most skilled wardens to strengthen the defenses of the great palace where they worked, and those of the country itself, even if it presented a risk to Secrecy, despite the criticism they were receiving from the thus-far taciturn Japan and Korea. Russia, by contrast, was agreeing with the prospect of shoring up defenses, but this took the more aggressive form of an assault on Finland, as one of the last neutral territories. The Scandanavian country was well-protected by its people, but the dementors quite possibly tipped the balance and ensured that the invasion was a failure.
With that, as publications around the world declared, there was no power on earth that could successfully invade the coalition of governments that was effectively under Crouch at the present. Whilst Britain was seen as a tipping point, sympathetic ministries made rather generous concessions in hope of winning the country even in the event that the Death Eaters managed to secure the primary, historic school. Though we failed, it seems the promises for leadership over a new union were still valid, as the new government hoped to and succeeded in establishing at the conference at Ys.
The representative from Peru was not from the government itself, but considered something of a hero of the people, though he was more controversial internationally. As Draco explained, he was in favor of a joint effort to support the Death Eaters, provided they were required to join the New World convention, and not as the leaders. Parkinson raised an eyebrow.
"A suitable exchange, but will the Dark Lord accept it?"
"I find it hard to believe he would consider this a failure worthy of our execution."
"Perhaps not mine," the witch said. "If we indeed could do no better, then he may spare us both. At least, however, let us secure a position of some repute within the environment of the New World. Clarify that we are not failures from the Old, but bringers of hope for the future against the otherwise unstoppable tide that the coalition in Europe represents."
"Very well." It would be his turn to speak soon enough. He was familiar with framing things differently, but generally it was a trick that only worked on the greatest fools of the world; if he chose to frame things one way, someone else could simply choose to frame them differently. He was already anticipating that they would regard him as a boy sent to do a man's job, though he did have a mature look about him, and was nearly the age of majority in most magical lands of the west. For a moment he had thought about saying that he was sent to the meeting precisely because the more powerful dark wizards were perfectly necessary in the invasion force, but a better idea occurred to him.
"Malfoy de Bretaña," a voice said, introducing him. He demonstrated a trick he learned in Durmstrang primarily to get rid of bodies, even though on paper the advanced decomposition spell worked on anything that had once been alive, and he made the body on the table disappear.
"Es posible," he said. "Es posible que un cuerpo que a vez tenía un gran espiritu- va a desaparecer. Los Comedores de la Muerte no han desaparecido. Queremos ayudarlos que lo mismo-"
One of the other delegates, this one from Venezuela, adjusted the subdued blue tie of his rather bold red suit while interrupting, effectively acting disinterested. The substance of his response was that the Death Eaters were weak and there would be no help from them, rather, they had come for the sole purpose of obtaining help, else bodies to throw in the path of their enemies' spells, and the magical lands had no reason to treat them any differently. If the extranjeros insist they are here to help, let them help by throwing themselves in the line of spellfire, which will likely spare us the trouble they would bring in a stroke.
"¿Preferirías un duelo?" Draco suggested. "Puedo probar que tenemos la fuerza que necesitan para remover la influencia Americana-"
"Muy bien, duelo," the delegate said.
With the duel itself decided, the conditions were negotiated by Parkinson whilst the pair of them got into position. The witches in black seemed to take special notice; it was more than just theater to them; it was more than just a pointless show of violence. He would have to trust his vassal that the Death Eaters or at least their leader could get something of a raised position within the politics of dark magic in the Americas; he would have to trust himself to win.
As he opened with what was basically a mini-earthquake from the western bit of Russia, he cursed his luck to find that the floor was already warded against such things, probably as a safety measure to contain some of the more colorful characters that had been invited to the summit, forcing him to avoid as his opponent got to make the first move. It was a cacophony and a siren's call at the same time, stringed instruments, woodwind, even those of which he had never heard rang out and caused his ears to bleed as the other wizard readied his next spell.
Draco shielded to give himself time to think, realizing unhelpfully that his opponent had come up with a clever way of getting around having to cast silently, unless it was a common way of obscuring the effects of spells in Venezuela. The shield held through what looked like a moving blue sludge and he responded with a French hex that was rather simple in that it launched a perfectly nonmagical bayonet at the opponent, who had the poor predictive powers to respond with a dark shield, resulting in his getting grazed and having to take cover behind a wall of colored stone.
As he rose to full height he briefly congratulated himself for realizing he was being baited into using dark magic, but did not take his eyes off the enemy. Reaching out with Legilimency, he found himself thoroughly prevented and pained in the mere attempt. He spat blood as he was hit with an unknown curse, or the edge of it, but responded with a killing curse that was too close to dodge. In duels with dark magic, there is one curse that is always on everyone's mind. He thought I would use it earlier and he was ready for it; well-read with a dark shield. I know not whether he assumed I was incapable or simply trying not to kill him, but it appears he did not expect the reason I refrained earlier was because I knew I was being baited.
Everyone watched in silence for a moment before he started speaking again.
"Perhaps you thought the Death Eaters disrespected you by sending a boy to do a man's job," he said. "I regret to inform you that this is a boy's job." He moved his sleeve to show them the dark mark on his arm. "The Dark Lord believes me to be sufficient for the tasks that he assigns me to perform. Where I go he knows I represent him." He looked over to his vassal. "Put it nicely in Spanish, Parkinson."
Draco was under precisely no illusion that he could similarly make short work of any other delegate, and many of them were almost certainly more powerful than any Death Eater, though he and his vassal were proof that the people that various dark wizard groups would send were probably smooth talkers rather than highly skilled duelists. The weakness of the Venezuelan representative was essentially a severe underestimation rather than any personal deficit. There was, however, no reason to let anyone else know any of that.
He wanted to continue to listen, at the very least, but whenever he emerged victorious from a duel, he usually had to calm himself down lest his life continue to flash before his eyes, and killing his opponent always made things worse. Even though he could do it now, even though he had done it before, he truly hated taking lives, and it was not for any ideological reason related to the unnecessary spilling of magical blood. He hated the way bodies smelled, the simple fact that the digestive system lacked the courtesy to continue working until the corpse could go up in flames; he hated the expressions that would be frozen on the faces; yes, the faces were the worst of all. He could probably do it if it were not for the faces.
Once Parkinson was done speaking, he got a general summary of what was going on from her after unsuccessfully scanning the minds in the room. I must be weakened in this state. In short, after the duel, several delegates agreed that would indeed be the last pointless death. It was decided that it was not as if the Death Eaters were the only dark wizards in the world, or really even the ones to cause the active groups in the Americas to unify, but they were certainly guests and as a result could be suffered to enjoy certain privileges, starting with a promise of non-retaliation for whatever collateral damage ensued from their destruction of the Order.
Draco scowled internally, reminding himself he was not dealing with purist ideologues, but a band of criminals that mostly had their own agendas; they did not particularly care about the deaths of non-combatants so it was not a true sacrifice on their part to allow them. He was somewhat relieved to find that Parkinson had convinced them not to directly defy the Dark Lord, who was many orders of magnitude more powerful than the Malfoy heir. If any of them realized he did not win the duel because of his greater power, they gave no sign. He asked her to add, whenever she got the chance to speak again, that most of the Death Eaters would understand that they were something like honored guests, but anyone his age or younger than that would not have the same expectation.
When at last the meeting was over, his father was waiting for him.
"How goes the battle?" he asked.
"It looks that there may be need for you yet. Already we have lost contact with several of our lackeys. Progress is slow and fraught with dangers. The Lord Voldemort only hastens us onward, as suits his general boldness."
Even if had not cursed his face, he would have no trouble maintaining a neutral expression. He was quite used to hearing scathing criticism of the Dark Lord and his indifference to the spill of magical blood, and sadly he was quite used to nobler hearts and minds being sacrificed on the altar of that same indifference. What remained to be seen was how he would proceed from there, as always.
"I find it rather nostalgic, father. Perhaps anachronistic."
"Yes, long ago, before the beginning of even our own history, we found ourselves in the same situation. Warring tribes blundered in the dark as they knew nothing of even the world around them, and the wizards were intermingled with the muggles, each trying to give their tribes an advantage with what little magical ability and knowledge that they possessed. Imagine how much we lost in those millions of years."
It was the first time he had heard his father wax poetic about the loss of magical knowledge, but not the first time he had indicated a genuine concern and sympathy for the blood being spilled. In those millions of years of darkness, every man who reached out in desperation on the faintest promise of a happy ending was a dark wizard. He looked back at the delegation, where Parkinson was still talking with some of the locals who were willing to help them, if for no other reason than to keep the destruction from reaching their farms for potion ingredients.
"They're fools, father," he whispered. "The use of dark magic is no basis for unity."
"This is precisely why they will see that we are the most firmly unified group in this hemisphere or any other."
As a caveat, the use of dark magic was worth a fight, and by extension worth spilling blood, but it was the protection of that blood that had to be their final goal. The blood and the magic that made them what they were at an existential level was worth more to the right sort of families than the service to any Dark Lord that ever had been or ever would be. And so, as always, they would have to take on the corrupting effects of dark magic as they fought the forces that sought with equal fervor to destroy them.
"Blood before all else, then," he said. His voice had been more breathy than intended. "We eradicate those we cannot be sure will be loyal to us before moving on to the enemy." It was something his father had told him a long time ago, and in those days he accepted it without question. Today I believe it without doubt.
"Of course. Sanctimonia Vincet Semper."