Draco wrapped his cloak more snugly about himself. Damn, it was freezing cold in this hideous forest. Something feathery and sticky brushed his face, and he shuddered, swatting it away. Rotten luck if the spiders got wind of him – he had the horrors enough as it was. But, he counselled himself; he had to do the Right Thing. If his father, that self-centred idiot, could not be bothered to defend the Dark Lord's plan, he would do it.
Resolutely, he cleared his mind. As he had been instructed, he fixed his consciousness on the image of a skull with a serpent crawling out of its eyeholes. The Dark Mark, the same that he proudly bore on his left arm. Lord Voldemort, he pleaded. Please, please send for me, I have news for you. The Dark Mark began to prickle, then to burn. He felt a pulling sensation in back of his navel.
Draco landed on his side on the cold earthen floor of Voldemort's lair. Quickly, he scrambled to his feet, and scuttled over to the thronelike chair in the centre of the room. The being in the chair was swathed in robes, a hood pulled over its head. Two eyes burnt from the blackness within the hood. Draco knelt and lifted the crusted, filthy hem of the robes in his hand and kissed it. "My lord," he murmured. His teeth chattered, either with fright or with cold, or, perhaps, both.
"My little dragon," the rusty voice issued from the hood. A skeletal, clawed hand reached out and cupped the boy's chin. Draco cringed; the hand felt dry, scratchy and scaly. It smelt rank, unwashed. "Have you news for me?"
Draco tried not to breathe too deeply. He inclined his head. "Yes, my lord. It concerns Hogwarts. A Muggle scientist has come to try to find a cure for the influenza. He's working with my godfather, Severus Snape."
The Dark Lord considered for a moment. He released Draco's chin and propped his head on his clenched fist. "Yesss, Severus has told me about him. Pay no attention to him; it is all for show. The efforts will fail – must fail. They cannot concoct a substance that will restore magic."
Draco looked up. "With respect, my lord, but they brought in a Muggle girl who they say has taken an influenza medicine that is supposed to keep her from catching the disease. They were taking her blood yesterday."
Voldemort leaned forward n his chair. "Who is she? Where did she come from?"
"I do not know, my lord. I only know that when I was in the infirmary, trying to find out what was going on, that Uncle Severus and this Muggle man, Holmes, were drawing her blood. They were talking about something called 'vaccine.' She knows Hermione Granger; I think that's who brought her to Hogwarts. Oh, and Dumbledore's quite fond of her."
"I am not surprised that the Mudblood witch is involved. Do not trouble yourself with her, little dragon. She will be the first of the Mudbloods to succumb to the potion, but not the last. As for the Muggle girl, I believe she is in good hands. But, my dear, please continue your efforts. I am interested in this Holmes scientist. Go now."
Voldemort waved him away. Draco bowed deeply and backed away. A hard hand seized his shoulder and a small box was thrust into his hand. "Portkey," husked a voice, and the dank chamber whirled away.
Draco hurried after his housemates on his way to Charms class. He had over-slept slightly; the visit with Lord Voldemort had exhausted him completely, and he had been unable to fall asleep for quite a while, his mind spinning. Damn Granger! This was all her fault! Merlin only knew where she dug up that Muggle bint, tatty-looking thing that she was. Voldemort said Granger would 'succumb.' He relished the sound of the word, saying it to himself: Succumb. Succumb, die, Granger, you Mudblood bitch.
As he crossed the Great Hall, he noticed Headmaster Dumbledore walking with Cornelius Fudge. Not old Dumby's favourite person, he noted. Then an idea exploded in his mind like a Christmas cracker. Charms be damned; Flitwick was an idiot anyway. Quickly, he crossed the Hall towards the two men.
"Well, Draco, aren't you on your way to class?" The Headmaster favoured him with a standard twinkle. Draco half expected him to offer him a lemon sherbet.
"Yes, Headmaster. Minister Fudge, may I speak to you for a brief moment? It's very important, then I must dash to class."
"Yes, my boy. I'll talk with you later, Albus," said Fudge. Dumbledore bid them goodbye, and left them standing there. "What is it, Draco? A message from your father?"
"No, sir." Draco fidgeted with his book-bag. "I was just wondering, sir, if perhaps, or—"
"Spit it out, boy! " snapped Fudge. "I haven't all day, and neither have you!"
"Sorry, sir. It's about Mr Sherlock Holmes, the Muggle man who's working with Professor Snape to cure the influenza – is he really a Muggle scientist, and if so, what's he doing at Hogwarts?"
Fudge looked at Draco as if he had lost his mind. "Sherlock Holmes? You must be daft, boy. Sherlock Holmes is a character in a novel written by a Muggle author almost a hundred years ago."
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