Wilfully Chapter 30, a harry potter fanfic

Hello readers! Thank you for all the love you've shown this story. I'm humbled beyond words. Here's the next chapter and this one has a lot to do with moving the plot forward. I hope you'll like it. Let me know!

Disclaimer: Everyone knows the Wizarding World belong to J.K Rowling.

WILFULLY: CHAPTER 30

This spy thing was requiring a lot more in-depth thinking than Draco Malfoy had anticipated.

Not that he was averse to such sort of thing. In fact, analysing different problems and trying to come up with a solution was one of his dearest hobbies; it was what his project with Longbottom was all about, and why he spent his leisure time on decoding ancient runes.

But was this Death Eater Cause a problem that he would be able to solve?

Draco stepped out of the kitchen fireplace at Number 12, Grimmauld Place and brushed some of the soot off the shoulder of his otherwise immaculate coat. Straightening up, he found Harry Potter standing by the counter, dressed in his boxers and a faded oversized t-shirt (Salazar, the Git Who Kept On Living was as un-classy as they came), pouring freshly brewed coffee into two mismatched mugs. "I'm touched, Potter," he drawled. "I hadn't realised that our bond has grown so strong that you sense my arrival beforehand and make arrangements accordingly."

Potter started and nearly spilled the coffee. Inelegant tosser. "You can't be here," he said in a low voice.

"Believe me, a conversation with you is not how I like to start my mornings as well," Draco could not help but state as he pulled out a small journal and a self-inking quill from his pocket. "But work calls."

"Go away and come back later."

Alright, now that was crossing the line. It's not as if he was here for leisure. He needed some information before he could travel to France and do the work that this arsehole should be doing himself. Shooting him a nasty glare, Draco instilled copious amounts of irritation into his voice as he spoke, "I don't have time for this, Potty. I'm supposed to be catching an international Portkey in less than an h–"

The sound of arriving footsteps caused him to falter and Potter spurred into action so fast that one would think that he had been struck by lightning. He grabbed him by the shoulder, dragged him behind the counter and shoved him rather roughly onto the hard floor.

"Good morning, you!"

It was the slightly familiar feminine voice that kept Draco from getting up and punching the spectacled git as revenge for being manhandled. Frowning, he peeked round the corner of the damn kitchen counter and saw Lisa Turpin walk in, dressed in the same dress that she had been wearing at The Nymph's Cellar last night, which meant that… Oh. Draco grimaced. It was just his luck, or rather the lack of it, that he was being forced to witness what was clearly going to be a very awkward 'morning after' conversation, if Potter's reaction to her appearance was anything to go by.

"Coffee," Potter said in lieu of greeting as he handed her one of the mugs he had filled up earlier.

"Thank you." She accepted it with a smile.

The two of them stared at each other in silence, one that lingered between them not out of comfort of company, but because neither knew what to say. Or at least, Potter clearly didn't, while Turpin seemed to be having the time of her life in observing him. It was so bloody cringey that Draco had half a mind to jump out and create a scene just to make it end.

Potter cleared his throat. "Listen, Lisa–"

"I should tell you that the words 'I am sorry' are totally going to ruin my mood," Turpin cut in.

"What makes you think I was going to say that?"

"Well, you've got big puppy dog eyes that are screaming apologies at me right now."

This could not just be bad luck, Draco mused. It had to be karma. He had taken Potter to Madame Midgeon's brothel to witness his meeting with Aspasia, and now the universe was punishing him by making him sit through this.

Actually, he he did not have to sit through this. He could just diapparate, vanish away with a pop that Potter would have to explain. Potter was good with excuses, he had spent six years getting away with breaking the rules at Hogwarts by using excuses that worked like magic on the school's faculty. There was no reason why it would not work on the woman that he had slept with. But wait– there were anti-apparition charms on this damned house, which meant that Draco could not leave.

Well, he could. He could just get up and leave via the front door, go back to the Manor or to his office and get some actual work done before he left for France. Except that was not wise at all. Leaving his so-called hiding place behind this counter would mean announcing his presence to Turpin. It was too dangerous for anyone to know that he was communicating with Potter in any way whatsoever. Who knew how far-reaching Dolohov's eyes and ears were? Leaving Potter's house after alerting anyone else, even if it was Potter's date, would raises suspicions and jeopardize this spy mission that he had taken on. And then, he and his loved ones would be in grave peril.

He truly was stuck here. Fuck.

"Yes, yes, I know you're not ready for a relationship and that's fine," Turpin went on. "Still, last night was fun."

"Yes. Yeah, it was," Potter agreed. He shuffled on his feet and his cheeks turned a deep shade of pink as his eyes inadvertently darted towards the counter.

Draco smirked. Clearly, the fact that he was here, watching whatever was going on, was making Potter extremely uncomfortable. And anything that made Potter uncomfortable was something that Draco would always welcome with open arms. So, maybe it wasn't so bad that he was stuck here. No, it wasn't bad at all.

"Besides, I've seen you naked. Enough to paint a perfect nude portrait of you," Turpin took a rather slurpy sip of her coffee as if doing so would make a point.

Potter paled. "You're joking!"

"Am I?" She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Imagine how rich I'll be. Women will sell their organs to be able to buy a zoomed in painting of little Harry."

"It's not that little."

Turpin glanced down suggestively. "Maybe I should take another look to be sure."

"You're not painting me."

"Can't get the dimensions wrong," she went on. "Especially since I want you to be the center piece of my exhibition."

"You're teasing me." He tried to sound nonchalant, but it was obvious that he was concerned. After all, he did not know her enough to judge if this was banter or if she was actually going to deliver on her words.

Turpin tapped her chin with a perfectly manicured finger. "I think I'll call it Potter's Perfect Penis. It's a working title, but-"

"Lisa," Potter warned, his voice so solemn that she burst out into giggles.

"Alright, fine. I'm joking," she admitted. "I won't draw any nude portraits of you… without your consent."

"Which you'll never get," Potter stated, his shoulders sagging in relief.

"We'll see about that," Turpin said confidently as she put down her mug. "Come to my exhibition, though. I'd love for you to see my work. And the extra publicity that your presence will bring won't hurt either."

"Okay."

"Okay," she beamed. "I'll owl you an invitation." She leaned forward to place a kiss on his cheek before taking the Floo.

Draco waited until both she and the emerald flames had vanished entirely before standing up, a mocking sneer fixed on his face.

"Alright, let's hear it," Potter said as he turned to face him with a roll of his shoulders, as if he was readying himself for a barrage of insults that would be directed his way.

"Oh, Potter. I don't think I need to say anything. You already know how abysmal that was." Truth was, Draco had plenty that he wanted to say, to comment on, but unfortunately there were more serious matters that needed to be discussed before he caught his Portkey, and this spectacled git's pointless love life had wasted too much precious time already. So, the insults and the mocking would have to wait for another day. "Now, shall we begin?"

Once in Orléans, the first task to do was go to the offices of Serenity Initiative and spur his otherwise relaxed employees into a frenzy of planning projects, compiling paperwork and maybe even having a bit of a cry in the bathroom stalls because he announced that he was going to be there for a few days. It was imperative that it looked like he was working. Once he had scheduled a tour of Serenity's rehabilitation centre for the following day, he apparated off to Paris.

There was a little bistro located on the Rue du Alters, the French equivalent of Diagon Alley, that Draco always visited whenever he was in the country. He ordered the chef's special Soupe à L'oignon before settling into a secluded table by the window and pulling out his journal to look at the notes he had made during his conversation with Potter.

Draco had been unfortunate enough to witness the attack on Azkaban a few months ago. Too occupied with his own fractured skull and his gravely injured father at the time, he had later on found out that while nine prisoners had escaped during the attack, the Aurors had been successful in capturing two Death Eaters: Thorfinn Rowle (which Dolohov was quite pissed about) and a new recruit named Jacob Hall.

After the Quidditch stadium attack that had left Ginevra terribly injured and resulted in the deaths of nearly thirty people, Potter had forced Minister Shacklebolt to approve of torturing the prisoners to get information. Even after a number of rigorous interrogation sessions that had left that moronic Scarfaced hero quite uneasy, Rowle had not spoken a single word to aid the Aurors in their investigation – something that Draco had predicted a long time ago.

However, in the midst of spewing a lot of prejudiced bile, Jacob Hall managed to say some things that made sense to Potter. Hall was a thirty-something half-blood idiot who had lost his job during the war and had been unemployed ever since. It was unclear how he was pushed over to become such an avid supporter of the Death Eater agenda, but if Draco had to wager a guess then it would undoubtedly have had something to do with a promise of justice and riches once the purebloods took over. He had been recruited sometime in the twelve months preceding to the Azkaban breakout, seven of which he had spent working part-time at a muggle bookshop in Paris.

Interestingly, the amount of coins found in his Gringotts vault were… well, a lot more than what anyone would have expected to find in the possession of a partly employed bookshop clerk. The goblins at Gringotts had been vastly uncooperative for the most part ("Reckon they haven't forgiven me for wrecking the place when we escaped on a dragon after trying to steal from them," Potter had mumbled sheepishly, filling Draco with an urge to punch the bastard), but they had allowed the Aurors to see the paperwork that indicated that the money had been transferred half a year ago from a vault in France. The goblins had flat out refused to tell the Aurors who had sent the money, claiming that the Ministry had no right whatsoever to breach the confidentiality of their clients.

One thing was clear, though: someone in France had paid this newly-recruited Death Eater a handsome sum. Question was, who?

A loud smack on the window caused Draco to jump rather violently. Instinctively, he snapped his journal shut and shoved it into his coat pocket, for once glad that he had charmed its pages to read as gibberish to anyone who tried to peek in. The cause behind his sudden alarm was Lukas Lefebvre, who was standing on the sidewalk outside, waving at him.

Pompous, good-for-nothing prat.

Draco forced a smile, then watched with a sinking heart as his first cousin once removed made his way inside the bistro and over to his table.

"Draco, mon ami!" He said, holding his arms open in welcome. "C'est si bon de te voir!" It's so good to see you.

Was it? Draco wondered as he raised an eyebrow at the warm greeting. The last time he had met this prat was at the New Year's Ball and conversation between them had been fraught because of the argument they had had back at the Malfoy Manor. Not that the two of them needed a reason to be antagonistic towards each other; they had never gotten along very well and often spent time talking to each other with forced politeness and subtle iciness. It did not seem to be the case right now, though. "Lukas," he nodded. "Comment vas-tu?" How are you?

"Je vais bien. Merci de demander." I am fine. Thank you for asking. "I 'eard zat you 'ad some bad luck with ze Aurors in England."

"Ah, yes. That was some time ago–"

Lukas tutted. "C'est injuste." It is unfair.

"It's all sorted now."

"Je suis heureux d'entendre que," Lukas said. I'm happy to hear that. "Still, even after all zese years, Monsieur Potter and 'is copains do not trust you. Zis encounter must 'ave made you very angry."

"It has certainly put things into perspective."

Lukas' eyes glinted with satisfaction, as if he had had some great hope of hearing these words and it was now fulfilled. The moment left Draco feeling rather alarmed; he was here, in part, to see if his suspicions about Lukas loyalties were correct and it seemed that they were. Still, there was no proof yet, so it was best not to jump to any conclusions. "Pour combien de temps serez vous ici?" How long are you here for?

"Actually, I was about to leave. I have a prior commitment," Draco lied smoothly as he placed a few coins on the table and stood up.

"I meant in France," Lukas clarified with a laugh.

"Um, a couple of days."

"Then we must meet later. Zere is much we 'ave to catch up on, non?"

After deciding the time and place to meet for a dreaded lunch, the two of them walked out of the bistro and headed their separate ways. Though as Draco walked towards the designated apparition point, he could not help but glance back– and to his utter shock, saw Lukas making his way into a pub with Vincent Crabbe, of all people.

It was as if Crabbe had felt his gaze, for he stopped and turned to look at him. They were too far away from each other to be able to decipher expressions, but Draco would have wagered his shares in the Nimbus Racing Broom Company that Crabbe's eyes held nothing but contempt for him. Their odd eye-contact lasted for a few more seconds, then the fat bastard disappeared through the door of the pub.

Draco blew out a breath. This was not good.

"Sugar?"

"One teaspoon, please."

"Here you go."

"Thank you," Draco accepted the steaming cup from Edmond Lefebvre, wondering why in the name of Salazar would the man choose to prepare the tea manually. Then he realised that to do so was the man's way of showing respect, as if to say that he appreciated him enough to make the effort.

It was the next morning that he had come to visit his great uncle in his grand office at the Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France.

"So, how are things with you?" Edmond asked in a French accent that was not very thick. He, after all, was quite used to conversing in English with foreign dignitaries and had shed any awkwardness that came with trying to pronounce the syllables of a second language. "Are you still seeing Miss Weasley?"

"I am," he replied, bracing himself for an onslaught of disapproval. When none came, he could not help but ask, "Don't you want to tell me that I can find someone better than her?"

Edmond laughed. "I take it your parents are dissatisfied with your choice."

"Dissatisfied is an understatement. Mother refuses to listen to anything about my personal life so long as I am involved with Ginevra. And the few times I have seen father, he has continually reminded me that my liberal choices are making me a disgrace to the Malfoy name."

"Au contraire!" He exclaimed. "Lucius is locked away in that horrid prison; he may be too hardened there to understand, but I expected Narcissa to see this for the opportunity this is."

Draco frowned. "Opportunity?"

"I understand how the wizarding society works in England; it is my job to know that. And my sister often talks of the thirty-seven years she lived there while she was married to your grandfather," Edmond said. "The respect that the Malfoys once had is now owned by the Weasleys. As painful as that may be, it is the truth. Your relations with Miss Weasley will encourage people to accept you and your family."

"That is not why I am dating Ginevra."

"And yet, she will make powerful doors open for you."

"I do not strive to be powerful, Edmond."

That caused him to laugh. "You are a Malfoy, Draco. Power is all you strive for."

The words unsettled him, but he knew them to be true nonetheless. Already, he could think of half a dozen ideas of how much he could improve the status of his business, and in turn the status of his family, if he had some influence in the Ministry. His father had done it for years and he had learned it do all that too – manoeuvre red tape, line pockets, encourage certain Wizengamot members in certain directions so as to shape the society into something that would benefit the Malfoys – only he lacked the access. It would be nice to gain it. But it would be wrong to hope that Ginevra would give him that power. Whatever dubious morals Draco had left would not allow him to do that.

"I've often said how I wish my son was more like you," Edmond went on. "But alas! Lukas grows more impulsive and impertinent by the day."

If Draco were a better man, he would have pointed out that his own slate was hardly clean. He was blemished with the Dark Mark of all things. As it were, hearing that he was preferred over Lukas by Lukas' own father did feel good… and problematic at the same time. He knew from his past what the desire to please one's father could drive one to do. Which is why, though he hated every single word he uttered, he felt the need to say: "You should not compare Lukas and I, grand oncle. I'm sure his heart is in the right place."

"But his mind is not. He does not understand the finesse of politics."

To that, Draco had no response.

It was true– Lukas wouldn't be able to grasp the delicacies of diplomacy even if they punched him right in the face, which just showed how ridiculously dumb the prat actually was. He had grown up watching his father's intelligent magic-first, pureblood-first power moves, and he had seen the fates of Lucius and Draco after the war. Still, the moron felt it was alright to sit in pubs with the likes of Crabbe and be vocal about how muggle-borns needed to be put in their place.

The door to the office swung open rather forcefully. A woman with beautiful brown skin and frizzy dark hair sauntered in, followed by Edmond's assistant who kept on telling her that she was not allowed to go in without permission. "I'm 'is goddaughter, I can come whenever I want," she said and then stilled momentarily when her eyes landed on Draco.

"C'est bon," Edmond dismissed his assistant and once the door had shut, said, "Draco, allow me to introduce you to–"

"Solenne De la Croix," Draco cut in, a small smile on his lips as he eyed the woman he had dated for a brief period over a year ago. "We know each other."

"We do," Solenne returned the smile, then turned to Edmond, all of a sudden looking stern as she pulled out a Quick Quotes Quill from her leather bag. "But I'm not 'ere for chit-chat. Did you read my letter?"

"I did," Edmond eyed her warily.

"And what do you 'ave to say about ze conspiracy right under your nose here at ze Ministère?"

Draco raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "Conspiracy?"

"Miss Solenne here thinks that the Ministère wants to promote the rising hatred against non-magique people," Edmond told him with a derisive scoff.

"And does it not?" Solenne demanded.

"Of course not!" Edmond said. "I know you are ambitious, mon cher, but such stories are not going to help anyone."

"Oh?" Solenne placed her hands on her hips angrily. "Did my ambition cause ze incident in Lille?"

Draco looked between the two people with increasing wariness. Edmond appeared to be nonchalant and utterly dismissive, though Draco could tell that the man was on the defensive. On the other hand, Solenne looked like she meant business. She was, after all, one of the leading investigative reporters for the Le Cri de la Gargouille, and he remembered all too clearly how keen she had always been on covering the 'real' stories. In so many ways, she was the antithesis of Rita Skeeter. His observations did not help him understand the conversation, though, so he found himself interjecting once again: "Um, what incident?"

The looks he received in return indicated that he should have read up on the current affairs of the Wizarding and Muggle France. Still, Solenne was kind enough to tell him: Apparently, a group of 'passionate' witches and wizards had gone on a rampage in a restaurant in Lille earlier that month and set fire to all the twelve muggles present there. The French Ministry had been quick to act and the Healers were able to heal all the victims without any permanent damage. However, none of the witches and wizards responsible were put in prison.

"There is a system in place, Solenne," Edmond said impatiently. "The culprits will be punished–"

"You mean fined," she cut in. "My sources tell me that ze Ministère is going to fine them only, when zey deserve far more for putting innocents in danger and breaking ze Wizarding law."

"Are you willing to share who these sources are?"

"I will not tell you."

"In that case, I can only say that the Ministère will make sure that justice is carried out." Edmond leaned back in his seat. "You are my goddaughter and I love you, but you will not barge into my office like this again. And it is rude to interrupt ongoing meetings, so please leave."

Solenne looked like she had been slapped. Still, she pursed her lips tight and raised her chin defiantly. "If I wanted to publish my article, I would 'ave done it by now. Instead, I wrote to warn you and I came here to do the same. But you are turning a blind eye to what iz 'appening. I am disappointed in you, Edmond." She paused only to nod goodbye to Draco before storming out.

Draco waited until the door had shut before turning to his grand uncle. "Is it true, what she said?"

"The incident in Lille? Yes." Now that the journalist had left, Edmond looked troubled. "Do you know the worst part? The culprits are all Lukas' close friends."

He filed this information in his head. This attack sounded a lot like Death Eater activity. It didn't have to be, of course, considering that hatred did have the power to make all sorts of people behave terribly. But at the same time, with everything that was going on, it would be foolish to not be suspicious of Dolohov's French contacts igniting violence. "And you're not punishing them?"

"Je ne peux pas," Edmond replied simply. I can't. "Lukas' friends belong to important families in the Wizarding France, and those families hold votes that I need to get my laws passed." He paused to shrug nonchalantly. "Besides, in the end, no harm was truly done."

"I bet the muggles who were set on fire would beg to differ," Draco muttered dryly.

"It is a good thing that they were all obliviated." That meant that this attack had been covered up to perfection, though it was unclear if the muggle government was aware of what had happened; either option boded ill. "My mission is to empower our kind, to have a society that caters to the needs of its own before worrying about our relations with the non-magique. I am working towards true equality and security for us, and I need maximum support to get that."

"I understand," Draco said, and he truly did. If he were in Edmond's place, he would probably do the same. It was good politics, simple as that, and sometimes there was no way to avoid collateral damage. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he cringed inwardly. Ginevra would hex him to hell if she found out where he stood on such matters.

Dear Solenne,
Seeing you this morning was a pleasant surprise, despite the somewhat grave conversations that were had during the meeting. We should have lunch together tomorrow. It will be a good opportunity to catch up– and I believe I have an idea or two that will intrigue that brilliant journalistic mind of yours.
Owl back if you are interested.
Yours sincerely,
Draco Malfoy

Draco rolled up the parchment and tied it to a rather impatient looking Scops owl that his hotel had lent to him. The brown bird took flight and he watched it disappear into the dark night sky, hoping that Solenne would respond favourably to his request.

Surely, she should; unlike his breakup with Pansy, the one with Solenne had been quite smooth and logical. Their relationship had been quite fun, but with Draco living in England and Solenne's work demanding her presence in France, the long-distance dynamic had simply become too big a barrier and they had split up amicably after seeing each other for almost half a year.

Witnessing the sort-of quarrel between Edmond and Solenne had given Draco the idea that perhaps he should use her to further his research into the Death Eater affairs in France. She was an ambitious, investigative journalist and had a valuable pool of sources. The fact that she had a strong sense of moral principles would help too.

A knock on the door snapped him out of his thoughts and he frowned. He had already eaten and was not expecting any company. Grabbing his wand, he moved to open the door and found Lukas Lefebvre standing outside, a huge grin plastered on his face.

"Mon frère!" He greeted, stepping into the room without permission. "Est-ce que je vous derange?" Am I disturbing you?

"Pas du tout," Draco replied. Not at all. "What can I do for you?"

"Pour me some brandy."

"Pour it yourself," he shot back, inwardly fuming at the bastard's pathetic attempt to order him about and also to seem friendly. They had never been on good terms their entire lives, and Draco was not very keen on altering that dynamic now.

Lukas must have been thinking something along those lines, for he let out a little laugh and reached for the decanter resting on the coffee table. "You know, my father always said zat I should learn from you, but… je ne t'ai jamais aimé." I never liked you. "It makes me 'appy that finally, we 'ave something to share."

"And what's that, brandy?"

"Vision." Lukas' eyes met his. "I know you are working with Dolohov. I am, also."

Draco stilled, for once completely unsure how to react. He had suspected that Lukas was involved with Dolohov's notorious gang and was planning to investigate this tactfully, but never in a million years would he have expected him to admit to the fact so freely. In fact, it was not something anyone would ever admit to, not even the real Death Eaters, because condemnation awaited anyone who bore allegiance to the Cause.

"You did ze right thing in joining the Cause, mon frère," Lukas went on. "I was very 'appy when Allard told me."

Allard was one of Dolohov's newer recruits to the Death Eaters. Not only was he an obnoxious brat who thought himself above everyone else, but he was the very bastard who had tried to curse Draco during the Azkaban breakout. It was because of Allard that Lucius Malfoy had nearly died. Dolohov himself had told him that, but there was not much Draco could do about it for the time-being; he had "forgiven" the attacker as a ploy to infiltrate the Death Eater's circle.

"I didn't know you were friends with Allard," Draco stated coolly.

"We were at Beauxbatons."

"I see. And may I ask how long you have been a part of the Death Eaters?"

"A little less than a year. But I would not call myself a Death Eater. You 'ave the honour of 'aving ze Dark Mark." Lukas sighed wistfully. "I only do communication for Dolohov while you all do ze real work, but zat is alright. I will do whatever is needed for us to win."

Communication played a key role in the success of any cause. And apparently, Lukas' ridiculously social lifestyle meant that he was well-connected in the right circles not only in France, but also in Britain. These connections were the only reason Edmond had encouraged the Ministry to not take any action against the culprits of that attack on muggles. If Dolohov had Lukas whispering in influential ears, then that was perhaps more efficient than this idiot fighting out on the field.

"As will I," Draco said.

That sealed a pact between them, at least in Lukas' view, and he was quick to insist very insistently that Draco come join him for a night of celebration at one of his favourite clubs. It was an unwanted offer, but one that was apparently impossible to refuse– and so nearly half an hour later, Draco found himself entering an underground cave in Paris that was echoing with unbelievably loud music.

What Draco had learnt in this past half hour was that his speculation from earlier that morning had been right: it was Lukas' desire to be recognised outside of Edmond's political prowess that had fuelled him his entire life. The fact that Edmond believed him to be a heedless, impulsive fool did not help either. So, when his 'good friend' Crabbe had suggested that Lukas could prove himself to his father by becoming part of a Cause that worked to restore the Purebloods to power and bring back the noble, old ways, it was an offer to consider. Though, it had been the Chaucer murders that had driven him straight into Dolohov's hands. Lukas had no desire to wait for the outcome of the petty politics that his father played at the Ministry. He wanted to bring the muggles responsible to justice and to have his own name shine with glory as he did so.

If only he had the wisdom to realise that Dolohov's ideals were utter shite.

Lukas practically dragged Draco over to a table and introduced him– much to his utmost horror– to Vincent Crabbe and Allard, who seemed equally surprised to see him as he was them. And since Lukas was so openly talking about the Cause in front of them, it became clear that they too were involved. Well, Draco knew Allard was one of the newly recruited Death Eaters. As for Crabbe… it hardly seemed surprising that he was involved; if anyone were to be a part of such a prejudiced campaign, it would be him.

After a few frosty sentences, they were joined by a few of Lukas' other friends. Two of these friends were the ones responsible for setting those muggles on fire in the Lille incident, and they very pleasantly joked about it. It was in the midst of that bile-inducing conversation that Draco found a perfect opportunity to make a temporary escape.

He made his way over to the bar, hopped onto the stool and ordered some gin. As he tried to wrap his mind around whilst trying to drone out the blaring noise that somehow qualified for music, his eyes came to rest on the table once again where Allard and Crabbe were engaged in a passionate conversation. The former waved his arms wildly as he spoke, while the latter patted his arm as he nodded in agreement. Then, as if sensing his gaze, Crabbe turned his head to stare at Draco. Once again, the distance between them made it difficult to read each other's expressions. But unlike their sort-of encounter at the Rue du Alters, Crabbe clearly excused himself and made his way over.

"Lukas admitted his loyalties to you, then?" Crabbe stated as he slipped onto the vacant stool next to him. "That was foolish of him. Dolohov will not be happy."

"We are blood," Draco replied shortly, hoping that that explanation would somehow be enough to save Lukas; the man was an idiot, but he did not deserve to suffer Dolohov's wrath. "Besides, from what I understand, it was Allard who gossiped about me joining the Cause to Lukas."

"So what if he did? Lukas is our friend."

"Dolohov did not take kindly to breaches in secrecy."

"Are you threatening my friend?"

"I'm not sure you understand the meaning of the word, Crabbe." Draco waved his hand carelessly, then added in a more severe tone, "Dolohov and I have agreed that my involvement is to remain hidden for now. If Allard's blabbermouth tendencies put me at risk, I will not show him mercy again."

"Again?"

"Well, I ignored the fact that his bloodthirsty antics landed my father in the hospital, didn't I?"

Crabbe paled. He must not have known that Draco was aware of his friend's deeds. But to his credit, he recovered from his shock just as quickly and raised his chin in defiance. "Your father was not his target. You were."

It was as if an icy bucket had been doused over Draco's head– he understood, he finally understood, why a new recruit randomly tried to use such a brutal curse on him during the Azkaban breakout. There was no proof whatsoever, but he did not need it. He knew in his very bones that it was Crabbe who had poisoned Allard against Draco, filled him with poisonous stories of how the Malfoys were traitors so that when Allard had found Draco injured and wandless in that half-blown visitors room at Azkaban, he had tried to do the right thing by trying to finish him off.

Crabbe blinked once, as if to confirm that his suspicions were indeed true. "You are a viper, Malfoy," he accused, his voice brimming with venom. "I don't know what game you're playing, but I know that you're not loyal to the Cause."

"Is that so?"

"I've said to Dolohov that you're not to be trusted. I'd rather shred your pathetic, cowardly self into pieces."

Draco curled his fingers around his wand, resisting the urge to hex the fat bastard. He was just trying to rile him up, and he would not give him the satisfaction. "You can't hurt me, Crabbe. Dolohov trusts me."

"Until he won't."

"I am with the Cause."

"I don't believe you."

"I don't give a fuck what you believe."

Crabbe stood up angrily, looking like he was ready to attack him with hand or wand. But then, he took in a deep breath to control is anger. "I won't let you stab Dolohov in the back like you did Goyle and I."

"It wasn't my Fiendfyre that killed Goyle."

"I only conjured it because you were too cowardly to kill Potter!"

"That's because I'm not a murderer."

"And yet Goyle's blood is on your hands." Crabbe leaned forward, his voice low but threatening. "You will not fuck up the Cause again. I'm watching you, you filthy blood-traitor." And then he stormed away.

It was quite late when Draco returned to his hotel room, reeking of alcohol that he had not consumed but rather Lukas had spilled on him in the middle of a drunken speech. Moron.

His disgruntlement vanished instantly when the hotel manager told him that a Miss Ginevra Weasley had called on the hotel's muggle telephone service (a service that some of the grander wizarding hotels had now introduced in an attempt to be more 'muggleborn friendly').

During his business dealings with the muggles, Draco had often seen them use this telephone device. He understood, to some extent, the science of it. Despite that, it took him quite a long white to correctly dial the long number that apparently belonged to Ginevra, and when he heard her voice come out of the object called the receiver, he nearly dropped the entire machine to the ground. "Salazar!" he cursed, trying to untangle himself from the wire that had somehow ended up wrapped around his arm.

"I know," Ginevra laughed, rightly understanding the cause of his surprise. "It's incredible, isn't it?"

"Yes." It was like he was talking to her live, like they did via Floo. Only this could be done internationally, and without all the hassle of dust and fireplaces. For being born without the gift of magic, muggles sure did invent some remarkable devices. "I didn't know you had a phone in your house."

"It's Hermione's. Ron is away on some mission and we girls are having a sleepover," Ginevra explained. There was music playing in her background, and also the sound of someone speaking. "Luna says hi."

Draco made a face. "Um, hello to her too, I suppose."

She giggled at his awkwardness. "How are you?"

"Wishing that I was with you."

"I wish that too." There was a small pause. "How is research?"

"Ongoing, though I can't talk about it for obvious reasons." Those being that anyone could be listening, and his status as a spy was too valuable to risk.

"I know," Ginevra murmured. "But you are taking care of yourself, aren't you?"

"Of course I am. My safety and well-being is my number one priority."

"For once, I am glad of your Slytherin selfishness."

He chuckled. "I had a run-in with Crabbe. Words were exchanged. I can't believe that twat was once my friend."

"Well, you were kind of a twat back then too, so–"

"Thanks," he muttered dryly, but could not help but smile when he heard her laugh. She appeared to be in a good mood, which was very much welcome, considering that she did go through a frightfully rough patch after her attack. Mercifully, her recovery was ongoing (though she often childishly complained of how slow it was) and she had also come to terms with Draco's involvement with both Potter and Dolohov. It was uneasy and unwanted, but necessary. "I met Solenne today. She's an ex. I think she might be able to help me here."

Ginevra was quiet for a moment. "As long as you're careful."

"What, no jealousy?"

"None. I know you're all mine."

Her faith in him warmed his heart. "That I am," he promised.

They spoke for a few more minutes, but as Draco fumbled to place the receiver back the proper way, the peace that the sound of her voice had brought to his heart slowly faded away, bringing back his worries to the forefront. Still, the conversation had certainly refreshed him and he felt that he could view the problems before him more alertly.

As a shrewd businessman, Draco understood the simple fact that a cause, any cause, was fuelled not by intention or passion, but by money. Grindelwald had needed finances, so had Lord Voldemort. And Dolohov was no different.

After the war, known supporters of the Dark Lord were hunted down. Those who were captured were put through extremely publicised trials. Most members of the Wizarding community had suffered one way or another during the war, and so there was a constant demand to make an example of those who were captured. Draco had suffered this wrath of the public himself, and so he knew all too well what the situation had been back then and how little it had changed in many aspects since.

The convicted Death Eaters were stripped of their fortunes before being imprisoned; The Malfoys were only able to evade that horrid fate because of the unintentional aid that Draco had provided to the Golden Trio during the war and because of what his mother had done for Potter towards the end of it. As it were, those ancient, rich families who had once been most avid supporters of the Dark Lord no longer had many assets left to support such a Cause again. And even if they did, with anti-Pureblood sentiment on such rise in the past six years, no one in Wizarding Britain would have taken that risk.

Not without assurances, anyway.

This is why he had asked Dolohov about the risks and rewards of joining the Cause. Well, it had been a delaying tactic on his part, but the fact that Dolohov hadn't attacked him after he demanded to know the chances of success showed that it had been a reasonable ask.

After officially joining the Cause, Draco had found Dolohov to be much more forthcoming with certain information, which had helped put some pieces of the puzzle in place. Dolohov and Rowle, who had been pretty good mates since the days of the First Wizarding War, had managed to escape after the Dark Lord's demise. They had gone off to America, where they had caused some trouble that involved poisons and torture in hopes of getting the capital for the Cause that they could use to enlist and bribe influential people. From there, they had travelled to France and rekindled relations with those who had expressed interest in the Dark Lord's work back during the war.

Of course, Draco had relayed all this information to Potter– and the scarred git had said that he would be getting in touch with the American Aurors to root out Dolohov's contacts. And Draco was here in France to sort of do the same.

One thing that he had to reluctantly admit was that Dolohov was actually quite cunning. The United Kingdom, France and America were three of the most powerful Wizarding nations in the world and carried a lot of power even in The International Confederation of Wizards. If one were to start a Pureblood revolution, those three countries would be ideal to start in; Grindelwald had tried it, Lord Voldemort had intended it (though he had been side-tracked by his quest to hunt Potter down), but Dolohov had already sunk in his claws in all three places.

Draco had noticed it back at the wretched club that Dolohov had pulled in a few influential, social young witches and wizards, such as Lukas, in his ranks. These young people belonged to strong families and, in a couple of decades, would take over the mantle of power that their families would happily give them. In America, Dolohov would have to play a long game. In Britain, he would have to fight violently to win. But in France, he would need only to seep into the minds of the youth and then assume power when they took over the reins. And then everything would be chaos.

Fuck.

This spy thing was requiring a lot more in-depth thinking than Draco Malfoy had anticipated. There were things he did not know, and the things that he did know were things that he did not like at all.

He hoped Solenne would agree to help him; it would put him one step closer to achieving his goal of ending this wretched Cause. He had to do it, there was simply no other option. He would rip it apart from the inside. For Ginevra, for his family and for himself.

There.

A lot of plot, I know. Initially, I was going to reveal it all through conversations or detailed scenes, but that would have taken far too long! This way felt much more efficient to me.

And yes, I know there was barely any Ginny in this chapter. I'm sorry for that (and also for the fact that maybe the next chapter will be similar). It was necessary, though. Ginny is sort of off the board for now because of her slow recovery, and Draco has a lot of things to understand before we can move forward. I am aware that this is a D/G fic - she has her own arc that is just as important as Draco's. Only, it will take a little bit to get to.

But, enough from me. It's your opinion that matters the most. So, please leave a review and tell me what you thought of the chapter.

Until next time x