Disclaimer: JK Rowling's characters.
Riddle House, Little Hangleton, Lancashire, July 1997 (4)
"It's been weeks."
A stony silence followed Malcolm's words.
"When are we going after them? They'll be leaving school before long." An icy glare prompted the stuttered addition of, "S-sir."
"Your impatience is an unfortunate consequence of your youth. Don't let it be your undoing."
"What do you mean?"
"Acting without the necessary information puts you and our operation at risk. Putting us at risk will end you."
Malcolm swallowed, then frowned. "I've been close enough to Hogwarts to touch the gates and they never spotted me. I've been careful."
"Make sure that continues to be the case."
"I just… I just wish we could get them already, destroy them."
"This is not a smash-and-grab, Baddock. To achieve what I want requires meticulous planning and more manpower than we have currently."
They were quiet for a moment, then Malcolm said, "You're sure they'll go to London after leaving Hogwarts?"
Another icy glare greeted Malcolm's question. The sound of others entering the room upended the silence.
The grounds had been warded against unwanted guests, but as an extra precaution, the house had been warded as well. If anyone not authorized to enter the house managed to get as far the door, they suffered a nasty shock—not powerful enough to kill, but enough to incapacitate them so that once they recovered they could be questioned. And if Onslow Mulciber—standing in for an imprisoned Walden Macnair—found their answers unsatisfactory, he executed them, then discarded their bodies somewhere on the property. He had filled three graves since mid-June.
Because no one had offered up a full account as to why Mulciber had killed three people, Malcolm assumed they had been Muggles that had wandered onto the grounds, unwitting lambs. They certainly hadn't been magical, because who would be trying to infiltrate them already? As far as Malcolm knew, the only people privy to these meetings were the people present in the house.
"Oh look," said Alecto Carrow, huffing and puffing as she waddled into the room, "little Baddock's here earlier than everyone, like always."
She looked strange, oddly diminished without her brother at her side. Not that Malcolm gave a toss that Amycus had died in the battle at Hogwarts.
He shot the short, fat witch a look of loathing. Every time they met she needled him about something. He was sick of it. She clearly resented him being there because he was so young. While she wasn't the only one who felt that way, she was the only one who made it a point to pick on him about it.
He'd never acknowledged her abuse before, but this time he said, "You know that's why people talk about you behind your back, A-lec-to." He put a bit of emphasis on her name, knowing it would infuriate her.
After addressing her by her given name at one of their first meetings, she had shrieked at him that someone his age should never address an adult by their given name. He'd disliked her ever since. Had she been a schoolmate he might have ridiculed her skin, her hair, her revolting halitosis. But, he wasn't dealing with a group of students—he was a child amongst adults.
He'd been surprised and disappointed to find that they weren't all that different from his old classmates at Hogwarts. He often felt that he displayed infinitely more maturity than many of them.
Alecto gasped, scandalized. "Why you…"
"Don't dish it out if you can't take it," Jack Travers told her, with a rich chuckle. "You're at that boy all the time. It's a wonder he's held his tongue for as long as he has."
"I'd have kicked you up and down that hill out there first time you opened your mouth to me," Cai Montague told her. Alecto flipped her middle finger at him.
"Oh, I don't know, Cai," said Franc Urquhart, in that oily tone of his. "I think I might have found at least one good use for that mouth… Desperate times and such." He shifted his brows suggestively.
Montague gagged. "If I'm ever that desperate, I'll turn meself over to a Dementor."
"The lot of you can just fuck right off!" Alecto spat as Urquhart laughed.
"There's a good chap," said Terrence Higgs, clapping Malcolm on the shoulder. "Well done."
"Enough," Lucius said.
Everyone stilled, their eyes settling on him.
While it wasn't surprising that Lucius had stepped in to lead, Malcolm wondered why no one had challenged him. Merten Baddock, Malcolm's father, had never uttered a kind word about any of the Dark Lord's inner circle, mostly because he hadn't been a part of it, Malcolm thought, but Merten had made it clear that he'd had absolutely no good feeling for Lucius Malfoy. Even amongst Pure-bloods, the Malfoys had looked down their noses at everyone, smug in their superiority.
While eavesdropping one night, a few weeks before his father went missing, Malcolm heard Merten tell Imelda, "I watched him, Immy. He scarcely batted an eye when the Dark Lord killed Narcissa. He could have been scared out of his mind, for all I know, but I don't believe it. I always thought he'd sell his soul to stay in the inner circle, but I never imagined he'd sacrifice his family." He shook his head. "What You-Know-Who did to her, I wouldn't do to a Muggle."
Malcolm had always assumed the elder Malfoy had a temperament similar to Draco's, whom Malcolm had never liked. He'd sensed weakness in the whiney, entitled, pointy-faced Slytherin, so he hadn't been at all surprised when the boy had fled the dungeons to live with Snape and Harry Potter instead of taking the Mark. But Lucius seemed to be nothing like his son.
When Lucius took his seat at the head of the dining table, the others followed. Malcolm walked until he reached the last chair on the left side of the table as he wasn't allowed to sit anywhere near Lucius. His youth and lack of power and influence relegated him to the boonies, which pissed him off.
The way he saw it, he was doing more for the cause than any of them. He was the one risking getting caught every time he stood in the wood across the road from Hogwarts, waiting to see who passed through the school's gates. After, he would relay that intel to Lucius. Everyone else could barely step a toe out of their hidey-holes for fear of getting hauled in by Aurors. So, yes, he had as much at stake as any of them, probably more because he still had his mother and brother to worry about. Many of the others had only themselves to consider now.
Unlike his father, Malcolm didn't feel one way or the other about Lucius. For now, Malfoy was simply means to an end. Malcolm would do what he could to remain in the man's favor, but he had a limit: his brother and his mother. If Lucius ever demanded that he do anything to harm them or to do nothing while someone else harmed them, Malcolm would refuse, even if it meant dying, because death couldn't be worse than living after watching his mother and brother die.
The only other woman in the room sat on Malcolm's right. She was tall, nearly as tall as Lucius, with flawless fair skin, straight auburn hair, and dark, chilly eyes. She unnerved Malcolm. She rarely spoke, but when she did, he detected a slight accent, similar to Viktor Krum's.
Malcolm hadn't traveled outside of Britain much, save for visiting France one summer with his mum and brother, and spending the Christmas holiday in Germany two years ago where he and his family stayed with his dad's brother, Erich, so he didn't really know foreign accents. While he was deadly curious about the peculiar way she spoke, he had never dared ask her or anyone else about it. However, because the others typically ignored him, many didn't curb what they gossiped about around him. As a result, he had overheard several whispered conversations about her and they were just as curious about her as he was.
She had introduced herself as Arlinda White, which didn't sound particularly Eastern European, but Malcolm reckoned she might have come to Britain as a child or teenager, and because her family had not spoken English, they had changed their name to blend in. Or, she could have been born in Britain and her family had moved to Eastern Europe. He didn't know. In fact, no one seemed to know.
From what Malcolm could glean from conversations, no one had invited her to be a part of the group. She seemed to have just appeared out of nowhere, which instantly made Malcolm wary of her. He had been shocked when Lucius had so readily welcomed her. Of course, the man hadn't exactly seen fit to run that or any decision by Malcolm. Malcolm suspected the only person Lucius did consult about it had been Bertram Aubrey. Tellingly, Aubrey sat at Lucius's right.
Lucius said, "Our numbers remain distressingly spare, therefore we must continue reaching out to those that are reluctant to return."
"Establishing contact with those not on the death or missing rolls is important as well," Aubrey said. "Also, keep in mind, those who may not have been a part of the movement before."
"Yes," said Lucius, "with a bit of encouragement, they may now find that they are willing."
"Why bother with trying to sweet talk'em?" Urquhart said with that grating voice that made people wince when they first heard him. "Even without'em we'll be adding a few more strings to the lute in the next couple of weeks, eh?" He smiled and dropped a sly wink at Arlinda.
Malcolm rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. While they desperately needed every able body they could get, Malcolm wished Urquhart had been dismembered by a giant on the battlefield or chucked into Azkaban. Malcolm despised him as Urquhart was supremely unpleasant to be around. Inexplicably, the man peppered conversations with ridiculous musical metaphors and told crude stories of his sexual escapades involving not only women but young girls and boys.
Whether he was simply boasting to have something to talk about or the stories were true, Malcolm didn't know, but Urquhart never shut up. He talked, in as low a tone as he could muster, unloading his vileness on those that sat below him in the pecking order, confident no one would say anything for fear of reprisals, or the more likely possibility of being ignored. Irritatingly, he sat smack in the middle, the unspoken dividing line between the more useful members and those that were less so.
It didn't escape Malcolm's notice that Urquhart never dished about his exploits within earshot of Lucius, Aubrey, or anyone that sat at the top half of the table. Regardless, he imagined someone close to Lucius, if not Lucius himself, had to know about Urquhart's sexual proclivities. Whenever the man got on topic, Malcolm did his best to block out the sound of his voice. He wasn't the only one.
Out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm watched Arlinda. She didn't respond to Urquhart; she never did. She always acted indifferent, not just to Urquhart, but to everyone. While she hadn't uttered a word, her eyes radiated such vicious contempt for the wizard, Malcolm winced.
She blinked at Urquhart. When she blinked again, a slow, easy movement, the wizard's cocky smile faltered. He tried to hold it, his thin lips quivering as he struggled, but as Arlinda continued to gaze at him, Urquhart cleared his throat, chuckled uneasily, then turned his attention back to the head of the table.
Malcolm bit the inside of his jaw to keep from smiling. As he cast another furtive glance at Arlinda, he was shocked to find her sharp, dark-eyed gaze on him. He quickly lowered his eyes, his heart racing.
Not for the first time, he wondered why she was there, why she had wanted to join them. She seemed so out of place with her accent and detached demeanor. Each time Lucius called an end to the meetings, she was always the first to leave, without a word, as if she had somewhere more important to be.
Malcolm could only assume that, like him, she was carrying out Lucius's orders. While Lucius openly discussed plans to gain a consensus, he spoke only to individuals about their missions to prevent the Ministry from gaining information should any of them be captured.
Malcolm tried to look at her surreptitiously from beneath his lashes to see if she was still looking at him. She wasn't. Like Urquhart, she was listening to Lucius.
"Yeah, and everybody's on pins and needles about Potter's next step," said Travers, "if he can take one without assistance, that is."
Somebody sniggered and said, "Too right."
"Potter's health and recovery have been the primary focus of the Ministry and the Prophet," said Lucius.
"Sickening," Alecto spat.
Malcolm agreed. The Ministry and the press fawned over Potter as if better wizards had never existed.
"But as I suspected," Lucius continued, "their single-minded hero-worship has impeded their ability to devote their full resources to finding and capturing our people, granting us the time and space to arrange for—as Urquhart mentioned—key additions to our numbers."
"We mustn't assume things will go off without a hitch, but it really should work in our favor," said Aubrey.
Malcolm wasn't certain, but he suspected the 'key additions' were prisoners from Azkaban. The thought of that place tied his stomach in knots.
Fear and hatred of the prison had been instilled in him since he was old enough to talk. Merten had often ranted about it, fearful of the Ministry's power following the Dark Lord's failed attempt to kill Harry Potter that Halloween night. The DMLE had rounded up a number of Lord Voldemort's supporters, jailing them for weeks, months before letting them go for a lack of evidence. But even before that, some relative—a cousin twice removed, or a great-great-great grandfather—had been imprisoned there, had died there.
Imagining what might happen if Aurors caught up to him and his family had made for many sleepless nights. Euan was young; he likely wouldn't go to Azkaban, but Imelda would, and Malcolm knew she'd never survive it.
After scattering to avoid capture the night of the battle, the Dark Lord's remaining followers, including Malcolm and his family, had wondered what to do. They hadn't counted on Potter winning. They had believed the Dark Lord's promises to make the wizarding world pure again. They had aligned themselves with his beliefs so utterly, they had made no contingencies for failure.
After his father's death last summer, with help from his Uncle Erich, Malcolm made sure his family had an out. Their Unplottable properties would shield them, save them from Azkaban. Then again, what if they didn't? What if they were found? Others had been.
Malcolm let out a heavy breath. He was getting himself worked up over something that hadn't happened yet. With any luck, it never would. He didn't worry much about himself getting caught, but he constantly questioned his ability to keep his brother and mother safe. He sighed again.
"Stop it," Arlinda hissed so that only he could hear.
Startled, Malcolm shifted to sit up straighter in his chair, then turned his attention to Lucius.
*SP