11 – Seeking
Draco needed to hurry – he couldn't be late for his first meeting of the Dark Lord's inner circle. He pulled out his pocket watch and squeezed it lightly to pop open the case. He still had a few minutes to spare, time to apparate over to the summer cottage to check Hyacinth's portrait to see if there'd been any response yet. The picture was tucked away in a corner of an odd little nook in the small family library, which he had now taken over as his office. He arrived in the living room, then hurried upstairs to his office. As soon as he glanced at it he could see that there was nothing - no response to his last message yet – both because the vase hadn't changed, but also because Hyacinth was staring off into the distance, refusing to meet his eyes.
Even though he didn't have much time, she knew he was here, he had to at least greet her. "Good day, Hyacinth."
She didn't turn, but muttered icily "Miss Black to you."
He bowed in obeisance. "Of course, my apologies." He was careful not to let her see his mouth twitch as he held back a smile. She loved being offended, and loved scolding him even more. Of course, it would be no fun if she knew he knew that.
At first she had been so difficult to get along with, that Draco had begun looking for some other way to pass messages to the Order. He now knew that there were Order members living in Grimmauld Place. Since Hyacinth was a Black the other portrait through which he sent his messages was probably also there. How many places could have Order members and Black portraits? However, when he had visited Grimmauld Place as a child he'd recognized many of the portrait inhabitants as the same ones in Malfoy Manor. In fact, there were portraits of his mother at both houses. So he could find someone else with portraits in both houses. The problem was the vase. It was perfect and it appeared along with Hyacinth in both houses, which was unusual. He wasn't sure if the painting was the same or not – Hyacinth would be offended at such a personal question – and it didn't matter anyway.
So he'd turned his efforts to getting along with her better. They didn't have to be chums, but he couldn't have her working against him. He wasn't sure if she hated all men in general, all Malfoy men, or him in particular. He hadn't had time yet to research her history; he actually wasn't sure where to look for such information. The other portraits would probably love to provide him with such gossip, but they weren't particularly reliable and if Hyacinth found out he'd been discussing her with the others, she'd be furious.
Hyacinth glanced back over her shoulder to see if he was still there. When he caught her looking at him she turned toward him a bit. "Can I help you? Are you planning to just stare at the vase until a new message appears?" Draco started to give her a snappy comeback, then decided to play on his apparently pathetic state.
He gave an exaggerated sigh. "No, there's nothing . . . I'll just go. It's just that . . . ." He looked off into space, knowing that her curiosity would get the better of her.
He waited . . . wait . . .wait . . . .
"You could send another message," she said, her voice now gentle as though she was cheering a small child.
"I don't know . . . . if they don't want to help . . . . but the orphans . . . ."
"I'm sure they want to help." Hyacinth was smart enough, and careful enough, to avoid saying "he" or "she." That was interesting. "Maybe I could ask . . . see what's been keeping them."
"Could you?" He didn't have to fake the enthusiasm in his voice. He was actually dying for a return message. He still had no idea how he could minimize the carnage at the orphanage when he wouldn't be given much notice as to which orphanage it was to be. He also was tired of feeling like he was in this battle alone.
"I'll see what I can do." With that she resumed her haughty pose. Draco glanced at his pocket watch. He'd better get going.
Draco apparated back to his room at the Manor. He looked in the mirror one last time, he needed to keep up the Malfoy image, glanced at his watch, swore, and hurried out, slowing his steps so that he wouldn't slip on the polished white marble. He averted his face as he passed the music room, then realized what a coward he was being and forced himself to look. The piano was as beautiful as ever, huge and dark, dominating the pale sea greens of the drapes and rugs. The physical urge to touch it was so powerful that he had to draw a deep breath. He hadn't played since his mother . . . . She had always loved to listen to him play. She'd be disappointed if he stopped. Maybe tomorrow. Tonight there wasn't time.
He needed to mentally prepare for the inner circle meeting. It was a bit surprising that they hadn't met more often, but then again, the fewer psychotic meetings he had to attend the better. Unlike full Death Eater meetings, this one would not be taking place in the Dark Lord's mysterious cave, but rather at the LeStrange mansion, which was a relief for many reasons. He also had been summoned by owl rather than pulled by his Mark. He wouldn't have to endure the stifling closeness of that reeking cave. The best thing though, was that he could travel by broom. Any day where he could work in a long flight was a better day.
"Oh, no, Cyrus, you're wrong. I have never wasted a moment waiting for . . . ."
Draco drew up short. Not tonight. His father was in the foyer, apparently chatting with one of the portraits. He didn't have time for this. If he went back out through the kitchen he could summon his broom, but then he'd have Nappy questioning him, offering him food to take, that would be just as slow. Better to just deal with his father as quickly as possible. He braced himself and walked purposefully around the corner.
"Draco! Excellent." Lucius stood, gloves in hand, wearing white full dress robes, leaning insolently against a statue of Venus. At least at the moment he was clean. "Then we're all ready as soon as Narcissa gets . . . but what are you wearing? That will never do. You know the Winter Ball is strictly white tie. Spinks!" An elderly house elf appeared. "Help Master Draco get changed. We can't be late."
"Father . . . ." He couldn't argue. He didn't have time to try to peel back his father's delusions, if it could even be done. "Spinks," Draco looked at the elf and saw the sadness in his eyes, "I'll take care of it. Just a moment."
He stepped back around the corner and quickly transfigured his robes, turning them white, giving himself a black silk cravat. He was missing the details - the cufflinks, the waistcoat, the shirt studs - which his father would notice immediately. He summoned his best cloak, wrapped it around himself, then strode back into the hall.
"Father," it was better not to let him get going, "I'll see to the carriage." He breathed more easily once he was past him, his hand on the doorknob.
"Your mother will be down momentarily," said Lucius. "I'll bring her out. I called for the white coach. See that it is clean."
"Of course." Draco stepped onto the porch, feeling great relief as the large doors shut behind him. He had escaped. He summoned his broom and was off.
It was a beautiful evening, sky just beginning to darken, but Draco felt such a heavy sadness that he was almost surprised that his broom could still lift him. Seeing his father was always difficult, but somehow tonight . . . .
There was so much that was gone, never to return. So much had been destroyed. The Winter Ball had always been so magnificent – all the guests in white, against the evergreen of the sparkling two-story Christmas tree. When he was a child the pureblood lifestyle had been so full of wonder, of grace, of beauty. He could remember sipping his first fire whiskey as he listened to the ladies titter over someone who'd had the temerity to wear a gown with a scarlet bow at the back – scandalous. His mother, always radiant in white, added her own bit of color in the copious rubies and gold around her neck, but jewels were an acceptable touch of hue.
He went to those balls knowing that he was supposed to find a wife who knew what to wear, how to stand out among the many diamonds, without being ever tacky or garish. Just like his father, he'd be expected to cluck over how she'd spent a small fortune on her dress, subtly mentioning how the prices in Paris just went up and up.
How could all of that just be gone? When did the Dark Lord's mania turn from preserving the pure and elegant to destroying – and not just Muggles and mudbloods. Half-bloods had to go, purebloods who associated with the wrong sorts, anyone who was not sufficiently vicious in their hatred of the inferior. Until there was nothing worth saving – the old families were decimated, hiding their wives and daughters abroad if they could. No one held balls anymore. The opera had closed, supposedly to reopen after the unpleasantness, but who would be left to attend? In exchange for all of that splendor, they'd gotten the dank, grey cave.
The Malfoy line, the proud, storied family whose innumerable portraits filled the halls of the manor, was down to two – an insane patriarch and himself. How long until it was gone forever? It could be tonight or any night. The manor would be left, invisible to all living, crumbling until some banker broke through the enchantments to see what, if anything, was left.
A slight buzz of magic signalled that he'd flown through the wards of the LeStrange mansion – another old family down to its last demented few. There'd be no more LeStranges either. Aunt Bella was never the motherly type. Lately, it was hard to see the death of that line as a bad thing.
He'd always found their house cold – grey granite that echoed, elegant rooms that never greeted guests - a place for Death Eater meetings, but never evenings of fine food and conversation. He stepped up to the door and waited for . . . a sheet of ice water soaked him!
"Bloody hell! What the . . . ."
The door opened and Aunt Bella herself stood there grinning. "It's a thieves' downfall. Security precaution." Her leer widened. "I guess you must be the real thing."
Draco scowled at her as he dried himself and then cast an extra warming spell. He smirked to realize that his robes were back to normal. He'd forgotten the transfiguration he'd done. Better not to have to explain that away.
"Where'd you get that charming little addition?" he asked.
"Ironically enough – I stole it." Her face lit with a grin that reminded Draco of long ago when she used to be fun. She was always game to sneak out at night to race brooms or such. She had a sadistic streak even then, banging into him, trying to knock him off his broom and enjoying it a bit too much if she did, but it hadn't yet taken her over. It had been the Dark Lord's corrupting touch that had pushed her over the edge.
"Sulking? You're just jealous that you can't add any fun touches to the Manor."
He knew what she was referring to, in her underhanded way. "Our security is just fine."
"You'd better hope it is. You're not the master of the Manor. There's nothing you can do."
"I'm aware. Fortunately, the Manor has long had enchantments few can even comprehend."
"That must be why the Dark Lord moved his operations elsewhere." Draco's eyes jerked to a motion down the dark hallway. It was either Rodolphus or Rabastan slinking away from the meeting where they weren't welcome.
Draco looked back at his aunt, who had stopped before a set of tall dark double doors. "The Dark Lord's reasons are his own. Perhaps he enjoys the quirky hospitality you provide." He threw her a final smirk as they entered the drawing room. She shot one back at him, before simpering over to the Dark Lord, who was gazing into the fire. He turned to them, his eyes still reflecting the red of the flames.
"Draco."
Draco bowed his head and returned the greeting. "My Lord." There was a table in the room, but the Dark Lord was standing, and so, apparently would they.
"It is time for me to share with you, the two of you, my most valued inner circle, the next step, the final step in my plan. I have conquered mortality from both sides now. I can return after death and the death curse, the famed Avada Kedavra can no longer harm me. So now it is time to seek Potter, to find Potter and to kill him. Then we can destroy all of those who have dared defy me."
It was all about killing, all about destroying, mostly other wizards. Draco held his face impassive.
"How will we do it, my Lord? What do you want us to do?" Aunt Bella's eyes were rabid with excitement.
"We draw him out. His greatest weakness is his soft heart. He's a muggle-lover of the most filthy kind. So, as we did the other day, we go after the muggles. We terrorize them, we kill them. I had the bodies of the muggles we tortured to death the other day left on the ground near where we know some of the Order members stay. He will not be able to bear being responsible for such suffering. He will seek us out."
Draco bit the inside of his lip. He wanted to ask what would be different the next time from the attack on the Underground. If Potter hadn't been there, why would he show up the next time? Personally, he wouldn't be surprised if Potter was there, shooting curses from under his invisibility cloak. If Draco was feeling suicidal he could ask the Dark Lord how he planned to kill Potter when they did find him. If the Avada Kedavra hadn't worked on him before, what would he use?
But he wasn't going to ask any of these questions. The Dark Lord did not like being questioned. He preferred . . . .
The invasion came without any warning. The force of it was enough to make Draco's head snap back a bit. The Dark Lord was in his mind. Draco calmed himself. If the Dark Lord wanted to see his questions he could. Draco pulled his memories of the Underground attack forward – both to show the Dark Lord where Potter could have been hiding, but also because the sight of so many muggles screaming in terror or dead on the ground would be pleasing, and distracting, to him.
The Dark Lord probed no further. "Draco, my son, you have been called into this circle because I trust you. I welcome your ideas, and your questions."
Draco bowed his head. "My Lord. Forgive me. I am not used to such privilege." He couldn't show any fear. Slowly, firmly, he looked up and straight into the Dark Lord's glowing red eyes. They were repulsive, but he refused to look away.
"You think that Potter may have been using his invisibility cloak? That he may already have been appearing to combat our attacks."
"It would fit with his personality, my Lord. He does not like to let others fight for him."
"You think the order would allow that."
"I don't know, my Lord. Although he does have a cloak."
"His invisibility cloak? It is a powerful one?"
"As far as I can tell, my Lord."
"Very interesting. So how to flush him out?"
"Judging from the numbers, they haven't been sending everyone they have."
The Dark Lord nodded.
"My Lord?" Aunt Bella's voice was eager, again.
"Bellatrix. You have an idea?"
"We need to set a trap. Lure a bunch of them somewhere and seal them there."
The Dark Lord was silent for a moment. He held his hands up, finger-tip to finger-tip. "If we capture enough of them, he will come to us. Draco?"
"Yes, my Lord?"
"You were at school with Potter. You have watched him. You know how he works, how he thinks better than any of us. You know who his friends are, who his girlfriends are. I have a special assignment for you."
"Yes, my Lord?" Draco ignored the clenching in his stomach. He knew where this was going.
"I want you to bring me Harry Potter."
Draco landed gracefully on the front steps of Malfoy Manor. Even the feeling of the open air as he flew home hadn't been enough to ease his headache or to get rid of the hideous feeling of being closed in. The Dark Lord wanted him to raid an orphanage and kill innocent children. He wanted Draco to capture one of those nearest to Harry Potter's heart and torment them until Potter couldn't take it anymore and came to them.
He couldn't do these things, but he couldn't see any way around them either. He had asked for help and gotten nothing. He was doomed. He just didn't know what form his destruction would take, when it would hit.
Nappy met him in the foyer, wordlessly holding out his hands for Draco's broom and cloak.
"Master is tired. Master need supper?"
"Yes, Nappy. Send it to my office. I have work to do." It was time to figure out how to handle this orphanage thing. He'd heard the Dark Lord's excitement; the assignment would come any day now. His only hope was that the Dark Lord was also looking forward to a raid, another recruitment raid, this one at St. Mungo's. Maybe it would come first. This time Mulciber would be in charge. He was fairly bright. He might be able to pull it off. His biggest problem was that he was so blood thirsty he was likely to be distracted. Still, he'd do better than MacNair, who had died from the festering of the wounds he suffered in the attack on the Underground, wounds that the Dark Lord had not allowed any of them to heal.
That wasn't how Draco wanted to go. Honestly, he hadn't heard a way that he wanted to go yet, but that wasn't it.
He reached his office and sat down at his desk. He'd come up with a plan and send it, in simple runes, to the Order. Tonight. He began a list of books he'd need, anything that might, somehow, have something that could be useful.
"Master, your supper."
Nappy was there – a tray with sandwiches and cold milk in hand. There was also a smaller glass, one with a familiar pearlescent potion in it. Draco frowned at it, then quirked his eyebrows at Nappy, asking silently if that was what he thought it was.
"Master should drink. Mistress told Nappy to bring some for Master. Master should drink."
Draco hesitated. He wanted it. His head was aching, his whole body was so tired. The amorita would help. How like his mother to leave him some of the precious potion. Still, he hesitated to drink the precious potion. There was only so much of it left. If he drank it, it would run out all the sooner.
"Master? Master needs his strength."
Nappy had a point. He could be dead tomorrow. Then what was he saving it for? He reached for the small glass.
He took a sip and had to lean back in his chair. The pleasure was so intense. It was as if his mother was back, here with him, encouraging him, holding him, helping him through all of this.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there, just enjoying the feeling of the amorita washing through him. Finally, he opened his eyes. Nappy was gone. His supper was left on the desk. He could do this. He just needed to get to work.
It was almost an hour later when he took the list of books up to the library. Nappy would've been happy to get them for him, but he needed to stretch his legs if he wanted to stay awake. He was so tired.
He'd just entered the library when he heard it.
"Mr. Malfoy?"
His head jerked up from the list he'd been perusing. Had he just heard someone calling his name?
"Mr. Malfoy?"
He looked around. Great. His father was already insane. His aunt was crazy. It figured his mind was starting to slip. He had it coming from both sides of the family.
"MR. MALFOY!"
He was sure he heard something. He went to look. Maybe he was losing his mind, but he wasn't going to get any work done until he checked on this. The sound seemed to be coming from deep in the library. He looked around for a house elf. No one.
Then he peeked at the portrait, Hyacinth's portrait. She had turned and was looking straight at him, a somewhat desperate look in her wide eyes.
"Mr. Malfoy. There you are. I've been waiting for hours. You have a message, a long message."
He didn't know what was the greater relief – that she was actually calling him, he wasn't hearing voices that weren't there, or that there was a return message. At last. He looked – the vase was covered, top to bottom, with fairly small runes. This wasn't just a message. It was an epic. He flipped his list over and started writing on the back of it, then called Nappy to get him more parchment. He was so excited that he translated some of the words as he went, leaving the more unfamiliar ones to look up when he had it all down.
More than two hours later he set down his quill. His body was more tired than ever, but his soul felt light. Whoever it was – his contact – had heard him. He still didn't know if it was Granger or not. Maybe not since it'd taken so long to reply. His contact might have had to get someone else to help, that could be anyone. But maybe it was her. Maybe she'd just taken so long because she'd been working this all out. He headed back to his room, stopping off at his office to drop off his notes.
Why did he care anyway? Granger, Weasley and Potter were the only ones on the other side that he knew, not that he knew them any more than they knew him. For some reason Granger intrigued him. The other two were dunderheads who just charged in wherever they went without thinking. Potter must've been bathed in Felix Felicis when he was born, otherwise he'd never had made it this far. Weasley was such an oaf, Potter probably just kept him around to make himself look good. He laughed as reached his room and took a quick drink of water from the basin on the dresser.
Granger was smart though. If she was in Slytherin she would've known to conceal the power of her brain so others wouldn't suspect that she was always two steps ahead of them. Instead, in true Gryffindor fashion, she never held back, and seemed to get very little from her two sidekicks in exchange for her help in the classroom and out of it. Did she ever notice that he wondered as he changed out of his robes into his pajamas.
He'd always wondered if she played the piano. She had very graceful hands, though they were stronger than they looked. He smirked at the memory. At the time he'd been furious. Hitting him like that, in front of Crabbe and Goyle, could have made them doubt him. He hadn't known what to do. His mother would skin him alive if he ever laid hands on a woman, mudblood or not. So he'd taken off and made up some story that he'd provoked her on purpose, that he'd keep the memory in a pensieve and threaten to show the Headmaster if he ever needed to rein her in. Luckily, they not only bought it, but thought he was crafty as ever. Of course, they forgot all about it and never noticed that he'd done no such thing.
If Granger was his contact, then maybe she'd have some clue how the Dark Lord could be killed, what to do, how to get to him. Of course, he'd have to ask first and he wasn't nearly ready for that. He got into bed and lay back, mind still too busy to sleep.
What mattered was that he wasn't alone. Someone had heard him. Not just heard him, but answered him with a plan, a brilliant plan. He'd been expecting, well, hoping for, some advice on what he should do. Instead, they'd given him a full plan, one where they, someone from the Order, would be doing the bulk of the work. Basically, all he had to do was show up, play his part, cover any gaps and they'd do the rest. Amazingly enough, this plan might actually work.