The way people referred to the fortress varied, and got a little confusing. Many referred to the place as a whole as 'the fortress', while some just used that name for the main building of the… umm… compound. There was more inside the imposing walls than just the one building, after all. Cramped residences, impromptu markets and stalls, and even a sort of ramshackle post office were a part of the camp, but outside of the main castle-like building. The word 'fortress' could mean that main building where all the planning and government took place, or the whole haven in general.
Draco, since he could, just called the main building 'headquarters', partly to reinforce the perception in his workers that they were an organization, not merely a refugee camp, and partly because he knew that was what Lupin called his charming little suburban home, and he couldn't resist the irony.
Draco, being Draco, thought often how his headquarters was so much better than Lupin's.
The main building was also the keep, the center, the capitol, and a whole number of other names. Most of the inhabitants of the place just choose whichever they thought most fitting, and hoped everyone else would be able to figure out what they were talking about.
Matthews had tried to organize some sort of official name for their home, but there were too many ideas, and too much conflict. Since division among the Rebels was hardly what he'd intended, the project was dropped, and the settlement went unnamed.
Although the keep was certainly more spacious, and although it did have the largest kitchen in the area, Draco did occasionally need to get out of it. He felt that if he didn't, he'd end up stark raving mad, running around the halls in just his boots and a tie. When he had to explain his excursions, however, he said that it was important to keep in touch with his people. Both reasons were true. One just didn't fit his image as well.
There was one place he frequented more than others. Just a few aisles (paths, alleys—nothing in this fortress was big enough to be a street) away from the marketplace, a brother and sister pair from Holland had set up an establishment for those who needed some sort of hot food, but couldn't make it themselves. They'd been behind a radical terrorist group in their homeland, but within these walls, they served the best stew Draco'd ever tasted.
There was some smattering of cheers when he entered, which he acknowledged, but they didn't go on for too long. He was about pretty often, so the novelty of him had worn off for most. And if they made a big fuss, their stew would get cold. That was just a crime.
He headed for his customary table against the wall. He was in a horrible mood, honestly, but he didn't have the luxury of being able to lock himself up in his room and sulk. He had an operation to run, and that meant that those sulking days were long over. He walked about, held meetings, gave speeches, and did his damnedest to act as though nothing earth-shaking had happened in the last few days.
The Order's emissaries had been here almost a week. Draco had been doing an excellent job of avoiding them, foisting them onto Blaise or Matthews when his subordinates had nothing better to do. He had seen the other woman (Hannah? Anna?) wandering around on her own occasionally, and had (not to his credit) always found some nook or side-street to duck into. Hermione Granger, he hadn't seen since the first day she arrived.
He had to commend himself on his cool head. Having gotten used to the idea of her in what he thought of as his home, he thought that he' d be able to get used to the sight of her as well. Maybe he'd even be able to talk to her. But honestly, Draco didn't particularly want to put that theory to the test. It would be embarrassing if he blew up at her in some place where people would see. He was glad that he hadn't seen her. Perhaps this whole thing could be done without his having ever to speak to her again.
Ha. Maybe.
Draco pulled a packet of translucent papers out of his jacket pocket. He found a quill, ink, and his pocket notebook in other pockets, and then set himself to work. The buzz of the restaurant faded in his ears, and he bent over his papers, checking facts and names and then scribbling intently on the packet. The ink seemed to smear almost as soon as he'd written on the paper, so that there was soon a pile of damp-looking blue-soaked papers to his right. He kept working, not even looking up as one of the workers set down a bowl of stew and a plate of bread near his elbow.
Finally, he finished orchestrating the beginning of his conquest of Europe, sat back, and tucked into his lunch. He was positively ravenous.