Questioning
Where the Dragon settles in and is confronted by the One
The next day was tedious. No one came to annoy him, but that meant he could not think up witty remarks and evil answers. Not that he would have spoken them out loud, but at least it proved he could still think what he wanted and be his own whole self. When he was alone, his mind seemed to separate into a mass of arguing voices, uncontrollable fears, shadows, memories; a boiling cataclysm of nightmares. Draco felt like he was losing himself.
"Not a surprise for someone who has run away from everything he was supposed to be," he muttered his thoughts out aloud. An empty, or what he had thought to be an empty painting hanging on the wall giggled. Draco threw a surprised glare at it, but it seemed that the occupant was safely out of sight. Figures, he thought, they wouldn't have him unwatched, even if he had supposedly owned up to them. Draco rose from the bed and stared around the room. Perhaps it was time for a thorough inspection.
The hangings, chair covers and other textiles in the room were still the ghastly flowered cloth. The walls were still mouldy cardboard, probably had been wood some time, but too destroyed to be recognised as such. The floor, however, was strong oak. Draco liked oak floors. They were warmer than the forever marble of the Malfoy Manor. The doors were elegant enough, the handles polished silver, it seemed. Draco wondered where on earth you could have mouldy walls and silver doorknobs.
The four-poster he was sleeping in was magical antique, the woodcarvings were moving quietly, animating the deer and wolves and other creatures captured into the wood. They were supposed to picture some kind of paradise, he supposed, as one wolf was quite happily licking a rabbit clean, before gambolling away to race a deer. Next to the bed was a small nightstand with a fairy nightlight that probably twinkled and glowed soothingly if one woke up at night; Draco had had a similar one when he was small.
A desk was pushed against one wall; it had parchment and a quill on it. Draco sat on the chair before it and slid his hand on the wood. It was indeed expensive ebony, finely polished and carved. The four-poster was mahogany, but that was probably because of the extensive magical uses of the wood; it had some of the best properties for animating furniture, being hard enough to not wear down and soft enough to move smoothly. Ebony however was dense wood and it's fine texture made it beautiful to work with, magic embedding itself into it firmly. It held its magical properties for centuries. What such a luxury item was doing in an Order hideout, Draco would have liked to know very much.
The engravings were elegant, showing rampant greyhounds, stars and a sword amidst complicated patterns, the design revealing it to be traditional craftsmanship. Malfoy Manor held few pieces of the Guild too. Draco was caught by the words engraved. Toujours Pur. He uttered the words aloud and at once the engravings flashed silver and moved so that they formed a crest on the middle of the table. The Black family crest. Draco Malfoy was in Grimmauld Place, home of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
Draco smirked. He was trapped in a house where his blood had power. This could be useful. Pity that Kreacher had been removed to Hogwarts. He had caught the mad house-elf sniffing around the Slytherin dorms once, searching for something. The slave had however been quick to vanish out of sight after a respectful bow and muttered curses about "the dirty Potter boy". Kreacher was a house-elf to Draco's liking. The very opposite of that cursed traitor Dobby.
Draco picked up the quill and doodled on to the parchment. It didn't seem to be otherwise magical than being Ever-Filled, but Draco filed it into his memory as something worth investigating. The silver filaments on it spoke of higher magical craftsmanship, and Draco knew the signs from seventeen years of investigating magical artefacts of the Manor.
Turning his attention to the drawers of the desk, he didn't find anything too interesting. The top drawer held parchment; Draco suspected the drawer was Ever-Filled too; the second very normal quills that were black-feathered and had a small Black crest on each of them, Draco found them very suiting, but quite useless compared to the first one; the third was quite empty as were the rest of drawers on the left. On the right side of the desk was a bookcase closed behind a glass door; familiar children's books were shelved neatly on it.
Draco lifted them out and smiled at the cover of the topmost one. How the Nundu got his Spots and other tales of Magical Creatures by Suleiman B. Daouad was a favourite of his, his own copy now lying forgotten and worn in the library of the Manor. This copy had beautiful leather binding, on which unicorns pranced and kneazles stalked. It was a work of art. He carefully put the pile of books on the nightstand; he would read through them when he had time, which he had plenty. The Order seemed to be in no hurry to get rid of him.
Turning back to the small cupboard of the desk he ran his fingers over the walls of the space. He could not find any obvious keyholes, trapdoors or other secret safes. He bent over the surface of the desk again and thoughtfully ran his finger over the still sparkling crest. One of the greyhounds snapped at his fingers and he drew his fingers away from it. The greyhound followed his fingers and he laughed at its antics. A thought struck him, and he ordered the dog to sit. Dutifully it sat down and looked up at him. "Down," made it lie down, "roll" had the dog twirling around the desk in passion. "Good boy," Draco complemented it and the dog wagged his tail pleased.
The other hound was still in its position of standing against the crest. Draco stroked it like he had the other, and it shook itself and wandered off to a corner, sniffing at something. "Come here boy," Draco tried, but the hound just looked at him and continued its inspection of the corner. The other dog instead came with speed, rolling onto its back in submission. The painting on the wall laughed out loud this time and Draco turned quickly managing to get a glimpse of a little girl skipping away from the picture partly hidden by the bed.
He continued trying to convince the other dog to cooperate with him, keeping an eye on the painting. The painted girl proved to be rather curious and after a while she poked her golden-locked head from behind the frame and spied on his attempts. In the end she gave an exasperated sigh and cleared her throat importantly, "The hound is a she, fool." Draco arched his brow at her unconvinced, but as soon as he called after the bitch by "girl", it obligingly scampered along to join her fellow dog. "The boy is called Snuffles and the girl Toffles."
"Why would anyone name them with ridiculous names like that?" Draco scoffed.
"Well, excuse me for being eleven when I received the desk!" The painting retorted at him.
"Is there anything else you would like to inform me about the desk?"
"Why should I tell secrets to anyone who hasn't even introduced himself to me?"
Draco cursed paintings with too strict senses of manners and rose to walk up to the painting. It however occurred to him that if the painting did not know who he was, she was probably not on orders to spy on him, which in itself was pleasing. "Draco Lucius Malfoy, at your service. My mother's maiden-name is Black."
The girl in the painting performed an etiquette-trained curtsy and introduced herself as Cassiopeia Black. "Glad to meet a member of family."
"Likewise," Draco replied dryly. "Any chance of tips on the desk then?"
"I don't know if you're worth that yet," she chirped happily and dragged a divan into the picture with surprising ease. She laid herself on it with grace and yawned behind a sleek hand, "but now that we are introduced I can sleep at last. Thank goodness for that, I'm so tired." Her logic seemed strange to Draco, but he had found during his years in the Manor that paintings were often half-mad due to ageing charms and simple boredom.
He continued his study of the room, leaving the desk until Cassiopeia would tell him more. There were two cabinets in the room, otherwise it was empty, missing items indicated by lighter patches on the walls where mirrors and paintings had been removed. The cabinets matched the desk with their ebony sheen and had a silver star engraved on the top of them. The first cabinet was empty, except for the silver brush that had a comb matching it.
The other had a battalion of hangers waiting to hold clothes in order. The cabinets were wardrobes, enchanted ones too if Draco wasn't mistaken. He had one of these himself at the Manor; it held immense amounts of clothes in and had strong wards against moths, beetles, mould and anything that could be considered a threat against clothes. He missed his wardrobe, its mirror was extraordinarily qualified in helping choose clothes for any occasion, and the wardrobe was very competent in keeping his vast stock of clothes in order and pristine condition. Draco wouldn't trust his raw silk evening robes to a house-elf for all the gold in the world.
"Cassiopeia, are you awake?" Draco asked the portrait.
"No."
"Aren't there any mirrors in the room?"
"Used to be, but they took them away, because they were rude. They took everything that was rude away."
"Rude as in…?"
"Calling half of them blood traitors and the rest Mudbloods. They were rather inaccurate too, but I think it was just the attitude. But I miss the dressing table. It was very friendly and it adored my locks. Don't you think they are pretty?"
Draco thought she had too many charms in her corkscrew curls, but he was practised in the art of manners and pleasantries and praised her hair. She was immediately pleased and started prattling away about beauty care and jewellery and Rowena-curse-whatever and Draco soon tuned it out with the expertise of tuning Pansy out for the last ten years. After five minutes of worship of beauty merchandise Draco decided to cut in.
"So you used to live in this room?"
"Yes it was my room until just five years ago when I died."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Oh, it was about time, I was getting terribly ugly. Now I'm the only picture of me left too; Sirius burned all the photos of me with the others, which is lovely. I was the prettiest girl in Hogwarts. This portrait was made when I was fifteen."
"So who owns the house at the moment? Sirius Black died last year, but Aunt Bellatrix didn't get the rights…"
"I bet she was raving; after all the work she did she didn't get her family house back," commented someone from behind.
Draco turned to see the intruder, cursing himself for not noticing anyone coming in.
"Hello, Harry!" Cassiopeia twittered eagerly.
"Hi, Cassie."
"Potter, don't do that!" Draco spluttered, shocked.
"What?"
"Sneak into my room without even a knock. I know you never learned manners, but this outrageous."
"Last time I looked it was my room that I had graciously lent for your use."
"You own Grimmauld Place?"
"Sirius was my godfather, after all."
"Well, that is one mystery answered. Everyone was rather disappointed; Headquarters of the Order would've been such a prize."
"Feel like chatting, then?"
Draco realized he was talking without thinking; the babbling portrait must have affected him. Bother. "If you found that useful information, you must be devoid of any news of the Dark Lord."
"Actually, we are, as we lost our trustworthy contact in the inner circle. We were thinking you might want to give a helping hand in return of safety."
"Trustworthy contact? As in Snape? Unlucky that the Unbreakable Vow Mother made with him screwed everything up. The Dark Lord was furious after he blew his cover just to protect me." Draco's tone was bitter and his eyes started to feel hot and moist. Don't you dare cry in front of Potter.
"So he sent you to take up his place?"
"Are you Weasley? I didn't even manage to get the Mark, faltering at the deciding point." Draco spat out, thrusting his pure white left arm to be inspected.
"You don't need to be a spy to carry the Mark."
"I'd need the trust of him to carry a mission that risky! Snape was doing it due to his expert Occlumency skills!"
"But you don't need to fool Dumbledore, do you? And don't try and say you don't know Occlumency, I know Bellatrix taught you."
"Even if I were a Occlumens, do you really believe he would've risked a Malfoy in such a uncertain plan?"
"Voldemort never really cared who was who, did he?"
Draco was getting more and more frustrated. He was actually talking to Potter without hexes and insults, and he was finding that it was rather useless to talk to the idiot without them. The Boy Who Lived Stubbornly was insulting him, provoking him. How was he supposed to stay calm?
"I know there is no chance you could trust me Potter! What I don't get is why you don't feed me Veritaserum and get it over with?"
"The problem is that we are short of Veritaserum. Slughorn's doing some business for the Order and Hermione is preparing a massive batch right this moment, but it is complicated and…"
"Now who is spilling it? And you're actually trusting Granger to do Veritaserum to the Order? She hasn't even done her N.E.W.T.'s! I won't touch anything she has made!"
"I'll tell you when you have a choice about that. And we don't have anyone else to spare, and Hermione happens to be brilliant - if you haven't noticed she's had higher scores than you on every subject!"
" Except Potions. We tied for first place," Draco muttered indignantly.
"You got all the ideas for your plots from her!"
"Except the Vanishing Cabinets! Wait a minute, how did you know? I haven't…!"
Draco's question was interrupted by a loud voices shouting. Over all of it was a shriek yelling out something about purebloods and thieves. Potter turned immediately to the door with a confused look on his face, "I told the door specifically not to allow anyone in! What…?"
A small, lean Asian woman was standing in the doorway. She wore some kind of Oriental silk robes, with amazingly lifelike embroidered Chinese Fireballs and for a second all Draco's brain could do was slobber after the woman's tailor. If it hadn't been for the screaming from outside the room, there would have been a very surprised silence. At least on the part of the boys. The woman seemed entirely composed, surveying the two of them with sharp eyes. When footsteps where heard hammering up the stairs, she snapped her bony fingers and the door closed.
