Darling

His father was due back home two days later, and it meant Draco'd go from being able to skip two or three dinners a week to not being able to skip any, and having to have them with his father present. Wonderful: double the gut-twisting fun. He anticipated the day with dread and the kind of nervous excitement that the medi-witch had said was precisely the worst kind of excitement for his weak stomach. He double-dosed himself without telling anyone and tried to keep his mouth shut most of the time.

So when the Dark Lord summoned him into a private meeting after breakfast with five or six other low-level death eaters, he was nervous enough to throw up, but admirably did not. He was so cocky about not throwing up that he had to bite back the first smart-ass quip that tugged at his lips, so as to prevent his own death. Generally speaking, junior death eaters who entered secret meetings by saying "So what's up, V-dawg" in an annoying American accent did not last long. There'd be questions about where he picked up American accents and things, and he couldn't rat out his mates rebelliously tuning in Muggle radio on the wireless without getting them killed or transfigured or something.

So instead, Draco sat somewhere in the middle of the lot of them, trying not to stand out in the group - though it was his house, and he was impeccably dressed, comparatively, and he had that cursed head of shining blond hair, and the others kept looking at him like he was going to drag them all down with him.

He grinned smugly at them; he was the youngest one there. He tried to pretend it was because he rated entry so much earlier than they had, because he was better and not because the Dark Lord was trying, once again, to off him to punish Lucius. How bittersweet, if he were to die on an errand his father should have been running, on the very day the man was due back.

It was unfortunate the others weren't frightened of his name any more. No one respected one of the oldest wizarding families on record, and some part of Draco felt sick that something that had been ingrained in him from birth could be so quickly proven false. He made a note to bring it up to his father some day. He could see it; "Father, why is it you always said we were better because we had respect and wealth and lineage, but now none of those things seems to matter?" And his father would say ... what? Oops, not the time to think of it. He blanked his mind and shoved those thoughts off into the background, visualizing the maze-like black box as Aunt Bella had taught him to. Providing a mental box sitting in the middle of his mental landscape, she said, was like showing the master lockpick the safe and conveniently leaving the room for twenty minutes. Better to have a maze, dead ends with genuinely emotional leads - "remember your puppy, Draco love, and put it at the end of a path. The intruder will follow your sorrow, love, all the way to nowhere." Only Bella would call him "love" so many times in one breath; only Bella would consider the sadness a six year old feels at losing a pet a path to "nowhere."

Nevertheless, Draco had littered his mind with such dead ends, and it helped him profoundly in his everyday dealings, even when full-on Occlumency would have been overkill. No one could have guessed, for example, that he was as humiliated at Potter's first rebuff six years ago as he'd really been. It was easy to sneer and laugh it off, especially with the Weasel giving him such ready material for jokes that would have made his friends laugh. No one could have guessed that he'd - well, no one would, ever. Draco pushed those things into corners in the farthest reaches of the maze and faced front, blanking his face.

"It is time to prove yourssselves, my friends," Voldemort rasped, spreading his arms beneficently. "A first mission, for sssome of you. I trust you to handle it well."

Draco felt eyes on him. For some of these people, he was certain to be known as the young death eater who'd made the infiltration of Hogwarts possible. He felt surprisingly little pride about it.

"Undoubtedly, many of you have read a recent article in the Prophet," the Dark Lord continued, holding up a copy of the offending rag. "Your orders are to track and apprehend the author of this article and detain her for questioning. Sssnape."

Professor Snape swept to the Dark Lord's side and Draco realised with a start that he'd been in the room the entire time, unobtrusive and watchful. Dread dropped into his stomach at the memories seeing him again invoked of that night flight from the tower after he'd... killed Dumbledore. Draco tried to be invisible while the Professor's gaze swept the assembled team.

"Two of you have had experience carrying out the Dark Lord's orders," he intoned imperiously, the way he used to frighten Longbottom in Potions, oh so long ago. "Young Master Malfoy and Mister Aidleroy, there." He nodded at the two of them, and Aidleroy, a stubby looking fellow, beamed around the room. Draco sneered at everyone for good measure, since being invisible clearly wasn't working.

"Won't she have bodyguards?" one of the newer recruits piped up.

"Indeed," Professor Snape agreed flatly. "I suggest you plan accordingly. Here is your intelligence." He dropped a thick packet of parchment onto the conference table. "Master Malfoy, if I might have a word?"

Draco glanced up at the Dark Lord, who was consumed with surveying his property again, and then back at Snape before he nodded and broke away from the pack to meet him a few paces away.

"Yes, sir?" he said meekly.

Snape frowned. "Your attitude leaves something to be desired. Are you feeling quite all right?"

Draco raised his brows. It was wholly unlike Snape to ask after one's health, but perhaps he had heard, possibly from his mother... Of course. He'd be worried that Draco's health might interfere with the mission. "I'm quite well," he reassured, trying to perk up and look as excited as the rest of the team.

"Rather," Snape purred dangerously, then changed the subject. "You are, despite being an arrogant prat and far too young and airheaded for any kind of intense mission, the most qualified of this bunch to run one, much as it pains me to admit."

Draco tried not to pale. Run a mission? No way. Already done it, don't want to try another. But saying "the last one nearly killed me and wrecked my sixth year marks" wouldn't earn him any good points for his "attitude," so he just clenched his jaw and nodded. "Yes, sir," he bit out, allowing himself to look annoyed. Attitude that.

"I would suggest caution, a distraction, and a bit of Malfoy charm. I trust you remember how to be charming?"

"Charming..." Draco repeated stupidly.

"It's that bit wherein you smile and ladies do what you ask them to," Snape purred again. "I would, of course, have no experience in this arena, but I expect you take after your father."

Draco winced. He hadn't meant to, but the mention of his father was sort of a low blow. He let it steady his resolve. Win this, and his nigh-disastrous behaviour over the last year could be forgiven. He grinned at Snape and cocked his head, which felt nice and familiar. "Of course I do," he assured him. "If you'll excuse me, I've a mission to run."

"Indeed you do," Snape replied coolly, then inclined his head once, and escorted his Lord out into the drawing room for refreshments.

##

"I'm telling you, this is the best plan," Draco said again, huffing loudly. Snape's little jibe had done wonders for his resolve. What was he good at, if not proving he was better than the rest? "Do you want to listen to me, or to wonder-dough there?" Okay, so his powers of insult were rusty. Wonder-dough did him the favour of at least looking upset, his little pudge face screwing up like he was only just getting the joke.

Aidleroy cocked his head. He was in his twenties and had had one mission before, some nothing mission involving torching a Muggle bus that hadn't required planning or resulted in anything important happening. Whereas he had single-handedly unleashed a horde of Death Eaters into one of the most heavily protected estates in all of wizarding Britain.

"Setting a Muggle bomb in her autobomile-"

What was wrong with these people? Did Aidleroy go to the same lessons in Muggle artifice that Weasley Senior had?

"Automobile," Draco corrected firmly, "and no, it won't. You'll kill her, and our task is to capture her. Alive." He looked at a frowning Aidleroy. "In order to question her?"

"Fine," Aidleroy huffed. "So explain it again."

Draco blew out a breath. "We have to take care of the guards that are probably with her, because they can always just latch on if we Portkey or Apparate her away. We'll need a distraction for them. And then we'll need to trick her, so she won't Apparate herself away before we can jinx her, which we can't do in public, obviously. And we can't be us. And we can't use Polyjuice, because they've put detectors in all of the public buildings." It was easy to plan things when he thought about them like potions - a dreadfully boring class, but useful for honing those acute planning skills so necessary in the course of a life of evil. List all the things that can't work, and why, and you get the things that can, necessarily.

Snape would be proud, he found himself thinking in embarrassment, that he'd put his advice to use. Caution, distraction, and charm.

"And what do you suppose we do, then?" said Ethan Park, a slim kid a couple of years older than Draco at least.

"Old fashioned disguises," he said simply. "A glamour for each of us - you... do know how to perform a glamour, right?"

The lads nodded hesitantly, but he'd calculated that the one lady amongst them would lend her skills. Girls always knew glamouring better than gents, a gross stereotype Draco was only too happy to find proved out in this case.

Lydia Fentel set to work designing the glamours for the other four men while Draco briefed them on the plan.

"It's simple, but it'll work," he said. "We cannot be Death Eaters out there. Not even for the distraction. It'd put the guards on alert. It's got to be a generic, run of the mill ... mugging, or something. Just try not to look evil, all right? Better yet, stage a rescue and call the guards over to help." He looked at Lydia. "You'll be rescued."

"And where'll you be?" Aidleroy sneered.

"I'll be getting the goods," Draco replied with a satisfied grin. A simple plan, but effective. It'd work.

##

According to the intelligence Snape had given them, Charity Burbage ran a pretty well-worn path between her home, her temporary office at the Prophet, the day school where the lower and middle class wizards sent their children before age eleven, and her gym. School in summer was an abominable device, Draco thought lazily, not even trying to blend in with the other four gents he'd told to "mill about like common folk." No dark cloaks or sinister smirks or anything. They'd even procured Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tee shirts, so as to truly play the do-gooder part, even though he was the only one still school-aged.

Draco required the most intensive glamour, because his face was so very Malfoy, not to mention the hair. He was a brunette for the while, and had freckles and more almond shaped brown eyes which Lydia had assured him completely transformed his face into something unrecognizable. Indeed, even his partners in crime kept doing double takes to be sure they hadn't lost him and picked up some actual Gryffindor straggler. He found the newfound anonymity refreshing and spent a couple of minutes imagining himself into some other life, perhaps that of a publisher or philanthropist or eccentric. Eccentric, in particular, sounded quite the life.

He watched the school distractedly while his "mates" played quaffles and bludgers on the second practice court. He shouldn't have been, he knew. If anyone was watching, and after her article, they were bound to be, they'd know something was up. He needed to peel off realistically, so anyone watching the unfolding events wouldn't question a party of four where five ought to be.

"I'm off, lads," he said suddenly, standing and stretching. "Mum's got supper on early, on account of Grandad's got his company over tonight. I've gotta pick up the sundries." He grinned. "If Lacey asks, tell her to come round back, and I'll sneak her in." That was sufficiently Gryffindorish, breaking rules, brazenly boasting about it.

As coached, the other four waved at him cheerfully from their brooms. In another four minutes, "Lacey" would show up asking after him, and them in Hufflepuff shirts would make a bit of a stink about breaking the rules, and them in Gryff shirts would laugh it off and make suggestive comments while she tittered stupidly. Meanwhile, he'd be placing himself strategically elsewhere.

Like clockwork, Burbage appeared at 2:30 in the afternoon, toting her son, a boy of about thirteen who shouldn't have been in lower school at all. Draco frowned. A decoy? Was that even Charity Burbage? He tensed, ready to give the abort signal. In the near distance, the supposed Burbage stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, kneeling in front of her maybe-son to smooth his cloak over his shoulders. The boy stared into space vacantly, but when she turned his face to her and asked her question again, he grew animated, waving his hands a little too much.

God, the boy was daft, Draco realised suddenly. Her son was still in lower school because he was slow. Balls. And why did it matter? Because they were about to take that boy's mother from him, and visions of just a few nights earlier when his own mum had caressed his cheek and told him that everything was going to be all right -

He was on his knees a moment later, resisting the urge to be sick. It was just a learned reflex anyway - a short mental step from stomach pain to the urge to vomit. If he tried to resist it, he'd succeed. So he breathed deeply and got his head back on and used the wall he'd been leaning against - casually - to stand back up.

Had to do it. There wasn't a choice. The boy'd be taken care of, he was certain. The good guys would ensure that he had means and support, at least until they were defeated and the Dark Lord took care of him in his own way. There, that was the proper attitude. And if it wasn't enough, all he had to do was imagine old Voldy's reaction if he were to flake out. In fact, the Dark Lord had probably put him on this mission because he thought he'd flake out, or get distracted by the circumstances and screw up. No one believed he was evil any more. It was annoying. Or maybe it was annoying that no one evil thought he was evil, and everyone good did.

Draco sighed and surveyed the scene. There were other people "milling about" as well. Her guards, undoubtedly. They were quite a bit less well-hidden than his lads, of course. It was so much harder to disguise "strident do-gooder" than it was to hide "attempted evil-doer," if only because evil chaps often played quaffles and bludgers anyway, so it didn't require acting talent.

On cue, "Lacey" showed up, asking after him. The whoops and cheers distracted the watching guards only a little, which was fine. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped out onto the sidewalk, exuding worry as he swept past her toward the front doors. He stopped short, then turned to her, realistically nervous.

"Sorry," he muttered, shoving his dark hair out of his eyes gracelessly. "Only, you haven't seen a young boy run by here, have you? About eight? My brother."

Charity Burbage glanced at a couple of the loitering strangers who might or might not have been sent there to guard her, then back at Draco's worried face. "Sorry?"

"He's in lower school here - he's supposed to meet me at the corner at two, only I was running late today on account of our mum wanted me to run some errands and I got held up with my mates-" he babbled, allowing himself to get worked up by his very real nervousness. He flapped a hand like he was trying to find a word for something. "Anyroad, mum'll kill me - he's a squib, or we think he is, maybe, so school in the summer, I know, but it's not safe for squibs, you know?" He glanced around like horrible evil squib-haters might be along any moment to nab his non-existent little brother. When he looked back at her, he was looking into the eyes of a worried mother, caught on the ragged edges of his story and just begging to be kidnapped in exchange for her selfless concern. Draco took a breath, then took the plunge. "Will you - sorry - could you help me look for him?"

Charity Burbage knitted her brows and tsked, dusting off her son's shoulder again. "Of course we'll help, won't we Forester?" Forester turned wide, vacant looking eyes on Draco, and Draco swallowed roughly. Sorry, chappo. "Come along then, where would he go?"

"Well, there's a park he likes, over on the other side of the block. I appreciate this. You don't know how much."

And that's about when "Lacey" got scooped up by a snickering Gryffindor on his broom. She squealed happily for about four seconds, before she started screaming. Draco turned for the look of it and pulled the photo out of his pocket in case he had to step up the timetable.

Lydia was hanging from one of the goal loops. When none of the lads in the air went to her aid, the three most likely agents of Light ran toward her to help. Draco turned back to Charity Burbage, who continued watching over his shoulder.

"He can't have gone far," he continued, starting off again. He stopped when she snagged his sleeve.

"What do you suppose..." she murmured, and Draco turned. His heart dropped into his stomach.

The boys on his team had landed and were ... talking with Lydia's would-be rescuers. After a moment of discussion, one of them turned in his direction and pointed.

Shit. Shit shit. A mission to kill him, obviously. How could he have been so stupid?

"What...?" he said stupidly, his mouth clearly possessed of better instincts than his ruinous brain. "Oh no ... they're after him," he improvised.

His confusion and utter dread, together with the sight of three grown men and four strong lads barrelling down upon them, were enough for Charity Burbage. The curses whizzed past them both as they turned to flee. They were barely two steps into it when the stunner hit him. Draco fell forward with a strangled cry and grunted when his elbow and then temple collided with the concrete sidewalk. He whimpered embarrassingly as the darkness closed in.

##

Charity Burbage froze. On the one hand, there were at least seven men headed toward her, apparently united and looking none too gentle. On the other, the poor young man with freckles and such a worried, trusting face was lying unconscious on the ground. She'd gotten a tip that there'd be trouble today, and she knew there were people there to protect her, supposedly. But trouble that came looking for her would just as likely delight in harassing a boy with a squib brother; she couldn't just leave him there.

She took a deep breath. Then, with a hand on her son and on the boy on the ground, she Apparated all three of them to the hide-away the Ministry had secured for her. Apparate-in only, she'd been told. No one could come in and take her out that way, not without raising alarms. She collapsed next to the dark-haired boy where he lay in the middle of her temporary sitting room, worn completely out from triple Apparating on a moment's notice.

"It's all right now," she said softly as the boy began to stir fitfully. "Forester, put a kettle on for Mummy, will you?" She watched after him as he left the room, then turned back to her visitor. She tested his temperature with the knuckles of one hand, resting them against his flush cheek gently. "What horrible luck for you today, dear boy," she fretted. "Of all of the mothers in the world to ask to help you..."

The boy shifted a little, eyelids fluttering. He groaned and one hand sought the opposite elbow in apparent pain. She moved quickly to run her hands down his torso looking for injury with an efficiency borne from motherhood. She was just deciding to throw embarrassment to the wind and take off his jacket when the point of a photo in the pocket stuck her in the thumb. She pulled it out gingerly and ran a couple of fingertips over the young face grinning in the photo, a white-blond boy who bore a resemblance to the one on her floor.

"My brother," the boy murmured breathily, reaching up to touch the back of the photo. "Felix."

With a sudden sucking sound, Charity Burbage felt the familiar tug of something at her navel, squeezing her entire body through the eye of a needle only to deposit it who knew where. When she landed, it was on her kettle, and she had no time at all to react before she was set upon.