Unplottable

15 - Draco

The news found him in the middle of Quodpot practise. The Inostranits were practicing the alien discipline in the hope that their performance at Boston Magical High School next spring would not be more than moderately embarrassing. Of course, that meant taking precious time off Quidditch practice, but as much as Draco did not want the Inostranits to come in last in the Durmstrang Quidditch competition, he realised that international contacts were crucial. Quodpot was important, not as a game - Draco thought that in fact it was not only boring, but bordered on the mindless - but as a means of proving to the Americans that Durmstrang's Inostranit House were worth their friendship.

Glad to be rid of it, Draco passed the Quod to Mejsje, a tall, blonde reserve Beater of the Inostranit Quidditch team. Due to a Quodpot team consisting of eleven, not of seven members, and as injuries were frequent, anyone who had so much as ever touched a Quaffle had been required to play. As a consequence, not only mindless idiots like Crabbe and Goyle were on the pitch, but also untalented nothings like Mejsje. Draco sighed inwardly. He could not entirely deny it: Sometimes he missed the glorious Slytherin Quidditch team with their sleek brooms and there long tradition of winning the Quidditch cup. Durmstrang had its points, of course, its political orientation being the chief one; up close, however, the medieval Russian castle looked gloomy, felt chilly and was very far from home indeed.

Just when the mediwizard led the noseless, bloodied and blackened Mejsje off the storm-beaten Quidditch pitch, Draco's team captain Rechter turned towards him with a smirk. "So what do you say about the assassination in your home?" he asked.

Draco's heart missed a beat: His home? Had something happened to his father? He was dying to find out, but he wouldn't let on that he had no idea what Rechter was talking about. The self-assured German, Draco knew, would find ways to take advantage of his ignorance. So he only shrugged and said: "Shnirk happens."

Rechter, who, Draco suspected, had not yet figured out the meaning of the word 'shnirk' yet, snorted. "You don't think it is a shame?" he asked, mutilating each single diphthong as always.

Draco felt a strong urge to ask directly, or better, to torture Rechter until he emitted information indiscriminately, but resisted. "Depends on the perspective," he replied ominously.

"Heard your father was going for the office now," Rechter said with his eyebrows raised. Draco felt a surge of relief. His father seemed to be alive. Of course, it was getting more and more difficult to sound knowing and neutral at the same time; his tool, as always, was a sceptic kind of aloofness. What kind of office might Rechter be talking about?

"Might be, but then again, he still has to figure out whether it's worth it. If I was him, I'd reconsider long and hard, and that's what I told him when he asked me for my opinion. What would you say?" Draco had to congratulate himself on his smart move. While claiming that not only had he talked about the unknown matter at hand with his father, but that Lucius Malfoy had actually asked his only son's opinion - something he would never really do, but what did Rechter know - while claiming all that, he had still asked Rechter a question that might yield more information.

The German bit his bottom lip in an unbecoming way. Thinking did not suit him. He might be a good Quidditch player, but he wasn't anything like a 'poet or philosopher', that much was certain.

"Minister of Magic? Hm, I should reckon it might be an interesting position, in terms of power, I mean. Mind you, some positions may be more profitable than serving the people -" Rechter snorted, showing his disdain for serving anyone but the elite even among wizards, "but for a start...."

Minister of Magic. Fudge had been killed by some unknown assassinator, and his father was running for the office. Draco found it hard to hide his emotions - the excitement about the matter, but also the humiliation of hearing this from Rechter, not from his father himself. Luckily, the Quodpot game could be resumed before he had to think of a fitting reply.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After practise and a depressingly cold shower, Draco looked for his Daily Prophet lying around the Inostranit common room, a place characterised by a persistent chill and an ever-present smell of mildew. As the delivery owl had to come all the way from London, he rarely got his paper before the afternoon. If he had practise or afternoon classes, often his classmates helped themselves to his copy, a practise Draco would have liked to stop but did not know how to do this without making any enemies in the narrow confinement of the Inostranit house. Finally, he found the paper lying in a disorderly heap next to an armchair in a dingy corner of the common room. He knew he still had some extensive Curses & Hexes homework to do, but for once put it off until he had found the front page, which, predictably, featured the news of Fudge's demise. Draco scanned the article and whistled through his teeth. Killed at Hogwarts, killed by a fugitive werewolf, under 'alleged influence of You-Know-Who'. Remus Lupin was done for, that much was certain. Draco could not say he felt sorry for his former teacher in any way. Instead, he grinned when his thoughts strayed off to Rechter's question. Lucius Malfoy as Britain's Minister of Magic, now that would be really something. His father would put things right in Britain, Malfoy was sure: All riff-raff and scum among wizards beware - here came the ancient, honourable and, of course, wealthy house of the Malfoys.

After eating 'oojin', Draco went to the daily evening meeting of the 'Contshina Edocs', a group that Mr. Petrodent had named, very much to the amusement of all Russian students and teachers. The smallish, insignificant-looking servant of the Dark Lord with the odd silvery hand did not seem to notice that there was a considerable amount of snickering behind his back. Whatever kind of meaning the name was supposed to but failed to convey, the group consisted of students who, for extra-curricular purposes, were preparing the annihilation of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry by means of the Eliminatus curse. Most of them were Inostranits, but a few Uchenies and Pemeslos, a couple of proud Gospods and even a single Hudojnic could be found among the group's regular members.

While the meetings of the young Death Eater aspirants occasionally featured discussions of how the group could best serve the Dark Lord, or the planning of events such as the visit to Boston Magical High School, their main point was to practice channelling magical energy for the Eliminatus curse. Ludmila Davies, Head of the Inostranit house, supervised them in their activities on a nightly basis and made sure no severe magical accident happened. The middle-aged Anglo-Russian teacher for Combat Magic was a loyal servant of the Dark Lord, Draco had heard, and obviously could be trusted with his youngest followers. Mr. Petrodent showed up roughly every other week, giving further instructions and taking notes in an ominous black book. Draco was sure the servant of the Dark Lord was reporting the students' behaviour and achievements back to his master, pre-sorting them into suitable and less suitable aspiring Death Eaters. On the other hand, he pondered, maybe Petrodent only brought a notebook to motivate the students; when he was around, everyone tried to outdo the others. Draco himself was no exception; as soon as he spotted the smallish wizard, even the matter of the assassination lost some of its importance in relation to the acute necessity of making a good impression.

After Channelling practice, Petrodent called Draco back into the room. Rechter turned his head and shot him a look of envy, but as he was not called as well, he strode off after the other 'Conts'. Petrodent told Draco his help might be required in a matter of minor importance. Promptly Draco replied he'd be happy to be of assistance, at the same time feeling slightly disgusted of his and everybody else's reverence towards the inadequate and ugly servant of the Dark Lord. Politics, he told himself as he half-bowed - that was all his behaviour was about.

"Actually, I'd like to ask you a few things about Hogwarts," Petrodent replied. "I understand you have been here for more than a school year, so your information would not be quite up to date, but it might be better than -" he emitted a false little laugh, "than mine, for instance." Petrodent must have caught Draco's surprised look, so he added: "I was a student there, myself , but that was a long time ago. Later, I spent some time at the school again, but my perspective might have been a bit - let's say, limited."

"Of course, Mr. Petrodent. What kind of information would you be interested in?" Draco asked, racking his brain for any kind of information whatsoever concerning the castle's defence mechanisms. However, that did not seem to be what Petrodent was after.

"First of all, I'd like to have a description of all your teachers - what they are like, how they teach, who is friends with whom - every little bit of information you can remember." Petrodent's blue, watery eyes fixed on Draco; his lachrymal sacs seemed to quiver with anticipation. Draco tried hard not to frown. Petrodent surely had to know who taught at Hogwarts - he had talked at length about the defensive qualities of Dumbledore, Snape and the old bag, McGonagall.

Again, Petrodent must have sensed his confusion, because he added: "Some of the teachers have been at Hogwarts for ages, so I know them, but some have not. For example, your Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers have changed four times. Lupin, for instance - I wouldn't mind hearing a few things about him. Just tell me everything you can think of and don't worry about boring me with some of it - I'm used to that. It's just that I'd like to hear some stories, some anecdotes, you know - about teachers, and also about students. I'm particularly interested in your third year, by the way, and maybe your fourth, too."

Draco did his best. All in all, he spent about four hours with the Death Eater, relating many stories in great detail. Petrodent listened and took notes. A few times, he asked for further information. Draco told him all he knew, hoping to win status with the wizard and his master. While he recounted incidents, described places and people, Hogwarts castle rose before his eyes; he could almost see the Slytherin common room, smell the grass on the Quidditch pitch, hear the voices of some Slytherin acquaintances that had not been transferred to Durmstrang. With a strange pang of nostalgia, he remembered the Giant Squid and the large Halloween banquets. The more he talked, the more he enjoyed dwelling on his memories; he realised that he'd had quite a good time at his old school.

It was well after two o'clock at night when Petrodent finally called a halt to the session by thanking Draco and closing his little notebook with a slam. Draco awoke as from a dream; he rubbed his eyes and oozed back into the present - a large, empty schoolroom with cracked and scorched walls, smelling slightly of sweat, soot and burned cabbage.

"Thank you, Mr Malfoy - you have been a big help," Petrodent said as he rose from his chair. "My master will be pleased to hear this. Now I think I will call some house-elves to guide you to your dormitory, as it is well past your bed-time."

Draco thanked him for his kindness, feeling extremely weary. Suddenly, in the middle of a sleep-deprived haze, it seemed extremely strange to him that he should try to destroy his old school. He felt an urge to ask Petrodent to what use his information would be put, but bit back his curiosity: Proper Death Eaters did not ask questions.

After the house-elves had lit him the way to his bed (not a four-poster like in the castle but a plain cast-iron affair with squeaky bed-springs aligned with a dozen look-alikes), Draco quickly undressed and slid under the icy covers. Hardship builds character, he whispered inaudibly to himself, mocking one of the school's many unpleasant mottos. Then he relaxed, hoping to be immersed in sleep immediately. However, just as he could feel his consciousness slip away, a thought went through his brain like a jolt of Muggle eckeltricity. Immediately he was awake again. Damning the thought inwardly, he felt on his bedside table for a quill and a piece of scrap parchment. All he wanted was to sleep, because in a few hours he would have to rise again for a very exhausting day; however, making a note would take the thing off his mind and hopefully permit him to fall asleep. In the darkness, he scribbled one word - probably illegible, but certainly the scribble would remind him of his plan to e-mail Chad at Boston Magical High as soon as his tight timetable would give him a chance. There was something uncanny about the questions Petrodent had asked, something which had just occurred to Draco. Suddenly he had a very, very odd thought - and he knew just the person who might confirm or disconfirm his idea.