Draco: Phoenix Rising

Chapter Nine - Draco's Conversations

Draco took his time dressing; a miniscule act of defiance. He dropped the coin on his desk, smoothed his hair once more in the mirror, and headed downstairs. He took the main staircase this time as a small reminder that he was the heir of the manor.

He knocked lightly on the parlour door and was not startled when Wormtail yanked it open. He wondered if Pettigrew had time to eat and sleep between grovelings.

The Dark Lord was not seated in his throne, for once. Instead, he stood before the large table against the right hand wall, perusing a scattering of paper that lay upon it.

"Come here, young Malfoy," he said without looking up. Draco approached, trying to affect a proper sycophantic walk and failing miserably. He managed the hangdog expression, though, by remembering how Crabbe and Goyle used to look whenever Draco berated them. Wearing it now, he was surprised neither of them had ever punched him. Subservience sucked.

Voldemort's horrible red eyes fastened on Draco's and the cringing became a whole lot easier. It wasn't too difficult to bow down before someone that would curse you into oblivion as easily as swatting a fly. Draco's palms felt suddenly clammy.

"Did you enjoy your outing today?"

Draco nearly shrugged, his usual response to adult questioning, but sensed at the last moment that any such casual display would enrage the Dark Lord.

"Assuredly," he said formally. "It was quite enjoyable to see the blood-traitors receive what they deserve." He tried to remember every confrontation he'd ever had with the Weasleys. He felt the familiar stirring of hatred when he remembered Ginny cursing him; Ron attacking him and giving him a black eye during a first-year Quidditch match, Fred and George hexing him after the Tri-Wizard tournament... "I despise the Weasleys," he added truthfully.

Voldemort laughed, a horrible, chilling sound.

"Any yet, none of the Weasels were home. A pity, Draco, that you are yet unblooded. Perhaps tomorrow you shall have another chance."

Questions rose in Draco's mind, but he forced them aside.

"Yes, Master," he said simply. Voldemort showed his pointed teeth; apparently please with Draco's response.

"You are a true son of Lucius. Ever prudent, ever wise, ever thinking. Sometimes I wonder if the Malfoys do not think too much."

Draco swallowed and his mouth was suddenly dry. He wasn't sure of a proper response. Voldemort leaned close to Draco, close enough that he could feel the Dark Lord's breath on his face.

"Even now, your little mind is spinning away, isn't it, Draco Malfoy? Thinking... thinking... thinking... Tell me," Voldemort said breathily, too intimately close, "What did you and your father discuss upstairs?"

The sudden change of topic sent ice through Draco's veins and he felt his throat tighten involuntarily.

"I asked him about your goals, Master," Draco whispered, giving massive thanks that he didn't have to lie about that. He felt something rustle across his boot and wanted to look down, but he could not tear his eyes away from the reptilian orbs that bored into him. Draco concentrated hard on everything his knew about Occlumency.

"And what did Lucius say about my goals?"

"He said you want to destroy the Ministry and punish the Mudbloods," Draco replied. Still the truth. He felt a scraping around his calves.

"Indeed. And how do you feel about that, Draco Malfoy?"

Now he was treading on dangerous ground. Draco thought hard about Harry Potter. Harry Potter making Seeker as a First Year. Harry as Dumbledore's pet boy--winning the House Cup again and again. Harry riding the stupid hippogriff. Harry nearly cutting him in two with a dark magic spell; he poured every ounce of hatred and rage into his next words, knowing that any sign of weakness would be the end of him.

"A worthy ambition, Master," he gritted.

"And does your father feel the same?" Voldemort breathed.

"Assuredly," Draco said as though surprised at the question. He suddenly realized the questions had not been meant to trap Draco at all, but had been yet another test to verify Lucius's loyalty.

Voldemort suddenly turned away and went back to his scrolls as though Draco was no longer present.

"You may release him, Nagini. Draco has not betrayed me. Yet."

Draco looked down finally, to see the huge snake that had curled itself around his lower legs. The snake appeared to smile and it's glistening fangs were uncomfortably close to Draco's thigh. Reluctantly, it seemed, the coils loosened and the snake slithered away toward the fire, hissing. Voldemort hissed back--Parseltongue, no doubt. Before he turned away, Draco glanced at the huge scroll sprawled open at the top of the heap. It looked like a map--or a floorplan.

"You may go," the Dark Lord said absently. Draco did not need to be told twice.

He lay in bed that night with the book of dark spells in his lap, although he wasn't seeing any of the words. A candle flickered on his bedside stand, making shadows jump across the walls of his room. His watchdog--Avery this time--was already sleeping on the cot. As snorers went, Avery was one of the worst. If Draco got a lick of sleep, it would be a miracle.

He toyed absently with Hermione Granger's coin while his eyes passed over the words of a complex spell for the sixth time. He kept thinking about his father's words. Destroying the Ministry. Obsessed with Hogwarts. Its conqueror. Take the war to the Muggles. Draco thought about contacting Granger, but he couldn't think of a good reason why. He was rather surprised that he hadn't heard from her; he had expected to be constantly barraged with questions.

As if the thought had activated it, the Galleon suddenly went hot. Draco dropped it in surprise and had to fish for it among the sheets for a moment. The candlelight was too dim to make out the tiny words, so he lit the tip of his wand in a tiny, bright glow.

Devlin? it read. He sent an affirmative. Did you know? About the fire?

Draco considered pretending ignorance, but he knew what she was asking.

Yes, but not soon enough to stop it. The words made Draco pause. He wondered if he would have warned them, if he had known beforehand. It was the Weasleys, after all. Muggle-lovers; blood-traitors; those who hated Draco and his family because of their wealth and position. Draco sighed. He took no pleasure in the fact that the Weasleys were now homeless and their meager possessions had been burned to the ground, but to be honest with himself, he knew he probably wouldn't have stopped it. Of course, Granger didn't need to know that. His lip curled slightly. So much for turning over a new leaf.

Is it safe to talk? she asked.

You might have asked that before, but yes.

You're right. We need a password. So that I know it's you and that you can reply without getting into trouble.

Fine. He rolled his eyes. That was Granger for you. Little Miss Logic.

I know. I'll send a silly phrase first, so if someone else has it, they'll think it's merely a trick coin.

It took three sendings for her to fit all that around the edge of the Galleon. She continued: I've got it. I'll send "Come to Zonko's" and if there is no response, I'll know you can't reply or that you don't have the coin.

Brilliant, Draco sent, humoring her. He wondered why he had picked up the coin in the first place, and why he kept it. He certainly didn't plan to spend his spare time chattering with Potter's external brain. It was bad enough listening to her nonstop babbling in class.

There was an extremely long pause and Draco began to think she had given up.

Devlin? it asked again.

Yes?

Thank you. I forgot to tell you last time.

Draco flushed and dropped the coin. You sure as hell wouldn't be thanking me if you knew who I really was, he thought. The idea struck him as incongruously funny. Draco Malfoy had Hermione Granger's everlasting gratitude. The devil should be ordering mittens and skis about now.

He picked up the coin. She had written, You aren't very communicative, are you?

Don't you think you're communicative enough for both of us?

I suppose that's true. Can you tell me where you are?

No.

Can you tell me about yourself?

I'd rather not.

Can you tell me what the weather is like? He grinned at her frustration.

I'd have to look out the window and I'm quite cozy at the moment.

Are you in bed?

The thought of Hermione Granger picturing him in bed made Draco nearly as uncomfortable as speaking to the Dark Lord while a venomous snake crawled through his legs.

Yes, he admitted.

Are you a young person or an old person?

Not quite young, not quite old.

Male?

Assuredly.

Scars?

A small one on my left buttock where an amorous lover got carried away.

I suppose I didn't need to know that.

I suppose you shouldn't have asked.

Sorry, I just want to know more about you.

You're probably better off not knowing.

There was another long pause. He almost sent her a question, suddenly reluctant to end the conversation, but words formed again.

This scar of yours...bite mark, fingernails, or wand-inflicted?

Draco almost laughed aloud at the question.

I lied. My skin is utterly flawless and soft as spun silk.

You are handsome enough to be conceited, then?

No, I look like a goblin. With flawless skin.

Have you told me anything truthful tonight? she asked.

Yes.

Which part?

The last part. I'd never lie about my satiny skin.

Goodnight, Devlin Whitehorn.

Goodnight, Granger.

He smiled and put out his wand. Who would have guessed a conversation with Hermione Granger could actually be... fun? He blew out the candle and tried to shut out Avery's snores. He should have told Hermione about the planned attack for tomorrow, but what good would it have done? Draco didn't know where, when, or why. He'd just have to wait and see.