𝚆 𝙰 𝙽 𝙳 𝙴 𝚁 𝙻 𝚄 𝚂 𝚃
𝘈 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭; 𝘢 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝓁𝒾𝓂𝒾𝓉𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝘺𝘦𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘹𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥...
By this definition wanderlust had always been a key component operating within Draco Malfoy's complex psyche, however it's integral role would superficially vary depending on the reality at hand.
"What is true in one world, is often so in the next," Albus Dumbledore would cheerily quip, somewhere out of place and time himself.
In the Other World - as Guy Cosmos had so liberally coined it - wanderlust in Draco had presented as an intense fascination with all matters celestial; a bearing in the compass of a boy who sought escape from a tormenting oppression, somewhere far beyond comprehension, deep into the distant stars...
In this so-called New World - a demented misconfiguration of the prior - wanderlust continued to play an influential part in the eyes of Draco, yet in a vastly different shade.
Consistency could still be found in the authoritarian pursuance that he gaze upwards for reprieve, however the concept had inverted, polarized per se; the stars were now all that remained fixated and reliable, a symbol of stability, rather than a radical and outward fabric of endless escape.
For no matter where he roamed on the surface of the planet, with one crane of his neck, it was all the same dizzying array, a comforting morsel of familiarity, a home, overhead.
Now subjected to an involuntarily nomadic lifestyle, he no longer had a real home. And in such a circumstance the stars would do just fine as a replacement.
His newfound impression of wanderlust lay in actual exploration, finding that it was the only antidote which successfully muted the fierce and crippling poison of loneliness.
Generous as it was, wanderlust performed as an ingredient which provided both meaning and purpose in lieu of the natural born identity which had been robbed from him at the ripe age of fourteen.
Family and friends, preoccupations, memberships, even simple notions of patriotism - these were roots, dreams and delights now forbidden to Draco, who had been strictly instructed never to return to England lest risk recapture, torture, and inevitable reinstatement into the shadowy guild of Excetra.
By the brave actions of Narcissa-Black Malfoy, enrollment into Excetra was a fate Draco had narrowly escaped in the New World - meaning that in this peculiar reality, no serpentine mark would ever scald his left arm.
For his mother was a fierce witch who played by no rules aside from her own, and who under no circumstance would permit the transmogrification of her only child.
She alone had artfully weaponized the silken strokes of a feathered quill and in doing so swiftly diminished the disastrous rebound of Lord Voldemort, lesser known in her eyes as the sniveling, hypocritical, half-blood degenerate Tom Marvelo Riddle.
That fateful September morning in 1994 when Draco had received a rather soul crushing letter from his mother, it had marked a pivotal point in his life.
Years later, gifted with sage, insight, and distance from the trauma of it all, the concept of forgetting about everything and everyone he'd ever known in the United Kingdom would prove an easy enough pill to swallow.
But in that moment, young and ignorant, it was impossible to avoid the universal consummation of bitterness, heartache, and confusion; an unwelcomed medley of toxic emotions splintering outwards in septic mimicry of a lead wound to the heart.
In the polar castle of Durmstrang Institute, burdened by shock and cynicism, Draco had initially tossed the baneful parchment into the flames of a nearby artificial fireplace, before realizing that it might very well be the last correspondence from his mother.
He'd then fished it's fragile remains out in such a desperate agony, that a permanent scar resulting from a severe burn would forever remain on one of his pale wrists - ironically, the left.
All that had survived alchemic incineration was the final few sentences, words he went on to recite and memorize in worry that this babbit too would vanish to the elements;
What is grave, my darling, is not the loss born by ours, but rather the calamity registered by the cancer we seek to extinguish through these noble actions. Pride yourself, as I do. This defiance renders you a guardian, one that shall inspire my respect and honor, indefinitely.
That babbit would eventually go on to disintegrate - as do all fragile things of a papery composition - but the ledgings upon it's surface thankfully had by such a time, and quite beautifully, engraved on the margins of his mind.
A guardian...
His mother's pride...
Months passed, and Draco's discerning tendencies eventually decided that these were sentiments worthy of upkeeping, and cherishing with distinction.
So it would be.
The critical price for his freedom, and the temporarily protracted freedom of democracy in magical England, would be his exile...until perhaps, another came along to replace him, Satan forbid the day...
In exchange, a whimsical prize he had not exactly asked for, yet one that would ensure his sanity and survival: wanderlust.
With learned eagerness he now celebrated anticipation of the unknown, of what mystery hazarded next beyond each inscrutable bend, of what cosmological treasures still lay buried and in yearn for daylighting within ancient ruins untrod...
In Great Britain, any experience of the world would have remained dramatically hemmed under the depraved role of a child mercenary. Even leaving the continent would have become a theatrical imagination.
However in exile, wanderlust proudly dubbed him a pioneer, an archaeologist, and a dastardly daredevil to boot during the summer months.
'Home' soon became a vague term which modified at the drop of a pointy hat; 'home' was often represented by Durmstrang. Yet as soon as the school term terminated, 'home' might transform to a lone cabin imbedded into a mountain range in Alaska. The next it could be a zeppelin traveling through the clouds, and the next: a tent pitched within a viperous jungle in Peru.
And while this all led to an incredible life, one filled with treasures, enchantment, and worldly sophistication, there was a negative side effect to be acknowledged, and that was detachment.
Out there he belonged to no one, and no one belonged to him.
He was entirely impartial to the gravity of romance and dynasty because it simply offered nothing but trivial complication, and by the time his eighteenth birthday had arrived in June of 1998, emotional minimalism had professionally formed a rigid scar across his heart.
That wasn't to say, that the organ had entirely petrified.
Draco would uncomfortably confirm this when out of curiosity, he brewed amortentia one summer evening in July of that very same year, shortly after his eighteenth birthday.
By the roar of crackling flames and zinging crickets he had watched a cauldron of the glossy goop ripen before his eyes, hidden on a private beach where only the curious judgment of the moon dared to set itself upon his solitary figure.
All was calm, even the ocean's nearby rushing tides lacked a droplet of violent spray, however the niffler he'd recently purchased off the black market seemed to be aiming to make the whole affair particularly unpeaceful.
"Pilf..." Draco had growled, repeatedly, in enervated warning.
He was exhausted after spending the entire day boiling under the equatorial sun, and this little game of deflecting a magical platypus away from a firepit was even more encumbering.
"I said piss off, Pilf!" without needing to look up from where his head was hung, he could sense precisely what was going on by the scintillation of slappy paws scrambling around on the firepit's loose rocks.
Much like Draco himself, Pilf was obsessed with acquiring shiny and beautiful things.
Naturally, the silly creature was finding the mother-of-pearl sheen in the amortentia to be utterly mesmerizing, clearly unaware that a molten substance was not ideal for the pocketing.
At such a high dosage it would instead drown and poison him should he inevitably fall in, although there was no telling if such a death might be all that torturous given the elating effects of the brew.
Draco lost his temper when the platypus changed course to clamber up the stone bench he was seated on in order to attempt extending itself straight from Draco's bony knee to the lip of the bubbling cauldron.
"You stupid fucking bastard," reaching into his soggy swimming trunks Draco located a Spanish doubloon and chucked the priceless coin far across the rippled dunes.
It's dull golden shine reflected the moonlight just enough to catapult Pilf into action, relieving the cauldron of it's semiaquatic stalker.
For about a minute.
Little piggy grunts of glee gave away the niffler's rapidly returning movements as he paraded in pride, found his magenta drawstring sack by Draco's bare feet, and deposited this latest gift from his master.
Sadly, he hadn't a clue that the sack had been magically retrofitted with a 'Black Hole' jinx, so that anything Pilf put into it instantly vanished and reappeared in Draco's matching drawstring sack.
This strategy was a double edged sword.
On the one hand, it mollified Pilf's need to have his own private collection of their plunderous triumphs, even if it was only a placebo. The manipulation was generally inconsequential seeing as he hardly ever checked the repository status - he seemed more intrigued by the hunt and catch itself.
But when the bag's emptiness did end up registering, Draco would merely laugh and promise to check it for holes, which he made a very convincing show of doing before giving it back "all fixed".
Pilf the Pilfering Platypus - once kept as a show animal of sorts (or so that was what Draco had been told) - had a spectacular eye for measuring an object's pedigree, meaning that he often deposited extremely valuable artefacts which appeared in Draco's sack like glittery Christmas presents.
However, the same could not be said about the disgusting pescatarian snacks which also showed up, including but not limited to rotting eggs, live, pinching crayfish and smelly shrimp.
So into Pilf's sack went the doubloon that evening, then Draco drew that exact same coin straight back out of his own sack to toss it even farther this time.
Not for one second had he anticipated adopting a dog when signing up for a platypus, who was meant to be assisting him in the discovery of ancient treasures.
But there was a nice twinge of normalcy brought on by the playful nonsense, so much so, that the platypus was now permitted to sleep at the end of Draco's bed. Although he would never admit out loud that Pilf had transitioned into more of a pet than a servant.
The amortentia had matured nearly thirty minutes prior, swirling in tell-tale patterns which invited a good sniff for a glimpse into one's soulmate. Yet Draco was still far away from the cauldron in nervous dread, rubbing his face and throwing coins in cowardly delay.
Under the sentinel gleam arrayed by millions of twinkling stars, reliably there to support his every endeavor with silent encouragement, he finally plucked up the courage to lean forward and inhale the augural potion.
Expecting that he would be met with an absolute lack of olfactory stimulation, it was to his astonishment, that behind his eyelids an activity of neurological wonders blossomed.
The background of the beach faded away to be replaced with the sweet pungency of a densely packed greenhouse, earthy, and pockmarked by the incense of residing beasts.
Then there came the startling sensation of warm breath on his cheeks from a girl's laughter, even ringing in his ears ever so faintly was the melody of her enchanting voice.
His eyebrows quirked as spots of rain prickled his forehead - rain which he impossibly understood to be constant in this ethereal place, somewhere nearby the arduous sea. It might have been mistaken for the spray of the South Pacific Ocean that he'd sat so close to on that beach, yet it couldn't be, as all characteristics pointed to the cold freeze of the North Atlantic pelting against rock and moss.
But alas...one lingering aura added to this bouquet...expensive textiles, and the sugary aroma of a strange feminine perfume which reminded him of vanilla buttercream, roses and warmth.
How long he remained there in utter absorption was incomprehensible, adrift in the marvelous impressions which belonged to a girl whom he must have met once in order to brew this understanding of his deepest desire, yet...he could not place her at all.
Illogical euphoria poked and prodded at his well-established defenses, encouraging walls to collapse for the passage of reverie.
Who was she?
Where was she?
Was she real, this girl made bespoke to him - his deepest desire, in a companion?
In four years he'd leapt from continent to continent chasing after relics and trinkets, as though unveiling these priceless artifacts might return but a glimmer of the wealth he had lost with his family.
And while he had certainly enjoyed the credit, and any monetary benefit from these incredible discoveries, none of it compared to the intangible value of a human connection.
Had he known earlier that the incalculable treasure of a true love existed, waiting for him to backtrack wherever he had once come across it's path...
Drrrrrrrnnnngggg.
A startling metallic ping shook him out of the drunken, drooling stupor.
Something had just collided with the side of the cauldron.
Peering in shock, Draco stood as soon as he spotted the golden doubloon sweating in the flames at it's base.
They were on a private island, dead center in a vast ocean, and no one aside from Draco possessed the dexterity to lift and toss a coin in such regard.
Pilf was practically a cross between a duck and a beaver; veritably clumsy and lacking in apposable thumbs, ergo, he was certainly not the culprit.
As alarm ballooned in Draco's ribcage, pointing his wand in a suspicious semicircle, the niffler came bumbling after his coin from the direction of the shadowy beach front, only to sit hissing in dismay upon spotting it melting.
"Silence, Pilf," Draco swallowed down a lump of unhelpful fear, scanning their surroundings with laser concentration.
"Dare I ask if that is mother-of-pearl sheen glowing in that infusion?" a deep voice requested from the gloom, confirming that they were in fact, not alone.
Without hesitation, Draco shot a cruciatus curse at the angle of the hidden perpetrator but they disapparated at the speed of light, leaving a thick trail of poisonous black fumes which could only belong to one type of wizard.
They then boldly apparated to within six feet of Draco, who, armed now with knowledge that a death eater was actively hunting him, upgraded his next unforgivable curse to the worst type imaginable.
A vivid white jet of defensive magic streamed from his opponent's wand to collide with the emerald torrent ebbing out of Draco's - a confusing countermove suggesting that they were not focused on an attack of their own.
Four years...
In four peaceful years he had not laid eyes on one of those silvery, signature masks from hell; a ghostly, uncanny, cloudy design hovering just over it's wearers face, defined by art deco grates and patterned holes.
While each death eater's mask manifested with a different design, every single time Draco saw one it inspired the very same gut twisting, hair raising nausea, reminding him of some seventeenth-century Bastille torture device.
He overpowered the suspended dynamic between them as the last of the white magic was suffocated by the green, using the tail end of the connection to disarm the wizard.
The mask faded, gradually, as Draco's brain glitched, frozen with murder on the tips of his fingertips, managing only to hold his wand steadily in place and watch in awe as their identity revealed.
Dry and unbothered, Blaise Zabini stepped into view in a tight black ensemble, mocking laughter begging to escape his throat at the look of trembling terror on Draco's face.
"Fuck! Fucking hell, Zabini!" Draco cursed, lowering his arm diffidently. He ran a hand through the cold sweat precipitating in his straight locks, stunned that someone from his past had actually pinned him down in the middle of no where.
Blaise walked over and plucked up his wand from a cluster of shrubbery, ignoring Pilf's honorable beak attempting to bite through his thick black dress shoes, "French Polynesia; well played Malfoy. And what a nice platypus you have here."
Of all the nights...
Adrenaline subsiding, Draco frowned at the sight of the amortentia, bubbling loudly between them as if it's sole mission in life was to humiliate him.
Pilf's quirky quacking and his own bright blue swimming trunks only elevated a sense of self-consciousness, caught red handed in a vulnerable and bizarre moment, "You might have quilled me instead of this...fucking assassination, Zabini. And he's not all that cheery - you do realize those spurs on his heels are venomous."
Scooping up the pissy niffler, he rudely pelted bare foot straight into the luxurious residence he had coveted from a helpless millionaire muggle occupying the private peninsula.
Following inside, Blaise raised another judgmental eyebrow at the shabby sack of bounty Draco tossed from his torso onto a credenza, spilling jewels and historic coins as if they were bits of useless, broken pottery, "I'd like to know what owl is capable of such a flight from England without succumbing to casualty. Tracking you down has taken me weeks as it is, without confide-"
"-That is the point. I desire not to be found, especially not by the likes of a death eater," Draco snapped rather cruelly, before regretting the impulsive remark.
His heart convulsed in his chest as genuine trepidation threatened to overwhelm, plunking Pilf down on the kitchen counter.
Blaise's physical features had changed, sharpened; he was now a man, and although Draco desired to trust this childhood friend, what else had changed below that crispy suit could not be concluded from a mere glance.
Except of course, that a certain black tattoo had taken up residence on his left arm.
If Excetra had sent Blaise Zabini to locate their lost maverick, then that was a problem with only one regrettable solution. For all Draco knew, he had only minutes before the property was completely swarmed.
Blaise seemed to respect Draco's unspoken concerns, humming at Pilf who had obediently beelined for the sink. It had been charmed to fill with hot water and bubbles upon his approach. The rules were strict; no bath = absolutely no sleeping in the bed.
Instead of entertaining this petrifying reunion Draco wished that he too could bathe and pass out, perhaps bottle that amortentia and lay in bed visualizing his dream girl.
He ripped open the doors of the credenza and slammed a crystal glass onto the messy surface riddled with wet gold shillings, spilling rum as the sand on his fingers encouraged a slippery grasp, "A tad embellished for the Society Islands at this time of year, don't you think, Zabini? You must be sweating like a muppet in that tarp."
As he turned around in nothing but a pair of shorts - sunburnt, disheveled, and covered in scratchy dirt - it was impossible to avoid the amused sparkle in Blaise's ochre gaze, "Rogue, coming from the posterboy of vagrants. So is this how you spend your summers now, Malfoy? Splashing about like a filthy, drunken pirate, high on amortentia?"
"That wasn't amortentia," Draco fibbed pathetically, wincing as the rum scorched his tongue and infused his nostrils, dashing away the last scent of the riveting girl. The unwarranted sojourn was leaving him feeling increasingly humbled and irritable, "And how are you spending your summers Blaise: still sweeping up snake scales? Or have you graduated to corpse dismemberment?"
"Hmm," across the dimly lit, open-concept living space Blaise was now hovering nonchalantly by a weighty wooden desk, running his fingers across tattered atlas' and venerable depictions of pre-industrial mechanisms, "Speaking of your homely estate; your mother sends her regards, Malfoy."
An erudite expression on his flawless face suggested he might very well possess the acumen to determine Draco's tenancy in the region so rich with history, plucking up an auraculum to inspect the ancient runes painted there.
During the fifteenth century, magicals had craftily sailed caravels throughout the societal archipelagos, burying incredible treasures within subaqueous travertine caves.
Isolated in the center of the sea, there it had all slumbered for centuries, protected from the greedy fingers of muggles by illusionary magic and dangerous curses.
Through extraneous research Draco had connected many dots in order to end up there, and felt defensive of the fact that he was most certainly not just splashing about like a drunken pirate.
Blaise elegantly crossed his arms behind his back, suddenly appearing quite tired as he watched Draco refill the glass at an alarming rate, "I'll tell her...you're quite well. Leave out the lousiest of details. I wonder what your father might think should he see you now, plundering dingy gold with a niffler, dressed like a...peasant on holiday..."
"I would say that my father can go straight to hell, but it seems that he is already there, trapped in that rotting mansion," was the predictable snort.
Draco held out a second glass, despite knowing what the answer already was, "Have some, you fucking porcupine. Wray & Nephew, not a bad quality."
It was only one of the most expensive rum brands in the world.
"You drink too much," Blaise smoothly rejected the offer, creeping around the vaulted room to peer out at a back garden through a wall of stately windows. He seemed to be immediately concerned with what he witnessed occurring out there.
Sighing heavily, Draco fell onto a leathery couch, casting a charm at the fire to lazily reignite it, "And you frown too much, which crime is the worse, I wonder."
As was common in the tropical zone a turbulent bout of rain materialized without warning, forcing Blaise to squint into the leafy fronds of the garden which encompassed a narrow sodded strip and a small building intended for storage.
A handful of delicate pedestrian bollards illuminated the disturbing scene of a middle-aged man hopping about on his ankles in polluted garb, ripping out overgrown grass with his teeth.
Without turning his head Draco explained, "The muggle who owns the place. Hypnotized, believes he's a chicken. Already down a good two stone - suppose there's something to be said about a diet of worms and turf."
"How long has he been that way?" Blaise inquired, but not with any morsel of pity, smirking as the man heeded the downpour and stumbled in his handicapped gait towards the soffit return of the shed, arms held bent like a Tyrannosaurus Rex.
Draco spoke loudly over the bizarre clucking noises reverberating from within the enclosed backyard, "About a week. I'll be gone in a few days. Sure the old bastard will chalk up the missing time to a stint of dementia."
White noise from the rolling thunderstorm claimed the awkward ambiance between them.
Pilf finished his bath, sadly not on his own terms, having been promptly expelled from the sink. He then crawled all sparkly clean to lay down in front of the fireplace with a ducky grin.
Draco continued destructively drinking out of angst for his uninvited guest, and Blaise's attention silently tracked back and forth on movements made by the millionaire-turned-chicken attempting to shield himself where it was meagerly optional.
It was very hard to feel sorry for the idiocy, seeing as Draco had kindly left the shed door open just feet away from where the man had coincidentally huddled. From experience, he knew too well that going out to assist would only serve to spook the bloke, and likely result in an injurious chase he would rather not partake in again.
Watery eyes focused deceptively on the dancing hearth, he continued to fiddle with his wand over one knee, slyly concentrating the end between Zabini's shoulder blades through his peripherals.
The rum had soothed any internal panic just enough to place him in the right mindset for a violent and disheartening duel should it come back around to that.
Thankfully it did not.
With a noticeable slump in his posture, Blaise's reflection in the glass contorted, finally spitting out the reason for his calling, "Malfoy, he's found a new student, Voldemort has. Excetra is planning to execute the final phase in the new year."
A hair-raising tingle washed over Draco's nervous system as Blaise rotated with a sore expression, walking with intent to sit rigidly on the edge of a chair, hands clasped seriously.
Unfortunately still suspicious, the sleek tip of Draco's wand adjusted to account for Blaise's relocation in the drawing area, now landing at the center of his forehead, "Who is it? The name of the prick."
"Not a prick - a princess, technically. The Emerald Princess."
"The Emerald who?"
Draco inhaled sharply at the sight of the boy reaching into his lapel, causing Blaise to pause with respectful energy and locked eyes, "Nice and easy, Malfoy. I might've already taken your head off while you were out there drooling with hearts in your eyes."
"That was not amortentia, and I wasn't drooling."
"Sure it wasn't."
Carefully, Blaise drew out a small fragment of torn parchment, leaning forward to tentatively slide it across a glass coffee table where it blew up against Draco's spindly ankle.
He peered without lowering his only protection. Written there were three words; Audette Fiadh Bellarose.
Where had he heard that name?
Where...
He made a face as the origin of it's familiarity clicked, "That Irish wench from the glass madhouse?"
Sober as a statue, Blaise nodded, and Draco stood to rub at one eye, "Ohhhhh that is rich, sporting joke, Zabini. I'm laughing so hard I've broken the bloody sound barrier."
Returning to assault the credenza's stash once more, he held flattened fingers to one ear in a theatrical display, "You can't hear it, but rest assured, I am laughing. Safe commute home. Let's uh, reconvene in another four years for your next brilliant punch line, shall we?"
From the couches, temperate brown eyes observed as Draco pocketed his wand, then proceeded to mingle more of the expensive liquor with an undesirable peppering of sand sprinkled into the mix, "She's the daughter of Lord Montgomery Bellarose, the Mad Eye of the Isle, a well-suspected sorcerer. You forget that she is no average witch, more than a viable replacement."
Offended, perhaps, that this random damsel represented some sort of upgrade, Draco tisked dismissively, "So we can agree on one thing: she's not your average crackpot. You've come all this way to alert me about a nepo baby in pinafore gowns and bonnets. What's her greatest weapon, a strangling ribbon?"
Silence.
Blaise stared mindlessly at the ipe wood floorboards, internally boiling with what could only be reserved fury for the fruitless jesting, until Draco finally conceded in a less histrionic tone, "Fine. Say any of this were possibly a real concern, where does the girl stand then?"
Silence, again, save for a slew of ridiculous squawks emanating from the previously conscientious Dr. Nigil Achterberg impersonating a chicken out in the swampy garden.
The glass was finished and dropped on the credenza with a heavy thud, and for whatever reason, a palpable tickle of apprehension planted in Draco's thoughts as impatience got the better of him in the protracting quietude, "I can appreciate your brevity but speak up, Zabini. Paint me a picture of this so-called sorceress."
Robotically, the answers flowed in, "Introverted. Pureblood. Of the old ways. Prudent. Stubborn - emphasis on that one. Engaged to Theodore Nott, you remember him."
Draco nearly choked, "That Poindexter prig? Could anyone forget a nine year old boy explaining how the molecular properties of ectoplasm might make it a remarkable hair conditioner, to my bald house elves?"
At this, Blaise shook his head in tight jerks, "It's only magnified, the strangeness...In fact he's been acting well on the fritz lately, a proper wild card. He was recently nominated for the Technomancer Torch, the youngest in history, and when he finds out about this assignment docketed for his fiancée..."
Draco swiftly waved a hand, uneasiness snowballing quicker than he could manage it, "Back it up - let's not dwell on the accomplishments of Goggles the Glorified. The girl, is she agreeable to this task?"
"She has no idea, not until the time comes. Lord Bellarose keeps her locked up and micromanaged," Blaise ran his sleek fingers up either side of his nose, showcasing signs of uncharacteristic overwhelm, "And you should be worried about Nott: he can't be reasoned with, and he's practically omnipotent. One doesn't receive a nomination like that for inventing a bloody rubik's cube."
Guiltily, Draco crossed his arms, reliving his mother's words despite his best efforts to suffocate them resurfacing.
A guardian, that's what she'd called him. But just HOW viable would that title remain if he did not respond accordingly to the information being presented to him by another terrified member of Excetra?
Any traces of jesting had now vanished when he spoke again, this time in a strained hiss.
What was being asked of him had made itself glaringly apparent, however much he dreaded to digest it, "Why are you coming to me about this? You're their Guild Master, you know these people better than I do. Handle it from the inside. Nott is obviously a valuable ally worth considering, inform him of the optics at play."
Draco had never witnessed Zabini actually scowl, as if he might hurl, "No...No...There's something very wrong with him lately. I don't trust him. Bellarose, he must have trained Nott to act like a guard dog. Theodore let's Audette out of his sight about as often as he does his own nose these days."
Thunk.
In a poetically ill sense of timing, Nigil's pink face appeared, flattened against the glass in such a manner that suggested he'd ignorantly mistaken the translucent pane for a clear passage.
They both twisted to watch him smear a stream of boogers in a revolting set of tracks before he was gone again into the weeds beyond, head bobbing left to right.
The vibe remained eerie even in the wake of such comedic relief. Several minutes passed as Draco paced around in his soggy attire, long white hair drying at wonky angles, debating the best course of action and all possible outcomes.
What continued to badger his conscience was the expectations his mother would have of him. The four years they had been apart, the sacrifices actualized by the Malfoy family, it would all be for nothing if this girl took it upon herself to undo the pacification of Voldemort's plans.
"There's three options, as I see it. It's not that unlike chess," he sat back down in grim horror, and this time, Blaise did accept the drink pressed his way on the table.
A vicious strike of lightning on the surrounding terrain briefly lit up the entire room in electric trespass, and as the delayed roil of thunder approached, Draco checked with relief to see that Nigil had safely found his delusional way into the shed afterall, "She can be captured, framed using Imperious for some heinous doing. Have her sent to Azkaban, or St. Mungos, kept under a type of maximum security outside of Bellarose's jurisdiction."
"Nothing is outside of Lord Montgomery Bellarose's jurisdiction," Blaise loosened the tie around his neck, coughing as he took a penitent sip, "With that sort of wealth, intimidation and status, he'd have her out in a blink, and we'd be back at square one. We've thought of that."
Noticing sweat glistening on his companion's forehead, Draco's eyes formed into slits, "Then fucking negotiate with the bitch. Inform her of what is to come in advance, gauge her threat level and her willingness to perform, convince her-"
Another lightning strike smashed down to the earth with brute force, and as Blaise curtly denied Draco's second option, the lights waxed and waned ominously in the abode, "-There is no negotiation, Malfoy. Even if we could get her alone - an impossible feat around the likes of Nott - that would also require bypassing the deeply entrenched brainwashing of a demented sorcerer."
Ah...
Comprehension bludgeoned Draco in the back of the head as though it had covertly slithered down in one of the fractional bolts of sheer energy occurring outside.
His stomach turned, prompting a noxious brew of the sand, seawater and booz to swirl in a sickening vortex. Antsy, he reached into his pocket to turn over a golden doubloon as if it were the single most interesting thing in the world world.
An ugly, contemptuous sneer drew his lips downwards as they met gazes, "So that is why you've come to me. She can't be saved, so your final option is murder. And I would bet that her name has been added to the oath, meaning that none of you tattooed snakes can touch a hair on her head."
"No one with the dark mark can, but..." Blaise trailed away in a pained wince, tugging at his dress sleeve.
"But...I'm not marked," Draco blew out a heavy, furious exhale, covering his mouth as his eyelids shut in loathsome yield, "I can kill her. That is what you are here begging for."
SNAP.
Power to the complex briefly spiked to a horrific whine before an electronic collapse finally unfolded, indicated by an ominous orchestra of failing muggle devices and splitting light bulbs. In the fallout, a ubiquitous and frankly unsettling darkness became of the remote island, as if the moon and the stars too had blown out, forcing them both to light their wands.
Breathing, for a few heart stopping moments, seemed a wildly clamorous conquest.
Draco's eyes bulged when he noticed that Blaise had ripped back his sleeve to reveal an animated image of the dark mark coiling on his mocha skin, calling for Voldemort's minions to return for business.
The storm raging outside was not of natural causes.
No, it was related to each ticking second Blaise had wittingly refused to obey, and the longer he resisted, the greater the chances that a lethal guest might show up in question of his whereabouts.
"You've brought it here!" Draco seethed in a red hot rage. Blasting to a shaky stance, he backed away several meters, wand luminescent with a loaded cast, "Go! Go! Get the fuck out of here, Zabini!"
Several plates of sturdy mullion glass imploded inwards from the thin wall behind Blaise, who's rise from the chair was eerily slow even as the hurricane finally penetrated the villa's interior.
In the twilight he appeared to Draco as a demonic, pitch black figure which bore the semblance of an entity rather than a human being, speaking in a deep and steady cadence, "As soon as you swear that I've accomplished what your mother sent me here for. Return to England under the guise of the Quadrivial Tournament, and eliminate the girl."
Whippets of garden shrubs and rocks flew like landscape projectiles in all directions. Bolted furniture uprooted, taking with it carpeting in huge wonky panels. The kitchen sink tore out, releasing the tap hose like an angry python spraying in all directions.
Worst of all it was the slivers of glass, which splintered against hard surfaces and sliced through Draco's bare skin as though he were being subjected to a torturous death by one thousand bleeding cuts.
Hardly able to see beyond his raised forearm, he shouted desperately through the vociferous chaos, "Alright I promise! I'll neutralize the fucking girl!"
As acutely as he'd arrived Blaise Zabini was then gone in a shroud of antagonistic smoke, out through what remained of the pointed rooftop, and it was as if a switch had been flicked.
His exodus broke whatever cyclone had been developing in hatred around his procrastination, and almost immediately, suspended objects fell in uniform calamity, pluming dust in a blinding explosion.
When all pandemonium had seemingly settled Draco groaned in severe outrage of the indecent mess sprung upon him.
A meeting of less than thirty minutes would now cost him ages of repair spellwork and a great ordeal of magical energy in an effort to rehabilitate Mr. Achterberg's estate to it's former outline.
And that wasn't even counting his own personal injuries which would take days to mend, even with the aide of potions.
Clearly in shared appall at the state of his island, the German specialist could be heard bucking away in the dilapidated shed, surrounded by disoriented crickets and toads all wailing in fury.
Inside of the gutted house Draco hacked dramatically on demolition debris, bending to spit up powdered drywall which had conveniently coated his throat like sour cocaine.
To his disbelief, poor little Pilf crawled out from the rubble, miraculously unharmed, his drawstring sack safely lodged in his yellow beak.
"I see you have your priorities straight," Draco snorted as Pilf deposited the satchel at his feet. Then his smile quickly faded, observing the splendidly plum-colored niffler regurgitate something else it had deemed to be valuable.
Carefully, Pilf nudged the wet paper into the sack where it would regrettably go straight into Draco's as a thorny reminder.
The mocking words on it's surface broadcast the latest abominable assignment he had been charged with carrying out;
Audette Fiadh Bellarose