Phoenix and Dragon

The map was enchanted, figurines standing in for groups of soldiers. They were like chess pieces, if with each move a chess piece makes, they bring death. Standing over the map, in a crowd of masked figures, Dragon showed nothing. He stood surrounded by snakes, observing. Collecting information. Passive and proud, hidden behind his Death Eater guise. 

The highest ranking, most trusted of Voldemort’s Army were gathered at the peak of the Tower of London. In the years since the war started, Voldemort had taken over the Tower as his place of power. It was fitting; in old days, enemies of the monarchy had their decapitated heads staked out front. Executions took place in the courtyard. Prisoners were held, treasure was guarded. Its vantage point was critical, giving the Death Eaters a sense of power that he felt overestimated. The Tower was central to England’s history, to its power. Fitting that Voldemort wanted his fingers in that power. 

Dragon would watch the other members closely when he interacted with them in situations like this. Watched their wands, their minds. Legilimency was useful for torture, but also for information. He just grazed their thoughts, letting himself ghost over the least protected without making his intrusion known. Anyone with moderate skill in occlemacy could feel a person reading their thoughts, or sense the pinch of magic used to push in. But in a room like this…

“... arsehole if I ever saw one-”

“ - serves those Muggle filth-”

“ - I’ll be the one to bring the Boy Who Lived before Lord Voldemort. Maybe that’ll make me…”

Useful in the right situations, he supposed. Most of Voldemort’s trusted were training, making their thoughts difficult to read or make out without making it known. He’d rather not risk it. 

Behind his mask, both physical and emotions, and behind his own walls of occlemacy, Dragon was thinking about Phoenix. Her horror when learning about Thurstone haunted him in a way that he couldn’t quite shake. He could envision her expression behind her cheap Muggle Halloween mask; the horror that would fill her unknown eyes, blurred features twisted by fear. In the 3 years he’d known her by that alias, he’d learned much about her. Her physical cues, really. There was a lot to know about a person by how they carried themselves, how they moved, their actions. Phoenix was no different; her mannerism gave away much that she tried to hide. Her exhaustion, her annoyance, her anxiety. He knew the way her fingers twisted when she was nervous, the shifting on her feet she did when she presumably had been standing for too long. He wondered how often they met on a battlefield, if they ever had. He’d never seen her cast magic, so he couldn’t indicate identity from that, and she was rather small. Perhaps she held some other role in the Order, away from flinging curses and hexes at Death Eaters like him. Something about them felt good. Despite their opposing sides, the reluctance he did his job for the Order, he’d grown… not fond; he would never stoop as low as feeling; but something akin to caring. Phoenix was tolerable, and they’d fallen into a working dynamic over the past few years. He may have known next to nothing real, material, about her, but he felt as though he’d known her long enough to have a sense of who she was under her mask. There was something familiar about her- her presence, her voice, her mannerisms. It made sense; most likely, she’d gone to Hogwarts in the same time frame as him. However, he couldn’t place much more than she was probably around his age. Besides, their identities were a secret for a reason. Dragon cared enough about her, for the sake of the dynamic. For the Order. 

While the Dragon wore the guise of a Death Eater, Draco Malfoy was one. 

While Dragon was silent, passive, numbed, Draco Malfoy was cold, ruthless, arrogant. Every inch of the Malfoy Heir he was expected of. Since killing Dumbldore, he’d rosen the ranks of Voldemort’s Army quickly, making into his most trusted circles, one of the few interchangeably Voldemort’s right hand. That was intentional; the vicious competition and fight to be at The Dark Lord’s side sparked a cult-like loyalty; a blindness to any violence they faced to get there. 

And Draco appeared no different in his loyalty; perhaps not as violent as Bellatrix or Barty Crotch Jr. , but possibly superior in viciousness. His cold execution of his tasks, missions, of people, had gleaned him respect and appraisal from his fellow Death Eaters, and The Dark Lord. It was a reputation that came stained in the blood of those he’d killed, in the darkness twisted inside of him. He carried it with arrogance, sneering at those lesser than him, as expected. But it haunted him. Ate at him. Had led him to making his deal with the Order. Information for a pardon and immunity post-war, if the Order won. They’d been so desperate, they would’ve taken anything.

He would’ve defected fully by now, possibly, if he could. But the Dark Mark ensured his loyalty; a brand of his allegiance and of Voldemort’s ownership over his very soul. Sometimes, when his self-loathing reached the highest of heights, it burned like it first had when he received it. The pain was a reminder of the expectations on him, of the weight of his darkness, the corruption that churned in him. Voldemort may own his soul, but there wasn’t much left of it anymore. They were all soulless, in a sense, the Death Eaters. That was the cost to be a Death Eater; you sold your soul to the Darkest Wizard in history, to fight tooth and nail for the belief in superiority by blood. 

Draco didn’t know what he believed in. He didn’t know if he believed in this war, in pureblood supremacy, or in anything. He was cold, numbed to all. The last of his ability to feel had died with his mother, locked under heavy chains of occlemacy. Control and organization of his mind; that’s what kept it all suppressed. 

It didn’t help him sleep at night. 

Memories and nightmares haunted his sleep, driving him to deprive himself of it, spending countless hours researching ways to break the bond tying him to Voldemort in secret, 

The meeting he was in was tedious. Even Voldemort looks bored, petting Nagni’s head with one long, taloned finger as he listens to the petty squabbles of younger, lower members and tacticians. Arguments among lower members over nothingness were common, all of them scrambling in cultish fervor to claim the Dark Lord’s attention, praise, and reward. They all vie for a place in his circle, at the honor they strive to reach. They killed for it, clamored for it, would slit their throat and let their life blood flow, their dying words be their pledge of loyalty given in each receivement of the Dark Mark.

They disgust Draco. 

He was once one of them, desperate and hungry for power, for blood. Now, he is tired of both.

In the 5 years since the War started, his ambition has faded to the mere breath of hope that he’d survive to see the end of the war. Since Narcissa Malfoy’s death 4 years ago, he’s lost all fight. He does his missions. He plays his part like an actor, pretending to be the loyal Malfoy Heir. He collects information and relays it to the Order as Dragon. If he was caught, he has nothing to lose. His life already belongs to Voldemort. 

His ears tuned into the meeting once more when heard the name ‘Thurlestone’. 

There was something in Thurlestone, in the other villages the Death Eaters had raided, Muggle or wizarding alike. Something that Voldemort wanted desperately. He had yet to share what this mystery thing was, not informed even one of his inner circle. Phoenix would want to know. She likely would want to find it first, and he had little doubt that if she had the resources, she would. However, the Order was stretched thin, driven underground, relying on blackmarket trade, guerilla fighting tactics, and his intel as Dragon to get by. They were marked as terrorists, operating as an underground resistance rather than the opposing side of a war. It didn’t take a genius to see that; it was well known and acknowledged of the Order’s position in these meetings. Voldemort was keen on many things to crush the Order of the Phoenix and any other sense of resistance across Europe, but the Order’s survival tactics were a top priority. Despite their best efforts, someone on the Order’s side knew what they were doing involving the black market, Muggle gangs, and other groups. It was all untraceable, covered by expertly performed Memory Charms and identity concelant. Draco suspected Phoenix had something to do with it all; it seemed like something she’d be good at. 

But Thurstone… something was in Thurstone. And Draco intended to find out. 

But this meeting was over before he could know anything of true use. He stood, indicating his joining of the crowd leaving, but pausing like the other members of the Inner Circle. They stayed behind to be given instructions. Once the others had filtered out, they retook their seats.

Voldemort stood. “My most loyal followers.” 

His dark robes hung threadbare off his skeletal frame, his pale skin tinged with grey, reminiscent of a corpse. Nagni was curled around on arm, the snake’s head resting on his shoulder, forked tongue flicking and beady eyes-all seeing. It was no wonder that even the inner circle was nervous in their Lord’s presence. He was not a merciful leader. 

He stood before them, wand dangling precariously from his long, thin finger; the nails were talon-like, filed to a point. A wordless spell made the map on the table glow, pinpointing Thurstone. Finally. 

“Raid this village. Strike fear into the hearts of its Muggle Filth. Bring me any Order sympathizers, any Muggleborns, anything to do with magic.” Voldemort ordered. “Be vicious, my most trusted. Be ruthless, for this filth has no place among us. They will soon learn to fear and respect our rule, and bow before our power.”

The glow on the map faded, and Draco found himself incredulous. “My lord, what are we looking for?” He asked, keeping his head low and tone respectful. 

“Everything.” was the Dark Wizards vague response. He swept out of the room, Nagni’s eyes watching them as he left the meeting space with a flick of his wand, the doors slamming shut. 

Bellatrix stood. “We must ready raiding groups. I shall take lead-” 

Draco cut her off. “Dear Aunt, if information and preservation of an unknown thing is needed, perhaps your talents lie elsewhere. It is no secret you have no care in your spells, in their placement, or their damage.” It was a low blow, but far from the first.

The witches' teeth clenched at his insinuation. “Then who do you suggest, dear nephew?” She said, tone sweet. Rotten. Sickening. “Yourself?” 

Draco shrugged, playing aloof arrogance to perfection. “Why not? I am the best candidate.” Others grumbled at not being discussed, but watched the family members debate, the tension simmering in the room. Their eyes flicked between the two, reflecting the candle light, glowing with bloodlust and desire. They wanted Voldemort’s two most trusted generals to duel it out, letting them squabble over their places, giving them the chance to claim their places while they were occupied with each other. They wanted them at each other’s throats. They wanted a show. 

He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Leaning closer to Bellatrix, he said, “Might want to aim for home, Aunt Bella. Heard your husband was caught with a muggleborn in a pub. Might want to keep a tighter leash on him before he goes soft in a Muggle.” 

Bellatrix’s pale face was stained with embarrassment and rage, but she hissed in defeat. The others slumped back, disappointed at the lack of bloodshed, but Draco sat back victorious. With him in charge of the assaults of Thurstone, he could relay information to Phoenix for the Order to use. If he got to whatever The Dark Lord wanted first, the Order could get it, destroy it, anything. 

Whatever was in Thurstone, it undoubtedly held a power the Voldemort desired, something detrimental to the Order, to the war. It would destroy the resistance. His deal with the Order insisted that he do everything in his power to aid them in preventing things like this, and so he would.

 Standing from the table, the others stood automatically. That was the respect he commanded. Once, it might have satisfied him. Now, it meant next to nothing.  

“Nott Jr, Zanabi, you will be with me on Thurlestone. I’ll leave the rest of you to divide the other missions. I have my own business to attend to.” And with that, he swept out of the hall, making his way down sets of stairs, weaving through the inaccessible parts that magic granted them access. Theo and Blaise were some of his oldest friends, his earliest companions. Now, they were cold soldiers, letting their masks fall only in the comfort of one of his drawing rooms, spread out drinking as they talked about nothingness. They were friends, in a sense, but understood the distance necessary to survival. They had an unspoken deal; survive the war and resume their friendship, if they were all still alive. They’d all lost so much already.

Pondering on his way down the stairs, Draco mused on Thurlestone. Voldemort had been ‘looking’ for something for a year now, with no indication of what he had set his sights on. He thought about the village. Muggle. Based on Phoenix’s reaction, not Order-related. So this raid wasn’t to find something, and it wasn’t to drive out Order members. It was power.

Draco felt that Potter, Weasly, and Granger would probably be too blindsighted by false heroics to see what was clearly there: power plays. They were far from subtle, had always been. He could begrudgingly admit that Granger at the very least, was intelligent, but the other two possessed too much idiotic courage to think clearly. Part of how the Order was driven down was their overwhelming disadvantages; they refused to use lethal force. They fought head-on. It was idiotic, that’s what it was, Draco mused as he marched through the courtyard, aiming for the Floo Portal back to the Manor. Large meetings like the one he’d just been in were exhausting. The toll was almost as bad as the expense of magic used in direct conflict. If anything, it left him empty rather than tired. Taking a pinch of powder, he tossed it into the flames, which flared green. 

“Diagon Alley.”