First Meetings
Now that Draco was officially a member of the Order of the Phoenix, despite its horrible name, he needed the glamour completed yesterday. Luckily, there was a full moon the next day, perfect for ritual magic, with the added benefit of keeping Lupin and Sirius away.
So gathering the materials he needed, Draco climbed onto the roof of Grimmauld Place and set several stones in a circle, agate for strength, angelite for clarity, and calcite as an amplifier. He removed his shirt, sitting in the exact centre of the circle and uncorking the vials of blood he'd collected earlier.
Getting comfortable, Draco consulted the book before beginning the incantation, "Sanguis meus, protege me, et oculos alienos a peccato meo protege cor."
He held the first vial of blood above his head, repeating the chant, before tipping it and allowing the blood to flow over his head, into his eyes, and down his neck. Everywhere the still-warm blood touched, Draco could feel the tingle of something pulling underneath his skin, the ritual pulling up raw magic from his core to seep into his chest and face.
He continued like that until all the blood had been used, and the moon began to journey back under the hill. When he'd finally completed the ritual, he felt spent and sore in the best possible way, like he'd just ran a marathon, or done some other, vastly more fun physical activity. Ritual magic was expensive, and taxing, but was also more stable in the long run, not to mention the power a ritual could channel made regular spells pale in comparison.
But because it was 'dark' magic, no one except the old families used it, a shame, considering the Death Eater's would most certainly use it against the Order. Draco almost smiled at that, none of them had a clue what they were even fighting. In their blind eyes, the darkest magic there could be were the Unforgivables, but those weren't even truly dark.
How they managed to convince themselves an instant death was somehow worse than, say, a blood-fire or endless cutting curse, was beyond him. If they wanted to live in a perfect world where the worst thing possible was a crucio, Draco would let them.
He cleaned the leftover stones with a wave of his hand, the magic of a full moon boosting him, and made his way back to the Master's Suite to see the results. He could feel that the spell worked, of course, but he wasn't sure what he would actually look like. Despite the fact he'd only had them for a short while, Draco couldn't picture himself without the scars.
They served as a reminder, in a way, of what he's already lost. It was proof he couldn't go back, that the only way out was now through.
It was getting easier and easier to pull that mask of calm over himself, to push all of his fear and worry and paranoid behind a thin web, and be the cold and calculated man he was raised to be. Draco worried about it, distantly, that he could no longer produce panic like he could in the beginning, but he also knew he was far past the point where panic was productive, and so he lived in a strange grey haze, not feeling sad nor scared. He accepted his life as it was.
So looking in the mirror, Draco didn't feel more than a dim sense of surprise at the new face he saw staring back.
He didn't look even remotely the same as he had at the beginning of the year, or even the beginning of the month. Without the distortion of the scar, his face seemed harsher, somehow. Draco hadn't realised till now, but the scar was the most human part of his face.
Without it, he looked uncanny. His mouth curled in a cruel smirk, as if it had been made that way, and his eyes seemed simultaneously blank and brimming, shining with thoughts going too fast for even Draco himself to catch.
He raised a hand, brushing it over the path of the scar, to reassure himself it was still there. He could feel it, a glamour only made things appear to be different. Draco smiled to himself, though in the mirror it was harsh and callous, what kind of person was he now, that he took comfort in a scar of all things.
He thought about Dumbledore's face when he saw Draco without the scars, and it nearly made everything worth it.
He was glad he decided to keep the cane, it was a small comfort, but one nonetheless.
Besides, if Sirius said anything annoying, Draco could hit him with it.
So he dressed in the same overly-formal clothes he favoured these days, and waited for people to start flooing in. He wouldn't be the first there, even though he should technically be the host, if Dumbledore wanted to hold club meetings, the old bastard could do the hard part.
Eventually, when the majority of people had come, Draco made his way downstairs. He kept his head held high, pulling the old society manners his mother had drilled into him around his shoulders like a cloak.
When he made it to the kitchen, Draco leaned his hip onto the kitchen counter, letting his cane rest next to his leg, "Kreature?"
The house elf popped into existance, looking disdainfully at the guests before bowing to Draco happily, "What can Kreature being doing for Lord Draco?"
"A drink, Kreature, strong preferably, I'll need it, thank you." Draco smiled down, settled by the old elf's presence.
Kreature nodded and popped away, and second later, a drink appeared at Draco's elbow, which he gratefully took up, sniffing once before taking a sip. Before he could decide what to do next, however, a loud, french voice called his name.
Draco turned, seeing none other than Fleur DeLacour blinking at him in surprise.
He pushed off of the counter, grabbing his cane to walk over, and taking her elbow, he mimed a kiss on each of her cheeks, "Bonjour, Fleur, I didn't know you were attending."
She grabbed his free hand, clasping it between her own, "Nor I you, if I had known, I might 'ave dressed better."
Draco smirked at her, "Ah, as if anyone else could ever compare to you."
Fleur giggled behind her hand, leaning towards him conspiratorially, "I have not gotten to speak French in so long! Walk with me." She said. Draco complied, holding out his arm for her to take, while whichever one of the Weasley's she had married gaped in their direction.
They walked to the small back garden, and when they had left the hearing range of the rest of the order, Fleur spoke again, "So, how is Hogwarts?"
Draco smiled slightly, "I wouldn't know. I think I have rather different priorities at the moment."
"Ah, a shame, you are so smart." Fleur replied, stopping under an old tree at the centre of the garden.
"Well, I'll need my NEWTS eventually, and my mother has been urging me to transfer to Beauxbatons for years." Draco said, quirking an eyebrow.
Fleur's face lit up, "Oh, Draco, that's great, write me when you do, and I'll make sure to put in a word with the Madame." Her face fell, however, when she continued, "How is your family?"
Draco looked away, "Safe, if I have anything to say about it."
"And your fiancé?" She asked.
"Keeping track of the slytherin's in my stead." He answered, it felt nice to talk about Blaise with someone who knew him, and he felt his heart unwillingly soften for a moment.
But then the Weasley crashed through the garden doors and Draco felt himself close off once more.
Fleur smiled at her lover, waving him over, "Bill, I must introduce my friend Draco!"
Bill was glaring at Draco like he was a particularly awful piece of dung, but Draco put on his best smile, "Hello, I don't believe we've met."
The Weasley gave him a tight smile, more a barring of teeth than anything, "But I've heard so much about you." He turned to Fleur, "How do you know each other?"
Fleur smiled, "Well, our families do business together in France, and Draco was a great help to me during the tournament!"
"Not many French speakers at Hogwarts, if you would believe it." Draco said, tilting his head slightly.
"Oh I haven't even mentioned your hair!" Fleur gasped, "I love it! I wish my own would behave half so well!"
"If you'd like, I could give you my routine, I swear on Salazar it works miracles."
"Oh, please!"
And just like that, Bill Weasley stopped glaring, instead looking confusedly between his girlfriend and Draco. He seemed to wage a mental war with himself, before accepting his fate, letting his eyes glaze over as Fleur and Draco compared hair products.
Draco pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, offering one to Fleur before taking one himself, he lit a small fire over his thumb with a snap, lighting both before flicking it out.
Bill looked between them, "I didn't know you smoked!" he said incredulously.
Fleur took a deep drag in, blowing the smoke into the air, "Ah, my dear, there are a lot of things you don't know about me," she winked.
Draco snorted, taking a long drag of his own cigarette. But before long, the meeting was called to start. So far, this was more like a dinner party than anything else, but, he supposed, morale is important in war times.
Drace took one of the head seats at the table, ignoring everyone's looks, which ranged from open hate to fear. He hooked his cane on the arm of and lounged back, this was his house, he could sit wherever he damn well pleased.
When Dumbledore finally sat, looking around the room, the tension only seemed to rise. Draco looked around the table, mentally marking down names.
But when he got to the centre, he froze, for a second, the calm that he had submerged himself in was nowhere to be found. For a second, Draco was absolutely convinced his Aunt Bella was at the table.
His heart seemed to stop beating, and his palms began to sweat where they were holding his glass of scotch.
But then she looked at him, and instead of the literally piercing gaze of his aunt, instead of the agonising pain he expected, there was . . .
Nothing.
Just grey eyes, so much like his own, but just a little off.
Andromeda, his mind whispered. And to her left, by far the most vicious glare levelled at Draco, must be Nymphadora.
He met his cousin's gaze head on, not flinching away from the open hate. He looked for any traces of himself in her, as if she were a funhouse mirror, and then he looked to where Sirius was lounging against the wall, and did the same with him.
What did it say about him, that he could no longer recognise himself in his own blood?
Draco looked back to the head of the table, feigning boredom, it was only when Dumbledore said his name, that he realised the old bastard was even speaking.
"I'm sure you've all noticed our newest member, Draco has invaluable insight on Voldemort, I'm sure he'll be receptive to questions, won't you, Draco?"
Draco blinked, raising his brow, "Depends on the question."
The looks got decidedly more suspicious, though Sirius snorted.
"Why are you here?" Someone asked, unimportant enough Draco couldn't recall their name.
"Why are you?" he responded, "It's not like there's a line out the door to sign up."
Sirius was definitely laughing at him now, but Lupin was valiantly trying to communicate via his eyes how much he thought Draco was fucking this up.
He sighed, might as well throw them a bone, "I lived with The Dark Lord for months, not to mention I grew up with near everyone in the inner circle, I could tell you how they take their fucking tea, are you going to throw that away because I'm the one giving it?"
"Snape could tell us the same thing."
"No, he couldn't."
"And why is that?" The nameless worm asked, seeming to think they'd cornered him.
Well, Draco had always loved theatrics, how kind of them to oblige, "Because The Dark Lord likes me better." He smiled, looking down at the table like they were especially slow toddlers, "I do so hate to break it to you, but Severus is old news," He leaned back, examining his nails, "He's just so dour. It's boring."
"Are you saying Severus has been compromised?" Dumbledore asked, ignoring the rest of the people gathered.
"No, of course not. I'm saying the game has gotten old, did you really think his position was sustainable? He gets information, yes, but it's hardly comparable to what he could be getting." Draco might have felt guilty about throwing his godfather under the bus like this, but the wretch had blackmailed him in the last week, and turnabout was fair play.
Draco realised his mistake too late, when Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, "I agree, we should work on expanding our spy network."
Draco glared, barely resisting the urge to flip him the two fingers, but held his tongue, and let the meeting run its course.
That was until Nymphadora seemed to have enough, and stood up, drawing her wand, "I just don't see why we're entertaining this. I mean, he's one kid, let's obliviate him and be done with it."
Draco froze, as did the rest of the table, except for Dumbledore. The old man looked at her, folding his hands in front of himself, "Well-"
He was interrupted when Draco stood, slowly pulling himself up to his full height, looking down at the utter fool who dared to imply Draco would give up Number 12 Grimmauld Place under anything less than his violent death.
"Go ahead," He smiled, "Try it." The air seemed to chill around him, to the point Draco could see his own breath as it came out of his nose, like the dragons he was named after.
A low humming filled the room as the house itself seemed to hold in anticipation of the fight. Draco stared at Nymphadora, who stared right back, until her mother gently put an arm on her wrist, lowering her wand
She glared while relenting, but Andromeda Black just looked at Draco. She looked so much like her sister Bellatrix, that for a moment, Draco was afraid.
"There's no need for all of this, if Draco wanted us dead, he would have shut down the house already." She said mildly, still keeping her eyes locked to Draco's.
Draco held her gaze, then looked over everyone in the room, "I know it must hurt your fragile egos, to be beholden to a child, and a Death Eater at that, but I would like you all to consider the fact I've decided to be here, against my best judgement. You are all alive, because I've decided to make it so, putting my life, and my family's life, on the line in the process. If you have an issue with me sitting at this table, and sharing in your information, I implore you to put yourself in my shoes, or, if your fragile sense of morality cannot do even that, ask, and I will give you a personal demonstration of why I hold no love for Voldemort."
Draco sat down again, to find his glass refilled, and he took a large gulp, uncaring of pretence, "Duel me or get out." He said finally, his calm returning to him.
There was a hanging silence, before Dumbledore cleared his throat, and the meeting resumed.