A Special Meeting
The overcast sky felt like it was looming over him, making the expansive fields that separated the manor from the nearby town seem oddly suffocating. His crisply pressed dress pants dragged through the mist that lingered over the overgrown grass as he trudged toward the short stone wall lining the village. He planted a now-muddy dress shoe on its surface and stepped over it into a bumpy cobblestone street. He panned his gaze over the tiny collection of ancient brick houses. “Great” Wishford. Was this really what muggles called “great”? A sprinkling of water fell onto his forehead and he let out an exasperated sigh, moving the flaps of his blazer so he could shove his hands into his pockets. Of course, it had to rain.
He strode over to an inn to his right, catching shelter under its overhang as the precipitation began to pick up its pace. His hand slipped into his blazer and pulled out the letter. The damned letter. By then, the paper was crinkled from how many times he’d opened it and held it with a tight grip, examining every single word scribbled into it for a hidden meaning. He’d come up with no revelations, and no explanation for his mother’s unease and insistence that he do as it requested.
To the Malfoy Family,
I believe I have something in common with your employer that I wish to inquire about. If my assumption is correct, I have confidence he would like to speak with me as well.
I have seen the gate and held conversation with its guardian. That is all.
I will remain in Great Wishford for the next week, and every day at noon, I will visit the town square. Do with that information what you will.
The letter stopped there. Not even a signature. A vague letter requesting an audience with the Dark Lord himself based off of a single sentence. How arrogant. Even worse than that, though, was his mother allowing it. It lacked any semblance of professionalism— bloody hell, it looked like it was written by a five-year-old— yet the distinguished Malfoy Family was accepting it. He hated it. Hated it all. The embarrassment of his father being imprisoned and his home being occupied by Death Eaters without their consent was enough to get his blood boiling; their family did not deserve another disgrace. He shoved the letter back into his blazer pocket, fighting to plaster his usual undisturbed expression back onto his face.
As an elderly woman was about to duck into the inn, he stopped her and asked for directions to the town square. Her heavy eyelids perked up at his question, and her gaze scanned him up and down before her expression settled into a soft smile.
“You’re who he’s meetin’ up wit’, ah?” She asked, smirking and readjusting her center of gravity to lean a hand on her hip. His eyebrows furrowed at the question, confused, but she waved off his obvious suspicion. “Don’t be a stranger! I’ve heard a bit about his lil’ application. Do consider ‘im— he’s a hard worker if I’ve ever seen one. Though… I heard you two’ve never met, so let me give ya a little word o’ warnin’.” She gestured behind her to the inn. “I run this place with m’husband, an’ that little twat came in the other night for a room. M’dear commented on his height an’ got a lovely lil’ welt on his forehead in return.” She let out a good natured cackle and he felt like he was withering on the spot. She gestured down the road, giving him directions to the village square, and he strode off without another word.
He’d learned a bit about the writer from the short exchange. For one thing, he had a little tact. Disguising the meet as a job application was an interesting approach to concealing the true reason for the meet, but probably a necessary one. It would look odd if they didn’t have an excuse.
For the other… he was insane. He bludgeoned a muggle on the head for calling him short. Perhaps you needed that sort of caliber to write such a strange letter to the Malfoy Family, a bloodline known for excelling in the Dark Arts, but that didn’t make it much better. Maybe his mother was meaning to clear this menace off the streets before he could pull another ridiculous stunt.
The bumpy roads lined with little old stone and brick shops led him to a busy square with a small fountain in the middle. All the people in it were moving quickly to spend as little time out in the horrible weather as possible. Well… all but one. A rather small figure concealed by a burgundy trench coat was perched on the rim of the fountain in a strange hunched position. As he closed the distance between them, he realized the figure was attempting to shield the book in its lap from the rain by leaning over it. The figure’s hooded head snapped up to meet Malfoy’s eyes, and the concentrated look on its face from reading melted into an eager, analytical stare. So this was the writer. The figure hauled itself onto its feet, tucked the book under its arm and stuck out its left hand toward him.
“A Malfoy, I presume?” The figure asked in a voice stained with a heavy German accent. Its tone was significantly lower than he would expect from someone of its stature, but as he took in the sight of its hardy, defined features, he decided it was fitting. He’d assumed it would be a kid, considering the handwriting and lack of professionalism in the letter, but the figure before him hauled itself into place like an old man and spoke with a refined tone that reminded him of an auror. Perhaps he’d been too quick to dismiss it. He stared down at the gloved hand extended toward him to keep from meeting the figure’s intimidatingly sharp golden eyes. The analytical stare made him feel like he was being… dissected.
“Draco,” he asserted, taking the extended hand tentatively. “Draco Malfoy. And you are?”
“Edward Elric,” the figure answered, plastering a smirk on his face and retracting his hand to slip it in his pocket. “So what’s the verdict?”
He huffed at Elric, fixing the flaps of his blazer and pivoting to step away. “You’re coming to the manor.” He began walking away before Elric could even so much as respond. He didn’t want to acknowledge the writer’s presence too much; he very obviously had a big enough head as it was. He didn’t have to look behind him to know Elric was trailing, as the man’s trench coat rustled and his boots beat against the cobblestone just behind him. Thankfully, Elric didn’t feel compelled to dispel the silence that lingered around them as they wove through the town and out into the fields. Once he was far enough from the village that no muggle could see them, he pulled out his wand and cast a shield above them to finally get shelter from the rain, which was now beating down on them with full force.
He heard a muffled yelp come from behind him and swiveled around to see Elric trying to keep a wide eyed look from peeling across his face. Draco looked at him quizzically, but before he could ask, the short man had regained his composure. Perhaps he was worried about the laws of underage wizardry? He huffed and turned to face his course toward the manor once again, internally noting how oblivious Elric was to his family’s tight grip on the British Ministry of Magic. As if those small, silly laws would apply to him.
Once they reached the manor, he swung open the front gate with a flourish and stomped down the drive through the front garden. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see his guest rubbernecking around the property and scoffed. He pushed open the vast mahogany doors leading into their grand foyer where his mother waited for him, with Elric stepping in behind him.
When she saw them, she got up from her perch on a tufted velvet chair and strode over with a regal urgency. With a snap of her fingers, a house elf popped into existence next to Elric and took his coat, garnering a strangely surprised look from the short man. She went through her usual etiquette of welcome, which Draco thought to be strange, considering she only pulled that facade when they had high-class guests, until her words trailed off into nothingness. A cloud of an all-too familiar presence shrouded the room, making the hairs on the back of his neck rise uncomfortably against his collar.
He could see their visitor noticed it as well, but he had a rather strange reaction. The same analytical look in his eyes from when they first met returned, though much more… eager. Almost hungry. Most who met the presence for the first time had a very different reaction, often entailing a look of fear, disgust, sickness, and in one case, actual vomit. So his reception to it was a little disturbing. His mother turned and Elric whipped his head up to face the doorway on the other end of the hall, which almost immediately opened into the dining hall. At the far end of the elegant table and in front of the black marble fireplace sat…
The little amount of color left on Draco’s naturally pallid face drained away as his eyes met the almost inhuman figure draped in elegant black robes at the far end of the room. He couldn’t think of a single time Voldemort revealed himself so soon to anyone other than a Death Eater, so his eyes immediately shot to the guest.
Nothing.
Not even a twinge of fear. The closest thing to an extreme emotion that stained the short man’s face was petty confusion, as if he wasn’t expecting the Dark Lord to be bald. Suddenly his perception of this Elric person became one more akin to one of his father’s colleagues than an uninvited guest (though there was a bit of overlap between the two ideas).
“My Lord!” His mother exclaimed, apparently just as shocked as he was over Voldemort’s strange display. “I was not expecting—“
The Dark Lord raised an inhumanly pale hand to silence her, and she quickly obeyed the nonverbal command.
“This one wrote the letter?” Voldemort asked in his usual regal yet unbothered drawl and raised a finger to point at the short man between him and his mother. Before Draco could answer, Elric stepped toward the Dark Lord and took to a formal gesture not unlike one a member of the military would use toward a general.
“My name is Edward Elric.” He introduced, with his voice and face void of all emotion. He returned to his normal stance, dropping out of the formal gesture, and walked further toward the dining hall.
“I must say…” Voldemort began, scanning the short man up and down, “you are not what I was expecting.”
“I feel inclined to say the same about you,” Elric decided, pulling himself into the chair opposite him. “A homunculus? You have an appearance and aura similar to one.”
“I don’t believe I’ve heard the term.” The Dark Lord replied, steepling his fingers.
“Hmm… perhaps there is a different word for it here.” Ed put a hand up to his chin in thought and made a face as if he was swallowing a large pill. Perhaps he wasn’t as unshaken as he seemed. “A homunculus refers to someone who died, was brought back to life in an inferior form, and fed with the deaths of other people until they regain a proper form. Does that sound familiar?”
As if Draco wasn’t shell-shocked enough by the situation by then, Voldemort’s pale face split into a spine-chilling grin and a chuckle left his thin lips. He leaned back in his chair and gestured to him and his mother.
“Narcissa, Draco, leave us. I believe we have a riveting conversation ahead of us.” He and his mother hurried to close the doors of the dining hall, leaving them in the silent foyer to mull over what on earth just happened.