Title: Chosen’s Trial

Rating: R (this is the Edited version. For links to the non-edited version see profile)

Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter. I own nothing. This was written for fun and not profit.

A/N: I’m not so sure I met the requirements completely. I ‘sorta’ did. I think things got a bit weird though. And then I went a bit crazy there for awhile and the story got completely out of control. Someone’s going to pay, I just have to figure out who. I think there might be a distinct lack of witty lines in there. Too much serious conversation. Way too much serious conversation. Not enough wit. And not enough sex.

Warnings: violence, language and hints of possible slash (but no actual slash)

Summary: A spell is cast that sparks a devastating chain of events. The world is ending, the dead are awakening. And Draco Malfoy is at the center of it all.

Pairings: D/Hr

NOTE: The story is complete, but I'm doing a bit of editing for content (ie. got to edit-out the sex scene) so I'll be posting in parts as I reread them.

oooo

July 1998

Harry Potter had never had to question the purpose of his existence. He had never wondered why he had been born or what he could do with his life to leave his little mark on the world. His legacy had been handed to him when he was a year old, baptized in his parent’s blood and marked by lightening. The path was already there, ready and waiting. He just needed to walk it.

Sure that path was incredibly hard to walk. Treacherous. Strewn with stumbling blocks and terrible risks. Sure that path was incredibly frightening and daunting whenever he looked it square in the face and yeah, he wondered a lot how it was all going to work out.

After all, how was a short, skinny, eighteen-year-old—who could have been mistaken for sixteen—with thick glasses and average grades, supposed to depose the half-century old Dark Lord that had undergone so many forbidden transformations and transmutations and delved so deeply into the Dark Arts that his body was no longer human?

It was scary. So scary that he shook and his palms sweated and his throat closed up and he hid in his room and prayed that the final confrontation would come—but not today. Please, just not today.

The thing was, he believed he could do it. Hadn’t he faced the Dark Lord several times already and come out miraculously unscathed? Not counting their first meeting when he had only been a tiny baby and had beaten the old monster anyway.

He believed it.

Because what was the purpose of the legends and the prophecies and the ominous positions of the stars and the hundreds of thousands of lives and hopes resting on his shoulders and all the hype if he was just going to botch it all and die like everyone else?

Pitifully. Helplessly. Without hardly a struggle.

A silent menagerie looked on. Unicorns, griffins, hippogriffs, sea monsters with coiled tails all frozen in their own lost battle, as blood splattered explosively across the walls with a sound like a fire hose on hot cement.

The animals were silent and still, so the humans acted for them, screaming and fighting and whirling. A hail of shattering stone covered Harry in dust, choking his raw and burning throat. A blaze of scorching spell-fire seared his blistered skin.

He barely felt it.

Hooves and claws stomped without touching the ground. Wings beat without stirring the air. Captured in the humiliating moment of their defeat.

Dumbledore had known all along.

Harry lay limp and broken, cradled in Hermione’s arms. Around them the chaos spun with nauseating clarity but all he could hear was her soft humming lullaby. Blood ran like warm tears down his ruined face. Her eyes were dry because she had a concussion and wasn’t thinking straight.

He had realized the truth the moment he looked up and faced the ambush. When he saw the tired lines of bitter anguish in Remus’ face and the tight, wild rage in Snape’s. Saw the first shock of verdant death glittering in the watching equine eyes.

He’d known. But he hadn’t panicked until Snape gave him a last fleeting look of such pained regret.

“Goodbye Potter.” He’d said harshly, the same cold determination on his face that had been there the night he raised his wand against Dumbledore.

Harry touched Hermione’s face because he couldn’t see it, felt the tacky blood already cooling on her soft cheek, felt her warm breath, lips ghosting over his palm, as she continued serenely humming her song.

She must have known too.

They were going to die.

And it didn’t happen because of ‘destiny’ or ‘fate’ or anything as gloriously stupid as all that. (No one ever believes in fate unless it’s something good, like true love. The minute fate is a bitch and says ‘you’re gonna die’, everyone stops believing in it.)

This wasn’t fate. This was life. This was just what happened when a school age student fucked with the Dark Lord. Like his parents did, like Neville’s parents did and Dumbledore and Dumbledore’s friends.

And just like them, in the end there was no reason for fanfare or heroic stories. In the end there was nothing remarkable about his death at all. He was just another body among the hundreds that had already died.

“GET HER AWAY FROM THERE! GET HER AWAY!”

A filthy, blood-spattered Remus Lupin grappled Hermione around the waist and violently ripped her away from Harry. She shrieked in fury, a piercing, screaming wail, and clawed viciously at Lupin’s arm, reaching for Harry who couldn’t understand why he’d been left bereft and alone.

Why had they taken Hermione from him? He was so cold. In the circle. The animals strained as if to be heard and he almost could. He could almost hear them screaming along with Hermione.

“HARRY! HAARRY!” her broken cries were gut-deep and pulled at something inside him. He wished vaguely that he could go to her.

“It’s too late, Hermione!” Remus screamed in her ear, hand slippery with blood trying futilely to cover her mouth, trying to stop those awful shrieks, trying to get her to shut up, shut up, SHUT UP! She bit his hand, still wailing and the sound came out muffled.

The hand clamped harder over her mouth, unintentionally squashing her nose, and she bucked and howled, suffocating.

Through her ruined vision, she got a brief glimpse of Snape standing over Harry’s prone form, a wicked-looking spear in his hand, gleaming metal tip aimed for Harry’s heart. Lucius and Bellatrix coming up behind him.

Light flared between them, rings and circles spiraling across the stone floor. Searing red light and runes like smears of blood. Remus screamed a curse as Snape brought the spear down and the world tumbled as she was dragged from the circle. Remus crushed her to the ground. He fell on her so hard that her ribs creaked and she groaned as he curled himself around her. It was futile protection. The next wave of magic hit. A small supernova that turned her vision white.

Like fine powder, like a dry leaf, her body was blown to pieces in the shockwave.

The last thing Hermione remembered before she died was staring up at the menagerie with their mouths stretched grotesquely in empty screams, and being grateful that she could no longer feel her body.

The room was suddenly silent. Everyone was dead.

And Harry wasn’t that special after all.

oooo

July 2007

Ninth Year of the Reign of Lord Voldemort

Revolution was about change. Or perhaps revolution couldn’t occur without change. That seemed rather likely. And Draco could accept that mentally, even if it still disturbed him on some deep level that ‘preserving the old way of life’ had become razing down everything good and familiar and remolding it into something completely unrecognizable.

He tried not to scowl at the young soldiers who were openly staring, some of them sneering, at his attire. Instead, he gave them the full brunt of the condescension of the Malfoy glare, one his father had always reserved for Commoners, Mudbloods and Minister Fudge. Draco was wearing the traditional attire of the Malfoy patriarch. There was not a family alive with finer, more resplendent robes.

Yet here, in one of the new hubs of Wizarding society, he was out of place. The youths who stopped to stare were the children raised in war-time. They were soldiers with close-fitting pants and many-pocketed vests who wouldn’t dream of wearing robes to battle. Even the higher ranking Battle Mages had desisted in wearing the bulky and awkward garments of tradition.

To them, Draco, in his silk finery—which was entirely unsuitable for battle—was a strange site indeed. One that curled lips and lowered brows. His white-blond hair was much too long to be practical, his hands, long fingers loose about the dragon-headed cane he carried, were soft and un-calloused. A House-Elf cowered at his feet, ready to attend his needs. Everything about him spoke of a life of leisure and luxury and, to them, who had been gorged upon the Dark Lord’s ideals until bloated while they were still young teens, anyone not actively in their Lord’s service was scum.

Of course, that did not give them the right to be rude. Especially not to him. He’d have a word with their Squad Captain.

The other significant group of people in Draco’s vicinity were doing the opposite of the young soldiers. Every slave in sight had turned their head away from him and shielded their eyes.

There were no free Muggles left in this area. London proper had been completely destroyed. The few Muggles Draco could see were all branded with the Slave Mark on their foreheads, the rune for property, Othala. It looked like a diamond with two diagonal legs slanting opposite directions out from the base point. They were dressed in drab brown robes and hurried about their business without glancing to the right or left.

Most of the slaves in this area were Muggleborns, half or even purebloods. Voldemort’s Elite seemed to consider it a status symbol to own those with purer blood. All slaves, no matter what their blood purity, wore the mark of Othala. It was supposed to humble them, show the purer blooded slaves that they were in the same social class as the Muggles. Because of this, slave owners had taken to coloring the slave mark for the sake of showing off the blood purity of their property. Red for Muggle, blue for Muggleborn, green for half-blood, or some mix thereof, and gold for pureblood.

Several of the Battle Mages noticed the slaves’ reaction to Draco and bowed, realizing who he was. It was the stuff of lore among them that all slaves everywhere knew Draco on sight, when only a handful of Voldemort’s most Elite knew his identity.

The streets of Diagon Alley had been obliterated and rebuilt into a sprawling plaza. The Military Headquarters was surrounded by lesser bureaus and departments in the new government. Behind those were the soldier’s barracks. The shopping district of Diagon Alley was still there, it was just further out into what used to be the Muggle city of London.

The guards at the gates of Headquarters gave him the same cold, challenging looks as the others, eyes lingering on the quivering House-Elf. It was possible that they had never even seen a House-Elf as the Elves were usually bound to one place or one building. It was not in their nature to follow the nomadic life of the soldiers.

The soldier on the right was young, eighteen or nineteen, and had wispy light brown hair and big ears that looked even bigger against his nearly shaved head. Draco would bet anything the kid was an Abercrombie. He stared into the kid’s hard eyes and knew that even if the boy knew that he’d been stolen from a Light family, the rest of whom had probably been slaughtered, he’d only be relieved that his Mudblood-loving relatives were dead.

The one on the left noticed the tattoo high on his right cheek and nudged Abercrombie. Their snarls turned to leers. They turned their wands on him aggressively.

“State your business, civilian.” The one on the left demanded, last word oozing scorn.

Draco raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t react. “Emile Hoverson to see Commander Maurice.”

The taunting grins faltered, the boys suddenly unsure how to treat him. He didn’t blame them. His status within the Dark Lord’s ranks was hard to pinpoint.

Finally they decided to err on the side of caution and bowed to him. “Slave Master Hoverson. The Commander is expecting you in his office. Do you need an escort?”

“I’ll find my way.” Draco murmured and swept past them, cane clacking on the hard floor. “Come Dobby.”

The House-Elf flinched and hurried after him.

Draco had not been called to Headquarters since he’d been cut from active service six years ago but he remembered Brighton Maurice’s office. It took up the top floor of one entire wing of the building. The Commander was the son of one of the Dark Lord’s first followers. He had never been very important in Voldemort’s first rise to power, but during the second rise, he became one of the few lucky Death Eaters who had been enhanced by the Dark Lord’s magical experiments instead of destroyed by them. It made him incredibly valuable and he knew it.

Draco had just entered the foyer when the unexpected sight of two familiar faces caused him to stop abruptly. Dobby ran into the backs of his knees and Draco cast him a furious glare that had the House-Elf wringing his ears and backing away, before quickly turning his gaze forward.

“Flint?” he called.

Marcus Flint and Adrian Pucey were lounging outside the Commander’s door.

“By Salazar!” Flint took a step forward, astonishment giving way to a wicked grin. “It isn’t! Little baby Draco Malfoy! I can’t believe it. I haven’t seen you since Hogwarts, Pride.” He eyed Draco up and down as he approached. “Look at you, just like your dad.”

Flint had finally grown into the shoulders that had been disproportionately broad in school. His face was fuller and his arms thicker, ridding him of the reedy, rat-like appearance he’d once sported, and drawing attention away from his crooked nose. All in all, he looked good.

Draco smiled tightly and allowed Flint to pump his arm and slap him heartily on the back, ruefully thinking that his father would have been appalled at such treatment. Pucey came forward to shake his hand, his face oddly stretched and his thick neck thicker then ever. He was entirely bald and not in the young, freshly shaven way of the soldiers downstairs.

“What are you two doing here?” Draco asked.

“We have a meeting with Commander Maurice and Slave Master Hoverson.” Flint told him.

“Ah.” Draco place a hand over his heart and bowed. “Emile Hoverson, at your service.”

Flint found this hysterical. “Well, well, well,” he cat-called, pretending to meet Draco for the first time and bowing back, “If it isn’t Master Malfoy the Muggle Merchant himself. I should have known. I can’t think of a profession that suits you better, Pride.”

“What can I say, I’m the best at what I do.” Draco drawled, eyeing Marcus’ freshly tailored uniform. He flicked one of the silver buttons. “Looking good yourself, Flint.”

Marcus made a show of polishing his fingernails on his crisp jacket. “I made Squad Commander a few months ago.”

“Squad Commander?” Draco echoed, taken aback. He shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t think we were seeing that much action.”

The Muggle population had been completely subdued years ago. The most ‘action’ the military had seen in the last year was a rural uprising that was put down in less than thirty minutes. Squad Captains rarely saw active duty. Appointing new Squad Commanders seemed ludicrous, they just hadn’t been needed.

Pucey waggled his eyebrows. Despite age and experience, Adrian was still wearing the uniform of a high-ranked foot soldier. He would never make captain. He was taller and broader than Flint and probably physically stronger as well, but his neck and arms bulged unnaturally and he wore heavy cloth to hide the thick veins that covered them, marks from the experiment that had both enhanced and deformed him.

“The Dark Lord has been amassing his forces.” Pucey told him in a deep baritone. “We think we might be starting another large scale campaign.”

Draco settled back on his heels, tracing his mouth thoughtfully. “The East or the West?”

China and Japan were protecting themselves with an ancient native magic that was nearly incomprehensible and impenetrable to the European armies, while the Americas had sheer number and diversity of magic and force. The East might be an easier target in the long run but the West was a larger threat. They had allied themselves with much of the rest of the world including, it was rumored, the Floating Cities.

Pucey shrugged, looking pleased. “Nothing’s been said for sure yet, but what I’ve heard is that we’ve obtained an opening into a port city in Canada.”

Draco mentally worked through the repercussions of this information, cursing himself for not having seen this coming. What was left of Europe had been relatively peaceful for years now. The Dark Lord had everything firmly in hand. He would be restless by now and ready to branch out.

“How have you been?” Flint asked Draco with careful neutrality that still didn’t manage to cover his curiosity. “I heard you were cut from active duty.”

Draco stiffened and turned his head away slightly in an unconscious effort to hide the silver rune embedded high in his left cheek. Adrian glanced at the mark then quickly away, pursing his thick mouth, and damned if he didn’t look smug.

The silver mark was Wunjo, the rune for glory. A gift from the Dark Lord for his time in the Dark Lord’s service. It basically marked him as a broken warrior. Younger soldiers saw it as a mark of shame.

“Yes. It’s been about six years since I left my Squads.” He had been a Supreme Council Officer. Someone who conferred with the Dark Lord’s Elite War Council and was not only in charge of several Squads but lead his own Platoon made up of his own hand-selected Mages.

That was back in his glory days before the Dark Lord started his experiments.

“So Pansy. . . . ?” Adrian asked leadingly, wanting to hear the dirt.

Draco smothered his irritation and answered without rancor. “We split up. It was mutual. We both knew I’d be unable to protect her any longer. She married one of the Pritchard cousins I think.”

“You don’t stay in contact?” Flint asked.

“No.” Draco replied plainly. He made it a practice, almost an art, to be unavailable and untraceable to those who knew him.

“You’ve become incredibly wealthy on the Slave Trade, though, so I bet she’s sorry she missed out, yeah?” Pucey asked, gleefully. Ah, so it wasn’t personal. They didn’t care who was miserable as long as they got to gloat.

Draco gave him an almost imperceptible smirk. “She doesn’t know what I do.”

The door to the Commander’s office was opened by a cadet with posture so straight Draco was certain he had a garden rake shoved up his ass. The cadet glared at them arrogantly and the Commander scowled from behind his desk and continued his work on whatever documents he was writing on. He ignored them for several minutes, just because he could, before setting his quill down with a sigh.

“Alright boys, I haven’t got all day.” Maurice growled finally.

Flint’s lip curled at the word ‘boys’ but he sauntered forward without comment. Adrian following behind.

Maurice was a very lean man, hard-bodied from years of war. He was bald on top but thick, wiry dark hair grew on the back of his head and he kept it pulled into a very short ponytail. His whiskered face was long and so battle scarred as to be almost disfigured. He had fought hard, desperately to stay useful to the cause when so many others had fallen to the wayside.

The cadet shut the door behind them and took his place at Maruice’s side. The Commander handed him a stack of papers and sat back, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

He squinted at them. “Names.”

Flint saluted. “Marcus Flint, sir, Squad Commander to his Lordship’s Wyvern Platoon.”

“Private Adrian Pucey, sir. Second Lieutenant to Squad Captain Delos Tribban under Commander Flint.”

“Emile Hoverson.” Draco answered with a small, very small, bow, both hands on his cane. “Slave Master Hoverson to his Lordship’s Council.”

Maurice’s scowl deepened at Draco’s lack of respect, his eyes lingering on the silver rune on Draco’s face. He looked the younger man up and down with blatant disapproval. “Yes, I’ve heard of you, though you haven’t been to court in nigh seven years. Squib, aren’t you?”

The soldier at the Commander’s side was staring unabashedly at the silver rune. He chortled when Draco noticed.

Draco’s blue eyes went frigid. “No sir.” He said very softly.

Maurice snorted. “Then is the Elf really necessary? Really, bringing creatures like that into my office.”

Draco could see where this was going. “The Elf performs the tasks I cannot manage, just as my cane stabilizes what is left of my magic. As you well know, sir.”

The Commander smirked; satisfied that Draco had admitted what he wanted to hear. “Oh, that’s right. You’re one of the failed experiments.” He clucked his tongue, gaze hungry for Draco’s shame. “That’s too bad. I blame it on weak blood. Only the most powerful families were able to survive whole and enhanced by his Lordship’s experiments.”

Draco said nothing, expression neutral, even pleasant. Maurice held his eyes until he was certain he’d proved his point and then grabbed a set of files from the stack in the soldier’s arms.

“These are your orders.” He handed one to Draco who flipped it open, scanning it with the efficiency of long practice.

The Commander unrolled another scroll that showed a map of Britain and the surrounding islands. “His Lordship requires the evacuation of all Muggle villages in Britain. They are to be relocated here.” He drew his finger up to what was once Glasgow.

“All the Muggles?” Flint asked, examining the map.

“Every last one.” Maurice pointed to several areas on the map that indicated Muggle cities. “They are too scattered about. His Lordship wants them all congregated to one city.”

“So his Lordship does intend to start the second wave.” Draco murmured, closing his folder.

The Commander gave him a sharp look.

“He will not send his Mages abroad until he knows for certain the Muggles cannot cause problems here.” Draco explained.

“Preposterous.” The Commander blustered and Draco found the dignified air amusing in someone who’d once professionally played the role of whimpering toady. “His Lordship does not fear mere Muggles.”

Draco gave him an oily smile. “I wouldn’t dream of contradicting you, sir. I’m sure you know much more on the matter then I do.”

Suspicion deepened the crows-feet around the Commander’s eyes but he only turned to Flint. “Your Platoon is, much as the order repulses me, now under the command of the Slave Master. He is to use your soldiers to carry out the evacuation and relocation.”

Flint concentrated on the map. “How many Muggles are we talking about?”

Maurice opened his mouth importantly then shut it and wordlessly looked at Draco.

“About seventeen million last time I counted.” Draco told them offhand.

Pucey whistled. “That’s a lot of Muggles.”

“Well we won’t be doing it all at once.” Draco said coyly.

“Last time you counted?” Flint asked.

“That’s what I do.” Draco sneered. “I run the slave trade but I also run control on the Muggle population. If we didn’t keep track of them, we’d get spies slipping into the population to build up resistance.” He brushed a strand of hair back from his face. “What’s our deadline?” he asked Maurice.

“You have one month. Until the end of July.”

The end of July. Harry Potter’s birthday. Draco thought. Whatever’s been planned, he wants it done before then.

“And Flint’s platoons are under my command?” he asked.

“Yes.” The Commander ground out, putout at having to repeat it. He seemed to think Draco was mocking him.

“Then the first thing we need to do is send out messengers to the Muggle cities. We’ll give them three days notice.” Draco decided and handed his folder to Dobby.

“Y-You aren’t serious.” Maurice looked scandalized. “You should begin immediately. You don’t have time to inform the Muggles. Just take them.”

“With all due respect, Commander, my job requires efficiency above all things.” Draco answered sharply. “This isn’t some kind of courtesy to them. It is simple organization. If we give the Muggles a few days leeway, they will gather their belongings and their families and we can move them with a minimum of fuss. If we simply show up in force, they will panic and we will waste valuable time rounding them up.”

“The Commander is right. . . .” Pucey started.

“I’ve made up my mind.” Draco interrupted coldly. “Is that clear?”

Flint’s mouth thinned as though he wanted to argue but was too well-trained. “Fine. I’ll send runners immediately. Is there anything else, Commander?”

“In fact, there is.” The older man reached again into his desk and pulled out a slim band. He handed it gently to Draco. “What do you make of this?”

Draco frowned, turning the band over. It was very slim, thinner than paper and made of silver metal. “This is an EPS band. Spies use them to transmit information like their location or even audio/visual info. Worn around the wrist, ankle or throat it automatically adheres and colors itself to the spy’s skin.”

He slid his finger gently beneath the bottom of the band and clicked something. The band suddenly expanded becoming a half-inch thick, knobby bracelet with several lights and buttons. Draco’s eyes widened.

“Holy shit, this is an upgraded model. I’ve never seen one like this before.” He looked up. “Where was it found?”

“A female pureblood slave in service to one of the Dark Lord’s own council men. She was caught reading important documents and taking pictures with that band.”

“That shouldn’t be possible.” Draco said slowly. “The Mage guards to the council scan for these bands.”

Maurice wet his lips. “It did not show up while on her person, but in the hands of anyone else it was immediately identifiable.”

Draco mulled this over, careful fingers still examining the band. “Then it’s an incomplete piece. Was there another item found on her?”

Maurice shook his head. “No. This was all there was.”

“There had to be another piece.” Draco insisted. “What did you find out under Veritaserum?”

“Nothing. She resisted all potions.”

“Then the missing piece must have been an implant.” Draco decided immediately. “My sources have suggested that rebel spies have been experimenting with internal equipment, either injected under the skin or directly into the brain. Do we have a name for the spy?”

“Uh.” Maurice sifted through several papers. “A Luna Lovegood.”

Draco went still. “Not one of mine.”

“What?”

“She wasn’t a slave.”

“Well of course she was, she. . . .”

Draco gave the man a withering glare. “I know who all my pureblooded slaves are and where they are.” he told them fiercely. “Luna Lovegood is not one of my slaves. She must have infiltrated. But I can’t imagine at what point she could have done so without my people picking up on it. We keep very careful records of these things, Commander. This shouldn’t have happened. I’ll need to examine the girl. If you’ll put in the request, I can. . . .”

“Impossible.” Maurice cut him off, tapping the paper in front of him. “She’ll already have been destroyed.”

“What?” Draco bit out furiously, horrified that such measures were taken without his consultation. “That is expressly forbidden without my permission. Where’s the body?”

Maurice looked at his papers again and pursed his lips. “Gone.”

“Shit.” Draco cursed, pacing now, cheeks flushed with rage. “This is bullshit! Who ordered the disposal?”

“General Zabini.” The Commander said sharply, angry at Draco’s tone. “It’s none of your business how. . . .”

“It is my business more then anyone else’s!” Draco shouted, whirling on him. He stilled, closing his eyes and taking a calming breath before lowering his voice. “Look, I cannot crack the codes on this band without the implant. I cannot find the implant without the body.” He said very slowly as if he were talking to idiots, voice slowly rising. “Without the implant we can’t find a way to track other spies who may have infiltrated our slave ranks with this very same equipment. If we can’t track spies then we are losing valuable information to the enemy!” he slammed his hands down on the Commander’s desk, leaning close. “Perhaps you believe me some kind of glorified squib but I am his Lordship’s leading expert on Muggle technology and technomancy and the only thing standing between us and the Muggle threat. . . .”

The Commander’s face twisted in disgusted disbelief. It was the young soldier who spoke. “That’s ridiculous! Muggles are in no way a danger to Wizards. They’re animals, they. . . .” he cut off in surprise as Draco pulled a small, gleaming metal piece from his robes and pointed it at the boy’s head.

“What’s that?” Maurice asked with a hint of uncertainty.

Draco smiled and lowered the muzzle of his glock slightly before pulling the trigger. The gunshot was impossibly loud in the office, cutting off Flint and Pucey’s wild exclamations. The young soldier slammed into the wall, bleeding arm hanging limply at his side. He grabbed at his shoulder, shrieking. Maurice had flung himself to his feet and now stared at the soldier in baffled horror.

Flint and Pucey backed away, both staring at Draco as if he’d gone mad. Flint had his wand out but didn’t seem to know whether to strike or let this play out. Draco ignored them.

“Now imagine if that had been someone’s head.” Draco smiled cheerfully over the wails of the boy and pointed his weapon at Maurice’s face.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Flint shouted, but Draco didn’t waver.

The Commander went pasty white.

“It’s that easy, Commander.” Draco murmured. “You get the right spy, Muggle or Wizard, in here with a weapon and a silencer and BAM!” Maurice flinched, hands cringing up towards his face. Draco was inordinately pleased to see the toady was back. “Magic can be detected, but a gun shot. . . .” he shook his head. “We can’t trace it. We’d never find the perpetrator.” He scowled suddenly at the squalling soldier. “Oh, shut up! You’re not dying. Go see the healer.”

Clutching his arm and teary-eyed the soldier ran from the room.

Draco watched him leave in disgust. It was disappointing how a Wizard who wouldn’t so much as twitch after a narrow miss from Avada Kedavra, could be completely undone by a bit of Muggle violence. The unfamiliar was always scariest, he supposed.

Draco sighed. “Have I made my point, Commander? I can’t do my job if you people don’t work with me.” He slipped the gun back into his robes. “And if another spy gets through, I will make it very clear to the council who didn’t work with me.”

Maurice shifted nervously, eyeing Draco with barely concealed terror, but mustered himself and replied stiffly. “I will r-relay your complaints to the council.”

Draco watched him with hooded eyes. “You do that.” He turned to leave.

“There is one more thing.” Maruice stumbled over the words, catching Draco before he could fully move away.

“What is it?” He sighed, not bothering to turn around.

“She was looking for you.”

That stopped him. “What is that supposed to mean?” He asked very carefully.

Maurice fiddled nervously with his quill. “She knew Emile Hoverson was actually Draco Malfoy. She was searching for your location.”

Draco’s fingers clamped down on his cane, the only visible sign that he was disturbed. He didn’t like those implications at all. “That means someone else knows as well.”

Maurice nodded, watching his face carefully.

Draco sat back on his heels. “I’ll take care of it.” He said simply.