A/N: Another Ollivander's Challenge fic. This time the prompt I went for was Florean Fortescue and my love of ice cream and the mystery of the bloke providing it made me write this.

Quick note about general other stuff - I am finally done with uni - hooray! - but it turns out this doesn't give me the unlimited free time of which I have dreamed for the past ten months. If you are awaiting a review/pm reply/review response/anything from me then I promise I'm getting there. Turns out putting all that stuff on hold for a few weeks causes quite the backlog.

Anyway, fic world problems aside - here's a one-shot for you to (hopefully) enjoy.

Disclaimer: J.K Rowling owns it. All of it. And if this ever makes you sad then remember this includes Umbridge.

Sat in the drawing room with his Potions book in front of him, Draco idly turned the page. He knew what potion was described on it and he knew it was of no use to him. Since he had arrived home a week ago all he had been doing was scouring his father's library, looking for the right poison. His mother had found him there one day and since then all of the books containing information that would have been useful to him had been suspiciously removed. Draco had had to resort to continuously going through his school books, hoping he could find something and change the recipe around to meet his ends.

The problem was that the poison couldn't be too common or Dumbledore would be able to spot it straight away. The old man would probably have a couple of basic antidotes on him at all times just in case. For the same reason it couldn't be one with a distinct odour. Slow-acting ones would be no good. While it could help cover his tracks as the source would be harder to trace, it would give Dumbledore time to seek medical assistance.

Ideally he needed a rare, fast-acting, odourless poison and he needed it in the next couple of days. After that Christmas would have been and gone and he would have missed a golden opportunity. Ever since he had overheard Granger talking about Filch's ineptitude he had been working on this plan and he still hadn't managed to track down this vital part.

Typical, he thought bitterly, slamming the book shut, the one time the mudblood didn't give more details than anybody could be bothered to listen to was the one time I actually needed her to.

Draco pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes, wincing as patches of bright blue and purple erupted into his vision. He'd been reading all night in his room and had only come downstairs for a change of scenery. His hopes of the larger room waking him up were slowly dying. Time wasn't moving and his eyes were burning, making reading almost impossible. The thin black letters were slowly morphing into one another and the ones that weren't didn't make any sense to him.

For the fourth time in the past twenty minutes, Draco considered having a quick nap and getting a few more hours research done before lunch. Once again he dismissed the idea. Time was of the essence. He needed to find a poison, brew or buy it and get it to Rosmerta before it was too late. There was no way he could give up. The answer could be on the next page. Inspiration could strike at any minute. He could do this. When he had agreed to take this on, Draco had sworn to himself that he would succeed. This was the chance he had been waiting for, a chance so few others would ever have, and he wasn't going to let anyone down.

He didn't need Snape either. It would be so simple to owl his professor and ask about poisons. He would be the one to know after all. As far as Draco was concerned this wasn't an option. Snape could talk his was in or out of anything. If he could fool Dumbledore into thinking he was loyal, then he could certainly make even the smallest contribution to Draco's mission look integral and claim all the glory. Draco couldn't let that happen.

This was his mission. It was his future, his reputation and his family on the line.

It was him who had to do it.

His resolve strengthened, Draco lifted his head and blinked rapidly as the light hit his eyes. The solution could be on the next page, or the next book. It didn't matter because he would find it eventually.

"Ah, Draco," came a voice from the doorway, "there you are." Draco jumped. He hadn't heard anyone approaching the room.

Thankfully Bella hadn't noticed his reaction as she strobe into the room, the noise from her heels against the wooden floor bouncing off the high ceiling. She seemed more interested in looking out of the large windows overlooking the grounds. Draco looked and saw his mother standing by one of the fountains, apparently fascinated by it despite there being no water, just a thick blanket of snow.

"Your mother becomes stranger by the day," Bella commented. Draco scowled but said nothing.

He glanced at his aunt and saw a kind of amusement in her eyes that always set him on edge. He had grown up with tales of her before the fall of the Dark Lord, her looks, her talent. His mother spoke highly of her, though never talked about her service to the Dark Lord. His father had told him those stories. She was his favourite point of reference when talking about how serving him was important, but how not being caught was more so.

Looking at the woman before him, Draco had to agree. Even though she was his aunt, he hated being near her, especially alone. He often wondered if his mother had lied or if prison had changed her. Draco hoped it wasn't the latter. He hated to think what his father would be like when he got out.

"So, Draco, what are you up to?" Bella asked.

"Homework," he lied, trying and failing to meet her eyes.

"I see." Her eyes narrowed and Draco fought to keep his mind on anything but the truth. While Bellatrix had been supportive, he didn't want her any closer to the plans than she needed to be. She was volatile to say the least.

"Well, seeing as you're not doing anything important you can make yourself useful," Bella said, that glint back in her eyes. "In the cellar there are some things that need to be destroyed. Here-" She took something out of her robe pocket and threw it at him. Draco deftly caught it and saw it was a box of matches. "Don't take all day."

"I'm not an elf," spat Draco, tossing the box on the table.

He regretted speaking immediately. Bella was smiling. Slowly, she moved to stand directly in front of him, the click of her boots acting as a countdown. Draco tried to appear unintimidated, but he knew he had been failing at that since she had walked in.

When she finally stopped she was close enough for him to feel her breath on his face.

"No," she whispered, "you're a child." She cocked her head to the side. "Unless you were doing something important, I suggest you do as I say."

Draco swallowed audibly.

She knew he had lied and didn't appreciate being kept out of the loop. If it weren't for the protection of his mother, Draco suspected Bella would have taken control of his mission months ago. He nodded jerkily and began tidying his books.

"Good boy, Draco," Bella taunted. She cackled and began to leave the room. "Daddy would be proud."

His hands shaking, Draco piled his books on top of each other and waited until her footsteps had disappeared upstairs. When he was sure she had left, he threw himself in the chair and swore under his breath.

The woman was psychotic. There was only one place people like her should be locked up and it wasn't his home. She was trying to be on her best behaviour, but there was only so long you could keep her caged before the boredom would get to her.

Draco slammed his fist on the table. He was not a child. The Dark Lord had chosen him. He had seen something special and had faith in him. Unlike his bloody mother who seemed to think the only way he would succeed was if he trip over his robe and accidentally pushed the Muggle lover off a cliff.

Deciding it was best to get this job out of the way so he could return to his work, Draco made his way down to the cellar, vaguely wondering what could possibly be kept down there that needed incinerating. It was one area of his home that Draco rarely visited as he had no reason to. The old elf used to sleep there but since Potter had freed him the cellar was all but redundant. The fact was made even clearer as he approached the staircase that led there. The expensive holly wreaths and floating angels that adorned the hallways weren't anywhere to be seen here.

Stowing the matches away in his pocket, Draco descended the stairs and forced the stiff lock open before stepping into the darkness. The damp smell hit him and he recoiled. Cursing the stupid law that forbade him from using magic, he used the matches to light the candles that lined the walls in serpentine holders. As the dull glow illuminated the cellar, Draco spotted a large pile of cloth in one of the corners.

This is a servant's job, he thought as he approached the pile. If anybody else had told him to do this he would have told them where to go. Malfoys didn't clean up old rags.

He stooped down to inspect and noted that at least they didn't smell too bad, though he would certainly be getting changed and showering afterwards. Draco could see why they needed to be burnt straight away. Clothes made from cheap fibres, covered in rips and grime… It was a wonder how they had even got into the house. They couldn't be garments that had once belonged to his family as there was no way any of them would wear such tat.

With a grimace, Draco lifted up a particularly garish pink shirt, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. Where the hell had it come from? He glanced over his shoulder though he was sure he was alone and picked up a pair of tattered jeans. Now that Draco's eyes had become accustomed to the low light he could see that there were a fair few Muggle items. They must have been the only ones of their kind in the building.

Deciding that he would ask his aunt where the clothes had come from next time she seemed less homicidal than usual, Draco began to scoop them into his arms, hoping there was nothing living amongst them. There was a fire place in the drawing room where he could torch them. On the third handful, however, he spotted a set of robes, pale blue and vaguely familiar. He dropped the rest of the pile to pick them up and almost immediately recognised the logo on the front. Even if the colourful insignia of an impossible bowl of ice cream hadn't been distinctive enough, the words Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour written underneath were a big giveaway.

Immediately Draco remembered trips to Diagon Alley with his father had always ending in a trip to Quality Quidditch Supplies, but his mother couldn't stand the shop. Instead she would take him to the ice cream parlour. Years later he could still remember vowing to try every flavour and Fortescue promising him it was impossible as he invented new ones quicker than Draco could eat them.

And now his torn robe was in the cellar.

The man had gone missing over summer, that was no secret. His shop was boarded up and the Magical Law Enforcement Squad had been skulking around long enough. Normally his father would keep him up to date with as much information about the war effort as he could, but with him in prison and his mother treating him like a toddler, as well as being exceptionally busy with his mission, Draco had never thought to ask about the man who had sold him ice cream.

He ran the fabric through his fingers, not really sure what he was looking for - proof that the inevitable hadn't happened, perhaps? There was no blood. Surely that would be enough to fool himself?

Draco ducked his head, gripping the robe tightly in his hand, trying to suppress the hollow feeling in his chest. The sensation had become almost permanent for him, but it had been less so since he had returned home. Over the summer the house had been gradually used by the Death Eaters more and more. The Dark Lord himself had organised meetings there. It was clear that he planned to use Draco's home as his main headquarters at some point. Bella had nearly cried when he had hinted at it last.

Had it already started? Were prisoners being kept here?

He knew this was happening, but the idea of it being in his childhood home disturbed Draco. Looking at the pile of clothes he wondered how many had been kept here. It looked to have reached double figures already. As the names of the people who had gone missing recently were pushed to the forefront of his mind, bile began to rise from his stomach and Draco bolted from the room. He didn't stop until he has slammed the door behind him and leaned back against it.

The deep breaths he was taking were helping him calm down as he mentally chastised himself. He had just run away from a pile of clothes. How pathetic was he? He was meant to be the one to assassinate the great Albus Dumbledore, but apparently he was unable to handle the discarded clothes of strangers.

Soon the shock wore off and was quickly replaced with anger. His aunt knew what was down there and that he didn't. She hated being kept out of his plans, hated being ordered to stay in the house by the Dark Lord and wanted to scare him. He couldn't let her know that it had worked.

Draco rubbed his hand over his face and ran his fingers through his hair, straightening it out. He checked his reflection in the ornate mirror in the hall and frowned at the boy staring back at him. At least he knew how Bella was being kept entertained now. The Dark Lord was providing her with homework.

Images of faceless people, stripped naked, humiliated and tortured for information flashed through his mind. Draco reminded himself that they were mudbloods, Muggles, blood traitors and scum. They deserved it. They deserved everything they got.

And then he saw Fortescue's face, smiling one moment, beaten and bloody the next.

He must have deserved it, decided Draco, shaking the image from his head.

This was what they were all working for, after all. A pureblood society, glorious and strong. It was what he had planned for Dumbledore. Draco found he was hoping the poisoning plan would work more than ever. Could he really look the man in the eyes as he ended his life?

Yes, he told himself. Absolutely.

He had to. There was no other option.

Suddenly furious, Draco marched towards the upstairs sitting room. This was his house. He had a right to know what was happening here. This wasn't the kind of thing that should be kept from him anyway. He was a loyal Death Eater and practically of age and yet his mother kept insisting this was all too much for him.

"Mother," he called just before barging in. She was sat by the window, book in hand. When he stormed in, his mother glared at him.

"Do not use that tone with me," she snapped.

Draco moved to stand in the centre of the room, breathing heavily. "I'll use whatever tone I damn well please!"

Slowly, his mother saved her page and placed the book delicately on the table next to her. Her entire face had hardened into a look that would have made Draco back down a few years ago. Not now though.

"Are you going to explain to me why you feel the need to act like a petulant child?" she asked waspishly.

"I've just been to the cellar." Draco didn't know if it was his words of the icy voice he used that made her pale skin blush.

Rather than the tirade or smothering he expected, his mother quickly covered her surprise with indifference.

"I fail to see why this led to you screaming at your own mother."

"You didn't tell me."

His mother shrugged. "We're at war, Draco. Seeing as you're being treated as a responsible adult, I thought you would have already guessed."

"I didn't know it was happening here!" he snarled. He hated it when she tried to make him look stupid.

"Not just here," she explained calmly. "Ollivander is currently with Selwyn and the Dark Lord. He'll be back this evening though."

Ollivander.

Another doddery old fool he couldn't stand. Draco knew his name though. That made it different somehow. It was having memories of these people happy and breathing that caused the bottom of his stomach to fall out when he thought about them.

"Are you okay, Draco?"

Draco flinched. The cold barrier his mother had put up was down and he could see the concern in his eyes.

"I'm fine," he told her. "I would like to be told in future."

"If you think you can handle-"

"Of course I can handle it!" he roared.

After his outburst, Draco realised how immature he must look, screaming at his mother. He straightened robes with dignity under her judging gaze.

"I know you're under a lot of stress-" she began.

"Really?"

"-so I am willing to forgive your attitude." His mother got to her feet, her expression changing from superior to worry as she walked towards him. For a moment she simply looked at him. Draco had the feeling she could see more of him than any Occlumens ever could.

"If you're looking into poison," she said barely louder than a whisper, "then Severus would-"

"I don't need him," Draco cut in, though not quite as angrily as before.

His mother looked as though she was about to say something, but decided not to. Instead she pulled him into a gentle embrace that Draco was mildly surprised to find he returned.

Really, he should have stayed at Hogwarts over Christmas. There was still the possibility the poison wouldn't work and he would have to repair the Vanishing Cabinet somehow. A couple of weeks with fewer students in his way and no lessons to waste his time would have been beneficial, but he had returned to Wiltshire regardless. He had told himself that it was because his father's library would be more useful than Hogwarts' pitiful excuse of one. Now, as he was being comforted by his mother whom he had tried to push away and had infuriated him with her patronising, he realised that maybe he had craved some support. Crabbe and Goyle were growing tired of him, others were only offering their assistance for personal benefit, but his mother loved him unconditionally. It was something that was almost palpable after months of growing solitude.

"I can do this, Mother," he reassured her, noting how strange it was being taller than her now. "I swear."

"I know, Draco," she replied, pulling away from him. "That's what I'm afraid of."

With a sad smile she went to leave the room, but Draco called her back.

"In the cellar, I found – something," he began, trying to sound casual. "It was a uniform from the ice cream shop in Diagon Alley. It belonged to that Fortescue that was taken over summer, didn't it?"

In response, his mother nodded, her face unreadable.

"Is he at Selwyn's now?"

"No," she said, opening the door. "He's gone."

Without looking back at him, his mother left and Draco knew he could no longer lie to himself about the ice cream man's fate.