This is much more agreeable than their last meeting. Credence doesn't dare disturb it, for fear of Malfoy's temper sliding through with one slip of the tongue. The problem is he's curious--he's so very curious, and the other's words pull to him like a siren's song.

"Of course," He echoes quickly at his first part--how foolish of him, he hides behind, how stupid, he agrees, and he bows his head and listens.

He's describing a world he yearns for. Something he wants to be a part of, one that the man promised him in the dark alley. He inhales, writing a few of the words down: charms, transfiguration, potions--

"Magic potions?" He says suddenly. "Like making people fall in love with you, or deadly poisons?"