III. Draco

Part I

Something is wrong, something is wrong, something is wrong.

The wolf opened its jaws in a farce of a grin.

SOMETHING IS WRONG, SOMETHING IS WRONG, SOMETHING IS WRONG.

A thick rope of saliva dripped to the ground. The beast's eyes flashed dangerously, and his haunches tightened, preparing to spring.

SOMETHINGISFUCKINGWRONGSOMETHINGISWRONGFUCKFUCKFUCK.

A tickle at the back of the wolf's mind was beginning to bloom forth, into the rest of its consciousness. Something wasn't right. Its paws were gone, replaced with these strange, hairless—

HOLYGODSOMETHINGISFUCKINGWRONGSOMETHINGISWRONG.

Hands. A man's hands, connected to a man's bare body. And feet. He knew those, and tried to stand up, shakily. Then he realized, remembered.

He was full.

The vomiting began and didn't stop until the world went black.

He woke up, and saw his parents. They looked awful. His father, so weak after Azkaban, looked the worst Draco had ever seen him, which was so fucking unfair. His dad had always been the smartest, strongest, most magnificent man on the planet until the Dark Lord came back and fucked everything up. Now he just looked small and defeated, and if Draco looked just like his father as everyone said, would that mean that he looked small and defeated, too? That couldn't be true. And there was mother, sobbing the hardest Draco had ever seen, and he had seen that quite a lot since father was taken away. He felt immense anger at seeing his mother crying again, crying horribly; he wanted to sit up (because he was laying down, and he didn't know why he was laying down, and where exactly was he again?) and tell his mother that it was all right, to stop, that he would kill whatever brute made her cry and hurt her like this. No one would ever make her this upset again.

Except for some reason he couldn't seem to say anything, and there was this horrible noise coming from somewhere, and it was so fucking loud, sounded like some wounded animal, and was that what was making his mother cry? He wanted to shout for someone to kill the miserable thing, except his voice wasn't working, even though it was. Then he felt strong hands on him, and knew the truth behind everything that was going on and at the same time didn't, and it was just so loud and his head hurt and he felt like throwing up again but did and didn't know why and the thoughts started to come to him and Oh God Oh God Oh God the taste-- and then it went black again.

..............................

Draco is five years old. He's fallen down the stairs and is wailing, the loudest he can ever remember crying. A grubby old elf comes and tries to touch him, but he swats the thing away. He's upset. He wants his mummy.

She comes down the stairs, light and pretty, her golden hair surrounding her face, currently wearing the most frightening expression Draco's ever seen. She shouldn't be afraid, she's mummy. Mummies and daddies are never scared; they're big people. The creepies and crawlies in the dark never make them cry in their beds, the old ghoul in the wine cellar never makes them shriek in fear. Yesterday daddy smashed the scariest spider Draco's ever seen, and mummy laughed. They were brave.

But mummy doesn't look brave, she looks scared. All of a sudden Draco is being clutched to his mother's breast, her perfume making his nose itch. Her clothes were so warm, he never wants to let go.

"Draco, oh, darling, are you all right?" she asks. Her voice sounds funny.

"I falled, mummy," he sniffles. "My knee hurts."

She kisses the top of his head. "Let's go to the nursery, sweetheart, and I'll fix your dear little knees… we'll get you some chocolates, too, isn't that nice?" He is being carried to the nursery, still wrapped like a slimy old octopus around his mummy. "And say 'fell', Draco, not 'falled'... Merlin, don't ever scare me like that again…"

...........................................

Later he heard familiar voices, and his throat hurt. There was a faint tinge of metal in his mouth, but nothing was left inside of him, just bile. He felt empty, hollow, and squeezed his eyes shut.

He had eaten a man. Devoured him. He was a monster, a beast, fucking deplorable above all else. And there was no way he would be let off, no way he would even want to be let off. They would execute him. The Malfoy line, ended right there because of him. Fine, he thought numbly. Let them kill me. It's what he deserved. It's what they all deserved.

During the next few days, the voices around him—his mother, his father, others—talked to him, telling him things or telling each other things or talking about the weather or Quidditch or dead people; it didn't much matter, as he could barely understand what they were saying to begin with. He could still taste blood in his mouth and that was too much in the forefront of his mind for anything else to hold his particular attention. Everything around him blended and smeared together, nothing particularly discernible beyond that terrible tang of metal.

Once, when he was feeling particularly alert, he tried to explain it to his mother. He kept telling her that he ate a man, and that he could taste the blood. He'd eaten someone and tasted them and chewed them, and why couldn't she understand that? She kept explaining things away, crying, and reassuring him. And Draco kept trying to tell her, that it was all beside the point, that he had killed someone. But there wasn't really a point, was there? It was just the same, a terrible mantra, I ate a man, I ate a man, I ate a man. He wished he could say something more to explain himself, but he couldn't think of anything, except that he had eaten a man, he had eaten a man, he had eaten a man…

His head still hurt.

............................................

Hands were gripping his shoulders, patting his cheek.

"Look at me, darling," he heard, like a foghorn through thick, soupy mist. He saw blue eyes. His mother's. "You're going away for a bit of a rest, I'm afraid. Don't worry, darling. You'll be safe and get better, and when you come back everything will be good as new."

He decided he didn't care, and allowed his eyes to roll back in his head as his lids closed.

"Draco, Draco, please listen to me," she said, her voice quivering, fading into the white noise that had been constant for ages now.

"Draco, son," said a deep voice, his father's. "This is Mr. Weasley." Draco could nearly hear his father's facial sneer as he pronounced the name—Weeas-ley. Draco almost smiled. "He will be taking you with him. On… holiday. Merlin, Narcissa, can he even hear us? He's not even…" and just like that, his father's voice faded into nothingness, too.

He was being jostled around and made to stand up, which he didn't like, much. They walked him downstairs, past the Great Hall where there were things wrapped in white sheets, all lined up in a row on the floor. He was confused, didn't know what they were, but his voice wouldn't work and he couldn't ask.

From there he couldn't remember anything until about noon, when he found himself seated at a table with two blokes talking animatedly in a foreign language. They hadn't noticed that he was looking around, and by the looks of it, they were in the Wizarding district of Berlin. Fucking Berlin. What the hell was he doing here? Father had taken him here once, when he was thirteen, to buy mother a sapphire ring; father had brought him to this very café, where they sat at the table and had tea, talked about Ministry politics and the other Pureblood families. It had been wonderful, one of the best memories he had ever had of he had his dad…

"Draco?" said a low, slightly familiar voice. "Do you want some lunch?" The mist slowly rolled back in.

And then he was in a house, and it was dark.

"…name's Charlie Weasley. This is my house we're in, and this is your room." He looked about. It was dark and cramped, a bed and desk crammed into the small space; the walls were white, seeming to glow in the dark. "You'll be staying with me until you're better, all right? The toilet's down the hall if you need it. Er… well, are you hungry?" Draco could feel his hands start to shake, and he looked up at the man. He tried to shake his head.

"No? But you've only had breakfast today." Which he didn't remember. "Are you sure you're not hungry?" Draco took one last glance at the man; broad and probably shorter than him, wild red hair. A fucking Weasley. His parents had clearly lost their minds, but at least that made them three for three. Draco looked away. The Weasley chattered on about some ludicrous nonsense, and the blond tried to tune it out and fall asleep as he sat on this dark little bed, but it didn't work. Sleep didn't come for hours.

The next morning the man had tried to make him eat, but just looking at the food made him sick. He was given free reign of the house during the day, but he mostly lay on the bed, attempting to sleep. It was difficult; he wasn't tired, but he had no will to remain awake. There were no memories of what he had done in that blissful blackness, no way to be reminded of his guilt. Staring up at the paste-coloured ceiling did nothing to quell the faint clenching in his abdomen that had been there since the last full.

'Course, it was just his fucking luck that the nightmares began that night, too. Horrible claws tearing at him, teeth grinding his bones and piercing his skin, his face, and finally something holding him still, leaving him unable to move or get away until he had given up, allowed himself to collapse and squeeze his eyes shut, the words You won, you won, you won repeating themselves, on the tip of his tongue.

.....................................................

Draco tried to answer Weasley back, a few times. A 'yes' here and a 'no' there seemed to please him, which pleased Draco. Did the ginger-headed man not know what Draco had done? Ah, but he did; about a week or so after Draco had arrived the man sprung the Wolfsbane thing on him. No, Draco didn't want to. He refused. Weasley was angry and yelled, and it was fucking scary. It made Draco feel like shit, so he started crying, ignoring all of Weasley's futile attempts to 'comfort' him. Bloody fuck.

He drank the damn potion anyway. Killing a Death Eater was all right, but killing a Weasley-- they would have his hide cut off and strung along the side of the Minister of Magic's wall in a heartbeat.

................................................................

Draco is twelve years old. He's fallen off the sodding broom again, and his dad looks disappointed. This upsets Draco.

"I bought you these brooms for a reason, Draco. Let's not forget that," his father murmurs in his most dangerous tone.

"I know, I know dad. I'm sorry."

"You know how to fly, do you not? Have you already forgotten?" Draco squirms at the memory of stealing one of his dad's brooms and nearly colliding into a Muggle helicopter a few years back. He had bragged to Potter about it last year, but it hadn't been something he was proud of. Bloody Potter. Confusing as hell, always got under his skin…

His dad starts in on another lecture. "You're a Pureblood, Draco. A Malfoy. Flying comes naturally to Pureblood Wizards. There is no reason for you to be beaten by Potter. None. At. All." His father gives him another stern look. Draco suddenly feels desperate.

"Bet I could beat Potter in a race. Running, I mean." It the one thing he's good at. He could outrun anyone. He expects his father to smirk and agree, but instead the imposing man looks furious.

"Footraces are for filthy Muggles, Draco. Some of them even do it as a career, which is utterly preposterous. You don't want to be like a Muggle, do you?" he says, glaring icily at his son.

Draco is bitter, but he understands. Talking about footraces was pure impudence. His father just spent a bloody fortune buying seven of these stupid brooms. Just because Draco wanted to beat Potter. Draco can't fail him. He shakes his head.

"Then get back on that broom and fly."

...........................................................

He was in the bathroom, wrapped in a blanket. He remembered being the wolf, vaguely, but how and why he was standing on the cold tile floor in front of the toilet was a mystery. Shrugging the blanket off, he turned the shower on, stepping carefully underneath the steady stream of hot water. The warmth felt good against his sore muscles and joints, and he though briefly about having a quick wank. It was too bad his prick had been practically non-functional since he was bitten. He felt a little ridiculous when he had attempted once or twice, as if he could possibly do something as trivial as wanking when there was all this monumental shit to deal with; he would stop within a few seconds, feeling stupid and dirty. Scowling and scrubbing his eyes, he shut off the shower and wrapped the blanket around himself again, shivering as the cold air hit his skin. He shuffled out of the loo and into the kitchen, freezing his arse off, and sat down at the table, ignoring the food that was pushed towards him.

Weasley sighed and looked at him. "You're far too thin, so we'll not be having meat in this household any longer. I know you haven't eaten it anyway… but there won't be any in the house. Perhaps you'll feel more comfortable."

Draco felt as if something that had been clutching his chest had suddenly let go, and Charlie smiled. He wondered if it had shown on his face.

"But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. You… I have a friend who was once in the a situation very similar to yours. I would like you to meet him."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Meet another werewolf? No way in hell.

"I don't want to," Draco said quietly.

"Well, you'll have to, dammit. You're not well, Draco, and--"

"I don't want to!"

"Look, he can help. Would you listen? It would be good for you to--"

"No!"

"—have someone to talk to! No, don't interrupt!" Charlie stood up, looking furious again. "You don't have a bloody choice, Draco, you're going to do it. It's for your own fucking good, and I don't care if you don't want to." With that, he turned and left the house, leaving an empty silence behind him.

................................................................

What a fucking ridiculous moustache, Draco thought as the old werewolf entered Charlie's parlour. That was the first thing Draco noticed about him. The second was that the beast's shoes were covered in mud, making Draco crinkle his nose.

"Nicolae, hello. Thanks for coming, really, I appreciate it. This," Charlie said genially, nodding towards the blond, "is Draco. He's… well, he's a werewolf, and… well, yes. I'll just… er… get some tea. For the both of you."

Charlie exited the room, perhaps thinking he was subtle in 'giving those two creatures their alone time', Draco studied the man, who was scanning the cramped room with an edgy look in his eye. His skin was tanned, almost leathery; face aged and lined like a much older man's. He was tall and stooping, hunching his shoulders, wearing a battered black coat and a strange wide-brimmed hat. His eyes were dark and certain, and his moustache— curled at the ends, styled with fucking gel, can you imagine?

"Why you standing in the corner?" he asked in a low, hoarse voice. Draco jumped and stifled a yelp, reduced to feeling like a damned five-year-old. "Why you so scared?"

He tried to open his mouth and formulate a reply, he really did. But his voice wasn't working. The man sighed.

"Never you mind. I know why you do this. Come outside with me, the inside makes me have anxiety." Draco shook his head. Go outside? With this beast? He wasn't an idiot. The werewolf sat down on the small sofa; Draco stayed standing in his corner.

"You are afraid of me, I can see it. I can smell it. I see you and I say ok, I am not a scary guy. So that makes me believe you are afraid of those like you. Those like us," he said slowly, gazing out the window, shadows playing across his face. "I know why you are afraid, Draco. I was afraid when I met werewolf after… what I did. I was so so afraid. But then I realize… we are alike."

"I'm not like you," Draco whispered hoarsely, the uncomfortable feeling in his chest growing stronger.

"In all ways, no. We are not the same person, yes? But we did things that are the same, and we… we have the mark. For all time, we have the mark of this in our soul."

Draco bolted out of the toom. Fuck this, he repeated in his head, over and over, slamming the door shut and hiding under the blankets of his bed. Fuck this fuck this fuck this, I don't want any of this. He was breathing, deep gulping breaths that didn't seem to be calming him down. Five, when I count to five I will be in my bed at home and mother and father will come wake me up and say it's all been a horrid dream…

Five seconds came and went, then five minutes. Then a little longer, he didn't know. There was much murmuring and sighing outside the door, and he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping desperately to fall asleep or pass out or die, something, anything.

.................................................

"You have a family?" Nicolae asked, three days later. They were sitting in the parlour, Charlie calmly reading a newspaper, the werewolf drinking tea. Draco had been effectively bullied by Charlie into sitting on the sofa, tense and nearly nauseous.

"Yes," muttered Draco. Nicolae watched him expectantly for a few seconds, but then grimaced when he realized Draco wouldn't elaborate.

"I have family, you know. Big family!" he laughed, a bright gold tooth flashing from inside of his mouth. "My mama and grandmother! Yes, and my brother, Serghei, and my sister, Cantica! They do the most crazy things, and the most funny things. I laugh all day with them."

Charlie looked up from his newspaper. "It's true," he said, grinning. "I've met Serghei. He's mad as a hatter, but a hell of a laugh."

Nicolae nodded brightly, his dark features almost comical. "And you have a girl-friend, Draco?"

Draco felt his face redden. "No."

Nicolae smiled. "Someday, I promise you. I think when I first become werewolf, 'Now I will never get a woman, I am a monster, and ugly.'" Charlie began to laugh. "Charlie, why you laughing at me? I am ugly, but that is no reason to laugh, it makes me sad," he said, chuckling.

"And yes, I think this. And then I have… I do what I did, and I hated myself. But I meet Sofia then, and she did not hate me. She hate what I did, but not me." He grew quiet. "I have three boys, strong boys, and little girl."

Draco felt his throat close up.

"My children are what I live for, Draco. There is life after this. Life will be hard, but it is not so bad, I promise you."

His throat closed up a little; he could still have a family, have an heir like his parents want him to. Life could work, it could be all right, and he would be back with his mum and dad at the Manor before the fucking Dark Lord came and ruined everything. But it wasn't the Dark Lord showing up that ruined everything, was it? No, it was that dark night with scratching and kicking, and that horrible bite—

"Draco," said a gentle voice. He looked up.

"I'm tired. Sorry," he muttered, heading for his bedroom.

...........................................................

Draco is barely fourteen. It is summer and he is at Pansy's, by her pool. She is laughing and chatting away about something stupid, Millicent has a crush on Theo and there's a gorgeous new robe at Malkin's and Blaise has gotten quite fit, hasn't he? Draco doesn't care much, because it's bloody hot out and his lemonade is delicious.

Mother and Father are in France for the weekend, and they promised to bring him back new Quidditch gear. The World Cup is later this summer, too, for which Draco is monumentally excited. The only thing hampering this is the look of mild disapproval in Dad's eyes whenever Quidditch is mentioned. Not only has Draco still not beaten Potter, but Potter got a Firebolt.

"… are you listening?" asks Pansy.

"No, sorry Pans," he says, bored.

"I said that the Weird Sisters are going to be having a concert in Diagon Alley. My mum is offering to pay, do you want to go?"

Draco nods, and his thoughts drift again, to Quidditch and his parents, but he is brought back to the present again by Pansy's fingers stroking his arm.

"Does it still hurt?" she asks, her sunglasses glinting in the bright sun.

He grimaces. He milked that for all it was worth, and Pansy still buys the 'injured hero' bit. Truthfully, it had hurt like a bitch when the Hippogriff clawed him. He didn't even want to touch the thing, but he couldn't lose face, especially not in front of Potter. How humiliating: Draco Malfoy, afraid of beasts? Hippogriffs and centaurs, werewolves and dragons… even sodding unicorns gave him visions of being mauled in the gut by one of their horns. It was laughable and stupid, but he couldn't help it. Ever since he went to the Malfoy vault with mother one afternoon when he was about 10 and passed that horrible-looking dragon, he'd been afraid… it was really only flobberworms that he felt some sort of ease around, and those things were disgusting; who'd want to be around them anyway?

"Oh, poor Draco," sighs Pansy, and begins playing with his hair. He tenses; what on earth is she doing? She lifts her sunglasses and looks at him, her face suddenly very close to his own. Suddenly he knows that is about to happen, and he lets Pansy kiss him.

Not overly pleasant, he thinks, but it's a start. He shifts in the chaise he was lounging on to allow Pansy more room, and kisses back.

..............................................

Nicolae and Draco had taken to walking together outside. Charlie's "house" was situated in a valley, surrounded by huge mountains and a large expanse of land. There were about three or four other houses in close proximity to them, and the village was a little ways off, at the foot of the mountain. Nicolae would bring him to the village, sometimes, but mostly they walked in the wilderness, down paths cutting through large fields that seemed to be everywhere. Nicolae would talk sometimes, and would try and goad Draco into speaking, too. Sometimes it would work, sometimes it wouldn't.

Draco found himself grudgingly growing used to the man. He was funny in a strange way, though his inflection was always somber. When Draco would talk it would be about his mother mostly, and Nicolae would listen patiently, nodding. Sometimes the man would ask odd questions, like How does that make you feel? and Are you ready to talk about This? That? and How are the full moons for you?

One day Nicolae told him about a job he used to have before anything bad happened, how he used to live in a city and went to Muggle clinics to talk to people. He said it was a profession, called a psycho-something, which alarmed Draco. Nicolae laughed and said it was common for Muggles, and that he was good at what he did. Draco asked what he did now, and the man seemed to grow grey.

"I am too sick now to help people. It is dangerous. Now I help my friend make candles." Draco pressed his lips tightly together, and looked at a knobby root sticking out of the ground.

...........................................................................

He starts talking to Charlie, too. The man has an easy air about him, and is utterly friendly and helpful. It's disconcerting at first, since he'd never really encountered this level of niceness with actual sincerity behind it, besides perhaps his parents. Occasionally. But he seems receptive to the very little that Draco has to say, and it's something Draco appreciates, though he'd never say so.

He thinks he remembers Charlie from somewhere, but can't quite place it. The man's slight obsession with Quidditch tugs at his memory, but Draco shrugs it off as his own notion of Quidditch being the Grand Weasley Obsession. Wasn't this one a captain for Gryffindor at one point? He can't be sure.

"So, how was your day?" asks Charlie, slumping in his chair, covered head to toe in some black substance. Draco assumes it's ash.

"How was yours?" he asks, staring at the table.

Charlie grins. "Fantastic, actually. We got this new male, an Ironbelly. Magnificent, he is. Davis—I've told you about Davis, he's the Australian bloke—named the poor thing Marvin, after those bloody Marvin Miggs the Mad Muggle comics. You ever read them? Anyway, the thing is six tonnes, and nearly crushed three people. Flattened this stray sheep, absolutely disgusting… oh, we feed the sheep to the dragons, have I mentioned? Stupid animals. Sheep, I mean, not the dragons. Anyway, everyone was so focused Marvin that one of the Chinese Fireballs nearly escaped. She nearly burned down a forest before we could put it out and reign her in. I got put on extinguishing duty, got to fly above the wood and cast Aguamenti for nearly two hours. I know, I know, sounds really boring, but I haven't been on a broom in so long, it's always exhilarating. Ah, it was great!" he sighs happily. "So, what did you do today?"

Draco is taken off-guard. "Er... I… um. I read a few of your Quidditch magazines. And… slept." Charlie's buoyant expression seems to droop.

"Is that it?" he asks, and Draco nods. "God, that's all? I'll have to find something for you--"

"You have soot all over you," Draco says, cutting him off. Charlie looks at his arms, apparently noticing for the first time, and Draco takes the opportunity to leave and shut himself in his room.

.............................................................

So Charlie makes it his mission to entertain Draco. He buys more things to read; there are now two Quidditch magazine subscriptions being delivered to the house, along with The Quibbler, which Draco can't even bear to look knowing that the Lovegood girl was locked in his basement for months. Sometimes Potter's face is on the cover, and stares at Draco from the corner of the room; once it was Snape's scowling face on the cover, and Draco began to cry, quietly. He never read the article, instead choosing to carefully hide the newspaper under his mattress.

They listen to Quidditch on the wireless, and argue. Sometimes he makes Charlie laugh, which seems wrong, somehow. There'd been next-to-no laughter, especially not caused by him, in his life for the past year or so. Which had been shit, because he could have used a laugh. Hearing it now feels incorrect, like writing with the wrong hand. Charlie keeps on with the argument.

"Wimbourne? Wimbourne? Are you absolutely mad? It's the Cannons this year. They've got Webster, and he's the best Keeper in the league!"

"What?" says Draco, feeling outraged. "Webster's on the Cannons? Ugh, well, Winbourne's had the best record, they had 12 wins--"

"They had 12 wins last year, actually. They've only got 11 this year, and the Cannons… well, actually, the Cannons have only won 6, but…"

Draco is suddenly very angry and says something about being too busy to follow Quidditch, which is fucking true, and leaves the room, ignoring the nonplussed look on Weasley's stupid ginger face.

..........................................................

He was screaming, screaming, the scar from the bite on his shoulder throbbing. He opened his eyes, and his face was covered in tears, saliva, and snot. He stared at the figure ahead of him, ashamed and exhausted from this awful werewolf bullshit and the memories that are drudged up every time he transforms…

"What the fuck do you want?!" he shouts, and the figure turns and exits. Draco cries more and pulls the blanket around himself. When he calms down and goes to the kitchen table to sit down, Charlie dumps parchment, ink, and quills in front of him.

"You can write to your parents this month," he grumbles. "Try to not be so… loud next time, yeah? If you can't, I… fuck, sorry, I know this is tough for you, but I have to live in this bloody house, too, alright?" He doesn't wait for a reply, and leaves for the reserve, mumbling something about melodramatics. Draco sits at the table for a while, and sighs. He picks up a quill and begins the letter. His handwriting is shaky because he hasn't written anything in nearly a month, and mother always commented on whether or not his handwriting looked "proper" when they wrote to each other while he was at school. He figures "sod it", because last night he had fucking paws instead of hands, and what the fuck does she expect? He grits his teeth and wants to smash the quill on the fucking table, throw the ink all over the walls, burn the parchment until it's nothing but smoke. Instead, he dips the quill into the black liquid.

My dearest mother, he begins. I am doing as well as can be expected. I miss you and father terribly… please let me know how you two are faring, as well as my friends…

..........................................

Draco is fifteen, locked in a cupboard, all his hopes of future happiness being destroyed by Justin Finch-Fletchley's hand on his dick. And before he can lament this rather shit turn of events, he comes all over the boy's hand, shaking and moaning.

A few long seconds of ragged, angry breathing ensues, and Draco suddenly feels embarrassed. The other boy has already come and has a slight layer of sweat on his upper lip, unsteady hands gripping Draco's arms like a vice.

"Sorry," Draco mutters, using his wand to clean their hands and trousers. They adjust themselves, and Finch-Fletchley looks at him loathingly, as he always does after their stupid mutual wank sessions that feel more like a competition than… sex. Draco's never said anything before, but this time he's pissed off. Perhaps it's that it's Saturday, and that every Saturday Dad sends his letter, reminding Draco of Who He Is and What His Responsibilities Are. And Finch-Fletchley… how dare a Mudblood look at him like that?

"What?" Draco says angrily. Finch-Fletchley adjusts his ugly Hufflepuff tie and sneers, opening the door and sauntering into the deserted hallway. Draco follows him out, tucking in his shirt and smoothing his hair, attempting to regain his air of arrogance.

"Fucking ponce," Finch-Fletchley hisses. Draco doesn't see the fist coming at all, and is taken by complete surprise when he finds himself on the floor with a bloody nose, the other boy stalking off. He can't find the strength in himself to get up.

Father would be so disappointed. And Mother. Their son, supposed to be the picture of the Pureblood youth had just gotten wanked and subsequently beaten up by a male Hufflepuff Mudblood. This means three things:

1. Draco is weak.

2. Draco is a ponce, and therefore will not have a Happy Pureblood Marriage like his parents, and thus will only marry to produce an heir. This will lead to a messy divorce, and to the Sullying of the Malfoy Name by Means of Poncery. And that is a fucking shit situation.

3. Draco is a blood traitor. And of all the things to be, that's the most dangerous.

Fuck.

........................................

"Wake up, Draco. We're going to go flying," a soft voice whispered in his ear, sending waves of pleasure down his spine in his half-asleep state. He groggily opened his eyes, but the sounds of footsteps were already roaming the house. Draco's hand began to bleed a little, the scabs cracking, and he frowned. He wished he had had the foresight to not punch through the wall last night.

He grabbed a stray carrot from the refrigerator (a rather useful Muggle appliance, admittedly) and nibbled at it. Charlie came in and threw a fucking broom at him, asking if he was a Seeker. Draco nodded, dumbfounded, and followed the man outside when beckoned. Charlie led him to a wide field that he and Nicolae had walked through on a number of occasions, and pulled a Snitch out of his pocket.

"Seeker's match," he said, grinning. "Most catches by noontime wins. 30-second grace period between each release. That all right?" Charlie smiled wickedly, an air of pleasant competition about him. Draco looked at him, really looked at him for the first time, and blushed. Charlie's shoulders were broad and his arms were strong-looking, with several scars from scratches and burns. He wasn't tall and awkward like his younger brother, the one in Draco's year— he was only of average height and stocky build, but it suited him well. His face was pleasant and freckled, his mouth turned up in a crooked grin, and his red hair was unkempt, but not distastefully so. Draco felt himself reddening, and swallowed the inordinate amount of saliva that had accumulated in his mouth. He nodded and mounted his broom.

He zoomed above the field, the wind blowing his hair back. The broom responded to the little subtleties of his body as brooms always did, and it was glorious. When was the last time he flew? He couldn't remember, and he smiled, because this was fucking great and he missed flying like hell. He flew up to Weasley, who was staring at him unblinkingly. Ha, yes, he thought. I've astounded him with my flying abilities, he must be terrible.

"Ready to lose, Weasley?" he asked as Charlie grinned and took off. Draco went the opposite direction, and saw a flash of gold to his right. He smiled.

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They ate dinner with Draco admitting Charlie was much better than he'd initially thought, as Draco had lost rather badly. They had played until lunch, and then Charlie had gone to work. Draco spent a few hours in the afternoon with Nicolae, and told him animatedly about the Seeker's match.

"I have not seen you this cheerful before," said Nicolae roughly. "It's very good. Very good." Draco lowered his head, but didn't disagree.

When he went to bed, he thought about flying, and felt like he was still up in the air even while laying down. Weightless. Light. The game had been so fucking great, and he had forgotten, for just a morning, about his fucking lycanthropy and how his parents were dealing with the Ministry, and what he had done to that man…

He mentally shook himself and turned to the side. He paused for a second, and then started touching his cock, hoping that it would react because Holy God he fucking needed a wank, and if it didn't work now, it probably never would. To his great pleasure, his cock began to harden, so he spat in his hand and began to stroke himself. He tried to imagine a face to go along with the sensation: a girl, sucking him off? Nearly laughable. Can't say I didn't try, he thought quickly, and he tried again. Finch-Fletchley? Fuck, no. A vision of Anthony Goldstein's arse flashed in his mind and he felt himself flushing, but suddenly a long-forgotten memory emerged. He was watching the Triwizard Tournament, Pansy sitting next to him and clutching his hand like she was trying to make fucking hand juice out of it. All the other Slytherins were here to jeer at Potter and watch him (hopefully) get crushed by a dragon, but the beasts were roaring and spurting fire, their horrible teeth gnashing. Draco eyed the chains keeping the creatures out of the stands; if those things broke, he would shit himself. Eaten by a dragon? No fucking way.

He scanned the rest of the stadium, until he saw the corner where the dragon keepers were standing by. There were about four men, keeping a close eye on the proceedings but cracking jokes intermittently. Draco watched them for the entire time, their calm in the face of this horror show calming him a little. And one of them was red-haired and broad shouldered and he was laughing—

Draco's moan was muffled by the pillow as he spilled all over himself and the sheets. His breathing was still laboured, and he felt so unbelievably excellent and terribly embarrassed at the same time that he couldn't care about anything.

He lay panting for a moment when it hit him: he just got off thinking about the man he was living with, an essential stranger who had taken him in out of kindness, and the brother of people who hated him. He groaned and turned over, deciding that he'd just clean himself up tomorrow morning. Fuck it.

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A/N: Thank you for your (ridiculously large amount of) patience and wonderful reviews!! More to come soon, I promise c:

And thanks, as always, to my beta, Ferosh.