House Pride
Draco knew he had some faults, socially speaking. Growing up as an only child thrown into high society as soon as he could walk would do that. It's easier for Draco to navigate politically fraught situations with malicious adults than children his own age, as evidenced by the entirety of The Potter Situation.
So he's actually doing great.
Well, aside from the stabbing pain in his leg, and the large slashes across the whole of his chest and face, and the fact he can't curl his right hand into a fist without pain so intense he almost blacks out. And he's pretty sure he's still semi-delirious.
So great.
But he knows exactly where he stands, and it was better than recovering in the forest. He knows what Lupin and Sirius think of him, he wouldn't expect anything less.
He's still unsure of how exactly he ended up at Grimmauld, but it's not like he can ask. The second he's well enough to talk, he'll be locked in the dungeons, or worse, thrown back to Hogwarts. He assumed Potter did the right thing for once and actually called his godfather, but for all he knows, Potter may have finally succumbed fully to idiocy and brought them here himself.
He still doesn't get why Sirius was living at Grimmauld; from everything he'd heard, the old bastard hated the place.
After a few days of pretending to sleep, he threw his legs over the side of the bed, and prepared to stand. His knee was already protesting the action, so he waited for the wave of pain to pass before even attempting to stand.
Kreature popped into the room with a covered tray, distracting Draco from the burn in his leg, "Lord Draco is having roast." he said simply, putting the tray on the bed.
"Thank you," He took a breath in, letting it out slowly to ease the pain, Kreature had been visiting in the dead of night, presumably when Lupin was unlikely to find them, and Draco was surprised to find he actually looked forward to the old elf's visits.
"Kreature, are there any un-visited rooms?"
The house elf squinted at him, frowning, "Yes, yes, Lord Draco will be needing privacy. Kreature will show him."
Draco's shoulders slumped in relief, with Siriuis staking his claim, he wasn't sure if the house would recognize him.
He could feel the house sizing him up, deciding how much it liked him, and he's determined to win it over fully, at all cost. Having a house as well protected as this would be incredibly useful.
He wasn't clueless. He knew Grimmauld must be under fidelius. He had asked after it, a few weeks into the summer, when the panic had begun to set in, thinking of running away. His mother had simply stared at him, then inquired how much time he had been spending with his aunt.
His mother could remember what dress Persephone Parkinson had been wearing at the Imbolc dinner in 1987, she would never forget her childhood home. Not unless the memory was wiped from her. Part of Draco was furious with whoever set the charm, for making his mother forget, but he would rectify that soon.
The only reason he could remember, was because he was Lord Black, and you couldn't erase the knowledge of that so easily. It was his house, even if it was only in theory, and the magic would never let him forget that.
He tried to get up and follow Kreature, but before he could even take a step, his leg gave out from under him. He bit down on the scream that rose, pressing his forehead to the ground and clenching his teeth so hard he thought they might break. He let out a high whine, thanking his lucky stars that the carpet was thick enough to muffle it.
He could see Kreature's feet in the corner of his eyes, hovering near his shoulder.
"Lord Draco is unwell."
He shut his eyes, resisting his urge to yell at the elf, "Obviously." He grit out.
"Kreature will be back." There was a soft pop, and he was gone.
Draco rolled onto his back, he hadn't known his leg was that bad, he'd felt the pain, of course, but he assumed it was more of a constant ache. If what he felt lying in bed was the lowest level, he had to confront the possibility that this was permanent damage.
On his back, with the weight off of his knee, the pain receded, but didn't leave. He took in a breath through his nose, and let it out through his mouth, then again, and again, and again, until he could almost forget the pain was there at all.
How humiliating. His father walked with a cane, but it was more of an accessory, a relic of his generation's fashions. For him to have a disability of this kind? At such a young age? War or not he would be permanently marked as damaged. He was already at a disadvantage, young and at the mercy of the enemy, if they caught onto the fact he was maimed beyond the superficial? He was dead.
Kreature popped back into the room, holding something in his hand. Draco looked closer to see it was a cane, and a beautiful one at that. It looked like something his father would keep in a glass case, only to be brought out for special occasions, with dark wood and delicate silver-lined leaves travelling up the length of it.
At its head, sculpted into the twisted handle, also in bright, polished, sliver, was a dragon.
Draco stared, utterly speechless.
Kreature began to frown, looking unsure, "Does Lord Draco not like? Kreature will burn-"
"No!" Draco hissed, reaching forward as best he could while still lying on the floor, "No," he repeated, softer, "It's beautiful."
Perhaps the understatement of the century, the cane is one of the single most perfect things he had ever seen. It looked like it was made from a piece of his own soul. He reached out and laid a hand on the handle, unsure that he could deserve anything so elegant after nothing but failure. When Kreature didn't snatch it away, he tentatively took it fully, holding it in front of him to brush his thumb over the engravings.
The dragon on the handle wasn't the snarling beast people so often portrayed, instead it was relaxed, mouth closed and eyes lidded.
'It looks like it has a secret' He thought to himself.
He gripped the cane tightly, its handle fitting perfectly into the palm of his hand, and pushed himself up. It was still near-agonising, but much better than it was before.
Kreature looked on approvingly, and Draco could feel the house doing the same, "Nothing but the best for Lord Black, yes. Come."
Kreature held out a hand, and Draco took it on pure instinct. When he did, he jolted with the magic of house elf apparition. They landed in a new room, and Draco looked around in bewilderment.
It's the Master's Suite. Traditionally, the Lord of the house would get the full top floor to themselves, and if there was no Lord in the house, the floor would be completely sealed off, like it had never existed.
It was perfect.
Draco looked down at Kreature, who was beaming in smug pride, "If you were just going to apperate me, why give me the cane?" he asked.
Kreature just gave him an inscrutable look, before speaking, "Kreature will run Lord Draco a bath. Lord Draco is needing it." He popped away, leaving a very confused Draco behind.
He looked around the rooms. They were lavish and absolutely huge, just like his parents' own bedroom in The Manor. Draco felt a sudden pain in his chest that had nothing to do with his wounds, he missed them. He felt small and childish and weak admitting it, even to himself, but all he wanted was to crawl into his parent's bed and hide under the covers.
He dragged himself over, clumsy and slow with his leg, to sit on the desk chair, still pulled out, like the owner had just left and had forgotten to push it in again. He hung the cane on the arm of the chair and tried to bite his lip to stop his tears, but cried out anyway when instead he just pulled at one of the scabs on his face.
He looked around for a mirror, he would need to see how bad the damage Potter had done was before he showed his face anywhere. Seeing one in a nearby trunk, he went to summon it, but stopped.
He didn't have his wand.
The fight with Greyback suddenly slammed into his mind.
At once, his breath began to speed up and his heart began to pound. He doubled over, clutching his hand to his lungs. If he didn't have his wand, how would he protect himself? They had taken his knife and gun, or he had dropped them, he couldn't remember.
For the first time in months, Draco was completely without a weapon.
Panic clutched at his throat and chest, and he felt it crush him for several long moments.
Then, he felt it, Grimmauld Place, settling into his mind like a puzzle piece he hadn't realised he'd lost. At once, he could feel its magic entwining with his own, as the house let itself truly be claimed.
The magic smoothed everything over, even alleviating the pain in his leg, arm, and chest. He felt its power, years of family magic soaking into his bones. His breathing began to slow, coming easier now he felt less defenceless.
He held his hand out, summoning the mirror cautiously. It flew into his palm so fast it pushed him back, causing his chest to twinge.
Draco stared at it with wonder, is this what his father felt? He couldn't imagine this feeling but for a whole manor, instead of just a townhouse.
His good mood fell at the thought of turning the mirror over, however.
He could picture Blaise at his side, making fun of his vanity rather hypocritically, and he nearly laughed. His lips tried to curl into a smile, but the skin pulled oddly, and he could feel something begin to bleed, so he immediately forced his face back into its natural frown.
flipping the hand mirror over, he forced himself not to flinch preemptively.
Draco's hand began to shake as he took in his face for the first time in weeks. There hadn't been mirrors in the cottage, and he was suddenly grateful for that.
He looked like complete shit. Firmly ignoring the lower half of his face, his hair was a wreck and his skin was bright pink with sunburn. He certainly looked like he'd spent weeks tromping through a forest. If Pansy and Blaise could see him, they'd be horrified.
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to look down. This time he did flinch. The lower half of his face was a bloody mess, dried gore crusted into the corners of his mouth and eyes, not to mention the huge, flaking scabs. The most prominent one started below his shirt collar on his right shoulder, and ended at his left temple, going over his lips, but thankfully missing his eye. It pulled uncomfortably when he moved his face, so he forced his expression back down.
He also realised he had not forced himself back into his normal mask. His eyes were still a too-bright silver, shining in a light that wasn't there, his ears were longer and sharper than any regular humans, and the very bones of his face betrayed his other-ness.
Even to his own fae-mind, he looked inhuman.
He'd never been ashamed of it before, but it was hard, now, not to feel sickened by the thought of others seeing him like this.
Draco closed his eyes and took a breath. It was alright, he could suffer his vanity being hit, what he absolutely couldn't stand was that it had been at the hands of Potter.
Potter was a saint, for him to hate Draco so much as to try and kill him, it meant Draco was truly evil in his eyes. No more than a monster to be slain.
It was complete, abject humiliation. A failure.
He reached to unbutton his shirt-
No, actually, not his shirt, who had changed him?
Whatever, irrelevant.
But the movement made him realise something else was missing. He ripped at the shirt, needing it off now.
His ring was gone, cord and all.
"Kreature!" He called, panic once again coursing through him. He couldn't lose that, no matter what. He would suffer a thousand scars for that ring, he would personally declare fealty to Dumbledore on his knees for that ring.
It was Blaise's. The only thing he had of his fiancé.
The house elf apperated back into the room, but didn't speak.
"I-" He struggled to calm his breathing, "I had a ring- on a cord- when I came here. I need it back."
The house elf nodded, "Yes, Lord Draco, Kreature will retrieve the ring."
He popped away, and Draco once again slumped in relief.
When Kreature came back, ring in hand, still on its cord, he nearly cried.
"Kreature is finding the ring with Lord Draco's wand and weapons." He dropped the pile of things on the desk, giving a disdainful look at the gun, though he didn't comment.
"Thank you, Kreature, your service has been excellent." he said, the traditional thanks for a house elf.
Kreature blinked, looking struck, and for a moment Draco was worried he'd offended him, but then the house elf's eyes filled with tears.
"Lord Draco is most welcome." he said, bowing shallowly, "Kreature had drawn the bath."
Draco nodded, clutching the ring to his chest, and the house elf left again. He tried to get up, only remembering his cane at the last second. He walked to where he assumed the bathroom was, slowly so he didn't aggravate anything. True to his word, Kreature had filled a massive bath, which was excellent, because Draco felt absolutely filthy.
Undressing, he sank into the bath slowly, once again resting the cane nearby for when he had to get up.
The hot water was one of the best things Draco had ever felt. It had probably been a month since he'd bathed properly, at least not since Hogwarts. Orion Black had good taste, the bathroom was fully stocked, most similar to the over-the-top prefects room than anything else.
As he rested, finally relaxing in the complete solitude, he considered the ring. It was tempting, to hold it and say the keyword, to go back to what he was before.
He could dance with Blaise, joke with Dymphna, pretend the rest of the world wasn't falling apart.
Abandon his family.
He sank lower into the bath, the water nearly coming up to his nose. Why did doing the correct thing have to be so hard?
He does the right thing, gets attacked by Greyback.
He goes to get help from said Greyback attack, gets maimed by Potter.
Tries to get help from the Potter attack, gets captured by people who want to kill him.
But even if he wanted to, he's not sure he could go back to who he was. How would he fit back into his dignified pureblood son persona? How could he go back to being the beautiful and well groomed society darling with these scars? Like it or not, there was no going back now.
He wasn't an idiot. He had been raised to live in a very specific niche, one that only fit if he was good looking. He was the son of a Black Sister, famously the most beautiful witches of the modern age.
Draco's value to The Dark Lord was greatly diminished like this. He wasn't any good if he wasn't beautiful.
He shook his head, how maudlin.
He threw himself into washing his hair as a distraction, watching the water around him turn a cloudy pink. By the time he'd washed fully, the water was near grey, and he finally felt some semblance of cleanness.
He hadn't noticed, but Kreature had set clothes out. They were old fashioned, with a ruffle collar and huge lace sleeves, but they fit well. Draco was suspicious that Kreature might have taken his measurements while he was delirious with his fever, but if nothing else, Kreature would know to respect his Lord's privacy.
Things must really be in dire straits, if he was feeling affection for house elfs, but he was undeniably thankful for Kreature. He hadn't commented on Draco's abject humiliation, despite the fact he must be sorely disappointing as Lord Black.
Trying to dress quickly to avoid looking at the mangled mess of his chest, he found it was much harder to dress himself when he couldn't lift his arms. Or bend over. Or really move on his own in any meaningful way. He refused to ask for help, however. He had gotten himself into this mess, he would deal with the consequences.
It took him about a million times longer than it usually would, at least an hour for just a shirt and simple trousers, to say nothing of socks.
Draco was firmly convinced that they were an invention of the devil. There's no other reason they were this hard to put on.
But after a large amount of pain, laying on the floor in near-tears, and only a little bleeding, he got the blasted things on. Thankfully, the shoes were magical, and just tied themselves onto his feet.
He was completely exhausted after, and so he sat down again at the desk, this time actually absorbing its contents. It was large, even by pureblood status, nearly a table, and made of the same dark wood as his cane.
When had he started to think of it as his cane?
Draco put his head in his hands. Distantly, he knew he had gone through several traumatic incidents in a very short amount of time, and keeping his head was going to be hard. Harder than anything he had ever done.
Not the fight with Greyback, not leaving Blaise, not almost dying at Potter's hands. All of that was child's play compared to what he felt now.
He was so tired. He had been since before the fight with Greyback.
And so, he was forced to think, could he do this?
He'd done nothing meaningful. He had finally done something of consequence, and now was trapped in a house with people who hated him, who stood in opposition to everything he was raised to be.
Yes, he could force them out, but if they put up any sort of fight, it would kill them.
Draco was a murderer, he also knew this distantly, in a vague sense. He had murdered Greyback. He had murdered the other three werewolves. While living with The Dark Lord he had murdered muggles. But for some reason, his mind shied away from the idea of killing Sirius and Lupin. Where would he draw the line next? Could he be trusted? Could he trust himself?
There were stories about people like him. He was the Thing that made parents forbid their children from the forest. He was the boggart hiding in the closet, and the sphinx ready to tear you apart for not knowing the answers.
He was so tired.
Were they so wrong to take his wand? To cut him open from hip to throat? He had made the plunge, he couldn't look his family in the eye and tell them he had left for nothing.
He couldn't go back unless he was victorious, or he was dead.