Rebellion

Disclaimer: None of the HP universe is mine. But I do like to play with it.
Possible Spoilers: Set post-HBP, so yes.


Draco blinked painfully in the bright afternoon light, his head feeling ready to split into large, meaty chunks. He tried to pull the covers over his head, but found that there were none. He looked around dizzily and realized he had passed out on the carpet. The previous night was more than a bit foggy, with a large dark gap somewhere near the end. Draco found the bedpost and pulled himself upright. He hadn’t been hung over like this in a long time. He staggered into the bathroom and realized it wasn’t the bathroom; he wasn’t in his own suite, and where his bathroom door was this room had a walk-in closet. Even after nineteen years in Malfoy Manor, he hadn’t seen every room. Draco wandered back into the bedroom and spotted two doors. The left was a pocket door and the right a large, heavy oak thing that probably led into the hallway. He chose the left and was rewarded by slipping on the slick red marble floor.

He barely managed to avoid cracking his head open on the knob. Where were his shoes? That wasn’t important. He made his way over to the sink and ran the tap. When he looked into the mirror he noticed first the deep bruises under his eyes and then the hideous wound on the side of his neck. He touched it gingerly and was rewarded with a pretty impressive stinging sensation. It looked like an animal bite. Draco rinsed the wound carefully and washed his face.

The medicine cabinet, like every one in the mansion, was fully stocked. He took a couple of pain pills and downed some water. His clothes reeked of alcohol and something slightly offensive; Draco wrinkled his nose. Last time he smelled this bad he and Blaise Zabini had sex in the kennels and fell asleep on the dog blankets.

Feeling slightly more human now, he made his way out into the central corridor. By the color of the carpeting he was on the fourth floor. There was a painting of the sixth Lord Malfoy on the wall, and Draco pressed the head of the seraph in the center of the frame. It slid aside and he walked through. Every Lord Malfoy’s portrait hid a pathway through the mansion, and every Lady Malfoy’s portrait hid a storeroom for valuables. Lucius and Narcissa guarded a tunnel to the carriage house and a jewel closet, respectively. Draco intended to have his portrait over a secret hallway to the wine cellar.

Draco had thought that once he proved himself to the Dark Lord he would be trusted with all sorts of exciting duties. With his father gone, he was essentially Lord Malfoy, wasn’t he? This was his house, but he still felt like a child in it. It hadn’t been so bad over the summer, when many of his classmates had come to the mansion, but now that they were back at school and the Ministry kept battering itself against the estate’s security, Draco was kept painfully isolated.

He went looking for Severus; the older man was always good for company. After some searching he located the former Potions Master in the library.

“Draco, what happened to you last night?” Snape asked.

“I…what?”

Severus came over to him and tipped his head to one side with his fingertips, examining the shallow wound on his neck.

“When the news arrived about your father, you got up and left. No one’s seen you since.”

“News about my father?”

Now the older wizard was really looking at him oddly.

“Last night,” he said slowly, “We found out that your father escaped from Azkaban.”

“Escaped? Then where is he?”

“He chose to flee. The Dark Lord is very angry.”

Draco frowned.

“I was drunk,” he said.

“As you have often been of late,” Snape said disapprovingly. “Hold still and let me look at this.”

Draco obediently held still, even when probing fingers made him wince with discomfort.

“You didn’t go down to the kennels, did you?”

“Why?”

“Well, besides the nasty bite on your neck and the scratches on your hands, you smell like dog.”

“I might have. No one messes with me down there, and I’ve got a stash of Bushmill’s behind the first aid kit.”

“But you don’t know?”

Draco wasn’t used to blacking out. The news of his father must have really struck him, to drink that much.

Snape’s forehead creased deeply.

“Where did you wake up?” he asked.

“One of the fourth-floor bedrooms,” Draco said.

“How would you have gotten from the kennels to the fourth floor in such a state?” Snape asked, more to himself than to Draco. His quick black eyes focused somewhere over Draco’s shoulder, and his lips moved slightly. Then he looked back at Draco. “Have you eaten today?”

“No.”

“Then come with me.”

When they arrived in the kitchen, Draco saw Fenrir Greyback sitting at the small block table in the corner. The werewolf smiled toothily at him and returned to his food. Draco sneered and skirted to the side, as far from Greyback as he could manage. He loathed the other man more completely than any of his enemies. Greyback had no problem criticizing Draco’s father, which raised Draco’s hackles like nothing else. He could only imagine what the ugly old man would say if he knew that Draco and Lucius had been lovers.

Draco realized suddenly that he was starving. Severus, who likewise disliked Greyback, instructed him to eat and left quickly, leaving the two together.

“Quite a little love-bite you’ve got there,” Greyback said, as Draco opened the pantry door.

“Shut up,” Draco muttered. His simmering hatred emboldened him.

“What was that?”

“The others might be afraid of you, but I’m not. You’re just the Dark Lord’s lapdog.”

Greyback growled softly.

“You’ve got guts, boy,” he said. “Not like your pansy father.”

“My father is a brave and noble man,” Draco said. “When the Dark Lord disappeared, he stayed in the open and took what came. You vanished into the wilderness, if I recall.”

“And returned with an army,” Greyback said. He stood and carried his plate to the sink. Draco stood firm. The werewolf leaned close to him and sniffed deeply. “Say what you like. You stink of fear.”

“And you stink of wet dog,” Draco snarled back. Greyback sniffed him again and smiled broadly. Then he turned and left without another word.

Draco’s lip lifted in a sneer at the man’s retreating back.

As he was eating, Wormtail came in. He regarded Draco with his usual mixture of fear and mischief.

“You missed quite a view last night,” he said. Draco grunted. “I haven’t seen a moon that size in years.”

“What are you on about, Pettigrew?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Wormtail simpered. He retrieved a bottle of butterbeer from the icebox and popped off the cap. “Not everyone appreciates the sight of a full moon, I guess.”

“I thought Greyback smelled especially disgusting,” Draco muttered. He got up and dumped his plate roughly into the sink.

“See you later,” Wormtail said.

“Hopefully much later,” Draco replied. He could swear he heard Pettigrew’s obnoxious, squeaky laughter behind him as he left.

Severus had disappeared, probably off to his makeshift potions lab in the old dungeons. Draco went back to his suite and took a much-needed shower. The hot water made him feel tired, and he sat down on his sofa to read. Before he knew it, he was asleep.