Dead like a Phoenix
2
I can be changed by what happens to me, but I refuse to be reduced by it.
- Maya Angelou
*/*/*//*/
...At first, I considered it a sort of death. My life in society was ended, my family was ruined, I was a Death Eater no longer. I remember screaming, crying out in frustration as the train that once borne me to the best part of my life now carried me to the worst. And then I remember the screaming stopped, and there were only gurgles...
Draco Malfoy unfolded his Sunday Prophet and promptly sprayed coffee all over it in shock.
In great, bold, taunting print the front page read:
Controversial Werewolf registry bill passes
After last weekend’s gruesome attack that left a young woman in hospital, the Wizengamot has passed law that requires all werewolves to register with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures... All werewolves will be required to state their address, inform the ministry of travel plans, marriage, reproduction, how long they have been afflicted... subject to random searches... required to take wolf’s bane at every full moon, regardless of the conditions severity... failure to register or abide with the law will result in immediate incarceration for an undetermined amount of time.
He supposed he would have to do it, register anyway. It was too dangerous not to. He didn’t like Azkaban, though he’d only been there once to visit his father in sixth year. It would, however, mean venturing into London and speaking to human beings for the first time in three years. He hadn’t even left the Manor grounds since his release from the Camps.
He wondered briefly if they had anyone who could interpret sign language. He was going to go with no.
He wondered if the Wizarding World had forgotten about him, if he had managed to slip people’s minds as readily as they had slipped his. He hadn’t thought about Crabbe or Goyle, about Blaise, Theo or Pansy in the longest time. He supposed Theo and Pansy must have been married by now.
He thought about Potter sometimes, but rarely about his sickening little sidekicks. How different would his life have been if Potter had taken his hand?
Draco laughed inwardly, as his actual laugh was quite frightening. He knew exactly how his life would be. He would still be proud of the mark on his arm, still be a slave to the Death Eaters, because there was no way in hell Potter would have been able to kill the Dark Lord, or maybe he would not even have tried.
Draco had that effect on people, making them darker, worse than they actually were. When he met Crabbe and Goyle they had been oafs, but gentle, harmless oafs. Pansy had been a sweet girl until Lucius started bringing her around for play dates. So had Blaise. Sweet that was, not a girl. He diminished humans, he stole their light, and that’s why he couldn’t stand to be around them.
He would have twisted Potter, manipulated and used him like the tool he was. And in the end, when he was worn and damaged with the use, when the gloss of fame had faded, and Draco no longer had a use for him, he would be cast away.
Draco Malfoy’s stomach turned, he was just like his father. Had he really been such a terrible human being?
Thank gods he wasn’t one anymore.