If the Leopard Were Offered Wings to Fly.

Chapter Three; Draco's Lament.

It wasn't long after the Dark Lord's publicity stunt that full chaos broke out in wizarding Britain. People fled the country in a mass exodus, bureaucrats were deserting their posts and many shops and businesses had to close; their customers either out of the country or too afraid to venture out into the streets. Some storefronts in Diagon Alley were shattered by looters. Panic seemed to bring out the worst in people, just like his Lordship had predicted. Instead of taking their lives and destroying their buildings, he had stolen the one thing that sustained them: their hope for a saviour.

Scrimgeour and his remaining officials had finally given in to negotiations and Draco found himself preparing the documents detailing their surrender. He rubbed his temples as he finished casting the last spells on the paperwork. Never in his life had he imagined he would be doing clerical work and he was most displeased. Not so much over the banality of the task he was assigned; he lived to serve. What bothered him most was that there had been negotiations at all. He had been waiting for the war to climix in a blazing haze of carnage, but instead it all ended in paperwork.

He sealed the scrolls shut with hot wax and the "House of Voldemort" insignia, then got up from his desk and made his way to the war room where his Master was waiting. The war room, a small, circular space with dark wood panelling on the walls, was bustling with exhuberance, as Voldemort's delegation prepared for their rendez-vous with what was left of the Ministry of Magic. Draco knelt dutifully before the Dark Lord and presented the scrolls. Voldemort stroked young Malfoy's outstretched hand with his index finger as he took the paperwork.
"Thank you, Malfoy. You are dismissed for now."
Draco stood to leave, but paused.

"My Lord, forgive my impudence, but why have we chosen to negotiate at all? We can overpower them. We are superior."
A glacial silence fell over the war room as the other Death Eaters held their breaths in shock.
"The leopard is also superior, little one. He is a sovereign among beasts. Each proud day of his life is worth a hundred days in the life of a raven. Yet, if the leopard were offered wings to fly, he would be foolish to refuse them."

Draco bowed deeply and headed for the door. When his hand was on the handle, the Dark Lord spoke again:
"And Draco... NEVER abuse our friendship again."

As the heavy teak slammed shut behind him, Draco couldn't help but feel like he'd made a terrible mistake. He had questioned his Lordship in front of the inner circle and although he knew the Dark Lord had a bit of a soft spot for him, this was still an offense punishable by death, or worse, cunthood. Suddenly struck by a weakness in his legs, he reached for his hip flask and took a swig of cask aged Single Malt. He could not calm his nerves, so he tried again. All he managed to accomplish was a slight buzz, so with unsteady foot he proceeded off to do his rounds in the dungeons.

As he neared Potter's cell, he saw what appeared to be Pettigrew fumbling with his trousers. It was somewhat of a running joke that Peter's metal hand made it difficult for him to zip up his pants. The little rat did not hear him approach and was startled when Draco inquired about his actions.

"OH!" Peter cried in shock as he brusquely turned about to face Draco.

"Young master Malfoy, you startled me."

"What are you doing here, Pettigrew?"

"Well, I was just visiting the cunt, you see. No harm in that right? That's what we keep cunts for, isn't it?"

Wormtail's nervous fidgeting irritated Draco beyond anything else in the world and he rolled his eyes.

"For Salazar's sake, Wormtail! Let me help you with that. No one wants to see that."

He pulled out his wand and with a swift flick, he zipped the rat's trousers back up.

"Move along, Pettigrew. Move along."

"Thank you, young master Malfoy."

Pettigrew scurried off in his typical rat-like manner, leaving Draco alone in the dungeon. When he peered into Potter's cell, his heart skipped a beat and all the air left his lungs. His former classmate lay still on the floor, covered in cum, but more disturbingly, in blood. A shattered pocket mirror lay beside his open wrist. He must have lifted it off Wormtail.

"Oh, bugger me! Oh, fuck me!" Draco cried as he hastily opened the cell door.

"Bugger, shite, fuck, motherfucker!"

He knelt down beside Potter and felt for a pulse. It was there, but fading fast. He could not let the prisoner die. The Dark Lord had been very specific about the boy-who-lived not dying and Draco had already outstepped his bounds that day. He could not afford another fuck-up.

"Don't you snuff on me, Potter. Do you hear me!?"

Panicked, he raised his shaking wand and breathed in deep as he searched his memories for his basic field training. He got the incantation wrong twice, but the third time, so to speak, was a charm. The wounds on Harry's wrists closed up, but he was not out of the woods yet. He'd lost a lot of blood and would need more healing. Draco couldn't leave him in his cell half dead. It was his shift for prisoner rounds; his responsibility.

"Mobilicorpus!"

And so he took his school time nemesis up to his quarters.
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As the colour slowly returned to Potter's skin, Draco's panic turned to anger. The cunt had a lot to learn about life at the court of Lord Voldemort and Draco would have to teach him, to avoid future crises. He conjured chains from thin air that strapped Potter to a chair, then opened up a small container of Essence and held it under the prisoner's nose. Harry's eyes flashed open and he snapped to attention. Draco smiled. The cunt had learned some things during his stay.

"I'm alive," he croaked.

"Shut up, Potter."

Draco turned away from him and summoned his favourite arm chair and a pipe. He took a seat right across from his prisoner and stuffed his pipe with the glowing substance. He lit it with his wand and took a slow puff, grinning at Harry's wild longing with amusement.

"You know what the problem is with cunts, Potter? You know no moderation. You haven't been here very long and already I can see that you crave the pipe. You are weak, Potter. In so many ways."

Harry turned his head away, a desolate expression overtaking him.
Draco blew a thick cloud of smoke in Harry's face and grinned when the bespectacled Gryffindor inhaled it deeply.

"Tell me, Potter. In the Order of Phoenix, to whom did life belong? To Dumbledore or to yourself?"

"Each man was master of his own life and only his own life," Harry said.

"Could Dumbledore send you to battle?"

"Yes."

"And can you die in battle, Potter?"

"Yes."

"Then you are wrong! Your life belonged to Dumbledore."

Draco relished the look of confusion on his prisoner's face and grinned at his triumph before turning deadly serious.

"Around here, life belongs to Lord Voldemort. You can not take what doesn't belong to you, Potter. You will die when he tells you to die."

A moment passed in silence, then there was an eerie sound; the sound of bony hands clapping.

Draco jumped from his chair and fell to his knees.

"My Lord, how long have you been here?" he said.

"Long enough to overhear your speech, young Malfoy. I couldn't have put it more eloquently myself. Rise, friend. I came to invite you to dinner."

"Certainly, My Lord. Shall I meet you in the hall then?"

"We are not dining in the hall, Draco. We are dining in Noctiluca."

For a moment, Draco's heart stood still. Noctiluca, the Dark Lord's private quarters, were off limits to everyone. Not even his aunt, who had been Voldemort's principal consort for years, had ever set foot inside. Either Draco was back in his Master's favours, or he was marked for a very personal death. He hoped it was the former.