Unthinkable Fate

He is still in the bath, but the water has gone cold. He does not move to drain the water, nor does he make any attempt to warm the water. He aches again, like before. But the bruising from his time in the dungeons is healing finally, now that there is not anyone re-bruising the same locations over and over again.



He flexes the muscles of his leg, feeling for any problems caused when his leg was split wide open while running from his previous life. The night he had informed his father of who he was destined to mate with, which was also the night his father brought him before the Dark Lord. His father had had the intent of forcing him to promise himself to the crazy bastard. Lucius demanded of his son this thing, for if he were promised to the Dark Lord, perhaps this fated bond to the side of light would be broken due to Voldemort’s dark power.



It had not worked as his father had hoped. The second Voldemort’s hand touched the blond youth’s skin, he began to burn, just as he had when he inhabited Quirrell’s body and had tried to touch Harry Potter. The Dark Lord knew then. Not only was he again weakened by this change in the youngest Malfoy, but the wizard he had considered his right hand man was either the stupidest fool he had yet to meet, or he knew what he was doing when he brought the young blond wretch before his Lord.



Either way, Voldemort was not pleased. The Malfoy heir was to be sent to the dungeons to be tortured and kept from his rightful place beside the young Potter heir, where he would do more harm to the fight for Darkness, and his father spent a long evening faced with Voldemort’s weakened, but still highly painful, wrath. But the youth had run. He was captured and dealt with accordingly, but the incident had done little to dampen his need to escape.



The blond in the tub sat up and rubbed his fingers over the scar on the back of his leg, wondering if he dare try to use wandless magick to heal it further. He knew it was stupid of him. The Aurors were monitoring his room for any signs of magic, and he should not be able to use wandless magic – at least as far as the Ministry was concerned. They were fools, the whole lot of them. Keeping rooms full of prophecies, but not knowing what each one said.



He pulled the plug out of the tub and waited, clutching his knees to his chest, until the water, and some of the dirt that had traveled with him so far, disappeared down the drain. He was vaguely surprised to see wisps of his own blood floating towards the drain, until he realized it was his time. His body was ready for his mate, it had changed to be what Harry Potter would need, and even if he had yet to be near his mate, he would not be able to stop the next time his heat came. He would forget all aspects of humanity, all proper things to do and ways to go about them. He would apperate, wand or no, to wherever his mate was, and whether Harry Potter wanted him or not when in his right mind, nothing would stop the coupling that would occur.



He sighed and reached for the tap, pulling the hot water handle and engaging the shower function. He continued to sit as he washed his body and hair with the things provided to him by the house-elves, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to stand for long. He felt weak. His fingers ran down his chest, feeling the outlines of his ribs, before moving down his sunken stomach. His body disgusted him now. He had been so fit, before his confinement. Now his body was a wasteland, and he knew of no reason his mate would want him, aside from the forced wanting of mating times.



He turned off the tap, stood, and stepped from the tub slowly, wrapping a towel that had suddenly appeared around his waist, and reaching for the other to dry his hair. He had no brush; and really no reason to care whether he did or not. He had no more Malfoy pride. The name had been trampled, tainted. It wasn’t for him anymore. He decided, then, he would never again be named Draco Malfoy. He would take his mother’s maiden name, which while still being tainted in itself, held more for him then the Malfoy name. His father’s holdings would be stripped, he had no doubt. But he still had some claims over the Black fortune, and that was who he would be.



Draco Black moved as well as he could, removing himself from the tiny bathroom and settling himself on the bed again. He flung the towel that had adorned his head to the other side of the bed, and dropped it to the floor as he lay sprawled on his stomach.



He noticed clothing had appeared on the dresser, neatly folded and clean, though he made no move to get it. He turned slightly, enough to pull himself into a tight ball, pulled the blanket over his chilled body, and fell asleep.