Drarry Oneshots 2

Shame Keeps Its Watch

In the outer reaches of the hall there was the soft rustle and patter of the few house-elves who had resisted Ministry offers of freedom and alternative employment. Had there been house-elves at his grandfather's funeral? If there had been no one would have noticed or thought to notice.

Draco shivered and wondered if he could twitch his wand from his sleeve for a discreet warming charm. Discreet from whom? His mother? From the dead who, if they were watching, were already well past disappointment. Draco made an effort to stand up straight and felt the weight of the wools and silk of his mourning robes shift around him.

Another hour inched round. Draco's stomach rumbled. They had eaten and drunk nothing since dawn. Ostensibly this was one of the marks of mourning. More likely it was because nothing undermines the power of ritual like key players needing to pop out for a pee. After his grandfather's interment there had been a feast. All the mourners who had stayed untill the end had approached his father to press his hand and offer their condolences. In the brief words exchanged their alliances had been affirmed and the web of Malfoy influence maintained. Draco and his mother would probably have some sandwiches in her room before heading to bed. Though Draco had already decided to go down into the cellars when this was done and get well and truly smashed. On his own, in the dark.

There had been dubious heirs before now. Phineas Malfoy, who had squandered his fortune and kept a harem of red-headed Muggle prostitutes. Alphaias Malfoy, who had not exchanged a single word with his wife after the wedding ceremony, barred her from the house and maintained a very close relationship with his golden-haired estate manager. But there had always been cousins and nephews to step into the breach. At the failure of one branch, another branch had assumed prominence and the family rallied.

There was no one else now. He was the last Black and the last Malfoy. He was also a coward and a whore.

*

Thinking back, Draco couldn't even identify the point when it had all started to go wrong. When had the brightness of his eight-year-old future begun to dim? There had been memorable moments though, most of them in this bloody hall: when his mother and he had learnt of his father's arrest, in fifth year; when he had been forced on his knees to take the Mark, not in triumph but in retribution and when he had stumbled back here, on Severus' heels, to scenes of wild jubilation. Jubilation he'd been forced to recognise, and then quickly conceal, that he couldn't share. Driven, up to that point, by the urgency of the Dark Lord's commands he was suddenly without purpose or goal. All that was left was meaningless endurance. At least he'd known what he had to do during sixth year, even if his childish visions of winning the esteem of the Dark Lord through acts of schoolboy valour now made him feel empty and sick.

He thought of Rowle. Rowle had been one of the first people Draco had been forced to Crucio. Here in this damned hall. Rowle and Dolohov had almost caught Harry Potter in the aftermath of the raid on the Weasley home, but had, for some reason, failed. The Dark Lord had been bitterly furious and it had amused him to force Draco to be the one to administer the Cruciatus to Rowle.

When the Dark Lord finally grew bored of them he swept from the room, leaving Rowle slumped on the floor. Draco's legs buckled and he fell to his hands and knees retching weakly. The two of them stayed there for some time. Rowle rolled onto his back and lay there. Slowly the pained rasps of his breathing became quiet. Draco hadn't been able to stop shaking even though he hadn't been the one who'd been Cruioed.

Eventually Rowle rose to his feet and limped over to the door. He paused there. "Get up, Draco." It took Draco a second or two to understand. He started and looked up. Rowle loomed in the doorway, swaying slightly. "Come on, Draco. Get yourself up. You can lend me your shoulder back to my rooms." There was no particular rancour in his voice, only the weariness of a long day.