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Dead like a Phoenix	By : OrangeMira Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 3136 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I own no part of the Harry Potter Franchise and I have made no money from this story

Chapter List
- 1-Dead like a Phoenix
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 3
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- 5
“Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage.”

- Anais Nin

*/*/*/

...I felt like a tourist in my own mind. Every memory, every experience was laid bare and I spent days watching them flit past. Reliving the life I’d never cared to take notice of, finally allowing the joy, the pain and the unspeakable sorrow of it to break my heart...

*/*/*/

Draco Malfoy was eating breakfast with his Veela, contemplating his impending trip to the ministry.

“You are sure?” Ari asked around a sip of orange juice. He never used conjunctions, something Draco never failed to notice and be annoyed by.

Draco nodded an affirmative, he did not need an escort, he could do this. Maybe. And he just failed to use a conjunction, fucking Veela.

“Well, my darling,” Vanna spoke languidly. “Fate is a fickle cunt, isn’t she.”

“How so?” Fannar said through a mouthful of melon.

“Well, think about it,” she shrugged, “poor little thing can’t even speak, how’s he supposed to protect himself in the loud world of humanity? He was a word smith once, now he can’t even shape a single turn of phrase. He’s all broken from a war not of his own making and terrified of humans, though really they should fear him. A little ball of blond irony. Perhaps one of us should go with him.”

The blond man let his head fall into long, scared hands, silently contemplating the plate that rested between his elbows. He had managed to eat a piece of toast today, with honey and a bit of jam. Ever since he had been bitten, eating had become somewhat of a hassle.

“Neither of you is going with him,” Ari announced and stood up. “We are not even supposed to be in the country.”

Great, illegal Veelas. Draco rolled his eyes but still didn’t look up. It wasn’t as if they were really thinking of him, they were too selfish for that. They were trying to gain his favour over the other two; he had seen them do it before. They valued him as a possession, as a status symbol above the other members of the household. And Draco was perfectly cool with that, because he got a lot of excellent food and useful gifts from the exchanges.

He stood suddenly and waved a farewell.

“Good luck,” Vanna called as he strode briskly from the room.

Luck had absolutely nothing to do with this. Today was going to be a cluster fuck.

Draco took one last look at himself in the mirror before departing into the fire. Mirror Draco looked gaunt and a little tired, but at least he was clean shaven. He had debated cutting his waist length locks, but he didn’t trust a Veela to do it and it hurt too much for him to try. He was dressed as simply, but every bit as luxuriously as his father had, he wanted to project the image of wealth and power, even though he had neither. On his finger was his father’s ring and around his neck a pendant Lux had given him. It was a tiny azure eye on a thin gold chain that she bought in ‘Byzantium’ when ‘she was a child’.

Releasing a slow breath, Draco pulled his normally handsome features into a long forgotten mask that had been resting upon his mental shelf for nearly three years.

He was going to see human beings; he needed to look the heartbreakingly cruel part. It would be his first time off the manor grounds in three years and his first encounter with humanity in as long.

Well, Draco stared at the floo powder in his hand, what do I do now?

Sighing, he threw the powder in the fire and stepped through, praying thought would be enough to transport him right.

When he opened his eyes, there he was, standing in the reception area of the ministry. It was loud. The sounds of people moving, of them talking and gossiping, rustling papers, humming and whistling. Tremors wracked Draco’s thin frame, and his fists were clenched in his pockets.

It was very bright, too. They had added a great many windows since Draco had been here for Lucius’ sentencing. It smelled different, his superhuman nose picked up the scents of contentment and of food cooking, somewhere in the distance.

A man, who was walking at top speed, knocked against Draco and in his weakened state, nearly sent him sprawling.

“Watch it!” he snapped viciously.

He didn’t—couldn’t—say a word in defence but he moved quickly away. There were signs in green parchment that directed his kind towards the special ‘Werewolf Registry Centre’. A very loud part of Draco was screaming that he shouldn’t have come, that he should have remained at home with his monsters.

The farther he walked, consciously avoiding contact with all the humans walking the corridors with him, the more he began to notice them. There were some among them who looked scruffy, and following the same route as him, Draco supposed they were Werewolves, too. They certainly smelled different than the other humans.

He tried not to look at them, or indeed look at anyone, keeping his eyes trained on the floor and attempting to control the shivers that wiggled their way from his spine down through his chest and abdomen.

The one time he did glance up, his heart nearly stopped. Granger and Weasley passed to the right of him without even a glance. They were holding hands.

Millicent said they were dating. He thought briefly and then returned his focus to following the signs.

The other Werewolves, he was quite sure they were Werewolves now, were slowly growing closer together, a packing instinct Draco remembered reading about. They walked with a confident swagger, positively oozing toughness, exactly the kind of alpha male he used to fantasize about when he was younger. They shot him as many glances as he did them, none of which was welcoming. Draco felt the urge to snarl, but quashed it. It would look silly, his face all twisted up like that and no sound coming out.

And then they reached their destination, a door made of metal and glass. Inside a number of other frightening strangers sat in cushioned chairs. They looked uncomfortable.

Draco didn’t bother to square his shoulders; he just took a number and drifted like snowflake to chair in the corner. There was a man in the chair to his left and across from him a young woman. His number was 37.

So this was it, Draco marvelled, my epic return to humanity. He had felt a few stares on the walk here, but less than he expected.

The man next to him drew a single cigarette from inside his shirt but didn’t light it. He looked faded and worn though he couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, maybe forty. His clothes were frayed, but not dirty and like most of the others he had an aura of danger about him.

Draco wondered if he had such an aura.

“Hey,” it was the man next to him, “you’re Malfoy’s kid, aren’t you.”

He nodded.

“What, too good to talk to Weres are we?” there was anger in his tone.

The blond rolled his eyes and tilted his head back, pointing emphatically at the scar there.

“Oh,” the man said, “you get that in the camps?”

He shook his head, staring at his scarred digits.

“Number 16!” a woman at the reception desk called. The man glanced down at his number and then stood.

“That’s me,” he smiled. Draco didn’t, keeping his face neutral until the man was completely gone from view.

“Number 17!”

Draco Malfoy sighed, this could take a while.
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Dead like a Phoenix