WARNING: This fanfic contains absolutely none of the following --
slash, femslash, spontaneous mental/personality disorders, suicide attempts, cutting, sex, rape, hugging, kissing, romance, any unnecessary physical contact, original characters,character bashing, character flattering, lack of research, discussion with the author's "muses", discussions with the author, lust, logic
And you may find a rather large amount of --
unfortunate and accidental mistakes regarding canon (my apologies - I researched as well as I was able), lack of effort in the characterization process, optimism in regards to the character Draco Malfoy
In short, this is an experiment. I decided to test one of my age-old theories: that Draco is actually good. (You all hush and allow me my fangirlishness!) He's a bastard and coward and a daddy's boy, and he always will be. So... under what circumstances would it be possible for him to be redeemed? And how will he take to it?
Hell if I know. I just wrote a bloody fic.
The Dubious Redemption Of Slinkback Malcontent is a work intended solely for entertainment. No profit is being made.
Chapter One
In Which Our Anti-Hero Is Introduced
Feet on the table. Shoulders back, head back, elbows in the air and balanced, balanced on two of the four chair legs.
There's always been a little bit of rebellion here, a little bit of arched eyebrows and arch glances with pursed and mocking lips. Tight necks and tossed shoulders, sneers and namecalling underneath upturned noses and narrowed eyes.
But there's always been the feeling of entrapment, of closing in.
There's always been a little bit of rebellion, but his father had always been the constant, and so he had always done as his father had, always followed in his father's footsteps. It made sense back then, as it still did now, but soon he had begun to see the flickering of shadows on the edges of his father's circle of safety and light. He had begun to see the inconsistencies and the decay. The Old Ways. The fear and the hate, clenched together like a two-handed fist.
So he'd... he'd looked round, but the other side of the coin was just as bad -- the fear and the hate, the fear and the hate. This time it was reserved for him, his father, his father's friends. That can't be right, he thought, and walked again behind his father, his feet not looking quite so small in the prints left by his father's shoes.
But the shadows just grew, dancing mockingly in his peripheral vision. They were there and always would be, but he didn't know where to find a place where the sides didn't close in so tight. It was all death -- death of the mind, death of the spirit, death of the flesh.
He wanted to be alive.
He wanted to find the edge of the coin.
He found it, and it was everything he never wanted, but it was either stay or allow himself to be slowly assassinated, indoctrinated, brainwashed. Killed.
Death of the mind, death of the spirit -- death of the flesh.
And for what?
So called justice. So called purity.
But there on the edge of the coin they just fought for the right to live.
Call him a coward all you like. Call him a bastard, a thief, a no-good cheat, a slimy punk. He just wants to live to see tomorrow.
He doesn't wear leather and he doesn't like the taste of cigarettes, but he drinks whiskey like water, at night when he's alone, and leans back in his chair and pretends that he's anywhere. Anywhere but here.
Feet on the table. Shoulders back, head back, elbows in the air and balanced, balanced on two of the four chair legs.
Rebellion.
He knows he's a bastard. And he wouldn't have it any other way.