Swirling his drink in one hand, he lifted two sculpted fingers to his lips, inhaling a deep fag of noxious fumes. Sitting in the corner booth of a disreputable bar he felt invisible. There were no reporters, no women itching to sink their claws into nonexistent wealth, no lingering perfume of tavern whores. It was aphotic out and the incisive cold of the rain drew most to home, safe in their delusions that the government was righteously laboring to protect them.
The question was, who was protecting them from their protection?
The thought brought a mirthless laugh to his lips, a sickening cough of smoke and bitter irony. So much irony to be had in once life. His deification of Lucius. His aging youth. His innocence in dealing with the Dark Arts. He had been fascinated, yes, but with the power of it, unlike his Aunt Bellatrix who enjoyed the pain of another. She reeked of insanity and he had avoided her as often as he could in childhood. Her presence had felt as though a fresh layer of graveyard slime had washed over him. Now he wondered how he hadn't seen the decayed truth of his family's wisdom.
Torrents of rain battered the windows, seeking entrance but denied. Through lifeless drapes lightning winked in and out. Lightning, the very bane of his existence, a living reminder of the Tower. Potter. Dumbledore.
Staring into his iced vodka, he took another fag. It was cold. A Firewhiskey would have awakened his stagnant limbs despite the sodden cloak he donned, but the cold suited him. Besides, the numb of a nearly empty bottle did much to dull his body's cry for heat.
Severus had always been well acquainted with the bottle. But with his past, Draco could very well understand. His mother was a weakling, his father abusing. His magical abilities far outstripped others, which led to competition. His size made him vulnerable, his temperament lonely, his insecurities susceptible. Susceptible to the pressure of peoples like Lucius. Like Voldemort. He was a brilliant man with serious faults, but one thing Draco had noticed was that Severus' penchant for drink was far more liberating than other addictions.
Most of Draco's knowledge of Severus came from late night discourses fueled by liquor. Instead of hiding his pains and regrets, he voiced them. His passion was brought forth, his eloquence heightened. It wasn't something Draco particularly admired, but it was better than his mother.
Since Lucius' death and Draco's promotion within the Order, Narcissa had tread very lightly amidst the Wizarding World. Instead of grieving, she bought. Trinkets that amused her, pieces for the mansion, servants, clothes, jewelry, rare books, and unnecessary gifts. She was in no danger of emptying the Malfoy vaults, she would have to endeavor much harder and longer to do that, but she severed herself from her son, her friends, her life, in order to affect that nothing had changed.
Ironically, to do so she had had to change everything. Everything except Lucius' room. In that, she had altered nothing. She had gone so far as to place a cooling spell at the exact temperature he preferred.
So, his mother never spoke of her afflictions. She distracted her misery with vacuous items. Severus might have been a drunk, but he was an honest drunk who never pretended his life was anything but corrosive.
Draco faced a similar path as Severus. The reality of his home life was disconcerting. His father had been a megalomaniac willing to cede his family to Voldemort. Voldemort was a powerful illusion of pureblood wizarding, but nothing more than an illusion. In truth, a half-blood mongrel.
The Dark Arts, as fascinating as they were, were something Draco was not strong enough to wield. Not seriously. His bright future under Voldemort had slowly crumbled before his eyes, beginning with the Tower and ending with the most acute torture he had ever endured.
The bitter gall of being rescued by Potter and Weasley had never truly dispersed. The pity in Granger's eyes was almost more agonizing than the treatment for his wounds. His Malfoy pride had been shattered beyond restoration at a time when it was all he possessed. His mother had disowned him after Lucius' death. He had lived in poverty, begged for food, gone without bathing, slept in the same clothes for weeks, been invisible, and finally been hunted down by Death Eaters, only to be rescued by the Golden Fucking Trio.
Everything he had ever believed, relied upon, or had had expected of him … vanished within a single year.
Draco lifted the chilled cup to his lips, unmindful of the grime still remaining on the rim. Crushing his cigarette into the driftwood table, he unfolded himself from the corner. The other patrons ignored him as he left. It was best to see only what you had to in such times.
The alcohol did not hinder his capacities. His blood was too acclimated with the effects. The door welcomed being opened in temporary relief from the battle against the storm. Draco did not bow his head but rather stepped full on into the stygian night. The rain permeated the cloth, sowing the numbness into his core.
In a few hours he would report for duty. He would check his wand, show I.D. and enter into one of the Ministry's secret confessional rooms. There, he would practice his father's teachings in the Dark Arts. How to bring a man to the brink of death in fine precision before roughly healing him, only to repeat the process.
He could not kill, nor enjoy another's pain, but he had learned to perform his duties without question. He no longer slept in the streets or had to bear the pitying gaze of Granger. He hadn't slept in peace for five long months and he didn't meet the eyes of any whom he had once respected, even as adversaries.
The irony in his life threatened to consume him. The decay within London, within the Ministry, within him awaited him in the night. The devils he could never truly face …
I wandered through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
Poetry by William Blake.