Sometimes Bad is Good

Chapter Twenty-Two

Draco leaned up against the wall in the lower dungeons, a deep frown fixed firmly upon his face, which flickered wildly in the shadows cast by the flames floating along the ceiling of the hallway, and his arms knotted stubbornly across his broad chest. The loud, tormented screams that came from inside the chamber to his left echoed down the long winding corridors, and it was more than once that he thought someone from the opposite ends answered them. If it weren't the fact that these dungeons hadn't been used in centuries, since the punishments for unruly students had morphed with the coming ages.

Narcissa and Lucius were stood opposite him in their own flickering fire-lit shadows, their porcelain faces suspiciously blank and lacking any emotion that reacted negatively to the racket. He supposed that was because they'd had their own fair share of torment in the past wars, being tortured or inflicting it. It was a perverse wish that he could stand the sound of others in pain, even if his mate wouldn't make it a regular occurrence.

He repressed a shudder as the loud thump of flesh against stone, and an answering scream to what was likely a sudden loss of limb, sounded. The stench of the earthy blood of the captured Werewolves was thick, and it caked absolutely everything. It was a cloying smell, and one he begged to ask how someone so sensitive a nose as Harry, could stand.

"Patience, Draco," said his mother softly, her ice like eyes thawing slightly at his hidden, but evidently obvious trepidation. "It is nearing an end, and Harry is about to achieve what he initially set out to do. There aren't a great deal of wolves, from what I can tell of the heartbeats there won't be any left by the end, they are too weak to heal themselves."

Another thud of flesh to stone, and a terrible scream. "I just want this to stop," he admitted. "He shouldn't be doing this, even if its to stop another war from breaking out, it's not up to him to deal with. This should be left up to others – like Professor Lupin, or even Severus. People that can deal out torture."

"He's too pure for we to taint," said Narcissa, nodding. "But after everything he has done, he has managed to escape unscathed. Tell me, Draco, if it were you whom had to assassinate the most powerful Dark Lord in many ages, would you remain the same, or become something wholly different?" She asked, tilting her proud head at a curious angle.

"I couldn't handle it," he said truthfully. "If I were chosen, I would've failed under the pressure. I wouldn't have been able to handle anything the Dark Lord had thrown at me, like Harry could. I don't think I have the necessary bravery to stand up like that."

She nodded, a small smile lifting the corners of her lips. "And that is why you were not chosen to be the Boy-Who-Lived and Harry was," she said, that small smile growing just that tad bit more. "It's obvious why the fates picked him to play that role, and why you became his mate. You are his strength, and he is the force. You hold his heart in your hands."

"He holds mine, too," he whispered, looking away. "But I don't think he knows that."

"Then he will learn," said Lucius softly.

There were no screams coming from the chamber, Draco realized after a moment. Nothing but unnatural silence.

"Do you think ––?"

The door squealed open, shrieking with age as the metal was far too rusted to properly open and close without force. Draco took in the sight of his mate, covered in blood from head to toe with an unearthly iridescent shine to the pale, creamy skin beneath the smeared red. His wings were held at a tense upright position, blood dripping in steady rivers down the velvety scales – the obvious tool for dismembering the Werewolves, and his eyes – his eyes were flat and held no spark of recognition in them.

"Harry?" He asked cautiously, stepping a little closer to the raven-haired Valerian.

Harry looked at him and opened his mouth, but all that came out was a whispering trail of sibilant hisses – much like Parseltongue, but far softer and somehow more fluid. It dripped from his throat like oil, and caressed his ears like silk. But it wasn't English, and he didn't recognize the language. Harry didn't seem to know that he wasn't speaking English, and Draco couldn't help but be struck at how similar it was with how he spoke Parseltongue in their Second year.