http://www.fanfiction.net/u/1152666/Cheryl_Dyson
Summary: Draco is kidnapped and forced to make a choice between death or becoming something less than human. Of course, he makes the right decision. Enter Harry, who discovers he has a bit of a fetish for wings.
Chains of Earth
by Cheryl_Dyson
Prologue
When we walk to the edge of all the light we have
and take the step into the darkness of the unknown,
we must believe that one of two things will happen.
There will be something solid for us to stand on
or we will be taught to fly.
-Patrick Overton
Draco was cold. Cold and damned uncomfortable. A shiver coursed through his body, jolting him to awareness of things other than cold and discomfort, although those were still present. Both sensations intensified when he opened his eyes.
What the fuck? He sat bolt upright and then had to shut his eyes until vertigo and the urge to vomit subsided. He swallowed hard against the taste of bile. Drugged, then. Or hit with a Cruciatus while he was down.
He opened his eyes more carefully to examine his surroundings. Merlin, it was cold. And nearly dark. His gaze tracked over the inky stone that surrounded him on all sides, followed the repeating pattern up and up to the only spot of brightness—a patch of lead-coloured sky far above.
"I'm at the bottom of a pit?" he asked aloud, as if hoping his voice would dispel the illusion. His breath fogged the air and he wrapped his arms around himself without bothering to climb to his feet. Apparently the culprits responsible for bringing him here did not particularly care if he froze to death. He knew without checking that his wand would be gone. He checked anyway; it was.
Draco got to his feet. As he did so, his robes brushed against something. The clink of glass on stone drew his attention. Two vials lay at his feet, along with a scrap of paper. He bent and picked them up. The writing was unfamiliar, and very hard to read in the gloom.
Malfoy—you have been judged and found wanting. Others may forgive your crimes, but we do not. It is well known that you never kill directly, preferring to let others do that for you. Therefore, we will follow your example and even offer mercy, of a sort. We have left you two potions. The one with the black cap contains a strong poison. If you wish to atone for your crimes, you will drink it. We cannot promise you a painless death, but it will be quick, and your miserable existence will come to a swift end.
If you are weak and choose to live, you may drink of the vial with the white cap. In so doing you will live, but at the cost of your humanity and your precious pureblood status. You will become less than human, a creature reviled and feared, barely more than an animal. You might even have the means to escape your prison. Choose wisely.
Draco stared at the vials in horror. Both were death sentences, as far as he was concerned. The first would kill him painfully, but quickly. Draco nearly threw it to the stone floor. He had no intention of killing himself. He looked blankly at the other vial. Less than human. Reviled and feared. What the hell was it? Vampire blood?
Draco tucked the vials into a pocket of his robes. He experienced a moment of panic when they nearly slipped out of his numbing fingers in the process. He steadied his nerves as they dropped into a pocket. Even horrible options were better than none at all.
He clapped his hands under his arms and stomped his booted feet. A few snowflakes drifted down from the opening. Shit, that was just what he needed, even more cold. He marched in place again and felt pain shoot through his toes at the jolt of circulation. He walked the circuit of his small prison and looked for any possible escape. There was none. He realized he was in no mere pit, but a well, which explained the stone. He supposed he was lucky not to be standing in water.
The walls were smooth stone with mortared gaps too small for even fingertips to grasp. The exit was so high overhead that he would have been hard-pressed to escape even with a rope. Without his wand, he was helpless. And freezing.
Draco sat down and huddled against the wall, trying to warm himself as much as possible. The circle of light above grew steadily darker and the snowflakes increased in number. He wished heartily for the warm cloak, hat, and gloves he had been wearing when he was taken, but he supposed the items would only prolong his suffering.
He was unsure how long he held out. He tried running in place and waving his arms, but the exercise only warmed him for moments and left him colder than ever when the icy air whistled into his lungs. He shouted with rage for a long time, vowing revenge on his kidnappers and cursing them with every vile fate imaginable. He half-hoped his shouts would draw attention from above, but no face appeared to view his torment.
He finally slumped against the wall in defeat. Lethargy closed in on him like a shroud and he knew it was induced by the cold. Soon he would want nothing more than to lie down and succumb to it. He refused to allow that. No Malfoy would lie down and die willingly. Even suicide would be a better option.
Draco dug in his pocket for the vials. He held them carefully, as he could no longer feel his fingertips. He looked at the glass containers in sardonic amusement. He was lucky they had chosen monochromatic caps. Colours would have been impossible to discern in the thick darkness that surrounded him. As it was, it took several minutes of blinking at them through ice-encrusted lashes to determine the faint paleness of one cap that distinguished it from the other.
Inhuman or dead. It was a harder choice than Draco would have imagined, especially with the cold crushing down on him and promising to draw him into peaceful oblivion. In the end, it was the promise of revenge that decided him. Inhuman was still alive, and alive meant vengeance.
It was nearly a moot choice. His frozen fingers could not pry the cork cap from the vial. He tugged at it and half-sobbed in desperation before finally thinking to use his teeth. Even then, he had to try repeatedly as the vial kept slipping through his hands. Finally, the stubborn cap loosened and popped off. Draco's teeth chattered so badly he wondered how he would drink it. He forced himself to relax and held the vial in both hands, tipping his head back and dumping the contents into his mouth.
It took all of his willpower to swallow and keep the potion down. The taste was beyond vile and the texture was thick, oily, and evoked images of vomit or coagulated blood.
When the contents hit his stomach, Draco forgot inconsequential things like taste and texture. He screamed aloud as pain exploded through him, starting in his gut and roaring through every nerve ending. The agony went on and on until he felt certain his unknown assailants had lied and both vials had been filled with the worst poison imaginable.
And then the pain changed. It did not diminish, oh no, but altered in intensity. Where Draco had previously been cold, he now felt dipped in flame. He tried to look at his hands, certain they were on fire, or melting, but more than the surrounding darkness blinded him. The pain seemed to centre in his back, over his shoulder blades. He felt his flesh literally ripping apart and he screamed again. It was too much, and Draco gratefully succumbed to blackness.
His first awareness was that he was not cold. His second was that he was still bloody uncomfortable, in spite of that. Draco opened his eyes to dim light and blank stone. He sat up gingerly and noted with relief that he was at least partially human. He could see his hands and they looked perfectly normal. He did a quick mental check and thought he felt okay. There was a heaviness pressing on his shoulders, but everything seemed to be intact. He stood up carefully and nearly overbalanced; he caught himself against the wall, still cataloguing. He remained in the fucking well, which was no surprise. His feet were normal. Legs were normal. Draco gripped his crotch. That was normal, thank Merlin.
Draco heaved a sigh of relief and noted the huge cloud of fog left by his breath. The floor was dusted with a thick layer of snow, but Draco was not cold. He flexed his fingers and found no stiffness, no chill, and no hint of frost damage.
What the hell am I, then? Vampire, after all? Werewolf? Either would be unpleasant, but not unbearable.
And then Draco flexed muscles he had not previously owned and caught a glimpse of feathers over his shoulder. He spun quickly, thinking himself no longer alone, but he lost his balance again. He fell to the floor and landed on something that gave him a most abnormal twinge of pain. Draco fell on his own wing.
He stared at the edge of it protruding from beneath his leg and gripped the feathers in disbelief. Feathers. He reached over his shoulder and a sickening sensation caused his stomach to lurch.
Wings.
He had wings.
The sheer unreality of it caught him by surprise and he laughed crazily. Wings. I am a winged Malfoy. The thought destroyed his brief flash of amusement. He was a Malfoy no more. He was not even human. He was a freak. Draco's knees nearly buckled at the thought and his wings flexed instinctively to maintain his balance. The movement dislodged the remains of his robes—they had obviously been shredded when his wings had emerged. Draco tore off the material and nearly threw it aside before recalling the last vial. He retrieved it and placed it in a pocket of his trousers, thinking he might yet need it. As an afterthought, he picked up the empty vial, capped it, and kept it as well.
He looked at the circle of light above. It was still lead-coloured and a few random snowflakes drifted down. Those could no longer hurt him, at least. He was not cold in the slightest.
Draco flexed his wings and set about learning how to fly.
Chapter One
Thou art an eagle,
thou doest belong to the sky and not to the earth,
stretch forth thy wings and fly
-Paul H Dunn
Harry Apparated to the gates of Malfoy Manor and was immediately reminded of things best forgotten. The last time he'd been here, he had been a prisoner of Death Eaters. Sometimes he woke up in a cold sweat at the memory, except that in his dreams Malfoy did not dissemble and pretend not to know him; instead the blond would point at Harry imperiously and cry, "It's Harry Potter!" And then Voldemort would appear with a loud crack and his clawed hands would reach for Harry, jolting him out of the dream with a scream on his lips.
He scowled and shook off the memory. He had not had that dream in a long time… well, a few weeks anyway. It would most likely return tonight after being stirred up by a visit to Malfoy Manor. Harry sighed.
The iron gates swung open and Harry started up the path. The white peacocks were still in evidence and several flared their tails at him in warning. They were pretty birds, but territorial and vicious… rather like the Malfoys, he realized.
A house-elf met him at the front door and escorted him to an opulent room, all the while watching him intently, as if waiting for him to snatch some priceless artefact and tuck it into his robes. Harry idly wondered what the creature would do in such a circumstance. Probably turn Harry into a pile of ash.
Narcissa Malfoy did not make him wait long, thankfully. Harry was afraid to sit down. The upholstery looked like silk and it was white, of all fucking things, which seemed like an extremely inadvisable colour for furniture if one intended to use it at all.
"Please sit down, Auror Potter," she said gracefully. "Thank you for coming."
Harry reluctantly parked himself on a white-clad chair, hoping his robes were not dusty enough to mar the silk—his field robes were not exactly immaculate. He had donned a decent green turtleneck, at least, one that Ginny had said looked nice on him. Narcissa took a seat across from him. The room was so huge that "across from him" was a span of at least ten paces. He leaned forward slightly so that she could hear him.
"It's my job, Mrs Malfoy, and please call me Harry. Regardless of my personal feelings toward your son, a serious crime has been committed. Your letter only stated that he was kidnapped and barely escaped with his life. You also mentioned that Malfoy… sorry, that Draco paid a terrible price for refusing to die. Can you be more specific?"
"I should probably let my son give you the details. Some of it will be obvious when you see him." Unguarded pain flashed across her fine features for a moment and Harry wondered at the cause. Was Malfoy—fuck, he would have to start thinking of him as Draco, at least here at the Manor. He wondered if Draco had been disfigured. Harry felt a flare of satisfaction at the thought of Mr Perfect Skin and Hair being marred, and then guiltily shoved the idea aside as vindictive and unprofessional.
Narcissa's grief was very real and she stared at him without speaking for long moments, until Harry realized she was refusing to blink in an effort to stave off tears. He felt genuine guilt then and knew it must be quite serious to provoke such a reaction in front of Harry.
"I should warn you, Auror Potter, that my son is not quite… human… any longer." A tear did fall then, tricking down her pale cheek and slipping past gloss-pink lips. A house-elf popped up next to her with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. She took it absently and dabbed the wetness away. The elf disappeared.
"I'm sorry," they both said in unison. Harry flushed slightly and Narcissa's lips twisted in an almost-smile.
"Draco was very reluctant to involve the Ministry. It took me a week to convince him. He wants nothing more than to hunt down his assailants and destroy them. Luckily, he has little information to go on, and he cannot leave the Manor to question people. His forced confinement has been almost a blessing in that regard. I don't want him in any more danger." Her pale eyes flashed. "Despite what he has become, I still love Draco and I want to keep him safe." She got to her feet and something fierce in her gaze made her almost terrible to behold. "However, I want the bastards responsible to pay and pay dearly. I want them maimed and then eviscerated for what they have done. My son was no saint during the war, but he did not deserve that!"
Harry had pressed back into his seat. He knew someone had made an extraordinary mistake to get on the bad side of this woman. She had betrayed Voldemort to protect her son. No mere mortal stood a chance against her. She sighed heavily.
"I'll take you to him now. Please excuse his foul temper."
Harry did not bother to mention that Draco always had a foul temper around him, so that should not be much of a change.
Narcissa tapped gently on the door before opening it to admit Harry. He entered and noted that the room was nearly pitch dark. The door shut behind him and he took a couple of cautious steps forward before halting, not wanting to run into any furniture. No doubt Draco would find that amusing.
"Malfoy?" he asked uncertainly, wishing he had asked what sort of "not quite human" Draco had become. Vampire? Werewolf? Veela?
"Potter," came the dry response. The voice was the same, at any rate.
"I came to… um… help you," Harry said. A sardonic snort met his words and Harry fought down his annoyance.
"A bit late for that, Potter. Where were you ten days ago when I could have used your assistance?" The words were sarcastic, but they carried an edge of despair that gave Harry pause. Shit, what could have been so bad it caused Malfoy to long for his help?
"Can I see you?" he asked quietly, peering into the dark in the direction of Malfoy's voice. There was a long pause and he sensed Malfoy's reluctance. Harry's curiosity was piqued. How bad could it be? Was he some sort of monster?
"All right," came the eventual response.
Harry braced himself as the lights suddenly flared in the room. He blinked for a moment against the brightness and nearly gasped aloud, despite himself, when his returning vision located the blond.
Harry suddenly found it hard to breathe. He had never really appreciated that Malfoy was attractive. The blond had always seemed pale and thin, and somewhat pointy with too many angles and edges. Of course, it had been five years since Harry had seen him. They weren't seventeen any more. Adulthood suited Malfoy, as did the wings he now sported.
Harry took several steps forward, trying not to stare while slowly cataloguing the changes—besides the wings, of course; those were obvious. The hair, for one, was longer, softer, and fell partially over the grey eyes. Malfoy's face had changed slightly, filling out the points and angles to leave only chiselled beauty. Malfoy wore no shirt and although he was lean, he could no longer be described as thin. He was tall, also. He seemed a bit taller than Harry, though not by much.
The wings… god, the wings were amazing. Large masses of snow-white feathers seemed to highlight Malfoy's pale skin and hair.
Harry tried to speak, but only one idiotic word emerged. "Wow."
Draco stared at the Auror. He had expected amusement, satisfaction, or even revulsion. He had not anticipated Potter's expression of near-reverence and a single utterance tinged with something that sounded like admiration.
Potter walked forward and his green eyes seemed to touch Draco everywhere, not even focusing on the wings beyond the initial surprise and a quick sweep.
"Is that the only change?" Potter asked quietly.
Draco stared, and then welcomed the anger. "Is it not enough for you? Would you prefer scars, claws, and a tail, as well?"
"Certainly not," Potter quipped lightly. "I'm not fond of scars, and your claws are vicious enough as the verbal sort. What type of tail were you considering?"
Draco glared. "I'm in no mood for jokes, Potter," he snapped. Astonishingly, the Auror looked contrite.
"I'm sorry. I'm just trying to put you more at ease. Can you tell me what caused this? Your mother gave me no details—she thought it would be best if I heard it from you."
The tone was calming and businesslike. Auror-speak, Draco assumed. He nearly sighed in relief. Potter's no-nonsense Auror voice was much preferred over the tones of awe or teasing.
"It was a potion," Draco admitted in a dull tone.
"All right. Let's say we start at the beginning. That way, I won't have to keep asking you questions. Where were you and what were you doing at the time you were taken?"
"I was in Diagon Alley. Alone."
Potter pulled out his wand and conjured a scroll and a Quick-Quotes Quill. It scribbled words quickly as Potter asked questions.
"What were you wearing?"
"A pink ball gown," Draco snarled. "What the hell difference does it make?"
"Standard questions," Potter said and shrugged. "I need to know what you wore, carried, held, dropped, etcetera."
Draco sighed and bit back an apology. He needed to remember that Potter was here in an official capacity. He wasn't here to make Draco feel foolish—that part just seemed to come naturally. "Fine. I wore a black nundu-fur cloak trimmed in silver fox. Fur-lined black leather gloves. A nundu-fur hat. Forest green robes, a white cashmere jumper, and black trousers. Socks. Boots. I carried my wand and a parcel containing almond fudge."
"Excellent. You were coming from and going to…?"
"I had just left Fortescue's and was heading toward the Apothecary."
"And?"
"When I approached the alley entrance beyond Madam Malkin's an Immobilizing Spell hit me. Someone grabbed my arms—one person on each side, actually—and dragged me into the alley."
"Can you describe them at all?"
Draco shook his head. "Not really. I only caught a glimpse, as I could not turn my head. One was large, taller than me by half a head. Most likely male, and strong." Draco was surprised at the details he could recall when he thought about the incident in a more clinical light. Perhaps Potter really did know what he was doing. "He made quick work of hauling me into the alley. The other was shorter, and slight. It could have been a woman or a young man."
"Did you notice anything else about them? Try to think back and consider all five senses. You've described their physical appearances; now go one step further. Do you remember any distinctive smells? Perfume or cologne?"
Draco considered, trying to recall. Had there been a feminine perfume?
"I think the smaller one might have been female. She may have worn a scent, but at this point I might be making it up to fit into my assumptions."
Potter's green eyes seemed to measure him and he nodded. "Fair enough. We'll note it as a possibility. Did they speak or use anything that made a sound?"
"The smaller one spoke both times. First the spell to Immobilize me, and next the spell to put me down. You know, I'm almost positive it was a woman now, even though the voice was quiet and possibly disguised."
Potter nodded and then offered, "You might recall more details with a Pensieve. I'll bring one, if you don't mind meeting with me again. It won't disclose any details you don't recall, such as faces, but it may enhance things you do remember, if only minutely."
Draco hesitated, unwilling to agree to yet another meeting with his boyhood nemesis, but what had he expected? Did he think one interview with Potter would allow the Auror to rush off and apprehend the culprits? Draco was assaulted by momentary despair. This was probably a complete waste of time and Potter was most likely humouring him.
Draco shrugged noncommittally in response to Potter's question. The green eyes watched him intently.
"Nearly finished," Potter said. "Any textures in particular? Type of cloth? If you did not see their wands, did you feel them? Could you tell if they were rigid or springy, short or long? That sort of thing."
Draco snorted. "Well, their tacky hooded robes were definitely not high quality. I believe they were cheap substandard wool."
"How could you tell?"
"By looking at them, of course. The way fabric falls is very distinctive, you know. Quality is always evident at first glance."
Potter actually laughed. "Do you have any idea how poncy that sounds?"
Draco glared and tried to ignore the comment. He should have known the insults would start eventually, even though they came from an unexpected quarter.
"I have fucking wings, Potter. Somehow I don't think my sexual orientation makes much difference any longer."
Potter's speculative gaze swept over Draco once more and an enigmatic smile curved the Auror's lips. Draco wondered when the hell Harry bloody Potter had become intriguing. Draco wanted to stalk forward and shake him while demanding to know what that damned smile meant. In that, he supposed nothing much had changed. Draco had always wanted to put violent hands on Harry Potter.
"Cheap robes," Potter said blandly. "All right, the last question about the actual kidnapping, although you've partially answered it… Intuition, impressions, feelings. You said you believe one was female and one male. Anything else? Any speculation as to their identities or why they sought you in particular?"
Draco walked to the nearby desk and managed to do so without overbalancing or stumbling. He was still not used to the unfamiliar weight and balance of the wings. He took up a parchment and handed it to Potter. The Auror moved closer to take it.
"Only one impression, I suppose. Judging by their hands on me, I think both of them hate me quite violently. I have no doubt that I was specifically targeted. As to why, well here is the list."
Potter's eyes skimmed the page. Draco had written two neat columns by gender of all potential grudge holders against Draco. The reasons had been jotted alongside. He expected a snide comment or at least a smirk at the quantity of names, but Potter merely folded it and tucked it into a robe pocket.
"Thanks. This will give me a start. I'll begin checking alibis, if nothing else. Now do you know where you were taken after your capture?"
Draco described the well and what he could remember of its location. It had taken him what seemed forever to get his bearings and find his way home.
"Could you find it again?" Harry asked.
Draco shrugged and nodded, though he was not completely sure.
"Will you take me there?"
"Certainly, Potter. Hop on and I'll fly you straight there like a sugar plum fairy." Potter said nothing and Draco sneered. "Rid me of these damned wings and I'll guide you there by broom. Until then, I have no intention of leaving this house."
Potter let it slide. "I'll try to locate it based on your directions. I doubt it will be anything simple, such as conveniently located on the property of your abductors. However, we could get lucky. Tell me what happened when you woke up in captivity."
Draco described the scenario in tones as flat and emotionless as possible, giving little clue as to his emotional state at the time. Even so, Potter looked horrified. Draco handed over the note and the empty vial. Potter took it carefully and dropped it into a dark sack before tucking the entirety into another pocket.
"You said there were two vials."
"I left the poison behind," Draco lied. He had no intention of handing over the other vial. He might have need of it.
"So, you took the potion and woke up… like this."
Draco nodded.
"May I examine your wings?" Potter asked and blushed profusely before tugging at his hair. Draco would have been amused by Potter's reaction if the very idea of the Auror touching his wings was not so alarming.
"I'm not a sideshow or an—" Animal, he nearly finished, until he realized he was more animal than human now.
"I know that. I just need to get the facts straight for my report, and to do that I need to know how they are… attached."
Draco wanted to argue, but not as much as he wanted the damned annoying Auror to go away.
"If it will hasten your departure, then yes," Draco snarled and flexed his wings with a snap. The movement nearly startled him—it had been involuntary.
"I'll make it quick and then I'll be gone," Potter promised. He moved around to Draco's side and reached out to run a hand over the soft white feathers near Draco's shoulder. The sensation was almost excruciatingly sensitive. It was irritating as hell that every fucking feather seemed to carry a mass of nerve endings that sent almost electric vibrations through Draco at every touch. It did not help that Potter's expression reverted back to that bizarre reverence.
"Oh," Potter said softly. The utterance caused a strange, unwelcome feeling to sift through Draco's insides, as though something had transferred from Potter to Draco and taken up residence through a single word.
Potter touched Draco's skin at the point where the wing connected to his back through whatever new bones had grown there. His senses swam for a moment and Draco hissed in reaction. Potter jerked his hand away.
"Sorry. Is my hand cold?"
Draco moved aside quickly, vowing not to allow that to happen again any time soon.
Harry let his hand drop with reluctance as Malfoy moved away. His fingers seemed to burn from the warmth of Malfoy's skin. God, those feathers. They were soft as eiderdown. Harry wanted to stroke the length of them and rub his face over the soft whiteness.
Get a grip, Harry, he ordered himself. No matter how pretty and soft they are, they are still attached to Malfoy, which equates to evil incarnate. He studied Malfoy's profile and felt a twinge of pity at the blond's downcast expression. Well, perhaps not evil any longer. The people who had taken him and turned him into (an angel) whatever he was now were evil. Harry suddenly knew he would hunt them down, no matter what it took.
"All right, Malfoy," he said. "I think that gives me enough information. I'll be back tomorrow with the Pensieve, if that's all right."
Indecision crossed the blond's features and his perfect teeth worried his perfect lower lip. Harry decided it would be a good idea to stop applying the word perfect to Malfoy, because he was beginning to think of the git in complementary terms. Better to stick with adjectives like annoying and obnoxious.
Nonetheless, he could not control his relief when Malfoy nodded curtly. He told himself it was simply that he felt sorry for the prat, trapped here in this stuffy mansion, afraid to show his (perfect) face and (perfect) wings to the rest of the world. It certainly did not mean he wanted to see Malfoy again.
Harry gathered his parchment and banished the Quick Quotes Quill before heading for the door. Harry paused with his hand on the knob and looked back at the pale figure.
"It's probably not much consolation, especially coming from me, but they actually suit you. You look…" The word beautiful lodged in Harry's throat and he turned the handle and fled, wondering when the hell he had developed a fetish for feathers.
Chapter Two
Fly, dotard, fly!
With thy wise dreams and fables of the sky.
-Alexander Pope
Draco scowled after the Auror. I look what? Foolish? Idiotic? A laughingstock? He wanted to shout at Potter in frustration. The Auror had not looked amused, however. His expression had been more akin to a child opening packages at Christmas.
He stalked over and stood before the full-length mirror. Draco studied himself, trying to see through Potter's eyes. What the hell had Potter seen? Draco's skin was still pale, his hair was still silver-blond, and his lips still curved in a perpetual sneer. The massive gobs of fucking feathers were the only outward change. He recalled Potter's soft, "Oh," and the strange look on his face. Draco turned away from the mirror in disgust.
Fuck, what of it? The Gryffindor had always been odd, befriending giants and centaurs and Weasleys. He probably saw Draco as just another pitiable creature that needed saving. Regardless of what Potter saw or did not see, Draco was an outcast. His only motive now was revenge. He only needed Potter to point him in the right direction.
A tentative knock sounded at the door and Draco felt an unwelcome surge of hope that Potter had returned and immediately strangled it to death with a grimace. Was he really that desperate for companionship?
His mother opened the door and took a hesitant step inside.
"Draco?" she asked...
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