The Pureblood Wolf

Author: purplerawr

Rating: T (warnings: angsty boys, violence, HP/DM slash or male/male romance)

Summary: As punishment for his father's mistakes, Draco is bitten by Fenrir Greyback. Narcissa asks Severus to take him somewhere safe and he can only think of one place... where Harry Potter will be spending most of his summer.

Notes: This story is most likely not the first of its kind (for the idea of Draco being a werewolf is a very awesome one) but I'm enjoying writing it and hope that it has its own little originalities in plot and the style of writing. Also, it is not compliant to the canon plot Half Blood Prince onwards.

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, places and ideas belong to the fabulous J.K. Rowling though, if I could, I would beg the ownership of Ron off of her.


There are so many things wrong with this situation, Draco reflected with a smothering, morose acceptance to something he could not stop, so many things that should be different. He should have been standing in one of the upper rooms of the Manor in triumph, baring his arm for his skulled seal of pure-blood glory, not blindfolded with knees forced onto the cold floor of a dusty dungeon cell. He should have been receiving the honorary treatment that his father had always so proudly spoke of, light shining in his pale eyes, eyes that were now forever dulled in the dark confines of Azkaban.

His comrades should have been watching him walk towards their Lord, admiration towards the youngest ever Death Eater clear - even behind their masks. Instead they were far away from him, most likely laughing and mocking his untimely downfall. Except for his mother, who should have been smiling, not sobbing in her private quarters.

A dirty finger caressing his jaw cut off his trail of fevered thoughts. A gruesome hiss of approving breath, thick with desire, closely followed it and settled on his face, making him grimace in practiced distaste. Soon his features slackened back to blank; his reactions no longer mattered, he reminded himself.

"Perhaps I should have been made a vampire, the bloodlust feels so strong." The words fell past his ears and dropped to the filthy ground, where they belonged. The finger, ending in a nail that Draco knew to be yellow and gnarled, traced a line along his jugular, feeling the rapid pulse that raced under his cold skin. "It's been too long since I've had a bite - my Lord has been trusting me to keep a low profile. Your infection is the prize for that loyalty."

Draco could not help the ugly flower of jealousy that bloomed in his gut; the disgusting wolf could be a servant of the Lord, yet he, a beautiful pureblood, had been deemed unsuitable for the privilege. He was being denied his purity, his status, his life, yet this filthy beast was permitted to call him Lord. The bitterness rankled.

"Yet I'll make this bite slow, to remember the feel of your skin in my teeth... so delicate..." Greyback's voice lowered in what sounded like lust and he pressed his lips onto Draco's collarbone. So the wolf lusts for things other than blood, Draco confirmed in grim anticipation, yet nothing followed this sporadic gesture that almost seemed tender. Clearly the bite was the most important thing, which Draco was thankful for in a way. He could only suffer so much humiliation, he did not need more.

The bite was slow, the lips against Draco's vulnerable skin opening and fangs dragging across him with a dagger's sharp precision. They sank down like knives into a piece of meat, Draco barely suppressing the scream of pain that ripped through him. He would keep some dignity, even if only in the presence of a disgusting werewolf, for he was a Malfoy. Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy-

Then the poison, which would ruin his name and inheritance, suddenly hit and he did scream this time, his mind having turned feral with the sheer torture of its searing, toxic magic streaming through his system. This was his punishment, for his father's mistakes, and he would have to take it. Yet he could only take it like the afraid, fifteen year old boy that he was, screams and cries ripping through his throat in their unstoppable wretchedness.

Just when he thought his head would snap clean off his neck, the fangs were removed and the cold air readily attacked the gaping wound that was left in the wolf's wake. Draco fell to the floor, his chest wracking with sobs that would not come to their full fruition because it was simply too much effort. He would have been happy to die there and then, no longer having to feel the pain and humiliation, but the vengeful Dark Lord would not have been happy with that. Death would have been the easy way out.

As instructed, the two minor Death Eaters who had been waiting at the doorway, surveying the whole process with gruesome interest, charged in and immediately began healing him slowly with their limited knowledge of preventing werewolf made wounds from killing the victim. Fenrir watched over them with a bloody, leering grin, as if his mouth was a freshly slit blade wound, as large, curved and ugly as the one spreading across Draco's collarbone and shoulder, and something not altogether human.

"That was delectable," he spoke, his voice low and hoarse, "but it only leaves me wanting another bite..." He forced himself to look away from his two comrades, as inexperienced and vulnerable looking as they were. They were on his side, no matter how much the wolf in him, that controlled most of him, wanted to maim and murder them. His master would not be happy if he killed them and he lived to please his master's commands first, his lust for blood second.

He left, the sight and smell of the boy's freshly spilt blood and his groans of anguish making him feel dizzy with need, to report back to his master, who would be pleased that he had completed the task. Draco Malfoy, purest of the purebloods, was now a dirty-blooded werewolf like Greyback himself. There's no going back for him, Fenrir thought to himself with a malicious satisfaction, he may as well be dead, though the master wouldn't let me finish him off. All that blood left to spill, such a pity...

Back in the dungeon cell the two Death Eaters had finished healing him with their rudimentary skills, only having done enough to save his life but not lessen any of the sharp pain that was still coursing through him. The air was thick with his humiliation and stank with his shame and that must have been what made the two cloaked figures leave, disgusted by the pitiful sight of a powerful Malfoy curled up on the floor, cradling himself in his arms and now openly wailing, the sound having found its way out of the mouth that had stayed firmly shut for so many years.

So many, many things felt wrong with what had happened to him yet the sense of injustice was not powerful enough to rear up and fill his heart, for it concentrated solely on beating the blood around him and struggling to keep him alive, ignoring the deadness that pervaded his mind as his body so rudely tried to carry on without his permission.

He did not want to carry on, not now. Not ever, as long as the dirty blood of the wolf journeyed through him and ruined him.