Azkaban
Azkaban.
Cold. Wind. Shivering.
Hard. Stone. Rough.
Pain. Sorrow. Regret.
A few of the vocabulary words that Azkaban forces upon you, smothering you until your oxygen feels as scarce as your hope, until you feel closer to death than to life. There are no distractions. All you have are your memories, if you’re lucky. Every wrong movement, every twitched error, every miscast glance could be the death of another precious memory, one of the few you can recall in this darkest, dankest pit of hell.
To test this would be inconceivably foolish. A worse-than-death wish.
The wind howled, battering the mounds of dense magical rock that comprised the infamous wizard prison. Its whistles magnified to screams in the convicts’ eardrums as it was sliced apart on every solid surface, waking all from their infrequent slumbers. The waves thrashed beneath, pounding against the lower levels with force that could uproot age-old trees. However terrifying the soundscape, the structure didn’t even quiver. There was more than just stone blocks and mortar keeping this building upright; a chilling air of magic that could scratch even the most vicious, deranged wizard to the bone.
On one of the hundreds of levels, amongst the labyrinth of dark passageways, in one of the thousands of cells, a young man – in most ways, he was still just a boy – stirred with a hopeless groan. He hadn’t really been asleep. Try as he might, his body could not willfully remain unconscious for weeks or months at a time. His white-blonde hair, no longer greasy as it had been a few weeks ago but dry and brittle, was a matted mess, sweat-drenched clumps falling into his grey eyes; once piercing and bright, now dull and ebbed with nothingness. He was skin and bones; any muscle that he’d once had had been lost from lack of nutrition and the energy put into despair. His fragile body, not too far from skeletal, was shaking fiercely now as it had adapted to the miserable conditions, unchanging as time went by.
Time was meaningless in this place. He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d been unceremoniously thrown in here. One week, fifty-two weeks, there was no way to tell. The temperature remained at a constant low; presumably due to the Dementors patrolling the complex. Night was day and day was night; with the exception of occasionally being dragged out to the courtyard, the strictly indoor cells never let in any sunlight, never gave any clue as to what hour it was. When he had first been brought here, he’d wondered if that was magic or whether the messed up architect had specifically designed the building this way. He was far beyond caring now.
He sat up slowly, every limb aching as he unfolded them from the awkward positions he’d tried to fall asleep in. The dull aches were nothing, though. He’d endured so much worse. Cautiously, he shifted himself into a more upright position, slumped against the cold stone wall, a rough part of the rock digging into his back uncomfortably. The hoarse rags, so far below the high standards he used to take for granted, looked worn. They were dirty, covered in grime, and due to his weight loss his frame looked even tinier drowning in them. At first he’d compared he dreadful article of clothing to a hessian potato sack. Now they were merely another layer of skin, desperately snatching at any non-existent warmth.
He sucked in a breath, and immediately started coughing as the air hit his delicate windpipe harsher than he’d intended. His eyes watered, the tears warm for but a second as they spilled from his light lashes before turning as icy as the gust of wind that ran through the iron bars to torture his taut white skin. He spluttered a retched a little to regain control of his breathing, and immediately after he wondered why he didn’t try to choke instead. He screwed his eyes tight shut for a moment, before slowly releasing the little pressure that was too draining for him. He dragged his legs up and planted his feet on the floor, resting his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands, wincing as his bony elbows came in contact painfully with his kneecap.
And for the millionth time Draco Malfoy wondered, how did it get this way?
An echoing clunk of a sound, closer than the distant screams of other inmates being driven insane, brought his thoughts to a halt. His head snapped up from its drooping, wilted stance and he began crawling over to the front corner of his cell. He slammed his back against the stone wall as he collapsed into place, pressing himself up against the iron lattice that comprised the gate to his cell. Slowly, he licked his dry, peeling lips and croaked out a whisper.
“Are you sure it’s safe?”
He waited, his face unintentionally molded into a manic expression, unsure of whether she had heard him. At the sound of her voice, low but not a whisper, he released the breath he hadn’t meant to hold.
“Yeah. They’ve just left.”
Trusting her could be the greatest mistake he’d ever made, but she hadn’t let him down yet. She had a better view through the iron bars than he did, and she could see when the human guards were coming and going. She determined when they could speak, without completely throwing themselves to the looming threat of the Dementor’s kiss.
“So what’s new?” he asked, his voice little more than a whisper just to be sure she could hear him through the thick rock wall separating them.
“They’ve finally taken the pianist away,” she answered him. “Saw them dragging him out, although whether it was to Mungo’s or to his death I have no idea.”
Draco flinched at the thought, at the way she fought to keep her voice from trembling.
“So that means that we’re…”
“Yes,” she cut him off. “We’re the only ones remaining in this corridor.”
He shuddered violently, trying to suppress horrid thoughts from invading his mind. Alas, he couldn’t use occlumency against himself. What had happened to the other inhabitants of the thirty-third corridor, floor one hundred and fifty-six? He had no connections to the outside world. He didn’t know who was in control, or who was winning. In his position, he’d probably remain in Azkaban no matter what happened. He hadn’t made good choices when he’d had the freedom to make them.
He knew the horrors that this place held. He knew the torture other inmates endured, their screams often reaching his ears. So many inhumane, medieval methods of persecution. That alone made him sure he still knew who had the upper-hand in the war, or a least who was still in control of the Ministry. If the right people were in control, they wouldn’t inflict that upon anyone. The image of Draco’s old school headmaster flashed through his mind, gone as quickly as the pages of a book in the wind. He gulped down the bile that rose into his throat, trying desperately to rid his psyche of the twinkling blue eyes and rivers of silver-white hair. He didn’t bother to restrain his tears; it certainly wasn’t the greatest sign of weakness these wicked walls had seen. It was his fault…
He doubted many of the prisoners that had left this corridor had been freed. Not many people were ever freed from Azkaban. If they didn’t waste away from lack of food and sunlight, they were usually driven insane from imprisonment. The pianist was called thus because he sometimes hummed musical tunes through he darkness, sticking his emaciated wrists through the iron bars and moving his fingers as if playing an organ or a piano. It had only been a matter of time before he was… removed. They could only hope that he’d been branded criminally insane over a lost cause.
“I’ll miss him,” Draco said softly. “His humming helped.”
“It did,” she agreed, sadness tingeing her tone. “It’s going to get worse now.”
She didn’t need to speak aloud the implications of her words; Draco understood them perfectly. He hadn’t thought that being trapped here could get any worse, but it could. How much longer would their situation stay this way? How much longer would they be able to communicate, so clandestine, without being moved to different cells and without discovery from the guards? How long would it be until one of them was released, or tortured, or killed? Everything was so unpredictable, and even if they could tell the time they wouldn’t know how much they had left.
He cleared his throat, after a few moments, and spoke again. There was no need to reference what they’d both just been thinking.
“So how’ve you been?”
She gave a tired, bitter laugh.
“How do you think?”
“Sorry. Stupid question.”
If there was anything to be said for this godforsaken place, at least it had humbled him. His ears strained to hear her light sigh; a pretty sound that he could imagine spilling from plump red lips.
“It’s okay. It just reminds me of this wretched predicament.”
Her words induced an ache in his chest, and his practiced hand gently weaved its way through the iron, falling on the gritty ground beyond his cell. Moments later, he watched in undying fascination as her thin wrist and hand became visible, reaching his and interlocking their pale fingers. He could see her veins, blue through her near-translucent skin. He was sure it had once been creamy and beautiful. Her nails were yellow, and had grown quite long over her time in captivity. The blonde hairs on her arm stood straight, as though she could never forgo suspicion, never let go of her unease, constantly tense. It was the only part of her he’d ever seen, and made every effort to remember every tiny detail that could possibly distinguish her from all the other inmates. Unfortunately, not one of these features was quite remarkable enough.
No more words were shared between the two. With their faces pressed closely to the metal, probably imprinting the square patterns on their hollowing cheeks, and their hands touching, the hairs on her arm began to fall flat as they both fell slowly into sleep.
***
Draco gnawed at his lip, blinking away the white blind spots the unfamiliar light had forced upon his cornea. Looking above him, grey clouds rippled to cover the sky, miserably overcast. Still, no matter how dull a day, the brightness compared to his dungeon-like cell came as a shock; it was one of the outside world’s treasures that he’d been unable to hold on to. As it was, he was almost certain that the sky he saw now wasn’t really there, but rather a bewitchment not unlike the one on the roof of the Great Hall at Hogwarts.
The courtyard was small compared to the prisoners being allowed access to it, and there was certainly still an irrepressible sense of gloom hanging from the continual clouds. The steel and iron lattice that caged every cell also closed in this area, and a singular Dementor guarded the only gate, seeming unmoving beneath its rotting grey cloak. Dead weeds and tufts of grass had once forced themselves through the cracks between the grey cobblestones, now lying in crusty brown heaps at regular intervals scattered over the ground. There were a few concrete benches throughout the courtyard, but the vicious gothic carvings and designs were far from inviting.
Draco’s face was scrunched up into an almost unrecognizable expression, and he wasn’t even aware of it. How long had it been since his last little excursion here? How long had it been since he’d seen his parents? How much had he changed?
It didn’t take him long to locate them. They were sitting together in silence, perched on one of the evil-looking benches. Both were staring in different directions, as though looking beyond the hell-hole they were trapped in and picturing a far off place, in a far off time. It still tore at him to see them here, like this. They didn’t look right. Their rich fabrics exchanged for rags, their haughty expressions exchanged for hopelessness. The prized blonde locks that used to draw envious stares were now thinned and dead, and their terrifyingly beautiful faces were drained and aged. They were hardly recognizable as his family. To look at what had become of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy was too painful a task.
He began to shift his way towards them, the cuffs and chains around his wrists and ankles taking much effort to control. They looked up as he approached, but neither made any change in expression. He felt like he was invisible, for they may as well have just been seeing the other side of the courtyard. Regardless, this thought could not discomfort him any more so than he already was, and he dragged himself over to sit upon the bench that they occupied.
The three sat in silence for however long a time before either of his parents made any acknowledgement, but he didn’t jump when he felt his mother’s hand draw up to rest upon his shoulder. He wanted to cry, but crying now wouldn’t be like all the times he’d cried in his cell. Lucius had never given in to tears – at least not in company – and Draco would be damned if he let his father catch him expressing such weakness. Then again, how he could be damned any worse then he already was seemed incomprehensible.
He used to think of it as a small, tiny blessing that he could still see his parents every once in a while. He used to think that at least they had it better than his Aunt Bellatrix, who was locked in a high security cell and never allowed to visit the courtyard. But now he wondered if maybe she had it better after all. He didn’t want to see his parents like this. He didn’t want his lifelong view of respect for them to crumble any more than it already had. He didn’t want to see how far they’d fallen.
He couldn’t bear to look at their faces, so instead he looked around the courtyard. He always did this. He’d inspect every woman he could, trying to figure out who she was. He knew they had the same courtyard times. But there were still at least fifteen choices here that he could match her up with, and the prospect of discovering who she was both thrilled and terrified him. Did she know who he was? She had probably seen his Dark Mark at some point, but a great deal of Death Eaters had been thrown aside in here amongst the flurry of one of the Dark Lord’s most infuriating rages. He was certainly not the only one to have a mark, but he would hazard a guess at the youngest. Would that be enough for her to deduce who he was? Did he want her to? He hated himself more than anything, and he was so ashamed of his past actions, actions that a great deal of the wizarding world was probably aware of. He knew she’d strayed from the good path too, she’d confessed to him many of her regrets, but he doubted that she’d ever been in as deep as him. What would she do if she found out? Would she hate him? He couldn’t stand the thought.
There were no extra clues as to who she might be. Her voice, although altered from lack of use, was still young. She couldn’t be far from his age, give or take a few years. She had white skin. That still left far too may people to be considered. She could be the trembling blonde girl in the corner, curls of light hair turning frizzy and green eyes wild as they darted around the courtyard, almost waiting for someone to approach her with the Cruciatus curse. Or she could be the Asian girl, backing away from the gate, surely once of stunning beauty, long glossy black hair falling to her waist like a curtain of silk to cover her crying face. She could be so many people. So many possibilities.
Draco had wondered, many a time, what would happen if he was finally released. If the resistance won, if the Dark Lord’s regime was put to an end. Would he be freed, or would they keep him in here as a convicted Death Eater? And what would happen to her? Her family, like his, had supported the anti-muggle movement, but they’d never known anything like the proximity to the Dark…. to Voldemort than his had. They’d never been so directly involved in his rise to power; they merely faced his wrath when deciding to turn the other way.
Would she be freed, and he remain here? Would she leave this godforsaken place and forget everything, forget him? He couldn’t blame her if she did. But would he do the same? If he was released and she stayed behind, what would he do? He didn’t want to say goodbye. She understood him like no one else ever did. Azkaban would forever be an enormous chunk of his life now, no matter what happened. And she had been an enormous part of Azkaban, the closest thing to a comfort anyone could get in this place.
He would never be able to forget her.
***
“Wake up! Wake up!”
The hurried, frantic whispers from the other side of the wall stirred him, and he quickly pressed his face to the mesh. Pressing curiosity grew inside him, for he had never heard her so lively.
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure. Something’s happening.”
They stilled, and he could hear it too. There were pompous roars of defiance, and many yells that couldn’t quite be distinguished. Something odd was definitely happening within the institution. He grasped the vertical bars with his hands, not noticing how the horizontal ones dug into his flesh, and strained his eyes, as if willing them to see further out into the deserted corridor. There was nothing for them to do but wait.
They dared not speak, in fear of missing another sound. It can’t have been longer than fifteen minutes that they waited in silence, but then again he wasn’t in any position to be estimating time. Their anticipating stillness was disrupted by the giant thud of the doors being thrown open, whacking against the stone walls. He had but a moment to prepare when he heard her gasp, and then into his sight cantered a great four-legged creature. It glowed, exceptionally bright silver, hooves clonking against the stone floor and echoing in the emptiness as it galloped up the corridor before turning around and heading back. It seemed to slow just a little as it passed them, turning its magnificent head towards them as a brief sign of acknowledgement before exiting the way it had come, taking with it the incredible feeling of warmth and safety it had bestowed upon them for a few precious moments.
“T-that… I-it was…”
“A patronus,” he finished for her quietly.
He plunged headfirst into a sea of thoughts. He had an idea what could be happening… But it seemed like too great a possibility to comprehend. There was some sort of a battle occurring here, he was sure of it. But who would have come? Who would have challenged the authority of Azkaban? Who would have the power to wield so many Dementors, who were supposedly under Voldemort’s command?
Once upon a time, it would have been obvious. Albus Dumbledore was the only wizard to have ever held Voldemort’s respect, but this would not be him now. Draco himself had seen to it that Dumbledore would never be able to save him. That thought sent him into a frenzy of shivers; his greatest regret, his greatest mistake.
But if it wasn’t Dumbledore, then who was it? The next name to come to mind was also palpable. The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, whatever it was they were calling him now. Harry Potter was Draco’s childhood nemesis, and the one who he’d had to trust all his hope in. Regardless of whether the rumors were true, Draco believed that Potter was probably the only challenge left to match Voldemort. It still seemed somewhat laughable, that a mere child, just of age, could defeat the greatest Dark wizard of all time. But Draco had forfeited his skepticism when he’d joined their side of the war. The action that had landed him in here. The action that still, to this day, was the one that he didn’t regret.
“What do you think is going to happen?” she whispered, breaking through his stream of thoughts.
“I-I don’t know,” he answered, reaching through the bars to take hold of her hand. “I wish we knew what was going on out there right now.”
“And what about us? If we get out of here, will we ever see each other again?”
“Will we ever see each other at all, do you mean?”
She gave the closest she could get to a laugh.
“I’m not sure this is the time or place for dry humor, but I appreciate it nonetheless.”
He squeezed her hand.
“I… If you knew who I was, I don’t know if you’d ever want to see me.”
“I do know who you are. I’ve learnt for myself who you are. You’re the one thing that stopped me from going mad in this place. Your name means nothing to me.”
“You say that now…” he murmured.
“And I mean it,” she said with a fierce undertone that he’d never heard her speak with before. “I wouldn’t care if you were You-Know-Who himself. Because whatever past you have, you’ve changed. You’re not that person anymore. I know you, and I…” she hesitated for but a fragile moment, and spoke again with a soft delicacy that emanated truthful grace. “I love you.”
He felt like he’d been hit with a stunning spell, shoving disbelief aside to let her words wash over him. Somewhere in his chest, it felt as if there had been an explosion that was now spreading warmth through his body as if the patronus had returned. She loved him. Love. They’d never laid eyes on any part of each other, besides their hands, and she loved him. How long had they known each other? Months? Years? There was no way to tell. But she loved him.
And it made so much sense. The way he felt for her, it was unlike anything he’d ever thought possible. Someone who understood him, someone to talk to, someone that didn’t even care about his past or his mark or anything incriminating. His affection for her, his reliance upon her, it was all so strong he’d never allowed himself to fully acknowledge it. But the explosion in his chest seemed to draw him to her like a magnet, wanting more than anything to force himself through the wall between them. She was right. He didn’t care who she was, or why she was here. He didn’t care about whether she was the blonde from the corner of the courtyard or the intimidating, beautiful Asian or anywhere in between.
She loved him.
And he loved her.
And he didn’t know how this was possible, but he was never going to let this go. Because he’d never find anyone quite like her ever again. Never in the world would two people know what they knew, never would two people ever feel for each other what they felt now.
He must have dwelled too long in bliss, for he could feel her slowly pulling her hand from his. He quickly held on tightly.
“I love you too,” he said lowly, full of truth, wishing more than anything that he could hold her close right now.
Her fingers entwined themselves with his, and with the only touch they shared their sparks of magical emotion met to kiss brilliantly in the way that they physically couldn’t. He knew now. He had another hope to hold onto, but for once he didn't see it as a hope just to be taken away. He'd hold onto this one.
Because this hope was all he had.
Hard. Stone. Rough.
Pain. Sorrow. Regret.
A few of the vocabulary words that Azkaban forces upon you, smothering you until your oxygen feels as scarce as your hope, until you feel closer to death than to life. There are no distractions. All you have are your memories, if you’re lucky. Every wrong movement, every twitched error, every miscast glance could be the death of another precious memory, one of the few you can recall in this darkest, dankest pit of hell.
To test this would be inconceivably foolish. A worse-than-death wish.
The wind howled, battering the mounds of dense magical rock that comprised the infamous wizard prison. Its whistles magnified to screams in the convicts’ eardrums as it was sliced apart on every solid surface, waking all from their infrequent slumbers. The waves thrashed beneath, pounding against the lower levels with force that could uproot age-old trees. However terrifying the soundscape, the structure didn’t even quiver. There was more than just stone blocks and mortar keeping this building upright; a chilling air of magic that could scratch even the most vicious, deranged wizard to the bone.
On one of the hundreds of levels, amongst the labyrinth of dark passageways, in one of the thousands of cells, a young man – in most ways, he was still just a boy – stirred with a hopeless groan. He hadn’t really been asleep. Try as he might, his body could not willfully remain unconscious for weeks or months at a time. His white-blonde hair, no longer greasy as it had been a few weeks ago but dry and brittle, was a matted mess, sweat-drenched clumps falling into his grey eyes; once piercing and bright, now dull and ebbed with nothingness. He was skin and bones; any muscle that he’d once had had been lost from lack of nutrition and the energy put into despair. His fragile body, not too far from skeletal, was shaking fiercely now as it had adapted to the miserable conditions, unchanging as time went by.
Time was meaningless in this place. He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d been unceremoniously thrown in here. One week, fifty-two weeks, there was no way to tell. The temperature remained at a constant low; presumably due to the Dementors patrolling the complex. Night was day and day was night; with the exception of occasionally being dragged out to the courtyard, the strictly indoor cells never let in any sunlight, never gave any clue as to what hour it was. When he had first been brought here, he’d wondered if that was magic or whether the messed up architect had specifically designed the building this way. He was far beyond caring now.
He sat up slowly, every limb aching as he unfolded them from the awkward positions he’d tried to fall asleep in. The dull aches were nothing, though. He’d endured so much worse. Cautiously, he shifted himself into a more upright position, slumped against the cold stone wall, a rough part of the rock digging into his back uncomfortably. The hoarse rags, so far below the high standards he used to take for granted, looked worn. They were dirty, covered in grime, and due to his weight loss his frame looked even tinier drowning in them. At first he’d compared he dreadful article of clothing to a hessian potato sack. Now they were merely another layer of skin, desperately snatching at any non-existent warmth.
He sucked in a breath, and immediately started coughing as the air hit his delicate windpipe harsher than he’d intended. His eyes watered, the tears warm for but a second as they spilled from his light lashes before turning as icy as the gust of wind that ran through the iron bars to torture his taut white skin. He spluttered a retched a little to regain control of his breathing, and immediately after he wondered why he didn’t try to choke instead. He screwed his eyes tight shut for a moment, before slowly releasing the little pressure that was too draining for him. He dragged his legs up and planted his feet on the floor, resting his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands, wincing as his bony elbows came in contact painfully with his kneecap.
And for the millionth time Draco Malfoy wondered, how did it get this way?
An echoing clunk of a sound, closer than the distant screams of other inmates being driven insane, brought his thoughts to a halt. His head snapped up from its drooping, wilted stance and he began crawling over to the front corner of his cell. He slammed his back against the stone wall as he collapsed into place, pressing himself up against the iron lattice that comprised the gate to his cell. Slowly, he licked his dry, peeling lips and croaked out a whisper.
“Are you sure it’s safe?”
He waited, his face unintentionally molded into a manic expression, unsure of whether she had heard him. At the sound of her voice, low but not a whisper, he released the breath he hadn’t meant to hold.
“Yeah. They’ve just left.”
Trusting her could be the greatest mistake he’d ever made, but she hadn’t let him down yet. She had a better view through the iron bars than he did, and she could see when the human guards were coming and going. She determined when they could speak, without completely throwing themselves to the looming threat of the Dementor’s kiss.
“So what’s new?” he asked, his voice little more than a whisper just to be sure she could hear him through the thick rock wall separating them.
“They’ve finally taken the pianist away,” she answered him. “Saw them dragging him out, although whether it was to Mungo’s or to his death I have no idea.”
Draco flinched at the thought, at the way she fought to keep her voice from trembling.
“So that means that we’re…”
“Yes,” she cut him off. “We’re the only ones remaining in this corridor.”
He shuddered violently, trying to suppress horrid thoughts from invading his mind. Alas, he couldn’t use occlumency against himself. What had happened to the other inhabitants of the thirty-third corridor, floor one hundred and fifty-six? He had no connections to the outside world. He didn’t know who was in control, or who was winning. In his position, he’d probably remain in Azkaban no matter what happened. He hadn’t made good choices when he’d had the freedom to make them.
He knew the horrors that this place held. He knew the torture other inmates endured, their screams often reaching his ears. So many inhumane, medieval methods of persecution. That alone made him sure he still knew who had the upper-hand in the war, or a least who was still in control of the Ministry. If the right people were in control, they wouldn’t inflict that upon anyone. The image of Draco’s old school headmaster flashed through his mind, gone as quickly as the pages of a book in the wind. He gulped down the bile that rose into his throat, trying desperately to rid his psyche of the twinkling blue eyes and rivers of silver-white hair. He didn’t bother to restrain his tears; it certainly wasn’t the greatest sign of weakness these wicked walls had seen. It was his fault…
He doubted many of the prisoners that had left this corridor had been freed. Not many people were ever freed from Azkaban. If they didn’t waste away from lack of food and sunlight, they were usually driven insane from imprisonment. The pianist was called thus because he sometimes hummed musical tunes through he darkness, sticking his emaciated wrists through the iron bars and moving his fingers as if playing an organ or a piano. It had only been a matter of time before he was… removed. They could only hope that he’d been branded criminally insane over a lost cause.
“I’ll miss him,” Draco said softly. “His humming helped.”
“It did,” she agreed, sadness tingeing her tone. “It’s going to get worse now.”
She didn’t need to speak aloud the implications of her words; Draco understood them perfectly. He hadn’t thought that being trapped here could get any worse, but it could. How much longer would their situation stay this way? How much longer would they be able to communicate, so clandestine, without being moved to different cells and without discovery from the guards? How long would it be until one of them was released, or tortured, or killed? Everything was so unpredictable, and even if they could tell the time they wouldn’t know how much they had left.
He cleared his throat, after a few moments, and spoke again. There was no need to reference what they’d both just been thinking.
“So how’ve you been?”
She gave a tired, bitter laugh.
“How do you think?”
“Sorry. Stupid question.”
If there was anything to be said for this godforsaken place, at least it had humbled him. His ears strained to hear her light sigh; a pretty sound that he could imagine spilling from plump red lips.
“It’s okay. It just reminds me of this wretched predicament.”
Her words induced an ache in his chest, and his practiced hand gently weaved its way through the iron, falling on the gritty ground beyond his cell. Moments later, he watched in undying fascination as her thin wrist and hand became visible, reaching his and interlocking their pale fingers. He could see her veins, blue through her near-translucent skin. He was sure it had once been creamy and beautiful. Her nails were yellow, and had grown quite long over her time in captivity. The blonde hairs on her arm stood straight, as though she could never forgo suspicion, never let go of her unease, constantly tense. It was the only part of her he’d ever seen, and made every effort to remember every tiny detail that could possibly distinguish her from all the other inmates. Unfortunately, not one of these features was quite remarkable enough.
No more words were shared between the two. With their faces pressed closely to the metal, probably imprinting the square patterns on their hollowing cheeks, and their hands touching, the hairs on her arm began to fall flat as they both fell slowly into sleep.
***
Draco gnawed at his lip, blinking away the white blind spots the unfamiliar light had forced upon his cornea. Looking above him, grey clouds rippled to cover the sky, miserably overcast. Still, no matter how dull a day, the brightness compared to his dungeon-like cell came as a shock; it was one of the outside world’s treasures that he’d been unable to hold on to. As it was, he was almost certain that the sky he saw now wasn’t really there, but rather a bewitchment not unlike the one on the roof of the Great Hall at Hogwarts.
The courtyard was small compared to the prisoners being allowed access to it, and there was certainly still an irrepressible sense of gloom hanging from the continual clouds. The steel and iron lattice that caged every cell also closed in this area, and a singular Dementor guarded the only gate, seeming unmoving beneath its rotting grey cloak. Dead weeds and tufts of grass had once forced themselves through the cracks between the grey cobblestones, now lying in crusty brown heaps at regular intervals scattered over the ground. There were a few concrete benches throughout the courtyard, but the vicious gothic carvings and designs were far from inviting.
Draco’s face was scrunched up into an almost unrecognizable expression, and he wasn’t even aware of it. How long had it been since his last little excursion here? How long had it been since he’d seen his parents? How much had he changed?
It didn’t take him long to locate them. They were sitting together in silence, perched on one of the evil-looking benches. Both were staring in different directions, as though looking beyond the hell-hole they were trapped in and picturing a far off place, in a far off time. It still tore at him to see them here, like this. They didn’t look right. Their rich fabrics exchanged for rags, their haughty expressions exchanged for hopelessness. The prized blonde locks that used to draw envious stares were now thinned and dead, and their terrifyingly beautiful faces were drained and aged. They were hardly recognizable as his family. To look at what had become of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy was too painful a task.
He began to shift his way towards them, the cuffs and chains around his wrists and ankles taking much effort to control. They looked up as he approached, but neither made any change in expression. He felt like he was invisible, for they may as well have just been seeing the other side of the courtyard. Regardless, this thought could not discomfort him any more so than he already was, and he dragged himself over to sit upon the bench that they occupied.
The three sat in silence for however long a time before either of his parents made any acknowledgement, but he didn’t jump when he felt his mother’s hand draw up to rest upon his shoulder. He wanted to cry, but crying now wouldn’t be like all the times he’d cried in his cell. Lucius had never given in to tears – at least not in company – and Draco would be damned if he let his father catch him expressing such weakness. Then again, how he could be damned any worse then he already was seemed incomprehensible.
He used to think of it as a small, tiny blessing that he could still see his parents every once in a while. He used to think that at least they had it better than his Aunt Bellatrix, who was locked in a high security cell and never allowed to visit the courtyard. But now he wondered if maybe she had it better after all. He didn’t want to see his parents like this. He didn’t want his lifelong view of respect for them to crumble any more than it already had. He didn’t want to see how far they’d fallen.
He couldn’t bear to look at their faces, so instead he looked around the courtyard. He always did this. He’d inspect every woman he could, trying to figure out who she was. He knew they had the same courtyard times. But there were still at least fifteen choices here that he could match her up with, and the prospect of discovering who she was both thrilled and terrified him. Did she know who he was? She had probably seen his Dark Mark at some point, but a great deal of Death Eaters had been thrown aside in here amongst the flurry of one of the Dark Lord’s most infuriating rages. He was certainly not the only one to have a mark, but he would hazard a guess at the youngest. Would that be enough for her to deduce who he was? Did he want her to? He hated himself more than anything, and he was so ashamed of his past actions, actions that a great deal of the wizarding world was probably aware of. He knew she’d strayed from the good path too, she’d confessed to him many of her regrets, but he doubted that she’d ever been in as deep as him. What would she do if she found out? Would she hate him? He couldn’t stand the thought.
There were no extra clues as to who she might be. Her voice, although altered from lack of use, was still young. She couldn’t be far from his age, give or take a few years. She had white skin. That still left far too may people to be considered. She could be the trembling blonde girl in the corner, curls of light hair turning frizzy and green eyes wild as they darted around the courtyard, almost waiting for someone to approach her with the Cruciatus curse. Or she could be the Asian girl, backing away from the gate, surely once of stunning beauty, long glossy black hair falling to her waist like a curtain of silk to cover her crying face. She could be so many people. So many possibilities.
Draco had wondered, many a time, what would happen if he was finally released. If the resistance won, if the Dark Lord’s regime was put to an end. Would he be freed, or would they keep him in here as a convicted Death Eater? And what would happen to her? Her family, like his, had supported the anti-muggle movement, but they’d never known anything like the proximity to the Dark…. to Voldemort than his had. They’d never been so directly involved in his rise to power; they merely faced his wrath when deciding to turn the other way.
Would she be freed, and he remain here? Would she leave this godforsaken place and forget everything, forget him? He couldn’t blame her if she did. But would he do the same? If he was released and she stayed behind, what would he do? He didn’t want to say goodbye. She understood him like no one else ever did. Azkaban would forever be an enormous chunk of his life now, no matter what happened. And she had been an enormous part of Azkaban, the closest thing to a comfort anyone could get in this place.
He would never be able to forget her.
***
“Wake up! Wake up!”
The hurried, frantic whispers from the other side of the wall stirred him, and he quickly pressed his face to the mesh. Pressing curiosity grew inside him, for he had never heard her so lively.
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure. Something’s happening.”
They stilled, and he could hear it too. There were pompous roars of defiance, and many yells that couldn’t quite be distinguished. Something odd was definitely happening within the institution. He grasped the vertical bars with his hands, not noticing how the horizontal ones dug into his flesh, and strained his eyes, as if willing them to see further out into the deserted corridor. There was nothing for them to do but wait.
They dared not speak, in fear of missing another sound. It can’t have been longer than fifteen minutes that they waited in silence, but then again he wasn’t in any position to be estimating time. Their anticipating stillness was disrupted by the giant thud of the doors being thrown open, whacking against the stone walls. He had but a moment to prepare when he heard her gasp, and then into his sight cantered a great four-legged creature. It glowed, exceptionally bright silver, hooves clonking against the stone floor and echoing in the emptiness as it galloped up the corridor before turning around and heading back. It seemed to slow just a little as it passed them, turning its magnificent head towards them as a brief sign of acknowledgement before exiting the way it had come, taking with it the incredible feeling of warmth and safety it had bestowed upon them for a few precious moments.
“T-that… I-it was…”
“A patronus,” he finished for her quietly.
He plunged headfirst into a sea of thoughts. He had an idea what could be happening… But it seemed like too great a possibility to comprehend. There was some sort of a battle occurring here, he was sure of it. But who would have come? Who would have challenged the authority of Azkaban? Who would have the power to wield so many Dementors, who were supposedly under Voldemort’s command?
Once upon a time, it would have been obvious. Albus Dumbledore was the only wizard to have ever held Voldemort’s respect, but this would not be him now. Draco himself had seen to it that Dumbledore would never be able to save him. That thought sent him into a frenzy of shivers; his greatest regret, his greatest mistake.
But if it wasn’t Dumbledore, then who was it? The next name to come to mind was also palpable. The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, whatever it was they were calling him now. Harry Potter was Draco’s childhood nemesis, and the one who he’d had to trust all his hope in. Regardless of whether the rumors were true, Draco believed that Potter was probably the only challenge left to match Voldemort. It still seemed somewhat laughable, that a mere child, just of age, could defeat the greatest Dark wizard of all time. But Draco had forfeited his skepticism when he’d joined their side of the war. The action that had landed him in here. The action that still, to this day, was the one that he didn’t regret.
“What do you think is going to happen?” she whispered, breaking through his stream of thoughts.
“I-I don’t know,” he answered, reaching through the bars to take hold of her hand. “I wish we knew what was going on out there right now.”
“And what about us? If we get out of here, will we ever see each other again?”
“Will we ever see each other at all, do you mean?”
She gave the closest she could get to a laugh.
“I’m not sure this is the time or place for dry humor, but I appreciate it nonetheless.”
He squeezed her hand.
“I… If you knew who I was, I don’t know if you’d ever want to see me.”
“I do know who you are. I’ve learnt for myself who you are. You’re the one thing that stopped me from going mad in this place. Your name means nothing to me.”
“You say that now…” he murmured.
“And I mean it,” she said with a fierce undertone that he’d never heard her speak with before. “I wouldn’t care if you were You-Know-Who himself. Because whatever past you have, you’ve changed. You’re not that person anymore. I know you, and I…” she hesitated for but a fragile moment, and spoke again with a soft delicacy that emanated truthful grace. “I love you.”
He felt like he’d been hit with a stunning spell, shoving disbelief aside to let her words wash over him. Somewhere in his chest, it felt as if there had been an explosion that was now spreading warmth through his body as if the patronus had returned. She loved him. Love. They’d never laid eyes on any part of each other, besides their hands, and she loved him. How long had they known each other? Months? Years? There was no way to tell. But she loved him.
And it made so much sense. The way he felt for her, it was unlike anything he’d ever thought possible. Someone who understood him, someone to talk to, someone that didn’t even care about his past or his mark or anything incriminating. His affection for her, his reliance upon her, it was all so strong he’d never allowed himself to fully acknowledge it. But the explosion in his chest seemed to draw him to her like a magnet, wanting more than anything to force himself through the wall between them. She was right. He didn’t care who she was, or why she was here. He didn’t care about whether she was the blonde from the corner of the courtyard or the intimidating, beautiful Asian or anywhere in between.
She loved him.
And he loved her.
And he didn’t know how this was possible, but he was never going to let this go. Because he’d never find anyone quite like her ever again. Never in the world would two people know what they knew, never would two people ever feel for each other what they felt now.
He must have dwelled too long in bliss, for he could feel her slowly pulling her hand from his. He quickly held on tightly.
“I love you too,” he said lowly, full of truth, wishing more than anything that he could hold her close right now.
Her fingers entwined themselves with his, and with the only touch they shared their sparks of magical emotion met to kiss brilliantly in the way that they physically couldn’t. He knew now. He had another hope to hold onto, but for once he didn't see it as a hope just to be taken away. He'd hold onto this one.
Because this hope was all he had.