Monster

Time was sluggish and hours melted into days. By the fifth day, any faith that Draco had was dwindling. He was never going to be saved from this place. The screams of his fellow Death Eaters promised this. After the sixth day of staring at the ceiling and running the Battle in his mind over and over again, he decided to stop picking at the measly meals they left for him.

He was going to starve himself to death.

The idea of death scared him. He had spent his whole life fighting it by staying on the winning side. But now, he saw no reason to live. So, day by day, he slowly started to waste away, his hips and ribs jutting from his skin, his shoulder blades and collar bone knives against his flesh. When an Auror came to check on him, they would sneer, like they were making some injustice just.

He continued to stare at the ceiling.

The nightmares made it worse. When Draco did manage to sleep, it was restless and full of Fiendfyre. In his dreams, he was chased by the fiery beasts, the sound of the cursed fire roaring in his ears. Sometimes he would dream of watching wizards and witches die under the hands of his fellow Death Eaters.

He often woke up screaming.



On the twentieth day of imprisonment, a silver lynx came to the guard outside of Draco’s cell. “Court date for Draco Malfoy set for the twenty-fifth of May,” the cat said in a deep voice. It dissolved in front of the stunned guard.

The guard turned to look at Draco, smirking evilly. It reminded Draco painfully of himself at one point in time. “It looks like ye have three days ter create a good case fer yerself, Malfoy.”

Draco sat up and picked up the small cup of water he allowed himself every day. The nightmares of the Fiendfyre made him feverish and sick, and the only thing that helped was the coppery-tasting water they left him. He took a sip and continued to stare blankly at the guard. Why would he need a trial now? He was not innocent. The more he thought of the Battle, the more he thought that maybe he did kill someone. He couldn’t remember anymore.

“I’d say yer as guilty as they come,” the guard continued. “The youngest Death Eater we’ve got in here. There’s no way ye’ve got a clean record.” The guard bared his teeth in a sneer.

Draco returned the smile. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice raspy and cracked. He cleared his throat, creating a dull fire.

Behind the guard, a silver otter ran up. “Malfoy!” A feminine, bossy voice issued from the mouth of the otter. The guard jumped and turned to face the Patronus. “Do not give up, Malfoy. Harry’s going to help you with the trial. Do not give up hope.” The otter disbanded into the air.

Draco’s heart skipped a beat. Harry Potter was coming to save him, Draco Malfoy. The Chosen One, playing hero for Draco once again. It was almost too comical to be true.

The guard looked back into Draco’s cell, a bewildered look on his ugly face. “Well, maybe ye do have a chance in hell, rot.”

Draco smiled. “Yes,” he repeated, the fire still searing through his throat.

Maybe, just maybe, Draco did have a chance in hell.