A/N: Post-war, AU. Couldn't sleep. :P
A guard walks by, carelessly banging his club against the bars and he wakens with a start. The fucktard does this every two hours or so, just to piss him off. Usually he succeeds, and today is no exception. He smirks at him, lifting three fingers in the air and waving them in front of his face. Draco smirks right back and gives him a single finger. The guard shakes his head and walks away, whistling.
There's a full moon out tonight. Not for the first time, he feels lucky to have been given a cell that faces the outside. Azkaban is designed in a way that no two cells are connected with each other, none of them has a window and the only exit is an iron door-a solid one with no bars. The one that his father used to be in, for instance, had four walls, each infinitely high and the only source of light was the little trapdoor meant for the provision of food and water.
His cell is special in its simple, symmetrical architecture and feels almost luxuriant in comparison; a distinction from the rest of the cells, which is understandable, given the circumstances. It's significantly smaller, but with a window which is fortunately just high enough for him to sit comfortably on the ground and stare outside. He does this nearly all day, even though the view never changes. There's the lake, the mountains and the boundless sky. At around this time, it's breathtakingly beautiful. Stars are scattered across the unending entirety of it, and he's listless enough to count them tonight. He's only counted three belonging to the Ursa Major before his subconscious leads him away and just like every other night, brings him back to the day when he'd last seen her.
It had been the final day of his trial, and she had been called upon as a witness against him. 'Mentally unhinged', so many had called him. She'd spoken very little, with a voice so uncharacteristically small and breathy that he'd had to quit examining the leather of his shoes and look upon her pale face. For a war heroine who'd single-handedly led the movement against the Death Eaters following Potter's death, she looked remarkably delicate. Her hair was in its usual animal form, but like everything else about her, he'd grudgingly grown to tolerate it. She hadn't looked at him for the entire time that she'd stood there, save for that one second while she'd been in the process of stepping off the podium. He'd taken the opportunity to sneer at her, and the action had nearly cost her her balance.
She should've known better to have worn that cheapass rock on her finger in front of him. Weasley really had no taste. And apparently, neither did she.
He remembered how strongly his hands had itched, how desperately he'd wanted to blast his shackles apart just so he could reach out and grab her. How badly he wanted for her to look at him, to really look him in the eye and see for herself just how unhinged he'd become. He wanted no pardon from the Ministry, no forgiveness from her; all he really wanted was her undivided, concentrated attention, if only for a few minutes.
She'd ignored him, just like she had every breathing second of her life and he hadn't been able to halt the angry, animal-like sound that had escaped from his mouth. She'd walked calmly out of the door, and he hadn't had the will to ask the rest of them for anything.
Charged: Guilty. For: a lot of unspeakable things.
He tries to recall the feel of his mother's hand in his, as she kissed his grimy palm and bid him goodbye. He tries to visualize the faces of his former classmates as they'd looked down at him, undoubtedly happy with his fate. He tries to remember the exact words of Kingsley Shacklebolt that he'd read monotonously off the chargesheet following his decision. But all that he can come up with is the image of her face, looking at him for that one fleeting second which had ended all too soon.
He's given up the pretence of his invincibility in this small, dry cell. He's brooded long and thoroughly about all the things he could've done in his life, and done them differently. He knows that when you have literally nothing else to do, your mind becomes hopelessly besotted with the what-ifs and why-nots and every new thought jumps out as a new possibility. But so pathetically impossible.
A sudden chill washes over him and he draws his legs closer to his body, trying to ignore the soul-thirsty Dementor that is hovering on the other side of the bars. He can sense the hungry impatience from its grim, overcast aura and he wants to snap out at the creature to leave him alone just for these few days. He brings the image of her and holds on to it, deriving from it a counterfeit, fabricated sort of happiness. It's strong enough to irk the creature and it glides smoothly away.
He rests his head against the wall and sighs. He's thought about writing letters but knows that they would be held and scanned by several unwanted pairs of hands before they reached hers. He wants to give her something, something for her eyes alone, something too personal to be shared. He smiles bitterly as it occurs to him that for all intents and purposes, his memory his personal enough.
So he contents himself by drawing out an imaginary world for himself, a life far different than this one. In this other life, he will be the good guy, the broody, shy sort—she seems to have a thing for those. His hair will be blonde, though a slight bit darker than his own now. His wand will be the one that had been snapped twenty-one days ago in front of eyes, his left arm will be smooth and blemish free.
She would be the same, of course. And in this other life, she would be his.
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