Darkness never sleeps. No matter how much we wish to believe that it does, it is always there, watching, waiting. It was all that I saw for three days and four nights; darkness surrounding me, consuming me, and deteriorating my sanity and peace of mind. But it was necessary. Necessary for him, and for me – not because I predominantly needed or enjoyedthe darkness, of course, but it gave me time to contemplate on what had happened and to consider what I was going to, or expected to say. But it was mostly for him. It was for him that I sat on the cold stone of the wet, concrete floor, for him that I shivered and wept; not for myself, or for Weasley, or for what had taken place.
My crying wasn't induced by misery or remorse or physical pain, and the trembling not from fear or the cold. Not really, anyway. If the truth is to be told, as I am sure it is expected it will, all of these were symptoms of one who was abandoned or guilt-ridden or simply ill. But I considered myself to be none of these; I was alone, and I was, by anyone else's standards guilty, and by those same standards I may well have been mentally ill, but all was not as it seemed.
My thoughts were my sole companions within the duration of my waking hours, and while I slept, dreams clouded my vision and I was content for things to remain as they were. I would think of everything that I would be missing; of the housework that the Dursley's would be forced to do on their own, of my badly home cooked meals, of family and friends. Of Christmas, or more specifically, last Christmas. I thought about the formal procedure of exchanging gifts with each other, myself receiving copies of many classic literatures, and of the elaborate African blade that I had given him. He did so love intricate weapons.
And as I stared between the cold, metallic bars that confined me within the darkened Azkaban cell, onto the uniformed figure that was slowly, tantalizingly – although, I didn't find it particularly tantalizing the way I could hear the bones in his arm crackling, almost completely masked beneath the faint 'chink' of the keys in his hand – unlocking the door into my cell, and I immediately knew that it was time.
Consequently, this brief rush of realization and adrenaline was not close to enough to mask the pounding of my heart, the pace of the blood racing through my veins, and therefore, my arteries. It was a strange feeling. I had never been this nervous before. Not before or during my first kiss, not on the night, not even on the rare occasions that we had nearly been found in nights before the night.
The room I was taken to was bright in comparison to the darkness of the holding cell. Far too bright, in fact; the artificial lighting of the florescent bulbs had merged together with the streaming sunbeams, coming forth from the Heavens and through the windows, to see that Lady Justice was indeed present that day. I could even swear that I saw the knife I had given him for Christmas earlier that year smugly glinting in the sunlight. The brightness rebounded off all of the wooden structures in view, and I squinted to see around me as I was seated onto an uncomfortable chair at the front of the room. Rows and benches, stands and columns, young men and women perched atop each, waiting, teeth bared, to observe and to judge me for themselves. It was blatantly obvious to me how this day was to end, and yet, as the audience rose, I was not at all frightened. I wasn't troubled by the knife or even when I was asked the first of many questions that day, words flowing from my mouth like young eyes glued to an unfastened diary.
"Draco Malfoy, you are hereby accused of the murder and conspiracy against Ginevra Weasley. How do you plead?" There was a deafening silence that radiated from the stands, so silent that the faint 'chink' of the officer's keys could once again be heard. The tension that surrounded me could have been – if you forgive me the use of such a pun – cut with a knife and I could almost feel the anticipation of those around me. I smiled faintly,
"Guilty."
I didn't dare glance around to see the shocked courtroom and to find my mother, or anyone else for that matter. I knew what they were all thinking. It was exactly what I had planned for them to believe.
"And so, Mr. Malfoy, I must first ask you to describe the nature of your relationship with Mr. Potter and the late Ginny Weasley?" I told him. He nodded his head approving and imploringly. "Hmm. And how close were you to the victim and her cousin?" I explained that too, although he seemed to be less than thrilled with my vague answer of 'It's complicated'.
"And is it not true, Mr. Malfoy, that you were present the day of Ms. Weasley's murder?"
"Yes, sir." I responded, not in the least exuberant over the rapidity in which my trial was going. The man – whose name I have forgotten. Hughes? Hinkle? Haggis? I don't know, but I think for this specific purpose, I will call him Mr. Harley – raised his unruly eyebrows at my unexpected compliance.
"I see… and how exactly did it play out?" I explained that Harry had come into the Slytherin common room that day in order to work on our 3-foot potions papers; he was dead awful, after all. Not even being Dumbledore's golden boy could help him. It was quite boring truth is told, but if he truly wanted to hear more, I would gladly meet his terms.
"Yes," Mr. Harley was getting quite upset now, and rather red in the face. It was almost amusing. "But how did you come to murder Ms. Weasley, Mr. Malfoy?" The rest of my trial flew beyond my comprehension. Truly, I was expecting far more interrogation, but it really isn't something to complain about in my situation. There had been a whole lot of nothing going on, and I was a little disappointed. There was a quite a bit of frustration from Mr. Harley's side of the conversation, and a great many inconclusive answers on my part, which I am sure, didn't help my situation, or the end result for that matter, seeing as I had been convicted for the murder of Ginny Weasley and sentenced to a minimum of fifteen years in Azkaban.
And now my fate is safely sealed, no one will ever know that we – Harry and I, of course – were anything other than friends. No one will ever know that it hadn't been me that had killed Weasley. No one will know that she had been stabbed not by my hands, but by hands pulsing with blood similar to her own – full of Gryffindor courage – and with a gift that had been given only hours – if not days prior. No one will ever know. They will never learn that the guilt they had seen in my eyes hadn't been mine at all, but a reflection of the guilt that I knew he was feeling. The way I saw it as I made my final decision as I stared down onto the bloodied corpse of the redhead, deep crimson blood seeping in between the separate strands, it could have ended only two other ways: Harry laying cold, helpless, shuddering in pain as his body yearned for medication to sooth it's painful aching, receiving none from the doctor that never came, nor from his religiously homophobic "relatives". The other option went as such:
Mr. Harley would stare Harry down, his face flushed with anticipation, and I would know, as I watched from the benches and saw his panicked eyes, that he would tell the complete truth. He always told the truth.
Mr. Harley would glance my way and smugly smile as he brought forth he final piece of evidence; a tiny tribal blade, intricately laced with a white, spidery pattern. He would look once again back at Harry only to see him looking at me, mouthing the words 'I love you', and Mr. Harley would ask, still staring down at him, "And what happened then, Mr. Potter?" forever sealing Harry's fate. Because he would tell no lies.
I contemplated these options as I was escorted away from the courtroom; who would save the wizarding world with him in Azkaban? As I contemplated, I pictured Harry; his face half in shadows, half in the light, horrified eyes begging me not to let them take me, begging me to stay with him, to keep him safe. It was dark and windy outside as I was pulled away from him and once again into the shadowy building that I had come from not ten hours before.
I shuddered as the cell door slammed behind me, and darkness once again surrounded me. Mocking me, taunting me, reminding me, and at the same time making me forget. I loved him, that much was sure, and he loved me. But would that be enough? Would the though of me – here, now – prevent him from figuratively spilling his guts beneath the minister's podium? It was unlikely, and yet I hoped. I hoped and I prayed and I dreamed, and for a minute I was not ashamed to be sitting in a cell, convicted for a crime that I had never committed. For a second I forgot about the silence, the hundreds, if not thousands, of men surrounding me, drowning out their countless sorrows and regrets. I could feel them, so close to me that we were nearly one. One heartbeat, one pulse, one similarly dimming hope and voice of reason.
And I was to be here for the next fifteen years. Fifteen years of desolation, of despair, of loneliness. And as I let my mind wander far beyond the countless wails of sadness and once again to Harry, the Golden Boy, the Boy-Who-Lived, I allowed a single tear to run along the length of my cheek. I sat and I thought and I lay awake in case I missed another chance to mull the situation over, to reflect on Harry Potter and the spidery pattern of the blade in his hand, softly glistening a deep ruby red.
I lay awake in case I missed tomorrow, living out the darkest of lives without you.