Chapter One: Release
War Criminal To Be Released: Corruption In The Bureau Of Criminal Correction?
Eleven years ago Draco Malfoy was convicted of the crimes of being a Deatheater (Stce: 10 yrs), breaking an entering (Stce: 5 yrs), and attempted murder (Stce: 10 yrs). For those of you who don't remember, the youngest son of the infamous Malfoy line, then sixteen, aided and abetted an attack on Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft And Wizardry, resulting in one of the most disheartening murders of the second war, that of Albus Dumbledore.
Now, after only eleven years he is being released, without having served the full term of his sentence. Prime Minister Rufus Scrimgour has served us with a strict regime, making public the sentence terms of every crime, with none of the nonsense we suffered the first time around about being under an imperious curse, that left so many Deatheaters on the loose the first time. He stated, and rightfully so, that we simply couldn't afford the risk. And yet now, a known Deatheater, who never made a claim at having been put under the Imperious curse, is being released without having served the full term of his service.
Lucius Malfoy, father of Draco Malfoy, also a convicted Deatheater currently serving his fifteen-year sentence, escaped justice after the first war by means of bribery and cries of imperious. It would seem that his son may have been allowed to follow in his footsteps.
Some opponents of Scrimgour's policies would have us believe that Malfoy's youth at the time his crimes were committed should insulate him against the full severity of his term. I humbly submit that if as an innocent child he was willing to commit murder, how much worse must he be as a man? If we release this young killer today, who might we release tomorrow?
Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet.
Draco Malfoy knelt on the floor of his cell eating the last of his breakfast from the tray. He had pulled his dirty hair back and tied it with a torn piece of his prison robe. His skin was pallid from lack of sun, and the good looks he had once had were marred by sorrow and suffering.
Yet he was in far better shape than most of the prisoners here. Even in the presence of dementors he carried himself with a quiet dignity. Unlike so many, he had not fully lost his powers, although his captors were at a loss as to why.
Had he still been alive, Sirius Black could have told them. A strong thought, that was not happy, but still powerful, could not be stolen by the dementors. And Draco had one such thought. A thought with enough power that it kept him lucid, protected him from the insanity that the other inmates submitted themselves to. A thought that gave him a sense of self in the loss of all sense but dread.
I deserve this, I did this to myself.
Most people would not have understood, certainly most would not have gained strength from it. He had stood on the astronomy tower at Hogwarts and pointed his wand at the most powerful man he knew. The man he had promised to kill. He had listened in disbelief as Albus Dumbledore offered to protect him. To take him away from the nightmare his life had become. His heart had soared for just one moment with hope; a hope that was dashed moments later as the body of his would be savior was thrown from the heights by a curse. Draco had been rushed away by his compatriots.
He had suffered horribly through the following night. Voldemort had been furious with him for his failure to deliver the killing blow. He had been forced to watch as his mother was debased, defiled, and tortured - a far more effective punishment than anything that could have been done to him physically. When he had looked into his mother's tear-streaked face, met her eyes that night, something had been born inside him.
He had managed to escape later that day. Injured and barely alive he'd found shelter in the States, biding his time and watching carefully what was happening in his country. Waited for a time when Voldemort was preparing to strike a crippling blow, and struck one of his own.
He had walked into the ministry of magic and turned himself in, naming a number of theretofore-unknown Deatheaters. One of whom had been in a position to strike at the Minister himself. He had known at the time that he was committing himself to Azkaban and a possible life sentence. He also knew, for the first time in his life, that he was doing the right thing.
There was a kind of strength in that he had never known before.
The door of his cell opened and one of his Illithins beckoned him. He was being released. Draco followed the Illithin down the hallway to where he would be processed out, careful not to step on it's dragging tentacle.
The Illithins were a strange type of creature, in their own way they were crueler than Dementors, they were devourers of thoughts and emotions. For the most part they were in Azkaban to keep the Dementors in check, for the Dementors feared them, but they were not much comfort to the prisoners.
Draco was led into a small room, where a squat witch with a face like a toad waited to process him out. He felt like he should remember her, but the presence of the Illithin made it hard to concentrate.
He paid little attention to the paperwork he was given to sign. Everything around him seemed gray and colorless. The woman took back the papers and stretched out her hand. Dutifully Draco held out his left hand palm up, revealing the Dark Mark on his left forearm, and beneath it his prison identification number. She took out her wand and touched the number, which vanished. He vaguely wished she could have removed the mark too, but knew it was impossible.
She dismissed him with a curt nod and waved him to a door on the other side of the room. He rose and realized with mild surprise that the Ilithin was not following. For the last eleven years he had been escorted everywhere by them when outside his cell. He wondered if it would feel strange now to walk without them.
He went down the hall into the prison's anteroom where a single guard sat behind a desk. Without looking at him the man turned and began to rummage in a drawer.
"It's Malfoy correct?"
Draco's voice sounded odd in his ears as he answered, "Yes."
He had had no one to speak to for years, the guards required only a nod or shake of the head, and drawing attention to himself by speaking when they did not need it had generally only led him to new levels of punishment.
His voice was deeper than he remembered, and loud.
"Malfoy, Malfoy, we have two on the roster, Draco or Lucius?"
"Draco," only two. He would have thought that with all the Deatheaters exposed that his mother would have also been captured. A cold thought wormed its way into his heart; perhaps she had not survived the last battle. Or worse, perhaps she had, only to have died in this horrible place after the war.
"Here we are," the man was holding out a bundle wrapped in heavy burlap and tied with string. "You're not to open that until you've reached the mainland. You understand?"
"Yes," somehow all of this seemed so surreal, as though he could awaken in his cell and find he had dreamed it all.
"Excuse me, but do you keep a list of prisoners who have died while here?"
"Yes, but it's classified. To get that information you have to go through ministry approved routes. It can't actually even be accessed from here. You'll have to go to the office in London."
"Thank you. Is there anything else I should do here?"
The man gave him a sadistic grin, "Not unless you want to volunteer for another ten years."
"I'll pass," Draco murmured as a shudder passed through him at the thought of even another day in this place.
"Though as much, go through those doors there and down to the docks."
Draco turned and went through the doors the man had pointed out and found himself on the landing of a set of wooden steps that led down. He descended, holding tightly to the bundle the man had given him, the texture of the burlap was alien against his hands after so many years of nothing but cotton. The stairs led to a tunnel cut through the rock base of the island, which eventually led out onto a rickety wooden dock that floated on the rough water. At the end of the dock was a small, dingy looking boat.
Draco looked around but no one was in sight.
"Hello?"
He stepped out, squinting at the sudden brightness, his eyes accustomed to the heavy gloom of his cell. Still no one appeared.
He made his way out onto the wobbly deck, which rocked with each wave that touched it. The boat was not secured by any visible means.
Very carefully Draco stepped down into it, with a lurch that almost knocked him from his feet it pushed away from the dock. As he steadied himself he realized it was heading out to sea and settled back to wait. Apparently there was no ferryman, just a ferryboat.
The time seemed to stretch interminably as he rode in the boat, unsure even of his destination. The sun soon became hot, and he wished heartily for a drink of water. It was the first thing he remembered really wanting in ages.
His mind began working over things, thinking clearly for the first time in ages, and he began to wonder. He knew the war was over, but he did not know how. He also knew that the Dark Mark had not faded when Voldemort had died, as it should have. And what had become of his mother, his friends, his lover?
The sun was drawing close to its zenith when the boat approached the shore. On the stretch of rocky beach there was a small untended shack. The boat stopped a few feet from shore and he was forced to wade the last few feet.
After exiting the water, he made his way to the shack, once within its shadow he knelt and opened his bundle. It took several attempts to untie the rough knot. Inside he found a simple robe, his personal effects, and his wand. Even after so long, the smooth wood felt comfortable and familiar in his hand.
He changed into the robes, leaving the old ones behind in the shack. He stood on the beach and looked around him.
He was free.