Author's Note: This is a nice little rambling that refused to go where I wanted it to, so who knows if it's really worth reading. It was inspired, strangely enough, by my current favorite song Never Too Late by Three Day's Grace. That connection would have made more sense had I stuck to my intended plot line, but oh well. Anyway, please give this a chance regardless of how it should have been. The usual plea for reviews ensues.
Giving Into Love
The air of Azkaban Prison was cold and brisk, and installed a sort of uneasiness and foreboding in its occupants that no one could explain. Though the dementors were long gone, the horrible feeling of depression and despair was still in effect. Draco Malfoy's cloak billowed behind him as he marched through the dark hallways, determinedly ignoring the pleas and cries for help that still lingered in his ears, as well as the arms stretched through the thick metal bars, their hands closing desperately on thin air. His destination was at the bottom, at the end of this godforsaken island, in the deepest darkest pit Harry Potter could conjure up. His destination was the cell in which his father sat, staring at four solid, empty stone walls, with nothing but his nightmares to keep him company.
It had been years. Years since he had seen him, and Draco was, no mater how much he hated it, nervous. He despised his father, hated him with every inch of his being. But that didn't stop the air constricting around him, blocking his airways, choking him on his own desperation and fear. It didn't put an end to the constant shaking of his hands, or the wobbling of his knees as he walked. And Draco's hate, his resentment, his regret, didn't stop the most horrifying part of it all. He still loved his father.
The betrayal had been absolute. There was no way around it, no excuses to be made. Lucious Malfoy had sold his son to the devil, quite literally, for nothing more than a passing glance from his master. Draco, who had faced sure death in his failure to make up for his father's mistakes, Draco who had endured 16 years of nothing but cold indifference in the hands of those who should have loved him, and Draco who only ever wanted to make his father proud, had been hand delivered to Hades' front door by the man who meant everything to him. And yet, on walked Draco, fresh from the gates of hell, to add the closing act to his very own tragedy.
The ring of keys he clutched in his right hand rattled noisily as he marched, the metal pieces clanging together with each jarring step he took. One of them, and he had not yet stopped to determine which one it was, would open the tiny door that was the last visible reminder to Lucious Malfoy that there was a world outside of his cell. Draco's father was not expecting his arrival, not expecting anyone ever again, for that matter. Narcissa was dead. Bellatrix destroyed. And Draco had not attempted to make contact for the past five years, so why should he show up now? In fact, Draco was beginning to regret coming here at all, but determination and knowledge egged him forward, for he knew that this was something he had to do.
In the past, in a different lifetime it seemed, Draco had made fun of Harry Potter, had laughed at his stupid noble hero complex, intent on saving the world. In the past, the universe had only been as big as his manor house, where he had been taught to despise blood traitors, look down on mudbloods, and disregard muggles completely. In the past he had thought he had known how the world worked. There was power, and there was weakness. He had power. End of story. Later, he had changed his mind. There was really good and evil. And he was a mixture of both. But now he knew. Now, as he made his way steadily towards the last living remnant of the world he had left behind, of the world that had been destroyed, he knew better. It was not simply power and weakness, and there was no such thing as good and evil. There was only love and hate, and he had finally decided what side he would be a part of.
No longer would Draco Malfoy sit staring at the walls of his miniscule flat, brooding about how things used to be, how they should still be. No longer would he refuse to even think the name of the man whom he had tried to shape himself after, letting resentment control his heart. He was giving in to what he knew would have won out in the end anyway.
Draco Malfoy was giving into love.