Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Prisoners of Azkaban
By Silver Sailor Ganymede
Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy was two weeks shy of his seventeenth birthday when he went to visit his grandfather in Azkaban. The wizard prison didn't normally accept visitors except for those on official business, but Draco Malfoy had somehow managed to get permission for Scorpius to visit his grandfather. Needless to say Scorpius was far from thrilled when his father had announced this to him; he had heard more than enough stories about Azkaban to have convinced him that he never wanted to set foot in the place, and besides that he had never even met his grandfather.
Nevertheless, one icy cold morning in December, when all his schoolmates were nicely tucked away and safely asleep, either at home or at Hogwarts, Scorpius found himself standing in the middle of nowhere, staring out at the roughest sea he had ever seen. The waves were as high as the Whomping Willow and twice as deadly – at least that's how it seemed to Scorpius. The strong winds were threatening to rip his travelling cloak off him and feed it to the hungry sea. He felt physically sick as he realised that his destination was somewhere in the distance, out in the very centre of the sea. How on Earth was he going to get there? He wasn't even at Azkaban yet, and already he hated his father for having made him come here.
A hand touched his shoulder and he nearly jumped out of his skin. Only then did he realise that a man was standing behind him, wearing the hooded maroon robes sported by all the Azkaban prison guards. He wondered briefly how the man had got there: he obviously hadn't apparated or taken a portkey; Scorpius would have heard him otherwise. Unless of course they had finally found a way to make silent apparating possible, but Scorpius highly doubted that.
"Scorpius Malfoy?" the man said, and Scorpius nodded. "Come with me."
Scorpius was about to ask what exactly was going to taken them to the island on which Azkaban was situated, but he never had a chance to do so. The guard had apparated both of the from where they stood to the front of the prison before Scorpius had a chance to register what had happened. He looked around, feeling somewhat dazed. Evidently they had found some way to make silent apparating possible.
He gazed dumbly at the guard, then he said, "I thought no one could apparate to or from Azkaban?"
"A select few can," the guard replied, and from the curt tone of his voice Scorpius could tell that the man would not give him any further information on that matter.
Scorpius turned his attention to the prison that loomed overhead. It was easily three times the size of Hogwarts, its sheer, black walls dotted in places my miniscule slits covered by iron bars. It took him a moment to realise that these were probably what passed for windows in this place. He shivered despite his best efforts not to. This was where his grandfather had been stuck for almost a quarter of a century? No wonder his father had warned him that his grandfather may not still be entirely sane.
The oppressive atmosphere only worsened as he passed through the numerous barriers into Azkaban itself. There were a few lights scattered about the place, but these grew fewer and fewer in number the deeper inside the building they went. Scorpius followed the guard up so many flights of stairs that he felt as though his legs were going to give out under him. There was almost no light left and the corridors smelt of damp, decay and despair; he hated it here, he wanted to get out, wanted to leave and never come back.
And then they stopped. The door in front of them swung open was a loud creak, as though it hadn't been opened in years – which, he reminded himself, it probably hadn't.
"He's in there," the guard said. "You'll be safe, don't worry. We're always watching the cells of our most dangerous prisoners."
Our most dangerous prisoners. The sentence did nothing at all to calm Scorpius already raging nerves. Again he considered running, but the guard gave him a sharp push from behind and he entered the room involuntarily. The doors slammed shut behind him and Scorpius had the impression that he was never going to be let out, that he had done something so horrible (though what, he didn't know) that his father had decided to send him here to rot, just like so many of his family members had. Then he reassured himself that his father would never do that to him. His father wasn't like that; he cared too much about him.
He saw a shadow moving in the darkness, then a dim, bloody red light flickered on overhead. The room contained only a toilet, a sink, a pile of sheets in the corner (which Scorpius supposed served as a bed), and two chairs which had evidently been brought into the room just for this unusual occasion. Evidently all of Albus' Aunt Hermione's attempts to make conditions in Azkaban more humane still hadn't had any lasting impact.
There was a man standing by the window, a man with long hair that was the same shade of silvery-grey as his eyes. His robes were tattered and his features ravished by hardships, but he still held himself with the sneering grace that characterised Scorpius' family. This man was Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. He was meeting his grandfather in person for the first time in his life.
"Draco?" Lucius spoke at last, his voice so quiet it was barely audible. This shocked Scorpius at first, but then he remembered that the man probably hadn't spoken in years.
"No. I'm Scorpius," Scorpius replied. "I'm Draco's son. I'm your grandson." He was scared to find that his voice was as quiet as his grandfather's. He didn't know why at the time, but he later realised that it was shock: shock at seeing his own eyes staring back at him out of someone else's face. Lucius' eyes were exactly like Scorpius', so pale that they were almost colourless. Draco's eyes were a darker shade of grey, more like grandmamma Narcissa's had been.
Lucius looked at him uncomprehendingly, then it dawned on him.
"Merlin," he hissed. "Has that much time really passed?" Lucius remembered the one time he had seen his son since being sentenced to time in Azkaban. That was when Draco had told him that he was married (to a respectable girl from a noble, pureblood family, thank goodness) and that they were expecting their first child. Only once had Draco ever been allowed to come to see him – and now here Draco's own son was, almost a man himself. Sometimes it felt as though only moments had passed since he had been locked away in Azkaban – at other times he felt like he had been there for time immemorial. And now he realised that nearly a quarter of a century had passed in the world outside whilst he had rotten in this cage.
"Your father sent me photographs, you know," Lucius said. "Every few years I'd get something handed to me. Always pictures. Never letters."
"Why did you never get our letters?" Scorpius said, frowning. He knew for a fact that his father had written many, many letters to his grandfather over the years, so why had they never arrived?
"They don't want us to communicate in any way with the outside world; but then again I don't want anything to do with it: it's easier to forget about it if I tell myself it doesn't exist" Lucius replied. Scorpius shivered at the thought of this. How was it possible to survive for almost a quarter of a century with no real communication with the outside world apart from a single visitor once every decade or so? How was he still sane after all of this?
"What are you standing there for? Take a seat." He noticed that Lucius had sat down on one of the chairs, which still looked amazingly out of place to Scorpius, and was indicating for Scorpius. The younger Malfoy paled slightly, wishing he could just stay standing, but sat down anyway; he couldn't be rude, could he? His father had always taught him how important manners were: he was a Malfoy after all; he had to be civilised.
The irony of this thought was not lost on Scorpius; here he was, sitting in the same room as his grandfather, who was by all account a dangerous, unhinged man, and all he could think about was his manners. Then again, he noted that his grandfather seemed very civilised despite his bleak surroundings. Malfoy breeding had a last effect on their entire family, it seemed.
Scorpius stared intently at his grandfather, and then asked the one question that he had always wanted to the answer to, but which his father had refused to ever reveal to him.
"Why are you in here, grandfather?" Scorpius asked. "What did you do?"
Lucius smiled coldly. "I fought for what I believed in. That's why. It seems as though you're not allowed to believe in anything anymore other than what the government wants you to believe."
"And how many… how many people did you kill?" he whispered.
"There were to many to remember. But they were not human, Scorpius. They were people, but they weren't human: filthy mudbloods." Lucius smiled again, but his eyes still remained as cold as the winds that were blowing outside.
Scorpius felt sick. So his grandfather really was like everyone said he was. And yet he couldn't help but feel some sympathy for the old man. All he had done was fight for what he believed it, and they had taken away his entire life for that. What he had done wasn't right – but neither was this.
For a long while Scorpius didn't speak and neither did Lucius. They didn't need to; there was nothing more left to say. Both understood the other and yet they didn't want to do so.
The door to the cell opened and Scorpius was led out again, leaving Lucius to his solitude. The thing that had disturbed Scorpius the most was that his grandfather had appeared so sane, so normal, even. Just like his father, only colder. A quarter of a century in isolation would do that to anyone, he supposed. But no, his eyes had been far too cold; he had no emotions left in him whatsoever, as though he really had been given the Dementor's kiss.
It was then that Scorpius realised that his grandfather had lost his mind long, long ago: perhaps even before he had been sent to Azkaban. Service under Lord Voldemort required either stupidity or insanity, Scorpius decided, and his grandfather was no fool – he was simply a madman.
Scorpius walked shakily out of Azkaban prison. He noticed that the clouds overhead had thickened and the wind had gained even more force. It started to rain. He could hardly stand to look at the lifeless landscape around him; how could his grandfather have retained even a little sanity after so much time in this place.
"You have to leave now," the guard said, taking Scorpius by the shoulder. They apparated away.
Scorpius never again set foot on the desolate island prison behind, but he forever felt as though a part of him was trapped inside Azkaban with his grandfather, waiting for a painful eternity to end.