"So much that I wanna do, when I dream I'm alone with you, It's magic"
(scene) a dance between two characters
14. (creature) Dementor
15. (word) necklace
Draco twisted the fabric between his fingers, feeling it rip and tear into shreds. The constant dampness of the cell, coupled with the lack of sunlight and the harsh texture of the ground on which he slept, had made short work of his tailored robes. He could see now why he had not been made to dress in prison garbs, like they would have done in the Ministry holding cells. There was no need for them. Not even his clothing could survive Azkaban.
He leaned back against the wall and focused on his breath. In. Out. The staccato beat of water dripping down the wall was an insistent backdrop to his attempts to meditate. In. Out. Drip. In. Drip. Out.
It wasn't even regular.
Draco screwed his eyes shut and fought against the urge to scream. If he could only focus. If he could only still his mind enough to surpass his physical surroundings, then his prison sentence would mean nothing. He was skilled at Occlumency; meditation should be simple.
The harsh rattle of breath outside the cell sucked away his last ounce of fortitude. Of course it wasn't simple. With the Dementors patrolling the corridors, it was impossible.
If only he could think of a happy memory. He knew that without a wand, and surrounded by the creatures, it would be fairly impossible to create a patronus. But perhaps just the thought would be enough; a happy memory to chase away the dark.
He laughed out loud, his voice echoing off the cold walls. There was a high pitch to his tone that he had never heard before.
How could he find a happy memory in the midst of so much dread? And when it was so hard to keep his thoughts in order? A blur of faceless people; physical memories overshadowed with fear and hatred. His trial was nearly a happy memory. Harry Potter taking the stand, defending him calmly and rationally, as if they hadn't hated each other for nearly a decade. Insisting that Draco had lowered his wand. Refuting the idea that Draco had not recognised Harry at the Manor.
But then the Minister had turned down his thumb and signalled that recounting what Draco might have done, and what he might have thought, was not appropriate evidence in the Wizengamot.
It was the first time that Potter's fury had made Draco smile. He had seen enough of the Saviour's temper tantrums over the years to think that it might be enough. That he might win.
But that was long ago, and he thought no such thing now. And maybe that was fair and right. Because who was Potter to say what Draco might have done, and what he might have thought, when even Draco didn't know? When faced with so much that Draco had done, the answer was clear. What did the outcome matter, when the facts were laid bare on the table? It was all a memory anyway. The final events in the sequence had no bearing on the first.
What had been the first?
The necklace; such a cruel and painful death. No one deserved that. But to save his family, Draco had done it, even though it hadn't worked. The wine; another terrible death. But Draco had done it, although it had failed again.
The cabinet was his only success. Draco heard the high notes of his laughter echo off the walls once again. The sound faded and mixed with the sound of screams.
Draco shook his head slowly to clear his thoughts, closing his eyes and letting his senses hone in on the feel of his hair crossing his face, back and forth.
He took a deep breath and focused on the stone beneath him and its likeness to the stark beauty of Hogwarts. He thought of green curtains edged in silver, and the sharp scent of a cauldron simmering. Soon, the cell was full of light and sound. A cauldron exploded somewhere behind him, and he smirked at the thought of Longbottom's face covered in ash.
Suddenly, he frowned, as the odour seeping from his cauldron turned acrid. An unusual result for scarab wings and mandrake root, unless the wings were too potent. Or, unless it was poison, like oak-matured mead. Draco froze.
How had that ended? A Weasley had been poisoned, he remembered that. In his mind, he saw blue faces contorting in silent screams. Recurring nightmares for weeks on end. But how had they ended? The nightmares ended in death, but in reality...? Draco wasn't sure. And someone had been hospitalised, he knew that much. A girl; broomsticks and quaffles. Screams. Floating.
Draco screamed, long and loud, holding his head still with his hands so that the pain might stop and the echoes might fade. The girl's voice became a sob, and was joined by the cries of a long dead werewolf. Howling, and howling.
The howling became wailing, almost like singing. The Weird Sisters, playing at the Yule Ball. And Harry Potter took the stand to defend him. Through the sea of students dancing, Draco spun around and around, whipping his head repeatedly backward in a dizzying frenzy to keep his eye on the Wizengamot; on Harry Potter. There was fire and fury, righteous indignation. But one by one, the thumbs turned down.
Draco swore and turned back to his dance partner. Harry Potter smiled at him, and swung him around quickly so that they caught up again to the speed of the music.
"I hate dancing," Potter muttered, shooting him a wry smile. It was the first smile Draco had seen in months. "I'll be glad when this bloody ball is over."
Draco found he rather disagreed. And Potter was doing remarkably well, considering he had been such a graceless oaf when he danced with that Patil sister at the Yule ball.
Draco frowned. There was something wrong with that thought. He looked down and found that his hands were empty, and Harry Potter was in the distance, dancing with Parvati Patil.
The colours faded until all that was left was water dripping down a dark stone wall.
Although he couldn't see it, Draco could feel that wry smile, just out of reach. He closed his eyes and willed it to come back. He told himself that his hands were still firmly clasped to Potter's waist, that his toes were still at the mercy of Potter's two left feet.
He smiled to himself. Although his hands were very much empty, he felt them warm slightly at the thought.
He tried again. If chronology of time had no real bearing on fact, surely the future could impact the past? If he were alone with someone who cared, with someone who believed in him, then there was no limit to the things he could dream of doing.
The grass bent beneath them as he pushed Potter down in the field, hovering over him until Potter was forced to give up another of those precious smiles. Draco smiled back. The grass became soft sheets, and Draco bent further down to kiss those lips; something he had never allowed himself to consider when there had been far more important things vying for his attention.
Now that Draco had begun to remember, he couldn't stop. There was so much he could create, so much he could do, with this future that had not yet come. A future of love, acceptance, support. A future of hope.
He inhaled sharply, hissing as he felt his hands burn with a sudden fire. Looking down, he saw a small, white flame cradled within his palms. A beacon, pulsating softly with the same fire as a patronus.
It wasn't a patronus, but it was still magic. A thread of hope; a happy memory to chase away the dark.