When the Walls Get Heavy
Disclaimer: The words are mine, but the Harry Potter universe and its characters belong to J.K. Rowling, et al.
Content Notes: Allusion to torture and violence.
Potter had returned Draco Malfoy's wand, only to snap it in half three months later. It would've been crueller to let him buy a new one first, but sometimes when he closed his eyes, he could feel the smooth, dark hawthorn in his hand. Then he'd wake with his fingers curled around shadow, Latin hanging useless from his tongue. Even though he'd be allowed another wand in a few years, Draco ached for the one that had served him through school and through the war-through his meagre life-because it had been like his left hand, and he didn't know what to do now that he'd lost it. He might've felt more certain if he hadn't lost his freedom along with it, and Ginevra, too. The minute he'd heard Fred Weasley had died, he'd known she wouldn't stay. He breathed a choked, shallow breath, fingers clamped tight across his lips because though it had been hours since they'd been sent to bed, everyone in Azkaban had insomnia and Draco would hang himself before he let his wallmates hear him whimper in the dark, or weep.
They already thought he was weak as a puffskein: the Death Eaters had seen him under the Dark Lord's thumb, and everyone knew what his mother had done to save him. That information had spared her prison time (thank Merlin), but it hurt Draco every single day and the rumours that he'd defected before the end of the war only made matters worse. He looked shite, too, so he could hardly convince people they didn't want to scrap with him, but Draco tried to believe it. He didn't glance at the mirror when he went to wash, and these ones didn't talk. For days at a time, he could forget the scruff on his chin, the bruises under his eyes, and the gaping hollows of his cheeks, but no one ever allowed him to forget that without a wand, without bodyguards, he was nothing but a target. They didn't even have to work to find him because his hair and his skin and his sharp bones were so distinctive in the dark, dank corridors. He'd managed to use the prison staff to his advantage, though. His attitude had helped—the pretence that he still had the power and charm and good looks to do anything—and a combination of blandishments, bribes, and good behaviour had done the rest. It had made life a little easier while he waited for his sentence to end. Sometimes, he thought it never would.
Sometimes, he wished it never would because Azkaban seemed better than the life ahead of him. Without the world's respect, without his father, without Ginevra. The afternoon she came to visit, though, Draco wished he could be back in his cell like he never had before. "You have so much clout, and you wasted it on me?" he didn't manage a drawl, but after the first indrawn breath, he did manage to summon some contempt, to make it sound like a demand, though he was nothing to her anymore. Seated at an empty table, legs crossed and eyes dark in the dim lights, Ginny shouldn't have needed any reminders of his inferior moral and social position. She'd been to his trial and no doubt read the papers and she could open a history book if she wanted further proof that she'd been right when she'd condemned him six months ago. She didn't have to come so far from home, and most people didn't care to come here.
He'd never been able to test who, of their own volition, would. Draco wasn't allowed visitors, his lawyers didn't count, and he didn't want anyone to see him as he was, though his mother longed to. At that moment, he would've preferred to see her sad, pale face or even Potter's triumphant one. In fact, he'd expected the Golden Boy because he couldn't think of anyone else crass enough to pull strings just so he could rub a months-old victory in his face. He exhaled a long, slow breath as he shuffled across the floor, conscious of his chains, but as slowly as he walked, they still rattled and he couldn't keep the colour from his cheeks. The only thing worse was his Killing Curse-green uniform. Ginny spared him her gaze, perhaps because she wanted to see him as little as he did her. Less, even, but after awhile, she did answer. "I needed to." There was another pause as he sat down, and he didn't think she'd continue, nor did he plan to say anything more than necessary. "I think I made a mistake."
"Oh?" It was the most polite response he could think of.
She raised her eyes to his, though he didn't maintain contact as she spoke, "You shouldn't be here, Draco; I should've testified in your defence."
"Do you know what The Mark on my arm means?" he snapped, shoving ineffectually at his sleeve, but the chains didn't have enough give for him to expose the tattoo and he didn't want to see her flinch badly enough to work at it. "I'm sure the people I tortured agree with the verdict and appreciate what you did to secure it," or didn't do, he thought and didn't say. "If it would satisfy your sense of justice, you're more than welcome to testify at my parole hearing," he suggested, with a sneer so tiny that it garnered no response and the conversation fell into a lull.
Draco looked to the door with more desperation than befit a Malfoy as the silence stretched on and then, of course, she spoke-hurriedly, like she expected him to rush off with iron bands on his ankles. "You've changed," she took a breath. "So much." A hand reached out to him, but Ginny aborted the gesture a split second later and Draco dropped his clenched fists to his lap, jaw tight. He didn't need her to tell him that he was better than he'd been just because prison had forced him to admit he'd done wrong and not hide behind the fact that for his family, it had been the right thing-the only thing-to do. He didn't need her there, full stop; he needed her to go, but he wouldn't tell her so as long as there was a chance she might persuade the Wizengamot to let him go home in the next six months. "You'd never have admitted that before, but four years? It's not right; you were under duress...that should mean something." She sighed. "Are you okay in there? With the Dementors?"
"It means I'm still alive. Everyone was under duress, Weasley, and you convinced the Wizengamot four years was as much as I deserved."
"I only meant to convince them not to let you go without any punishment at all," she protested. "I still don't believe they should've, and if you've been honest, then you don't believe so, either. I just think Azkaban," she shook her head. "Are you okay?"
The Wizengamot would never have let him go just like that, but Draco didn't bother saying so. "There are only a couple Dementors left, but it's no concern of yours, is it, Ginevra?"
"I guess I lost the right to ask." He saw her hands fidget on the tabletop and her throat contract, but he missed her expression when she added, "Gave it up, really."
"You can ask anything you like," he corrected her. "It's the right of an answer you didn't want."
Her brow knitted like a Weasley jumper and she bit her bottom lip in an uncharacteristic gesture, but nothing was as out-of-character as the murmured apology, "I'm sorry, Draco. I never should've blamed you for—for Fred." Her chin trembled a little as she amended, "For his death. You were the last person I should've blamed."
"Not the last," he assured her, scratching at the skin between his thumb and index finger. "I went into that battle on the wrong side. There are half a dozen explanations that could make me responsible at least in part for his murder."
"No." Her reaction was like a Shield Charm between them, but Draco couldn't tell if she wanted to protect him from libel or to protect herself from feelings of guilt and regret. "You're not doing this for me."
"I'm not doing anything, Ginevra," Draco replied, confused enough to look her in the face. He flinched when he saw the tears in her eyes; her voice was so steady that he hadn't expected them and he tugged at the thread more viciously. "I'm just being honest. Fair. I let the Dark-"
"You're protecting me, and you need to stop."
If he were, it was only because old habits died hard. "Apparently I'm not any better at it now than I was…before." His crooked smile faded a little as he remembered the early days of their relationship, but he pushed the memories aside. "Shall we discuss something besides me? How have you been, Ginevra?"
For a moment, the light in her eyes convinced Draco that she meant to tease him about his 'favourite subject,' but as soon as he asked after her, the glimmer faded to a dull, dark brown. "Better," she said with a pale smile. "It's still hard, but it's hard for everyone."
He could hear all the pain she'd never share with him. "I'm sorry," he said, for lack of a connection that would allow him more.
She almost sounded sincere when she replied, "I'm sorry for your loss, too," but Draco decided it was more mechanical than anything and his expression closed as fast as his cell door would when the guards shoved him back inside the tiny room.
"You hated my father."
"I love you," Ginny said. Her face went white as a ghost and she looked like she'd chop off her own tongue if she'd been allowed either a wand or a knife. "I—"
Draco couldn't supply her with an answer because he didn't know if she'd intended to use the present tense, or if it had shocked her just as much when 'love' slipped out and not 'loved.' He didn't know if she meant it, but despite her role at his trial—her unrelenting insistence that he owed the world, whatever he might've said to the contrary—the words hit him like a steam engine. They crushed him, compressed his whole body into a single, burning ache and he spread his thin, calloused fingers over his chest as if in mockery of her, but he didn't know how else to hold it all together, to be sure he was still in one piece. He kept his eyes on the table, so he didn't have to see that the words meant nothing when she could see how much he hurt.
The silence stretched on and she made another attempt, but it failed before the words even left her mouth. "I—I should…"
"Go?" he suggested, without lifting his head.
She stood and the guard opened the door. "Are you ready, Miss Weasley?"
Before she could answer, Draco asked, "Did you mean it?" He couldn't help himself—couldn't face the fact that when she left, the question would still haunt him. He needed certainty, not hope.
She hesitated before she said, "Yes," and continued towards the exit.
"So do I."
Her footsteps stopped. "Can you give us another minute?" she asked the guard and with a frown, he acquiesced.
"You love me?" she demanded, the second the door shut. "Even after…?"
"Yes, Ginevra." He wished he could touch her—not even kiss her, not with the man like a voyeur outside the room, but he'd have given another wand for the chance to card his fingers through her hair, curl his hand around her neck and feel her pulse under his thumb. He might've given his left arm, too, if he could tie his right around her waist and feel her back against his chest. "Always."
Author's Note: The title is from Panic! at the Disco's "Always," with thanks to Becca because I'd never have heard the song if she hadn't included it on her Draco/Ginny soundtrack. I wrote both "When the Walls Get Heavy and its sequel, "I'll Be Your Levy," in February 2012 and I last edited the former on July 20/12, but unfortunately I've yet to edit the latter. I'll post it ASAP. Thanks for reading and as always, feedback is appreciated!