Draco Malfoy lived in a windowless tomb. No, that wasn't right.
He did not live. He existed.
Draco Malfoy existed in a windowless tomb.
The sun rose and the moon waned and time passed on without him.
The muggles had a saying. He'd heard it when vacationing with his parents in a villa in Bordeaux. The memory was a wisp of smoke in his mind, nothing but shadow now; it was one of the few joyful memories he had possessed. It had been the first to go when he arrived here.
An American tourist had said it. Something about a tree crashing in a forest. If one didn't hear it, did it create a sound? At the time Draco had thought it was a load of rubbish: some marketed ancient proverb people framed and hung in their foyers to appear posh and sophisticated to guests.
Now, the words echoed through his thoughts.
He could feel the way his chest rose and fell. He could feel his breath, coming soft and shallow from his lips. But, he hadn't seen another human since before and he could no longer remember the way sunlight felt on his skin or the color of his mother's eyes or the taste of buttered toast.
If no one knew or cared for his life, did he truly exist?
A flash, swift and blinding, sparked from the shadows of his mind.
A pair of hazel eyes.
Eyes that held the secrets of a forest, gold light through green leaves and brown soil beneath
broken twigs.
Eyes belonging to someone who was as much a part of him as the breath in his lungs and the chain biting into his wrists.
He swallowed the longing in his throat, blinking back the image.
No.
He couldn't. He wouldn't.
The only gift he had left was this: his protection.
He could keep his mind silent. A gift from a professor with greasy hair and a hooked nose. Another wisp of a memory in a dark classroom with vials of potions and simmering cauldrons.
He could keep his mind silent. But, he needed to be sure. Just this once. Then he would rebuild.
Draco touched his fingers to the weeping stone walls of his cell and lightly tapped.
Once, twice, three times. I am here and I remember.
He held his breath, waiting.
A tap, soft and sure. A whisper. I know, it said.
Draco bit back a cry. His fingers trailed down the barricade between them, bringing the dewy condensation to his cracked lips. He leaned his forehead against the rough rock, his mouth moving soundlessly, as he replicated the barrier in his mind.
Stone by stone, he rebuilt the wall. Slowly, painfully, he let the bark and the moss and the filtered sunlight slip away until there were only the shadows.
The door of his cell flung open in a frigid breeze. He stared at his bare feet, watching the icy veins crack and weave toward him, surrounding him a numb embrace. He shut his eyes, testing the strength of his wall.
Dark robes creeped closer, the breath in his lungs solidifying, the hair in his nostrils freezing to stillness.
As he was pulled into unconsciousness, amongst the sound of crashing waves and echoing cries, he could hear a light tap.
One, two, three.
And then darkness.
_
He blinked into awareness. Hollowed, empty and alone.
Gingerly, he rose from the floor, his bones creaking and cracking in protest.
He pulled air into his lungs, flexing his fingers.
Then, he began his routine: jump, push, crunch. His mind quivered with his muscles. Jump, push, crunch. Sweat dripped from his brow. Repeat.
He had to be careful not to expel more calories than he had consumed. His heart thundered in his chest, pushing the blood through his veins. Warmth spreading to his fingertips and toes. Jump, push, crunch.
A jingle of keys and suddenly, light filled the room. Draco blinked, eyes adjusting to the intrusion. Gods, not again. Not so soon.
"Draco Malfoy," a voice drawled.
Draco nodded, unable to speak.
"Come with me," the voice said. A man's voice.
A hand gripped his arm, pulling him to his feet. "Hurry up, I don't have all day."
Draco shuffled to his feet, as the chains fell from his wrists and ankles. Was this it? Was he about to receive his final Kiss? A wave of fear rushed through him, he swayed on his feet.
The man kept a firm grip on his arm. He carried a torch and from its glow Draco saw the lines of his face: he was a middle-aged man, his skin pock-marked, a mustache grazing his upper lip. From his neck hung a thick, silver chain, glinting in the firelight. The chain held two small keys.
"Don't get any ideas," the man growled, his dark eyes following Draco's gaze. "I'm allowing you to walk without chains mostly 'cause I don't want the hassle, but if you try to run, you'll get an unpleasant surprise." His hand grazed the pocket of his shirt where his wand sat tucked snug to his chest.
"Nod your head if you understand."
Draco dipped his chin.
"Good, now follow me."
The torch light moved out of the cell.
He cast a glance to the cell door beside his, his fingers twitched at his side. He reached toward the door, fingers grazing the splintered wood.
"Now, boy!" The guard yanked him from the door. Draco stumbled, looking back at the closed door, his heart lurching as he followed the stranger.
Blood rushed to Draco's head, his ears roared, drowning the rumble of the waves crashing upon the island beyond the prison walls.
Draco opened his mouth. "I-" The word clawed at his throat.
He tried again.
"I- " Demand to know where you are taking me.
"Save your breath, boy. You're going to need it," the man jeered.
Draco braced himself, his mind scrambling for some semblance of a plan. Had he not dreamt of this opportunity during the countless sleepless nights he had spent in this crypt? The problem was he never believed it would be a possibility.
His feet followed the torch's light, as they passed door after door. Wailing followed them as they made their slow descent along the curving passageway of the prison. Draco counted each step he took, the steps between him and the closed prison cell behind him, his thoughts racing.
The man halted, Draco's feet tripped to a stop. He watched as the guard took the silver chain and placed one of the keys into the lock of an unmarkable door, mumbling words beneath his breath. Wandless magic. The door clicked open and the man, once again, grabbed Draco's bicep.
Draco took a breath. 1,248 steps. He closed his eyes.
"Ready?" A sneer, revealing rotting teeth.
The door swung open and Draco was blinded. Good thing he didn't need light. He rammed his elbow into the guard's gut, slamming his fist into the man's nose. A spurt of hot blood painted his hand. The guard groaned, falling to the floor. Draco grabbed for the man's wand.
"Expelliarmus!" A voice roared. The wand flew from Draco's grip.
Draco's hands were yanked in front of him and he winced as a set of steel chains clicked into place against his raw flesh.
"Please, have a seat." The same voice growled, shoving Draco into a chair. His teeth rattled.
"I advise you to follow our instructions, Mr. Malfoy. We simply wish to have a discussion with you." A different drawl, familiar. A voice from his past.
"Professor," he croaked, blinking his eyes open. His eyes adjusted as he took in his surroundings. He was in a white, windowless room, fluorescent lights buzzed above him and before he was a metal table, bolted to the concrete floor. And on the other side of the table sat Minerva McGonagall, beside her, the man who had thrown him in the chair, Kingsley Shacklebolt.
"It's actually Headmistress, now, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall corrected.
Draco's lips twitched. The croon was as stern as ever, her hair pulled tightly back into a bun at the base of her skull.
"Congratulations." A headache was forming at his temples, a persistent throb knocking against his skull. He was also painfully aware of the thirst gripping him in a chokehold.
He swallowed, shifting his gaze to the man beside her.
"Minister." Draco gave a shallow nod. He doubted the man would shake Draco's hand, even under different circumstances. Draco's gaze flickered to the table where his shackled hands lay. He was surprised to recognize the shape of his fingers beneath the filth, the knuckles at their base, his palms and nailbeds.
"We will get straight to the point, Malfoy," Shacklebolt began, his voice gruff. "We are in need of your services."
"We have a proposition for you," McGonagall amended.
Draco carefully arranged his features, holding her gaze. He refused to blink, refused to breath.
This couldn't be real. This was a trick.
He rested his hands against his mental wall. One, two, three.
"Hermione Granger has forsaken her magic," Shacklebolt stated, his jaw tense. "She has abandoned the Wizarding World and refusing to speak or engage with any of her previous friends and acquaintances."
"So?" Draco drawled.
McGonagall scowled. "Well, firstly, Mr. Malfoy. Hermione Granger is an integral and crucial part of the Wizarding community. Her absence is deeply felt from her friends and loved ones. She left without explanation on the eve of her wedding to Mr. Weasley." She pursed her lips. "And secondly, one does not simply forsake their magic. It causes," a pause. "Severe side effects."
Draco arched a brow. Granger had gone off the deep end, it was bound to happen at some point. The witch was too tightly coiled. "Side effects?"
Silence. McGonagall shifted in her seat.
"There have been muggle reports of natural disasters occurring all across London. The muggles believe that the city is being hit with earthquakes, hurricanes, tsunamis, and meteor showers. It is a small-scale Armageddon, of sorts."
Draco arched an eyebrow.
"A muggle belief of the end of the world. When one does not use their magic, it does not simply retreat or dissipate. Magic is in a person's blood, it's in the soul." Shacklebolt reasoned. "Think of it as a dormant volcano; the magic sleeps, but if it lays unused, then it will erupt. As Miss Granger's has."
"Many innocent people have been injured. We must stop her before these emissions become fatal," McGonagall explained, worry lining her aging face.
"I'm not following. My wand was stripped from me when I arrived in this place," he gestured to the walls surrounding them, the shackles at his wrists clattering on the floor. "There is no magic here. As far as I know, we aren't in the midst of, what did you call it? Armageddon?"
"Prisoners do not forsake their magic. Yes, it is unused, but with each feed, a Dementor takes your soul, and in turn your magic with it. By the time your magic replenishes, the Dementors slowly deplete it."
A chill ran through him, cold and raw, weaving its way through the empty spaces of who he used to be: the absent memories, the roar of his magic. He clenched his jaw against the emptiness.
"Why me?" Draco pressed. "What makes you think I could bring her back? It's not as though we're on amiable terms. It's not as though she's sending me letters. We despised one another in school. She tried to have me expelled on more than one occasion. And there was that time she assaulted me." His throat ached and his eyes strained to remain open.
This was too much.
He craved darkness, if only to sooth the ache at his temples.
His eyes squeezed shut.
McGonagall barked out a laugh. "She slapped you, Draco. It's not as though you were hospitalized. Please."
He cracked open an eye and glared at the Headmistress.
"We have exhausted all other options. We don't know what else to do."
He opened both of his eyes and leveled McGonagall with a stare. They were desperate. Good.
"Your tumultuous and strained history is why we believe you will make a good candidate to execute this mission," Shacklebolt rationalized. "She won't suspect you. All of her friends- Potter, Longbottom, Lovegood, the Weasleys- they all and more, have approached her and tried to reason with her. But she is unreachable. She ignores them, escapes them, refuses to speak to them. On one occasion she even threatened Mr. Weasley with a weapon."
Draco fixed his gaze onto McGonagall. "The woman is a lunatic."
The Headmistress loosed an exasperated sigh and flung her hands in the air.
"What am I to expect in return," he asked. "For risking my life and well-being for this little quest of yours?"
"Your sentence will be considered served."
Draco sucked in a breath, it rattled in his lungs and then settled, still and solid in his chest.
"Meaning, I will never have to step foot in Azkaban again?"
"Not unless you cast an Unforgivable or follow another Dark Lord," Shacklebolt snapped.
"I'll do it."
McGonagall raised her brows. "You haven't heard all of our terms, Mr. Malfoy."
"It doesn't matter." his hands were fists on the metal table, the knuckles pushing white against his flesh. "I'll do it, on one condition."
"Anything," McGonagall said. Shacklebolt threw her a warning glare, but McGonagall was looking at Draco. Her eyes fierce and focused.
"I want Blaise Zabini." His mental wards shuddered, but the words fell strong and true from his lips. "Release him, give him the same opportunity you are giving me." His throat felt thick with hope, he swallowed. "I will only do this with him by my side."
"Done."
With that single word, the wall came crashing down, leaving nothing but rubble and dust in its wake.
He thought of the door 1,248 steps away and hazel eyes. Draco shuddered, his head falling to his chest.
Shacklebolt pointed his wand to Draco's hands, releasing the shackles from his wrists.
"An unbreakable vow, then," Shacklebolt said, his colorful robes shifting to expose his arm.
Draco lifted his arm, his fingers gripping the Minister's arm. He shivered, his pale fingers trembling against the man's deep skin.
"Will you Draco Malfoy, watch over Hermione Granger, and to the best of your ability, keep her from hurting innocent muggles?"
"I will."
"And, will you, Draco Malfoy, bring Hermione Granger back to her true and rightful place in the Wizarding World?"
He paused. "I will."
Then, "And you, Kingsley Shacklebolt, swear that if I do this, if I protect Hermione Granger and bring her back, I, Draco Malfoy, and Blaise Zabini, will be free from our sentences in Azkaban and will be able to live as free wizards?"
Kingsley Shacklebolt's eyes burned black. "I do."
The magic glowed bright against their joined forearms.