Emptiness, he muses, is not such a bad thing once in a while.
It stops him from missing things that he had no memory of, it prevents those accursed happy thoughts that temporarily fog his mind and bring about severe punishment.
No, emptiness is not so bad at all. Sometimes.
Sometimes, he wonders what life was like before a four-by-five cell with bars on the windows. Though he tries to remember, he can't.
He tries to remember a time before filthy pale skin and greasy hair, and he can't. This makes him sad, and the Dementors love it.
He looks at the mark upon his left arm occasionally, and wonders why it is there. He can remember great pain and flashes of green light – why is everything green in these memories – but nothing else.
Remembering makes him sad, and not being able to remember makes him sad.
He is deathly thin, his body wasted, and even paler than he was when he was a free man. His robes hang about him in tatters, and, as he reaches through the bars to touch his father's hand, his fingers are skeletal. His eyes are haunted, and his lips are dry, but he can remember no life before this moment.
His father melts into darkness, reminding him that ghosts are real, and that he is haunted by more than memories.
Once upon a time, he supposes, he lived a happy life. He chased butterflies through grassy fields, and laughed, and cried, and was able to feel things without fearing punishment. Once upon a time, he had loved.
But this day was long ago, and now he curls into the dusty darkness of his cell, awaiting the Kiss.
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One day, a visitor arrives. The visitor is clean, and strong, defying everything that the prison dictates. He kneels at the door and reaches through the bars of the cell to clasp Draco's bony fingers in a warm hand.
"They're giving you the Kiss in two days," he whispers urgently, the Dementors behind him hovering anxiously.
"I know," Draco says dully, looking at the tanned hand grasping his. The truth is that he doesn't know if he knows this or not.
The man looks sadly at Draco, the face he had once loved replaced by a mask of despair and resignation. Draco glances up, his grey eyes shrouded by grief, and is stunned to recognize his visitor's eyes.
From time to time, Draco would get a flash of sad green eyes and soft dark hair, and he would try in vain to remember to whom it had belonged. They belong to this man here, the man now releasing his grip and stepping away from the cell.
"Hey," Draco says quietly. "I know you."
The man offers him a small smile in return.
"I know you do," he says, and turns to walk away. "You killed the woman I loved."
An image swirls in Draco's mind of flaming red hair and terrified eyes. There is laughter, horrifying, evil, laughter, and he doesn't know who it belongs to.
"You didn't love her," Draco says loudly, craning his neck to watch the man's receding back.
The man turns and shouts back, "What would you know about love?"
Then he storms away, slamming the heavy door behind him. A tear traces a clean path down Draco's face as the image of red hair disappears.
It is replaced by a picture of that same man whispering 'I love you' as Draco turns away and says, 'Don't'.