Crazy, Too

Summary: EWE; Draco was sent to Azkaban for his crimes. When Harry frees him, Draco is forced to live with his sworn rival. While he begins to see Harry in new way, he also sees that Harry is not the same person he remembers. But then again, neither is Draco. DM/HP. Slash.

Rated M: For language, smut and angst.

Note: I'm so sorry for being gone for so long. There are so many wonderful stories that have been posted that I am going to get to reading very soon. As always, I do not own the characters, nor am I making a profit from writing this. I have not read all the Drarry stories in existence, so if someone on this site as already written a story like this one, please tell me and I will immediately take it down. I really don't want to offend anyone. With that said, on with the story.

Insanity, Draco Malfoy realized, wasn't when the voices in your mind spoke to you, it was when they stopped and all there is to hear is the thunder of your own guilt. The whispering voice of his mother

(Draco, how could you let me die after I raised and nurtured you? I'm you're mother, Draco. How could you do this to me?)

and his father

(You disappoint me, you sniveling pile of trash. You're a disgrace to the name Malfoy.)

Had been silenced to his own thoughts. He didn't plead to his mother that her death had been an accident and he didn't beg that his father not castigate him from beyond the grave. He didn't deny their words because he knew that they were true.

He hadn't foreseen the consequences of his actions. The vanishing cabinet, oh God, the vanishing cabinet. He was the top of his year, how could he have not managed to fix it? If he had if only he had then maybe, maybe-

Draco didn't notice he had started singing to himself until his neighbor began to scream:

"The pansy- boy is singing, the pansy-boy is singing," in a tipsy melody.

He buried his grubby face between his knees and winced away from the light. Someone else screamed down the hall.

"I'm gonna kill you all, every one of you God damn mother fuckers!" The footsteps of the guards were already coming around the corner to deal with the commotion, but Draco could only hear the sound of his hysterical breathing. One of the guards must have triggered a shut down of quadrant 28, as heavy mental doors slid down in front of Draco's cell bars, leaving him alone in the flickering blue-grey light of enchanted fire.

If he had only fixed the vanishing cabinet The Dark Lord would have succeeded in his quest and Draco would not be rotting in a cell in Azkaban with only his worst memories.

Years ago, in his Third year when the dementors had tortured Hogwarts to find Potter's lunatic Godfather, the professors' had spoken a bit about Azkaban and its inhabitants. Dementors thrive on the worst of memories, they had said. But it wasn't just the Dementors, Draco thought, it was Azkaban. The prison itself. Because surrounded with dank, dungeon walls for years

(How long had he been here? Months? Years? Was there a life before Azkaban?)

drew the mind inward, and life had never smiled on Draco. He only owned memories of anguish

(I'm sorry, Father. I will never disobey you again. Please, please stop hurting me.)

and pain.

(Mother, please don't cry.)

Why couldn't he just have fixed the vanishing cabinet? He was brilliant, he mastered anything he set his mind to, so why not the cabinet?

'Was it your inadequacy, of was it your choice,' said a voice that sounded strikingly like Blaise Zambini, Blaise who had fled to southern Spain to escape the Ministry.

'I couldn't,' Draco reasoned with his own mind. 'Why would I not want to fix it? I knew what was at stake.'

'You could handle your father's death, but would you ever be able to live with yourself if you handed him right over to the Dark Lord.'

'I don't know what you're talking about!

'How long have you loved him,' Blaise sneered, his voice almost singing.

"Shut up!"

"Boy," Draco looked up at the voice that spoke from the doorway so quickly his hang nail skipped across his cheek, leaving a pink trail with the occasional droplet of blood. "On your feet."

"Where are you taking me," he whispered, his voice harsh and garbled

(when was the last time he had spoken to another human being?)

as he continued to eye the guard with distrust.

"On your fucking feet you Death Eater scum!" Draco couldn't help but whimper when he was pulled to his feel roughly by his hair. His eyes watered and he stumbled when he was finally released. Before he managed to right himself, handcuffs were magiced onto his wrists, pinching his skin in the hinges'. His cry of pain was choked when a collar was tightened around his neck.

"I c-can't breathe," he rasped, pitifully tugging at his restraints. His plea was met with a harsh tug from the chains that connected to his wrists and neck. He choked again and urged himself to walk faster despite his protesting muscles. He hadn't exercised in

(years?)

And he hadn't even bothered to walk around his cell in

(lifetimes?)

It didn't matter. His memory made little sense to him these days.

"Where are we going?" He asked again, past his abused and constrained larynx. He had heard whisperers in the night, or day, or whatever half light was ever eternally cast over this place. They spoke of prisoners who left their cells and were never returned. To be torture? To be killed? To be given the dementors kiss? Likely the worst of all because even a criminal does not want to loose himself.

"Shut your dirty mouth!" Draco was backhanded and stumbled into a wall. His face stung, his forehead began to bleed lethargically where it had connected with the stones, and his air way was once again closed off. His pathetically thin knees forgot to support him and he slipped down the wall onto all fours.

"Get on your feet!" The chins tugged and he was pulled several feet across the grubby stone floor.

"I said 'get on your fucking feet!'" Draco did just that, despite his darkening vision, throbbing head and aching body. He followed when the chains tugged and managed to right himself every time he stumbled. His breaths were erratic and his vision had dimmed to the darkest shades of grey when the guards leading him stopped abruptly. Draco swallowed, or tried to. He was staring at same steel doors he had looked at so long ago it seemed beyond reckoning. Beyond that door was the warden's office and beyond that was

(freedom!)

The outside world. Which made him wonder yet again what was about to happen to him. The doors squealed open and he jumped in surprised. The light burned against his eyes and Draco threw his hands up in response even as he was pulled closer to the blind light of the warden's office. With a force that drew the breath from his lungs he was forced into a chair where the chains on his wrist and neck melded to the seat, pulling him into an upright sitting position.

"This is prisoner 27511, as you requested," Draco refused to open his eyes. The warden was not speaking to him so it hardly seemed to matter. He was a prisoner. He was a number. He was furniture. And people do not speak to furniture.

"You stated in your request," the warden continued, speaking to an anonymous third party Draco had no desire to observe. "That you wished for these matters to be permanent and quite off the records. Now, you see there we reach a problem. Because everything we do here at our institution is authorized by the ministry and is kept in our records, for their use, of course." Draco bit back a snort of sarcasm. 'Authorized by the ministry' his arse. He doubted very much that the ministry, as corrupt as it was, would stoop so low as to authorize the goings on in Azkaban. He had heard the screams. He knew what the guards did.

The anonymous third party, cleared its throat meaningfully, and Draco assumed fixed the warden with a look as he quickly continued:

"But I suppose we could come to an arrangement that would meet your requests." There was a heavy jangle as a pouch of, supposedly, galleons was tossed onto the wardens desk. Draco was terribly confused and felt more hopeless than ever before. But he dared not open his eyes against the light and make the voices and arbitrary sounds a reality.

"Well then, I suppose the matter concerning prisoner 27511 is-"

"Draco." The man in question froze. That was his name. And that voice, that voice was so familiar. Draco opened his eyes.

"Pardon?" The warden asked stupidly.

"His name is Draco Malfoy. He is no longer a prisoner at this institution, so would someone please release the collar round his neck." Draco hardly noticed when the hand cuffs and collar was taken off even though his eyes swam. All he could see was Harry Potter.

"I understand you need some insurance that I will keep him safely away from society," Harry said to the warden, never looking in Draco's direction.

"That will be necessary, yes."

'Away from society,' Draco wondered. He was away from society. What were they talking about?

"I propose a tracking spell that I might activate should the need arise. And of course-"

"That you will activate, Mr. Potter? Do you not think that we here at Azkaban have as much right to know where 27511 is at all times?"

"His name is Draco. And no I do not quite frankly." The warden sputtered indignantly. "I'm sorry. I do apologize. I can assure you, that with my track record, creating more chaos and darkness in the world is the least of desires and I would rather not have my integrity tested. I might also vouch that Draco will be kept safely away from large populations of people, and of course his ability to apparate and travel via the floo network will also be revoked."

"And might I ask, Mr. Potter. Why you have such an interest in, er, a Mr. Malfoy. You have gone through many meetings and procedures to see that he be released. And with your highly acclaimed history as you noted, he seems an odd choice." Harry turned to look at his new ward, and Draco gasped. Harry's emerald eyes were hollow. This was not the fierce rival he had attended school with, and that frightened him.

"I've become eccentric in my old age, I suppose" he said with a smile. Harry Potter could hardly have been over 25, which made Draco question how long he had actually bee in prison. "If our business is quite concluded here, my associate," he gestured to the man behind him, whom Draco had not yet seen. "Will ready Mr. Malfoy for his journey. I have some things to see to." Draco watched in awe as Harry shook the warden's stubby hand and briskly saw himself out. As he opened the door Draco glimpsed his first view of the outside world in years. It was dawn and the rosy sun was just creeping above the edge of the world.

Fairly dark opening, eh? It will get fluffyer, I promise. So please review. It would really make my day. Thank you for reading!