A/N: Got this idea earlier today, and wrote this in a couple of hours. It's based on Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues" (hence the title). The story makes more sense (or might just be a bit more entertaining) if you hear the song and read the lyrics first. It's incorporated heavily!
Positive and/or constructive reviews are highly appreciated.
... And yes, Draco is a bit of a dramatic brat ;)
He watched the big, scarlet train as it rolled around the bend and out of sight. It was completely dark, but not cold, even this far north. Draco didn't mind the dark. You quickly became closely acquainted with darkness as a servant of the Dark Lord. Yeah, the name was kind of a giveaway. At least if you had enough intelligence to command language at all. You know, produce sentences by combining words, perhaps even with an ounce of grammar. Still, Draco had seen a handful of wannabes perish by the Dark Lord's irritation at their irrational fear of the dark, even though he wasn't formally a Death Eater yet. That was just a matter of time, though. It was in his blood. Thankfully, he didn't have any such issues with light or the lack thereof. He was a predator, not prey, and so he liked the dark. It gave him advantages. It was easy to hide when there was no light to expose you, either from enemies hunting you, or waiting for pray to walk right into a trap. He had been trained in this since before he could remember, and on certain training exercises he had felt as though he hadn't seen the sunshine since Merlin knows when.
He sighed as he realized that the train had passed completely out of sight. He couldn't even see the steam from the engine on the starry backdrop. He turned around and faced the road to the castle glittering in the dark. Hogwarts. His prison. He was stuck there, and time was going to keep dragging on until Christmas, when he could hopefully return home. His mind absently wandered to the train that was just going to keep rolling back to London. Without Draco. He clamped down on his self-pity and began the trek to the looming building, thestral-drawn carriages long gone.
When he was very young, his mother had once hoped for a different future, he vaguely remembered. She had told him to be a good boy, to behave like a proper gentlewizard, and once she had even scolded him severely when he had wondered about the killing curse. That all seemed to be something from a different world, some kind of alternate universe. If one were to believe in that sort of thing.
This summer, Draco had travelled with the Dark Lord and a few of his Death Eaters to Renhold in the eastern part of England. The upcoming event was part of the tests that everyone had to go through to become a Death Eater. He didn't know what to expect, even his father would tell him nothing, although Draco saw some unrecognizable feeling briefly flutter across his father's face when he asked him what was going to happen. "I can't tell you. Do not ask again!" has been the unusually short and angry answer to the question. Draco knew better than to keep prodding his father, when that was the immediate attitude his queries were met with.
Shortly after their arrival in the small town, he had been taken to a small house. It was dark out, but the lights in cottage were on and it looked cozy. He smelled cooking, and heard laughter. A creeping, uncomfortable suspicion started to pry itself into Draco's thoughts as he looked over the white, waist-high fence. He felt a hand on his left shoulder. He instantly turned towards the hand's owner, and looked into the glowing red eyes of the Dark Lord. "In there lives a man. He is not important, but he must be killed. That is your task. But only him, and others shall not see you. It has to be done by dawn. It is the will of Lord Voldemort." Draco couldn't look away and his mouth felt dry as Sahara. "Do you understand, little Malfoy?" The Dark Lord said in a tone that was almost mocking. Most of all it was frigid. Those cruel eyes locked onto his. "Y- yes, my Lord," Draco stuttered out.
"Good," was the only answer. The Dark Lord made a motion with his hand, and all the wizards apparated away.
Draco watched his breath in the night air for a few stunned moments and felt the lingering cold on his shoulder, where the icy hand of his… Master, he supposed, had been a short while earlier. He didn't know how long he stood there for, but when he snapped out of it he silently jumped the fence and slipped into the shadows of an apple tree. He had to kill a man. Take a life.
He had, of course, envisioned this plenty of times. Even bragged about it to some of his fellow Slytherins. That was easy enough to do. However, it suddenly seemed a lot more real than it ever had before. And not as badass as in the stories he realized, as he saw a middle-aged man through the window.
He tore his gaze away from the house, squatted down and breathed out hard through his teeth. Don't get personal. That was the first rule. It would only make it harder if he did. He stared angrily at a straw of grass. He had to kill this man, best not overthink it. If he did he might be unable to carry through, and if he didn't carry through, he would die. Possibly, hell, probably his family, too, he bitterly thought, as he heard a door open. Laughter and happy chatter spilled out into the night. He looked up and saw the man walking towards the street, a plastic bag in his hand. Draco gritted his teeth, it's now or never he thought, as he agilely sprang to his feet and jumped over the white fence, avoiding to get within eyesight of the open door. He kept his gaze down as he positioned himself within easy range. Deep breath. This man had to die. He had to. That was just the way it was. "AVADA KADAVRA!" he heard a shrill voice yell. What the..? He looked around for the shrill-voiced person who had done the job for him, and only observed his wand stretched out of him. He then noticed, that every part of his body felt heavy as lead, and that the man was splayed out on the pavement in front of Draco. The man's brown eyes were still open displaying a certain amount of surprise. His shortish light brown but graying hair was slightly tousled, but his dominating feature was his complete, utter lack of life. Thanks to Draco. He had caused this. It was all his fault.
The next thing he remembered was sitting in Malfoy Manor, inner circle and the Dark Lord all toasting and congratulating him on his first kill. Well, the Dark Lord might not have been congratulating Draco, but he weren't torturing him either, which was close enough.
Then, he had felt numb. It had, of course, all come to him later. All the feelings. The pain and guilt. He had killed a man. Not for any particular reason. Just to watch him die. Because that was what the Dark Lord wanted.
He realized he had stopped moving. He hadn't even gone all that far up the trail before his feet had stopped all by themselves. He thought he heard a whistle blowing, maybe it was train. Maybe not. He felt tears on his cheeks, and was shocked that he had been so lost in thought. He squared his shoulders and held his head high as the Malfoy he was. He pointed his wand at his face and quickly murmured a spell that removed all traces of tears and crying. Malfoys didn't cry. Especially the men. Then he put one foot in front of the other and continued his trek to the castle.
He wasn't sure if he'd missed the feast. He'd prefer to be in one of the Manors anyway. All the purebloods out of Hogwarts were probably eating their dinners in a more respectable style than the school's "all-you-can-stuff-in-your-face" style. He had seen the way Ron Weasley acted around food. Draco was not at all convinced that the redheaded boy truly was a pureblood. He was a disgrace. It disgusted Draco that even bloodtraitors didn't raise their children with better manners.
If it was past dinner, maybe they were having coffee or whiskey at home, Father smoking a cigar. Thankfully, that was obtainable in Slytherin. Draco could use a whiskey right about now. Preferably a double. Well, it wasn't as though his trip back to Hogwarts was a surprise. He had done this year after year since he turned 11, and he did know he had to go back, even though he had tried to reason with Father. There really wasn't any reason for him to go back to school. The future was with the Dark Lord, after all. His father had insisted however, and Draco had been given a task that made his position at Hogwarts practical. He still wished he was in better accommodations with better people. No squibs, no bloodtraitors and no mudbloods. Other people had that, and he both could and should have it, and that was what tortured him.
Well, if they freed him from this prison – just get Severus to do the job! – that train would be his. He would take it back to London. Far away from Hogwarts. Away from his prison. That was where he wanted to stay.
He'd sit in a comfortable compartment, in comfortable silence, enjoy the view, and just let that whistle blow his blues away…
