Chapter 25

They came early in the morning, waking Draco to a cold chilly evening. The light was pink in his cell making it just after dawn.

"Come," the guard said, gripping the material over his shoulder and pulling him toward the door. Draco didn't know exactly how long it had been since he'd left this small, cold and desolate cell, but they were dragging him out of it and he was concerned.

"Where are you taking me?" he demanded, but the fat man didn't answer. Draco stumbled as the guard pushed him. "Where's my father?"

"Where he should be," the fat man said with a sneer.

"Where is my solicitor?"

"You'll see him soon enough."

Draco felt a little assured by that statement. At least they weren't taking him out to meet dementors, having decided they were better off without having to sustain him. He'd wondered more than a few times himself if that wasn't better for everyone concerned.

The man pushed him forward again, out into a courtyard and Draco blinked with the assaulting light. He hadn't seen actual sunlight in months. The wind made it colder, but Draco didn't feel it. He had stopped feeling cold, never being able to get away from it.

His stomach growled with hunger. That was something that never went away. The hunger always clawed at his gut, never quite being sated by the tasteless slop he was swerved.

Another man took him by the arm, and Draco tried to pull out of his grip, annoyed that people touched him. But the man only grabbed him tighter. "In the floo", the man ordered.

Draco did as he was told, but wished the man's eyes would melt out of his socket. His anger had morphed into pure rage, and sometimes he wondered if there was anything else left of him. "I want to speak to my father," Draco demanded, mustering as much arrogance as he could managed, but the men ignored him.

The guard threw the floo powder and stated the Ministry. They were going to the Ministry. This wasn't usual. Father had never been taken to the Ministry during his sentence.

They arrived in a room Draco had never seen before, and it was filled with people, standing around in sombre silence.

"He stinks," a woman said, lifting her finger to his nose. He didn't know her, but he felt the insult keenly, knowing it was true. Looking around he spotted his mother, tears streaming down her cheeks. What the fuck was happening? Maybe he was getting the kiss after all. He'd thought the dementors had been dismissed, but maybe they kept one around just for this purpose.

Potter was there and Draco bristled with the mortification of being seen like this by his childhood nemesis. Potter was looking on, his gaze unwavering. Weasley Senior was there too and just about every member of the Wizengamot.

The man who had pronounced his sentence stepped forward, wearing his formal robes and hat, unrolling a charter. "Draco Malfoy," he said in sombre tones. "As you have been convicted of grievous acts against this society, you are being sentenced to punishment."

"I have already been sentence to punishment," Draco said, still not understanding what was going on. Cloying dread gripped his insides and he looked at him mother, who was still crying—holding herself together as was expected of her.

"For the term of twenty-four years and six months, you are hereby exiled from this society."

Draco's eyes widened. What the fuck was going on?

"You must leave this society, without your wand to exist away from everything related to this community. If you should break this exile, you will be punished severely. Performance of magic will result in the cutting off of your tongue." The man shifted uncomfortably. "There are old laws. Contact with this society or any provinces related to Wizarding Society will be punished by death. Do you understand?"

"No," Draco said tartly.

A sob escaped his mother's lips.

The sound of movement came from behind him and the walls parted, to reveal a street where people with bright clothes and wires into their ears walked.

Potter was still staring at him and Draco tightened his lips. The fucking muggle world. He was exiled into the muggle world—thrown out. Exiled.

One of the guards stepped forward, ready to manhandle him out the opening.

"Please comply with this, Mr. Malfoy," the man reading the charter said beseechingly. "The punishments are crude and brutal, but they are the laws—at least for this procedure and we have no choice but to adhere to them—no matter how barbaric they seem."

He had no choice, so he stepped back toward the opening, leaving the controlled and warm atmosphere of the Ministry facilities to the noise street outside.

The entrance was closing and his mother looked absolutely distraught. Then it closed completely and he was cut off. He didn't know what to do. He had no money, no means. He still couldn't understand what had just happened. They'd just thrown him out, rescinded his citizenship.

"Draco," he heard to his left. Turning he saw Granger there. That the fuck? She was standing there in muggle clothes, the wind catching her hair.

"What the fuck is going on?"

"You've been exiled."

"Did you do this?" he accused.

"Yes."

He stared at the wall for a minute, furious and mortified. He'd been relegated to the muggle world. It was a complete disaster. "Fuck you, Granger," he said.

"I did it for you."

"I didn't ask you to."

"It was better than rotting in Azkaban."

"No, its not. I don't belong here."

"And you belonged in Azkaban?"

"You've stolen my citizenship—my identity."

"I haven't stolen your identity. I just gave you an alternate life. I will help you."

"I don't want your help," he roared. He was so angry, he didn't even want to speak to her. "Leave me alone."

"You need help, Draco."

"No, I don't." He walked away in the other direction, not having a clue where he was or where he was going. He couldn't understand why she'd done this. To embarrass him? Make him dependant? She wasn't deluded enough to think he'd be grateful, was she?

He didn't belong in the muggle world and now he'd been cut off from his life—everything he knew to wander this wasteland of useless, stupid muggles—for twenty four years.

"Draco," she called, moving towards him.

"Leave me alone, Granger," he roared. He would never forgive her for this. He kept walking, down streets were cars travelled too fast, muggles walked, avoiding him as soon as they catched a whiff of him. He just kept walking. This city was endless, like a nightmare from hell. Maybe he was dead and being tormented.

-0-

Endless scenes unfolded before him. Red buses ran everywhere and stupid muggles running around like rats on a wheel. It started to rain and he got wet and cold, sheltering in some kind of doorway until a man came and screamed at him. In the end, he'd slept in a park. The ground was wet, but he was too tired to care.

Eventually, he stole food, causing a hell of a ruckus, but he only kept walking. He didn't belong here and never would. Men came, accusing him, getting in his face and then wrestled with him. He fought, but eventually took a punch that knocked him out, waking in what could only be a cell. It didn't matter what society, a cell was a cell. It had no windows and sickly light over puke green walls. Draco laughed at the irony. He'd exchanged one cell for another.

Draco slept until an ugly woman came and unlocked the door, taking him along the corridor into a room that was bare except for a shower. She left clothes, horrible lime green clothes, but they smelled clean. There was no rescuing his uniform, even the more recent shirt was beyond rehabilitation.

Sighing, he stepped into the shower. Warm water washed over him and he closed his eyes, feeling a moment of contentment in a sea of hell. A strange contraption on the wall said soap and a smaller sign on a protrusion that said 'Push'. He did and a pearly pink liquid came out, but it lathered and cleaned the scum of Azkaban off him.

After they took him back to his cell and he slept some more, until the woman came back and he got taken out to another room, where a man stood behind a tall desk. "What's your name?"

Draco didn't answer. He didn't want to talk to these muggles.

"Are you homeless?"

Still he refused to answer.

"Do you have any means of supporting yourself? Are you withdrawing?"

The man sighed and made noise on a box he stared at. Then they took his hands and made finger prints on a blue board. He didn't fight them, feeling the woman tense beside him in anticipation. They took some kind of photograph of him—well, a flash went anyway.

"I suppose we can give you some food before you go," the man said and a door buzzed. "Wait in there until we get you." The woman urged him into a small room, with a few tables and a chair. A bright green tray was put in front of him. What is it with muggles and bright colours, he thought.

But the food was decent—a damned sight better than what he received at Azkaban, and the best meal he'd had in a long time. A pictured box blared in the corner of the room, high up on the wall, showing pictures of the awful city he'd just been wandering through. Perhaps this wasn't so bad. At least the food was good and there was a shower. He could make do with this.

But after lunch, they kicked him out onto the street again, the click of the lock closing the door firmly behind him. Again he was to wander this city aimlessly, sorry that he couldn't stay where there were some semblance of creature comforts and nutrition.

Toneless noise blared out of every shop he passed. Nothing he'd seen had changed his view that the muggles were entirely pointless. He couldn't understand how Granger defended this place. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't find her in this wasteland. Not that he wanted to.