Hello Chickidees, longtime no see. This is my work originally posted on Ao3, so I thought I'd share it here with the original crew. Hope you enjoy.
Usual disclaimers apply.
The Fuckening (noun): When your day is going too well and you don't trust it and some shit finally goes down.
In this case, this day was fourteen months into Draco Malfoy's Azkaban sentence - September the 8th, 1999. Ever since the war ended, he had just been existing. His mother just exists. He didn't know if his father still existed and he wondered whether the outside world continued to exist.
Unbeknownst to him, the 8th of September proved to be a remarkable day for many. Harry's frustratingly benign desk job took a turn off the deep end, Hermione's convoluted work with the Ministry became more extraneous than she thought possible, Ron found another wrench in his life plan and Theo found a cat whilst trying to find a horse.
But then again, it was The Fuckening, so everyone's existence was inevitably going to change.
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken:
The crownless again shall be king.
- J.R.R. Tolkien.
Chapter 1 - Introductions Please
Sometime before dawn on the 8th of September, 1999 - Azkaban Prison, North Sea
Fourteen months.
Fourteen months since Draco Malfoy had seen outside of the four walls of his cramped cell. Fourteen months of a two-year sentence. His mother occasionally visited, bringing him the latest gossip headlines, never erring toward conversation of any substance. 'Keep it light' she would insist as if acknowledging anything more serious than Ms Toollywedge's change of hairstyle would shatter the illusion that they were not, in fact, sat across from one another in Azkaban. Not to Draco's best efforts: he'd tried to broach the topic of the Ministry reform, his father, his own health - anything!
But alas, 'keep it light Draco'.
Over his sentence, he had noticed a general malaise come over him. Though he had originally chalked it up to the lingering aura of depression left behind from the many years of Dementors patrolling the halls of the decrepit labyrinth, he could no longer accept that to be true. He knew deep down, as one does when something is fundamentally wrong, that he was not well. The exhaustion that used to come on in waves now settled like a thick frost deep in the marrow of his bones. The gnawing hunger that had been his constant companion since his arrival at Azkaban, stretched and growled, flexing its maw, embodying something independent from Draco's need for food as it threatened to overwhelm him. The restlessness that had him pacing the circumference of his cell back and forth to temper it, could no longer be reasoned with. So the only way that Draco had found he could tolerate such a need, was to remain as still and as controlled as possible, lest the slightest twitch would open the floodgates to the burning desire to move once again. The anxiety and fear that had trickled into his mind, dogging every thought and attempt to distract himself from his own reality, no longer existed. Instead, Draco welcomed the numbness that came over him when he embraced fear like the old friend that it was.
Narcissa Malfoy's perfume held notes of cinnamon and patchouli. Fourteen months ago, the smell would have summoned memories of running around the manor as a small boy; his Mother's comfort when he scraped his knee. Before him now, the cloud hung limply in the middle of his cell around her recently vacated seat, mocking him with broken promises. During her last few visits, Draco had tried to explain to her that something was ill with his health, to implore her to seek medical intervention on his behalf. Though he had spoken with the prison guards, nothing had come of it; his gradual decline had been attributed to the conditions of his sentence – not that that changed anything either. But as his Mother had sat before him in all her aristocratic refinement, conversing as if over high tea, Draco had surrendered to the realisation that his mother had been in full society mode the entire time. Therefore, there was no hope that she would acknowledge that her son was wasting away before her eyes in an Azkaban cell, nor that her husband was in the same predicament. For if she did, she would shatter like crystal glass. And so she had chatted, poised and calm, dead eyes unseeing to the reality around her. A cruel combination of occulmency and denial.
Draco's cell wasn't much: a cot pushed up in the corner with a pile of itchy brown blankets strewn across it; an area for toiletries and a rickety wooden chair for visitors to sit. A heavy, black, iron locked door was the only point of entry and exit, and one twelve by fifteen-inch barred window slat at the very top of the opposite wall that gave an unbidden view of the sky. As it stood, this twelve by fifteen panel had become a window to Draco's sanity. For many a night, he would try to sort the visible stars he could see amongst the constellations to distract himself from the sounds of his neighbours. During the day, he would place the time from the distance the sun travelled in a little rectangle of gold across his cell. It wasn't a lot, but it had been enough. Enough to keep that last bit of himself from the fear, from the maw, from the burning.
The sun had long gone down. The ambient sounds of the prison around him had transferred into their nocturnal soundtrack of deafening silence only broken by restless, nightmare fuelled sleep. Draco lay down on his cot, his head towards the door. From this angle, he fancied that he could see a bigger patch of the sky. It was a clear night. The stars seemed brighter than normal against their fathomless backdrop. Nonetheless, Draco began his night-time ritual of trying to find constellations and shapes.
Something unfurled deep within him.
He paused his study of the stars and held his breath; it could have been hours or minutes since he had laid down.
Everything stopped.
The maw of his hunger quelled.
The burning ceased.
The frost crinkled.
And fear twitched its head, eager to see something new.
Deep, deep down, something ancient awoke and slowly began to stretch and expand. The frost burst and refroze as ice in his bones. His blood burned as it coursed through his veins. The maw of his hunger, this all-encompassing starvation, overwhelmed his senses. His mouth opened in a silent scream as the thing within him continued to grow. It twined up his spine, laced through his ribs, squeezed his lungs and pierced his heart. Its burning path spread through his limbs, his legs kicked with fiery restlessness as his fingers dug into his blankets in an attempt to ground himself. The tendons of his hands stood out in stark relief in the moonlight as his neck snapped back and his spine arched.
And still, the burning increased, searing every hair and fibre.
Still, ice spread from his bones to sinew and joints.
Still, the maw opened wider, yearning for something particular that could satiate the hollow hunger growing within him.
Draco buried his fingers further into the cot beneath him as the rest of his body strained tauter. From the nails burrowed amongst the blankets, talons slowly came forth, piercing and shredding the bedding.
Fear, who had been watching quietly in the background, trying to fathom the scene before her, joined the fray at last. The final thing that pierced Draco's consciousness was the blood-curdling, animalistic scream that tore from his throat. At last, Fear enveloped him in her numbing blanket and Draco's reality went black.
Let me know your thoughts!
