This is a mini-fic that will be told in three parts.
Content/Trigger Warnings
Featured on AO3:
Graphic depictions of violence, major character death, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, unreliable narrator, medical inaccuracies, ableist language, explicit language, torture and the aftermath of torture, domestic violence, infanticide, ambiguous/open ending.
Beta Britpick credit: Palio on AO3
Alpha credit: emlohamora on AO3
Everything was still and quiet in the visitor's waiting room. Draco very well could've dozed off if it hadn't been for the sharp and abrupt clanking of the locks coming from the opening door.
Whenever he first arrived at Ward C, or more widely known as the Janus Thickey Ward, he thought it was certifiably mental for St. Mungo's to have such strict check-in processes for visitors – especially Aurors.
"D'you think they're trying to keep us out, or keep them in?"
Draco felt a hand fall on his shoulder that gave him a quick squeeze. He rose from the hard, plastic chair, grateful for an excuse to get up and stretch his muscles. He checked his watch on the way up. 7:39 a.m.
"Potter."
"Malfoy."
"You're late."
The men leveled each other with identical icy glares which were accompanied by pointed silence. For dramatic effect or for old time's sake? Both scenarios were equally likely.
"Don't be surprised when I'm offered the detective position and you're stuck down here with the dregs of society," Draco taunted with a twitch of his platinum brow.
"That just means I'll be stuck below the dregs of society," Potter quipped in return.
After another infinitesimal pause, the two men suddenly erupted into an episode of rolling, boisterous laughter and an exchange of playful shoves. Normally, Draco wouldn't lower himself to act so childishly in public, but the waiting room was completely void of any other wizards – and besides, it's always nice to see an old friend after an extended period of time apart.
"It's good to see you again, you bastard. I was wondering when we'd finally be working together on a case," the Gryffindor greeted the Slytherin with warm regard as he pulled him into a hug that lasted for only a blink of an eye.
"Likewise, Potty." He started to smooth a wrinkle in his uniform robe, prissy as ever about appearance and presentation. "It's been how many years in the same department?"
Harry shrugged and offered a broad smile, briefly looking thoughtful, as though he was about to answer before Malfoy cut back in.
"How's Red and your spawns?"
"Gin's great, still going strong with the Harpies. James is going into his second year at Hogwarts while Lily is only one year off, but already as sharp as a whip–"
Draco grinned and shook his head. "You and your muggle analogies, Potter."
Harry smiled back, raising a brow at his mission partner. "Figured you'd be used to muggle analogies by now, Malfoy." Both men chuckled. "How about you? How's 'Mione and the kids? It's been forever since we've all gotten together. Seems silly since we live so close by."
Malfoy's heart swelled with pride every time the opportunity to talk about his family presented itself. His wife was the center of his universe – the Sun that his whole world revolved around – while his children were his moon and stars that lit up even his darkest nights. Tumultuous as his childhood was, no one had truly expected Draco Malfoy to grow into the man that he'd become.
Being the bearer of a surname with ill repute, he certainly did himself no favors when he acted like a complete prat in school; he only fulfilled the poor behavior that was expected of him. However, he eventually grew tired of the condemnation from his mentors and peers and grew determined to rise above it all.
And then, as if a gift from Time and Fate themselves, Hermione Malfoy (née Granger) fell into his life and guided him through the journey of atonement for his sins.
His wife was his redemption. His children were his reward.
Draco chuckled and looked at his feet, a rare display of bashful reverence shown only when the topic of his family was brought up unexpectedly. "Granger is wonderful. We're both workaholics and homebodies, so you'll have to excuse our absence from social events," he boasted with a suggestive waggle of his brow. "Scorpius is ahead in his homeschooling, and I'm sure Lyra will be no different. As expected, they've inherited both Granger's and my best qualities – looks and brains. I'm sure they'll be absolute terrors and wreak unfathomable havoc at Hogwarts, and I couldn't be more proud. Raising them has been my biggest accomplishment in life thus far."
Potter laughed lightly and shook his head as he brought his hands to rest on his hips. "You've really turned your life around, haven't you, Malfoy?"
Draco began to speak again, likely on the brink of delivering some sort of witty comeback in an effort to break up the mushy mood that had overtaken the room – he hated that. Vulnerability.
And speaking of muggle phrases, 'saved by the bell' was the old adage that came to mind when a door swung open in the back of the white and mint waiting room. In walked a decidedly boring looking man. Average height and build. He appeared to be in his mid-sixties, but could possibly be younger – the lines and texture of his fair skin were clear evidence of his love of the sun in his younger days.
He wore a crisp oxford shirt, charcoal trousers, and a pristine white lab coat with the name 'M. Abbott, Warden' embroidered using mint thread on the lapel. Donning a broad smile and an extended hand, he greeted the two Aurors with what Draco regarded as an unsettlingly happy disposition for someone who was intimately familiar with the mentally ill.
"Gentlemen," the Warden shook each of their hands with enthusiastic vigor. "I'm Warden Abbott. Thank you so much for taking on this case."
"Our Head of Department told us that you requested us specifically by name," Potter said, although it came out as more of a question and less as a statement.
"Of course I did. When I received the report that this patient needed to be interrogated, your names were the first to spring to mind." it must have been intended as a compliment, but Draco felt that there was something insincere about how this man passed out praise like it was penicillin after a seedy night in Knockturn Alley.
"Tell me why we're here, Abbott," Draco demanded, cautious to maintain a polite tone whilst also toeing the line of being an arse just for the sake of it. "Our dossier contained no information other than we were to be summoned here to conduct an interrogation of a patient."
"That's correct," the Warden said with a small nod.
"And yet I fail to see why two Aurors are needed in this particular situation? Isn't Ward C specifically dedicated to caring for those who have been severely affected by the Cruciatus Curse?"
When Abbott's eyes flickered over to Harry, the movement was nearly indiscernible before he met Draco's again. "I'm impressed, Mr. Malfoy. St. Mungo's doesn't tend to release large amounts of information about Ward C, so it's rare for the average person to know of its specialty. Do you happen to know someone currently under our care?"
Draco shook his head. "Unforgivable Curses have just always been a personal interest of mine."
"I see nothing wrong with that," the Warden declared with a chuckle as he circled around behind the Aurors and placed a hand on each of their shoulders to guide them forward. "Curiosity is a perfectly healthy thing to possess. In fact, I think it'll help you with your interrogation efforts."
When the trio reached the door that Abbott had entered through, the Warden squeezed between the Aurors and fished through the pocket of his lab coat for a few seconds before retrieving an old keyring. Thankfully, he didn't have to rifle through them for any significant amount of time, and promptly turned the lock on the door before propping it open and allowing the two younger men to step through.
"The two of you have been invited here today to help with a particularly remarkable case. For the first time since the conception of the ward, we have a patient that many are calling to be sent to Azkaban for his crimes, despite not being sentient while doing them."
"Was his placement ruled by the Wizengamot?" Potter asked.
"Indeed, it was." Abbott nodded as he picked up a clipboard from what looked to be a reception desk after entering the next room. It was almost identical to the first, with white walls and plastic chairs. Except this room had a modest reception desk with a Mediwitch sitting behind it.
"And they decided he should come here?" Draco asked.
"Indeed, they did."
"Good morning, Warden. Gentlemen." The witch gave them all a polite nod. "Shall I buzz you in?"
"Yes, thank you, dear," Abbott replied.
"I notice that you're using muggle security systems. I don't imagine that the patients are allowed to have wands, but I'm sure that it's not uncommon for their instability to cause the occasional bout of accidental magic?" Harry asked the Warden.
Abbott chuckled, pausing to answer when Draco cut in.
"And somehow I doubt that they're crazy all the time. Surely they have at least fleeting moments of lucidity that would make them capable of intentional, wandless magic?"
"I can give you both my personal guarantee that none of the patients housed in this department experience lucidity. It's one of the criteria that they have to meet in order to be taken into our care here – there's a different department that's better equipped to give lucid individuals the care that they require."
"But that still leaves the issue of accidental magic," Harry interjected.
Abbott gave a curt affirmation. "We have wards in place that suppress the magic of anyone who enters the main wings and patient areas."
Harry held his hand in front of his chest and momentarily pulsed it into a fist, checking for the familiar fizzle of magic at his fingertips. "And are we currently in a patient area?"
"All areas of Ward C," the Warden grinned, "are patient areas."
Draco scoffed and exchanged a look of disbelief with his partner. "So you just let the crazies have free reign to run the show around here?"
The three men stopped once they reached another door and Abbott fished for his keys again. "Mr. Malfoy, I kindly beg that you refrain from calling my patients 'crazies.'"
Draco scoffed again, quieter this time, but loud enough for Potter to hear it and quietly laugh.
"And yes, they are free to roam their designated wings during hours that do not coincide with mealtimes or curfew. Exhaustive studies have proven that those small freedoms keep their minds stimulated, which means that they're less likely to pose a threat to themselves and those around them."
The Warden wiggled another key into the new lock, opening the door into a large room that resembled a cafeteria. Mint walls boasted colorful posters of inspirational quotes and popular characters from children's stories. The expanse of cold, white tiles echoed the sounds of shuffling shoes and bare feet that belonged to Mediwitches in crisp uniforms and patients in scrubs and hospital gowns that were all in varying states of disarray.
Many of the patients sat at the tables with cafeteria trays in front of them, but a few could be found at art easels or throwing a tennis ball back and forth along the perimeter of the back wall. No one was making a significant amount of noise – which Draco was admittedly surprised to witness – but there was an almost claustrophobic sensation of unease that seeped from the ceiling and clung to the walls. An innate, unshakeable heaviness.
It wasn't a scene that Draco would have necessarily described as chaotic, but he certainly wouldn't make a habit of visiting, even if he found out that a friend or relative was housed here.
"Don't ever go barmy, Potter," he whispered to Harry as they trailed behind the Warden. "Because you'll never see my name on your visitation list for this shitehole."
"Noted, Malfoy," he replied with a sarcastic grin.
Another long stretch of walking through yet another vast hallway caused Draco's eyes to wander toward the little green placards that adorned each cell door.
G. Lockhart, A. Longbottom, F. Longbottom.
He absently took note of the shared surnames and wondered what their stories were.
The fleeting thoughts passed just as quickly as they came when the trio, yet again, ended in a pause at another large, metal door. Draco began to notice that the facility seemed to be partial to routine, Abbott especially.
Walk. Pause. Keys. Door.
Walk. Pause. Keys. Door.
His eyes met the faces of the Healers and Mediwitches that they passed as they trudged through the seemingly endless, stark corridors. He couldn't help but wonder how they themselves managed to maintain their mental fortitude between the robotic monotony of their daily schedule and the consistent, direct exposure on the precipice of where torture met care, and where sanity met insanity.
As they traversed deeper into the bowels of Ward C, passing through wings that Draco presumed were divided by level of care, (read: level of pain in the arse to deal with) not even happy-go-lucky Harry Potter, the absolute personification of a Golden Retriever, could deny that the faces of the staff appeared to grow more and more grim. Troubled. Haunted.
And had it gotten darker? Why in Merlin's name was it so hard to pay a sodding light bill? Weren't those sorts of things supposed to be bloody subsidised for hospitals?
"Forgive me, Warden," Draco started when he noticed a lull in Abbott's mindless, chattering stream of consciousness that he didn't bother to pay attention to. "But if I'd have known we were going on a long, romantic stroll through the dark hallways of a looney bin, I would have brought a bottle of wine and a box of condoms."
Potter elbowed Malfoy in the ribs, forcing him to release a sharp exhale and reflexively palm the assaulted area in a fruitless effort to soothe it.
"You won't have to worry about that detective promotion if you're fired," Harry warned with a low grumble, which only earned him a sneer in response.
"Worry not, gentlemen," Abbott called over his shoulder with a carefree intonation. "We're here."
Warden Abbott took another customary – edging on performative – pause in front of what he claimed to be the final steel door. This one bore a sign above the threshold that said 'East Wing. Authorized Personnel Only. No Visitors Permitted Beyond This Point.'
"This is the East Wing," – brilliant, he is – "This is where we house and care for our most sensitive cases, including Patient 050680 – the one who your mission is centered around."
Abbott wiggled his key into the lock, but rather than following through with his typical, ceremoniously wide swing, he stuck the toe of his shoe between the door and the jamb and peered at the Aurors from over his shoulder. "Ready?"
Draco and Harry exchanged a look of uncertainty from the corners of their eyes before nodding tentatively and earning another wide grin that looked like it best suited a used broom salesman.
When the Warden moved aside, the difference between the shadowy corridor that they waited in versus the short row of cells past the East Wing door was staggering.
It was bright. Blinding. Draco considered for a moment that the fluorescent bulbs overhead were so intensely glaring that it would have been impossible for one to sleep in such conditions. It seemed enough to drive a man to madness, but after a secondary glaze over the thought, he supposed that that didn't really matter.
And it was cold. Freezing. The air was stale and unmoving, but the temperature itself was biting. The Aurors had to wonder what the point of interrogating this patient was. To see if he was a better fit for Azkaban? The frigid temperatures were identical to the whipping winds of the North Sea that surrounded the prison. While Azkaban was constantly shrouded in darkness, one could argue that uninterrupted exposure to the artificial, fluorescent lighting was much worse.
Both would eventually bring a man to the brink of insanity, but at least the darkness had a romantic way of drawing one towards it. It was mostly eerie and lonely, but in some cases, one may find comfort in the unknown blanket of the expanse of night.
But in the light? One would not only have to reconcile with the monsters in their head, but they would also be forced to realise the harsh reality that surrounded them.
A prison cell was a prison cell, no matter the geographical location – but perhaps the one that allowed its prisoner to close their eyes and pretend to not exist was the lesser of two evils.
Draco wondered if signing off on sending this crazy sod to Azkaban would be considered an act of mercy.
Warden Abbott led them halfway through the hall, the tap of his shoes against the tile echoed at a greater volume than anywhere else they'd ventured to that day. "I do have a confession to make," the older wizard admitted with a hint of reluctance before turning on his heels and facing the Aurors.
Draco felt his hand twitch toward the wand pocket in his uniform and in his peripheral vision, he watched Harry do the same.
Abbott's eyes widened momentarily at the sight, but it was almost instantaneous that they crinkled at the corners and he repainted his signature shite eating grin. "Unfortunately, neither of you will be able to conduct your interrogation of Patient 050680 because he's…" he visibly struggled to find the right word. "Missing."
"Missing?" Potter repeated the word as if it belonged to another language; which, in that moment, felt like it did.
"Yes," Abbott sighed. "As of this morning. The Healers were making their morning rounds and discovered that his cell was completely empty."
"What the fuck are you playing at, Abbott?" Potter could scold him, even report him if he felt it necessary – but Draco was done with biting his tongue and being polite.
The Warden gaped at the Auror.
"You said there were magic suppressing wards–"
"There are!"
"Then how in the hell did one of your bloody prisoners–"
"Patients!"
"–fucking inmates escape?!"
The sounds of the collective, heavy breathing belonging to all three men bounced off the walls. Ears ringing and chests panting from the sudden onslaught of adrenaline, this Abbott fellow should've counted his lucky stars for neither Malfoy's nor Potter's Auror reflexes kicking in.
"Now, now, gentlemen, I know what you're thinking," the Warden recaptured his jovial disposition and reined in the tension that clouded the small passageway. "I can assure you that no one here is in any danger. This was likely the result of a lapse in our muggle security systems – I'm sure that the both of you are well aware of our world's moments of incompatibility with the muggle world and their technologies."
"Why have it set up this way at all?" Harry asked with stern intonation.
"As we've established, there are magic suppressing wards to keep the patients from accidentally hurting themselves or the staff, so any magical security systems would be rendered ineffective," Abbott explained. "Our muggle systems have served us well over the years, but I'll also admit that there have been a small number of lapses–" he held his hands in front of his chest and motioned for the two Aurors to settle down when they bristled at his admission. "However, gentlemen – please don't get your knickers in a twist – we've always found the source of the problem and gotten it solved quickly and without incident."
"And you've had your pet lunatics escape before?" Draco's voice was thick with sarcasm.
Abbott hesitated.
"Well… no, but–"
Just as Draco shifted his weight to reach for his wand again, Harry jumped between his partner and the Warden in order to de-escalate their rising hostility.
"Alright, stop it!" Potter chastised Malfoy through gritted teeth. "Do you want to get this assignment handed over to someone else?"
The Slytherin didn't deign to supply a response; instead, he backed away and straightened his robes with a brusque tug at the lapels, eyes remaining glued to the Warden with a scrutinising glare.
Harry turned back to face Abbott. "Can you at least tell us what this patient's crimes were, so that we can decide if it's worthy of remaining on a hair trigger for the rest of the visit?"
"Of course it's worthy!" Draco interjected. "The bastard's options were either here or Azkaban."
The Warden hesitated again, and Draco assumed that it was a well-practiced habit of his at this point.
"We do have Patient 050680's memory vials on hand, left over from his Wizengamot trial – we like to keep those sorts of documentation filed away for future reference – but unfortunately, due to the patient's advanced condition, some of the finer details are a bit, err… fuzzy."
"Are we authorised to see them?" Draco asked with a raised brow, curiosity instantly piqued at the thought of stepping into the mind of a madman. Not only that, he couldn't lie and say that he wasn't amused by the concept of a psychiatric facility so readily handing over the details of a patient's records without so much as a signature.
Warden Abbott simply nodded and stepped away from the Aurors, starting back toward the front of the hallway and then stopping next to the exit. "This patient's history is particularly interesting," Abbott narrated as the Aurors followed. "Like every other patient housed in Ward C, he lost his mind after extensive exposure to the Cruciatus Curse – but somehow, for reasons that even our most advanced Healers still cannot deduce, the effects weren't instantaneous."
"What do you mean, Warden?" Potter asked in a low, inquisitive voice.
He turned on his heel at a small door that looked as though it concealed a supply closet and then retrieved the same keyring from his pocket that he'd used before. Repetitious as always, Abbott plucked a key from the ring without a second glance and jimmied it into the lock.
"Patient 050680 did indeed lose his mind to the effects of the curse, but unlike any other patient on record, his symptoms did not manifest in the typical forms of incoherent babbling or dramatic age regression. Rather, he experienced intricate delusions that made him… a savant, of sorts?" The Warden shrugged his shoulders and then took a cleansing breath that trembled slightly when he exhaled. "Because of his high level of independent function, it's difficult to pinpoint when he started suffering from the delusions – some of our Healers believe that it was as recent as only a couple of years ago, while others think that he could have been concealing his symptoms for over a decade."
After a few seconds of wiggling the knob, the lock released with a click and Abbott employed visible effort in order to push the door open.
The eyes of the men were met with a dark room that had been surreptitiously hidden behind the deceptively heavy door – there wasn't so much as a single candle or sconce to light the way. Additionally, there was a lack of any furniture or decorations, despite having been magically enhanced with an expansion charm.
The only thing that kept the room from being an all-consuming black abyss was the stone pensieve in the center.
It was a white stone column that lacked any intricate carvings – or any carvings at all, for that matter – and at the top sat the silver bowl, modest in size and lazily sloped at the edges to allow the viewer a larger surface to comfortably navigate their way into the past.
Abbott nudged past Malfoy and Potter to lead the way into the unassuming little supply closet. Reaching forward once he made it to the pensieve, he bent at the waist and rhythmically tapped the center of the column with the pad of his index finger. Once the rhythm was complete, a tiny door opened into the stone and revealed a rather limited collection of glass vials that had been neatly arranged into two rows.
The Warden's fingertips wagged mid-air from anticipation as his eyes glazed over the scrawl of each label. After a moment of consideration, he plucked a vial from the storage in the same fashion that he procured his keys. Once the memory vial had been removed from its home and Abbott stood straight, the hidden door closed of its own accord.
With his eyes still glued to the glass vial, he lowered his voice in warning when he regarded the Aurors. "I'd like to caution you both before you review the memory," he started. "As much as I respect and care for the wellbeing of every single patient in this facility, there is a reason that you're both here and reviewing this today–"
"Oh, come off it, Abbott. We're Aurors. We've seen plenty of disturbing things in our time, and I'm sure that this–" Harry elbowed Draco in the ribs in an effort to stop him before he said anything more stupid than he already had.
The Warden continued with a sigh. "I understand that you're both well versed in the intricacies of processing traumatic scenes, but it would be unfair for me to send the both of you into this completely blind."
Malfoy stood stoic while Potter gave a polite nod.
"If at any point either of you decide that it's too much, please feel free to pull away. We do have the written reports for you to review, and while I think it's best for the both of you to see this case firsthand, please use caution and don't feel like you have to needlessly suffer through it for the sake of sparing your pride."
A beat of silent tension followed which Draco was more than happy to break up by sidestepping the Warden and standing to the side of the pensieve. "We're not getting any younger, Potter."
Harry rolled his eyes and tried as best as he could to conceal an amused grin while he moved to join Draco.
With both Aurors standing on opposite ends of the pensieve, Abbott approached their sides and began uncorking the vial. His eyes kept flickering back and forth between the two of them, as if to scan their features for any hesitancy, which only ushered in the very sense of discomfort that the Warden swore he was trying to have them avoid.
"Alright, gentlemen," Abbott tipped the open mouth of the vial toward the silvery basin; all three men watched as the wisp of a memory delicately floated down to the center and landed in the water with a gentle ripple. "It's ready when you are."