Hey! Thanks for giving this story a chance. I haven't written anything in a while, and this is my first try at Drarry, so bear with me, please. Any and all feedback is welcome. I'll try and update about once a week, depending on how my editing comes along.

Just to be safe: The first two chapters contain depictions of violence and graphic language (nothing too bad, but hey, it's *Azkaban*). There are some references to sexual abuse. Nothing actually happens, even if it may seem that way (I promise), and it's only in the first chapters. Still, please consider yourself warned.

Oh, and of course this story is slash (m/m pairing). Don't like, don't read.

October 1996, Sixth Year at Hogwarts

"Sometimes, it just seems cruel."

Draco frowned.

Up until now, he had not been listening to the chatter around him in the courtyard. His Ancient Runes text book was on his lap, open to the chapter on the twenty-four magical phonemes of the Elder Futhark. Not that he had read a single word of it. His thoughts had been on another set of runes, carved into the dark wood of a cabinet in the backroom of Borgin and Burkes.

You will find a way, boy. Do not forget, there is no greater honor for one like you.

Granger's voice, obnoxious as it was, drew his attention.

"Sometimes, it just seems cruel."

"What does?" Potter wanted to know. Bloody Potter, who seemed to be lurking around every corner these days.

"Wizarding culture," Granger said, and Draco paused. It seemed incongruent, hearing one of Father's favorite turns of phrase from a mudblood's mouth.

Father. He pushed back the sick feeling in his stomach.

He'll get out, Dragon. Just – just try to do your best, do as Aunt Bella said. He'll be home soon…

"Wizarding culture?" the Weasel repeated, as if he had trouble comprehending a multisyllabic word. Which he probably did, the idiot. "What are you on about, Hermione?"

"It's a lot of small things," Granger said. "It just feels so callous sometimes. Hogwarts' marking system, for example."

"That does seem callous a lot of times," the Weasel muttered.

"Not what I meant," Granger said, now sounding slightly impatient. "The failing grades are Poor, Dreadful and Troll."

"So?" Potter asked.

"Well, how do you think Millicent Bulstrode feels about that?"

Ever since Fourth Year, it was common knowledge that the Bulstrodes had some hag and troll ancestry, after Millicent's Great Aunt had come to the school to see the final task. Bulstrode had been teased mercilessly, both inside and outside Slytherin House.

The Weasel snorted. "Well, seems about right if they gave marks for looks…"

There was a dull thud; Draco assumed that Granger had hit him with one of her many books. She tended to do that to Potter and the Weasel.

"Bloody hell, Hermione…"

"It's not just the racist marking system. Winky's drinking herself to death down in the kitchen, and no one cares. They hide her in the broom cupboard, for goodness' sakes. Why doesn't Dumbledore do something?"

"Like what?" Potter asked.

"I don't know, get her help?" Granger was beginning to sound shrill. "Send her to therapy or rehab? But oh, that's right, silly Muggle inventions that we don't need, being wizards and all."

"It's just a house elf, Hermione," the Weasel muttered. Draco had been wondering, but her diatribe was beginning to make sense now. In a way.

"Just a house elf!" Granger seemed really furious now, and Draco idly wondered if she had finally gone round the twist. "Do you even hear yourself, Ronald? She has feelings, like you and me. Don't you see that?"

"It's just the way things are," Potter said softly.

"Come off it," Granger said, sounding colder than she usually did with her pet boy hero. "You know both worlds, Harry. Don't tell me you don't see how… how mean-spirited some of it is."

"I do know both," Potter said, matching her tone. "I used to be the house elf, didn't I?"

Potter wasn't making much more sense than the mudblood. She seemed to know what he was talking about, though.

"Then you should understand, shouldn't you? Why is it okay to keep elves as slaves, but it's life in prison for anyone who casts the Imperius? It is basically an enslavement curse. And speaking of prison, why is it an approved institutional method to incapacitate inmates by making them mentally ill? Dementors?" she added impatiently, assumably in response to the Weasel's uncomprehending expression. "In Azkaban? You might as well cause clinical depression in people to keep them in check."

Draco supposed that Potter or the Weasel gave her an answer, but he didn't hear it.

Your Father proved himself useless, boy. He is weak, and he will break. I have seen it in his mind. The cracks are there, and they are deepening… deepening… no matter. Your Lord is merciful. Your way forward is clear.

His Ancient Runes text dropped to the ground, the table of Futhark phonemes upturned. Draco did not stop to pick up the book.

"What's got into him?" Potter asked, sounding interested for the first time. "Where did he come from?"

"Forgot his poncy hair potion, didn't he?" The Weasel sniggered as Draco left the court yard behind. A year ago, he would have turned around, a biting remark about second-hand robes and sour grapes ready.

But there was no time. His way forward was clear, and more to the point, it left no room for schoolyard taunts and petty feuds. He had indulged himself on the Hogwarts Express, just once, just for Father. But that was over.

Put childish things away, nephew. Our Lord commands it, and we prostrate ourselves at his feet. There is one task ahead of you, and if you fail, your life is forfeit, and so is your mother's. I shall see to it personally. The Lord promised me. Now, a reminder, little boy, just what you could be facing…

Draco's hands twitched, as they had ever since the summer break. It was getting better; he no longer had to press his palms against a flat surface to stop the shaking. A reminder, indeed.

Granger was full of shit. Wizarding culture reigned supreme, and it was to be protected by any means necessary. He was proud to take part in the noble endeavor in any way he could. He had to.

Next time, his aunt would hold the Cruciatus for a full hour.

###

February 1999, Azkaban Prison (Post-Reform)

Draco plunged the rag into the bucket, his hand disappearing momentarily under the grey suds. The water was dirty, but not yet so filthy as to warrant another trip to the tap at the end of the corridor. It would last for another square meter or two of tiles, three if he wrung it out carefully.

The dirt tended to collect in the cracks and chinks of the stone floor, and he was careful to pay attention to every one of them, using his fingernails to scrape out whatever was stuck in there. Once, Auror Hammond had found an overlooked cigarette stub during his inspection of Draco's work. He had made him eat it. Draco knew only too well what kind of shit (sometimes literally) was to be found on the pristine floors of this noble institution. He had no intention of becoming a gourmet critic of prison floor muck.

After digging out a particularly stubborn pebble and depositing it into his bucket, he slapped the rag back onto the tiles. Even after his most diligent scrubbing, they never did seem clean. The salty ocean air coated everything in an invisible layer of grime, including the skin and hair of everyone inside the prison. Sometimes when there was a storm, one of the corridors in the cellar would flood and they'd bail out the water by the bucketful. After, the floor would be covered in large white salt stains, with the occasional dying seaweed stuck in between. That was when they brought in Draco, also known as the Merry Maid of Azkaban, and tossed him a wire brush and a bottle of vinegar. He'd scrub until the last stain was gone, even if his knuckles started bleeding and stinging like hell from the sharp cleaning solution. No salt or decomposing plants were to be left when he was done.

Father used to say that sushi, that party food of the nouveau riche, tasted just like rotting seaweed, but Draco was not particularly keen on finding out if it was true.

He glanced into his bucket. If he kept going without a change of water, he would be spreading the dirt rather than removing it. Getting to his feet, he winced at a sharp pang in his left ankle. It was a week ago that Hammond had kicked him there ("get moving, boy", as if kicking would speed up the process). The Auror's boot had left a lasting impression. The bruise was turning into all colors of the rainbow, currently a tastefully muted green, and hurt like fuck. Draco still walked with a slight limp.

He hoisted up the bucket, careful not to splash its contents on the tiles, and began the long walk to the tap. When he'd first been put on cleaning detail, he hadn't yet realized that he needed to start at the other end of the corridor, not next to the tap. Walking back and forth to refill his bucket, he had left footprints on the wet floor, after which Hammond had seen fit to leave a footprint on his ribcage ("How stupid can you be, blondie!"). Draco resented the implication that his hair color had anything to do with it. He found he preferred the slurs on his family's shady financial background or affiliation with a murderous psychopath.

The grey water gurgled down the drain, and Draco paused a moment at the window. Most of Azkaban's windows were narrow crenels in the thick walls, designed to keep out the elements – a sensible choice for architects during the fifteenth century, when Permanent Shield Charms had yet to be invented. They didn't allow for much of a view. This one had to be a later addition. It was set at the end of the corridor to let in as much daylight as possible, and had been enforced with enchanted steel bars. He could see the sea and the sky, both grey and seeming to blur into one another at the horizon. Eighty meters below, waves crashed into a jagged shore and sent a spray of white onto the rocks. There was a dark square on an elevation, a warded platform where Aurors, new inmates and the rare visitor apparated in and out. It was there that he'd first caught a glimpse of what was to be his new home. He had seen pictures of Azkaban before, and yet nothing had prepared him for that first view. It was… sinister, in a way even a magical photograph could never convey.

A loud screech and a rustle of wings made him jump. A seagull had landed on the wide ledge outside the bars. They were everywhere, screeching day and night as they rode the air currents around the castle, building their nests in every nook and cranny the ancient walls offered. Draco had seen some of the Aurors shoot spells at the birds to drive them away, but they hardly ever hit their intended targets. Seagulls were crafty and fast. Draco liked them.

The bird outside the window stared at him with its beady, black-and-yellow eyes and squawked.

"What?" Draco propped his elbows on the window ledge. "Want to see what's in here? Not worth it, believe me."

It screeched again, cocking its head.

"I don't have any food for you." That wasn't strictly true. Deep down in the folds of his baggy prison robes, there was a piece of dry bread hidden away. It was something he had started doing after he'd been put on restriction for the first time. Restriction meant whatever 'punitive measure' the Auror on duty chose, and in his case, it had been no food for the Malfoy brat for a week. On day three, he had drunk so much water he vomited. On day five, he had begged. On day six, he had fainted face-forward onto the floor of the bathroom he was supposed to clean. That was when they lifted the restriction, and when he decided that he would never again be caught without an emergency ration stashed away somewhere.

The seagull screeched and fluffed its white feathers imperiously.

"Look at you," Draco said, sticking one hand into his robes. "All that fish out there, and you want my bread. Lazy bastard."

He pushed a crumb towards the bars, careful not to touch the charms. "Here you go. Don't think there's more where that came from."

The seagull took a careful step forward and snatched up the bread. Its eyes pinned Draco as if to ask him why he would even bother with such a small piece.

"It's all I have. If that wanker puts me on restriction again- "

"Who the hell are you talking to, Malfoy?"

A whipping hex hit the back of his legs. The bird took off with an angry screech and a rustle of wings, which was good – Hammond's next hex was aimed where its head had been, and would have blasted its decapitated body into the North Sea.

"Slacking off at work again." Hammond drew the words out in that way he had when he was pleased. The man looked like a fatter version of Gilderoy Lockhart; just a little too pudgy to pull of the dashing Auror look. "Well well, the little rich boy never learns. Malfoy, Malfoy, Maal-fooy. What did I tell you?"

There had been a time when Draco would have mouthed off, like he had sometimes done at Hogwarts when he could get away with it. That was before he had found out that hunger could pierce a person's intestines like a knife.

"That you would teach me my place."

"My place, sir."

How he wished he could pull a Potter now ("No need to call me 'sir', Auror Hammond."). Then again, Saint Potter had never been in any danger of being whipped or starved.

"Sir," Draco repeated meekly.

"And is it your place to be gawking out the window when there's work to be done?"

"No sir. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry. Does sorry clean the floor, boy?"

"No sir."

"Malfoy, Malfoy. Whatever shall I do to get through that thick skull of yours? This isn't your family's palace, and you're not a man of leisure. You're just a little Death Eater fuck who's going to fucking do – as – he's – told!"

Several whipping hexes in quick succession accompanied the words, hitting him on the arse and legs. Draco yelped and bit his lip, blinking away the tears. Hammond loved to make him cry.

It's a manor, not a palace, you cretin. Not that you'd know the difference. "Yes sir."

"Yes sir, no sir, three bags full of shit, sir. Do you think I'm an idiot?"

It hurt almost physically not to say it. "N-no sir."

"Well I'm not, and you'll get what's coming to you, you little shit. Leave that," he added when Draco bent down to pick up the bucket. "You can finish later."

"Sir?" A work shift lasted twelve hours, fourteen on punishment detail. Draco knew it couldn't have been more than seven or eight; it was still light out.

"You're coming with me," Hammond said with an unpleasant smile. "There's someone who really wants to see you."

"Who is it?"

Hammond's smile widened. "Someone on Level Six who's been really lonely. I promised him to bring you by for a visit. Paid quite a few galleons, he did."

Draco felt sick. Level Six was where they kept most of the high-ranking Death Eaters. He had seen in his own home what some of those men were capable of.

"Please – "

Hammond laughed as he dragged him down the corridor towards the lift. "What, going to cry again, Malfoy? You knew it was only a matter of time."

There had been incidents, more than one, when another inmate had grabbed his arse or made lewd suggestions. Draco had always been able to get away, and once he had landed a hard punch on the wanker's nose. It had been well-worth three days of restriction for fighting. One of the Aurors who had transferred him to Azkaban had warned him to keep a low profile. "You're younger than most," he had said, looking almost worried. "They'll put you on a safe work detail, but we can't be everywhere. Just watch your back in there, lad."

Draco balked when Hammond tried to push him into the lift. "You can't do this!"

Hammond shoved him hard, almost making him fall. "You don't tell me what I can and cannot do! Get in there!"

He kept his wand trained on Draco as the lift doors closed behind him. "Stay there or I swear I'll hex your ears off. Bloody brat. Level Six!"

The lift groaned and rattled as it began to move. Draco stared at the man holding him at wand-point. Hammond was a wanker of epic proportions, but this had to be a new low even for him.

"I'll tell Williamson," he said, hoping his voice wouldn't tremble. It was an empty threat and he knew it; one lowly teenage inmate could not simply ask for a private meeting with the Head Auror. "You'll be out of a job in no time."

"You'll keep your mouth shut." Hammond grinned. "Unless someone tells you otherwise, that is."

The lift shook and stopped, its doors sliding open to reveal another corridor. Unlike the lower levels, Level Six had not been renovated during the post-war reforms. It still looked as it had for centuries, a dingy hall lined on both sides with dungeon-like cells. The only source of light were the narrow crenel windows and a quaking torch bracketed to the wall. Draco had never been taken here to mop the floor, and it didn't look like anyone else bothered.

He stumbled as they walked past the cells. Two seemed to be empty, but there was Dolohov in the third one, looking gaunt and menacing even in his prison robes. "Is that the Malfoy boy? What's he doing here?"

"Shut it!" Hammond flung a hex and Dolohov jumped back, cursing. "None of your fucking business, is it."

"Put 'im in with me, Auror," another voice called. Draco recognized Thorfinn Rowle. "Been a while since I had some tight young pussy. Or arse." He guffawed. "I'm not picky these days."

There was more laughter. Men started calling out suggestions to Rowle just what he should do about his problem, and it was all Draco could do not to vomit.

Hammond let them continue for a moment or two, then threw a Silencing Charm over his shoulder with a lazy flick of his wand. The shouting and catcalling shut off abruptly. "That's enough from these arseholes. Back here, boy."

He pushed Draco around a corner and in front the single cell situated there. Its occupant lifted his head and smiled.

"Draco. Finally."

Draco sat down hard on the stone floor. His bad ankle throbbed, and his legs felt too shaky to support him any longer.

"Father."

To be continued! Let me know what you think!