Content Warning: This chapter deals with the suicide of a background OC. There are some descriptions of the aftermath, though none of the act itself. Draco's also not quite himself, and his thoughts on suicide and self-harm in this chapter reflect his dissociative and traumatized state.
Please take care and read at your own discretion!
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Rain slashed against the windows, making them rattle.
Draco liked rain. He'd liked it as a child when the Manor had still been home, snuggled in his bed with his favorite plushy (and once or twice, on occasions so memorable he still recalled them, in his parents' bed when Father was away on a business trip. Lucius, of course, would not stand for his four-year-old son crawling in with them, no matter how scary the nightmares had been.)
He had liked it at Hogwarts, dozing away in History of Magic, lulled in by the steady thrumming of water against the windows and Professor Binn's never-changing drone. There was something cozy about it; the entire class (except Granger) almost asleep, heads resting on desks, leaning against the wall or against a classmate's shoulder. Draco's desk had been next to an old-fashioned stove, which didn't help matters at all. Once he'd snored so loudly that Blaise had woken him by tossing a crumpled-up parchment at his head. ("Tone it down, Draco, I'd like to get some shut-eye myself.")
The rain was best here at Grimmauld Place. The house's ancient floors and staircases warped in the cold weather, creaking and groaning like live things. Covered in blankets with a warm, evenly breathing body at his side, Draco liked to lie awake for hours just listening to the noises surrounding him. Harry slept like the dead; he never woke, not even during a thunderstorm. Sometimes he tossed and turned, muttering, and then invariably rolled over and wrapped himself around Draco like a human octopus. There was no escaping from Harry's clutching limbs; not that Draco tried all that hard. There were no nightmares for him when he slept next to Harry, and no nightmares for Harry when he did his Giant Squid imitation. Win-win, really.
Only Kreacher must have left open a window again; it was getting quite cold, even with two duvets and additional blankets. He would cast a Warming Charm, but his wand was on the bedside table, too far away for him to reach. The wind howled, and there was a patter like drops of water hitting a stone floor. No, a wooden floor or a carpet. There was no stone floor in Grimmauld Place.
Draco shivered, then reminded himself that he was actually quite warm, what with Harry using him as a giant pillow and the covers piled on top of them. They'd had steak and kidney pie for dinner, with mashed potatoes and peas. Plebeian, Lucius would have called that kind of meal, but Draco loved it. He'd had two plates, so much that his stomach still ached dully, reminding him just how full he was. It really was the best, dozing away on a belly stuffed with good food, in a warm bed with an even warmer bedmate.
Harry sighed next to him, a sound almost like a gust of wind. Probably another dream. Soon enough, he'd invade Draco's side of the bed and…
There was a loud clanging sound, as if Kreacher had decided to drop a bunch of metal pots and pans in the hall outside. Not that anything the old house-elf did would come as a surprise. He really lived in a world of his own these days, dreaming up mindscapes which he inhabited at his own leisure, unimpeded by reality.
"…up now, up you get! Lazy fucks!"
The clanging sounded again, closer this time. A wand hitting metal bars or a mental house-elf tossing around kitchenware, it didn't really matter. Draco was awake now.
"You too, Malfoy! Or does your lordship feel indisposed today?"
It wasn't day-time. It was still night, and that was confusing. Stumbling out of bed, he stepped into a puddle on the floor, soaking his canvas sandals. Well, an open window (or a window that was all bars and no glass) would result in a little flooding now and then. It was nothing to worry about.
"Malfoy, I swear, you're going to drive me bloody insane. What is it with you and moving at a snail's pace these days?"
He was jerked out of his cell and pushed down the dark corridor. In front of him, McBlewitt plodded along, his hair tousled from sleep. Another inmate (Buford, or Burton) was having a loving scratch of his robe-covered butt, his fingers digging into places Draco didn't even want to think about.
"Each of you arsemongers grab a bucket now!" Hammond barked. His eyes were red, and he looked murderous. Draco knew he'd been asleep in the guards' rec room until five minutes ago. "The bloody cellar's flooded again, and bloody Albrecht said it's our turn, even though that fucker Stevenson on Level 3 and his lot slept through the last four fucking storms. Why they can't set up some bloody Permanent Shield Charms down there is beyond me, but Merlin forbid the bleeding Ministry make this godforsaken job any easier! So get a MOVE ON!"
He cast a Stinging Hex in their general direction. Draco managed to jump aside, making McBlewitt howl when the hex connected with his backside.
"Ouch! Guv, why isn't Crankshaw comin'? I mean, it ain't fair, innit, if the rest of us gotta go – OW!"
"None of your bloody business, is it, McBlewitt? I'm not spending ten minutes dragging that slacker from his cell, barely moves these days as it is! Now grab a bucket!"
They trudged down the winding stairs to the vaults. Azkaban, like many wizarding fortresses, had been built with a cellar level stretching far into the rock. Rumor had it that there were secret tunnels leading to the shore of the island and even to the bottom of the North Sea (why anyone would want an escape route that ended several kilometers under water, Draco did not know, unless medieval wizards had been really good at Bubblehead Charms). In any case, the vaults were prone to flooding whenever a storm hit. It was one of the lower chambers this time. The water looked about knee-deep, a frothing grey swill that sloshed gently back and forth.
"I ain't goin' into that!" McBlewitt remained standing at the top of the steps leading to the chamber. "I can't swim! Make the Malfoy boy do it, guv! Said you was a bloody wanker, 'e did, when you punished 'im yesterday! What a little shit, eh?"
Any Slytherin would have been ashamed of such blatantly obvious brown-nosing, but unfortunately, Hammond was receptive to it.
"He did, did he? That does it, Malfoy, you're going in."
The water was colder than a snowtroll's bollocks. Greg used to say that, back in their third winter at Hogwarts. Draco had proudly repeated it when he went home for Christmas, resulting in Mother assigning him two rolls of parchment (one in Italian, one in French) on why a pureblood gentleman never used uncouth language.
He'd written the essays in the kitchen, surrounded by house elves baking mountains of biscuits and plying him with sweets and hot chocolate. Cilly, their old French elf, had even corrected his grammar for him. ("Maître Draco 'as still not mastered le participe passé, Cilly iz not being sure if she can let him 'ave all zis chocolate if ze young master does not keep up with his studies…") Of course, in the end, Cilly had let him have all the chocolate. Lucius and Narcissa had been in Kuala Lumpur for the holidays, and Cilly, Nana and Polly had celebrated Christmas morning with him in the Big Hall.
A hex splashed into the water next to him. "Get a move on, Malfoy!"
Draco began scooping up the water, handing the full buckets to Burton (or Buford) and McBlewitt, who emptied them into a nearby drain. Soon his hands, feet and legs began to grow numb. Impatient at their slow process, Hammond cast a Vanishing Spell or two at the flooded room, but it was too weak to get rid of more than a few liters.
Once, Harry (who was too adventurous for his own good) had insisted that they try shower sex. It was supposed to be The Best Thing Ever, if the bragging of certain former schoolmates was to be believed. And indeed, the prefect bathroom at Hogwarts with its jacuzzi-like pool had surely seen a shag or twenty in the centuries of its existence. However, unlike a shower stall, the prefect bathroom was quite spacious.
Draco had painfully banged his forehead on the wall tiles when it turned out that lubrication spells and spraying water didn't mix very well. Harry had apologized profusely and then, to a disbelieving Draco, happily suggested another approach. Unfortunately, he found it really hard to say no to Harry Potter, especially when they were in the middle of shagging (or trying to). The new approach worked quite well until Draco slipped (well, he'd been distracted) and fell on top of Harry. Their attempt at shower sex resulted in a bleeding lip (Harry), two rapidly swelling bruises (Draco) and a broken shower head, not to mention everyone's wounded dignity.
Eventually, even the intrepid Boy-Who-Lived declared defeat and they took matters to the bedroom, where sane people usually engaged in intimate relations. Sometimes, the traditional way of doing things really was the best. Mellow and happy the way only a good shag made you feel, Draco didn't even mind when Weasley asked cheerfully if they'd had a run-in with a Hippogriff.
"Stop smirking, Malfoy, and move your lazy arse! If this takes more than an hour, I'm putting the three of you on restriction for slacking off!"
McBlewitt grumbled something, but Draco didn't hear him. Shower sex was not the life-changing experience it was rumored to be, but he still loved Grimmauld Place's bathroom. The bathtub with its clawed feet, a permanent Warming Charm in place so that the water never grew cold if you decided to have a good long soak. The mirror that would, in true pureblood fashion, insult your appearance until you perfected it (only Harry had bribed it into reciting Irish poetry instead). How did you bribe a mirror? Harry would have found a way.
It was a good place to be, that bathroom, and Draco decided to stay for a while, filling the bathtub with hot water, enjoying the minty smell of the bath salt and the growing warmth in his hands and feet as he stuck them into the scented foam. He was getting better at this, losing himself in sensations without dwelling too much on the whys and wherefores. It was a good thing. It was simple, much simpler than the alternative, and on occasion, time itself seemed to just – disappear. Chunks of it dropped out of reality, simply gone as if someone had Vanished them.
There he was, scooping dirty water in the bowels of Azkaban, and – blink and you'll miss it – he was trudging up the stairs again, wet and cold and hungry, and – like a camera clicking, taking pictures of unrelated moments – he was back in his cell on his bunk, spooning cold gruel into his mouth.
And still, during all that, he was at Grimmauld Place, warm and happy and content. It was becoming easier and easier to remain there, disconnected from the time and space of that other place – supposedly the real world, but a world so tediously awful he couldn't muster more than a passing recognition in its favor.
Once in a while, a small voice spoke up in the back of his head, warning him that he was obviously losing his mind. Losing control, losing touch with his sanity. The voice became less confident the longer he ignored it, however, and really, what kind of lunatic listened to voices in their head.
Harry Potter certainly wouldn't.
They found Crankshaw in his cell a few days later. Doing morning rounds, Hammond stopped suddenly and cursed under his breath. Then, he unlocked Draco's cell door.
"Go get a bucket and a strong Cleaning Potion. Bloody hell, what a mess."
It really was a mess. Crankshaw had slit his wrists lying on his bunk, and the entire thing – filthy blanket, straw mattress, even the wooden frame – was soaked red. One of the man's thin arms dangled over the edge, looking gray and almost transparent in the harsh light of early morning. The blood had pooled on the floor of the cell, some of it beginning to dry into a rusty brown.
Looking thoroughly disgusted, Hammond levitated the still body from the bunk. It was a bizarre sight; instead of flopping down, Crankshaw's arms and legs remained stiffly in the position they'd been in when he had died. Rigor mortis must have set in hours ago.
"I'm taking that to the morgue," Hammond said. "Merlin knows we don't need it stinking up the place. You get rid of the mess, you hear me? Leave the bunk and his shit, I'll Incendio it later. Not a trace of blood on the floor, though, is that clear?"
"Yes sir."
Hammond directed the stiff body outside, ignoring the questions and calls from the neighboring cells.
"Could've just hanged himself," he muttered as he left. "Clean way to go, at least."
Draco knelt down next to the puddle of blood and began to work. He had to change the water in his bucket fifteen times before the cleaning rag no longer turned it scarlet. There was a cloying, irony smell in the air, and he swallowed hard, trying to breathe through his mouth as he scrubbed. He wondered when he'd last seen Crankshaw outside his cell. In the end, Hammond had no longer tried to make the man go to his work detail. Crankshaw had simply let himself be hexed, staring silently at the wall until the Auror got tired and left him alone. 'Kissed', McBlewitt had called him. The Dementors no longer roamed the hallways, but apparently a person could do to himself what the Soulsuckers had done in times gone by. Crankshaw had existed, not lived. And then he had decided not to exist any longer.
Some of the blood had dripped onto the stone tiles under the bunk. When Draco dragged the rickety wooden thing away from the wall, something fell to the floor with a clatter. It must have been stuck in the small space between the wall and the bedframe.
He picked it up. It was a prison-issue spoon, old and dented. Its handle had been sharpened into a blade. Crankshaw must have rubbed it against the wall for hours, pausing whenever one of the Aurors walked by his cell. Or maybe he'd traded for it in the exercise yard. In the end, he had used it for one purpose and one purpose only.
Draco stared at the thing. If someone was caught with a shank, they weren't merely put on restriction. He knew this, having witnessed it once. If the Aurors found any kind of improvised weapon during their searches, they tied the guilty inmate to the bars of his cell and whipped him, then left him hanging there overnight. Rumor had it that a man had died last year.
He should give the spoon to Hammond as soon as the Auror returned. Or toss it out the window right away. Crankshaw had used this to open his veins. It wasn't just a shank, it was a shank that had killed, saturated in lifeblood. If that hadn't left a trace of Dark magic behind, Draco didn't know what would.
Carrying a thing like this would be madness.
And yet, Crankshaw had made a decision. He had lost control of his life long ago, had probably lost touch with his sanity somewhere along the way, but he had taken charge of that one, final moment. He had returned to reality long enough to bow out of it for good.
Options. Life – and death – was all about options.
Draco slipped the spoon into his baggy robes, pushing it into the loose seam at the hem of his sleeve. He'd find a place for it later. Maybe the showers, where it couldn't be traced back to him.
He began cleaning up the rest of the blood, his thoughts drifting again, leaving his surroundings behind.
Outside, the morning sun rose higher, filling the cell with a cold bright glare.