Civil Disobedience
By March Madness
I was put into a jail once on this account, for one night; and, as I stood considering the walls of solid stone... I could not help being struck with the foolishness of that institution which treated me as if I were mere flesh and blood and bones, to be locked up... I could not help but smile to see how industriously they locked the door on my meditations... As they could not reach me, they had resolved to punish my body; just as boys, if they cannot come at some person against whom they have a spite, will abuse his dog.
Civil Disobedience, Henry David Thoreau
Chapter One: Mere Flesh and Blood and Bones
June 14, 1998
Hogwarts, Evening
This was it, Harry decided, looking outside as the winds howled unnaturally. He glanced around to make sure that no one else had broken Dumbledore's orders but it seemed the coast was clear. Confidently, he pulled the Invisibility Cloak from off the three sets of shoulders. "Are you ready?" he asked, eyes flashing as lightening went off in the distance.
Ron smirked back at him, amused. "'Course I am," he answered just as surely, eyes bright with courage and looking every bit a Gryffindor.
Rolling her eyes, Hermione smiled. "Let's just get this done before they've realized we're not in the Common Room like we're supposed to be." Her lips pressed together in thought. "Do you think we could get this done without anyone finding out?"
Harry laughed aloud at her, the sound reaching through his whole body. It felt good to laugh, especially with what was going to happen. Ron grinned, and Hermione flushed slightly, huffily explaining, "I just don't want to lose my Head Girl status over this-"
"Trust me, Hermione," Ron cut in. "When they find out what we've done, 'Head Girl' will be the lowest thing on your list. We'll all get awarded one of those medals from the Ministry."
"I hope you don't count on it," Harry joked. "Fudge would probably try to pass this off as his plan, and then award himself the medals." He shrugged. "And if anyone does find out, Hermione, do you honestly think they'll be angry with us?"
"If they are, then they better watch out," she said in a low voice, tips of her mouth pulling down in an angry frown. "After tonight, Fudge had better not try to mess with you, Harry."
"Or the rest of us, I should think!" Ron exclaimed, looking slightly injured. "I'm not about to let them stomp all over my dignity-"
Laughing again, Harry pulled his two friends in for a quick, close hug, arms tight with anticipation. They were just as stiff, and when the three pulled apart they eyed each other determinedly. "Remember," he added, opening the door to the roaring storm outside of Hogwarts, "don't try anything stupid. If one of us goes down, then it's all over. Nothing like last time, Ron." His eyes darkened as he turned to face the hoards that were bound by Hogwarts' failing magic just outside of the forest.
"Just as long as you remember that this isn't all about you," his best friend retorted, an underlying sense of trust and resolution strengthening his words. Hermione didn't reply. She took the first step outside the door, and then the three walked into the eye of the storm.
September 1, 2001
Azkaban, Afternoon
The door clanked open. Light spilled into the small, dusty jail cell.
"You're sure 'e's not dead? Looks like there's a layer of grime all across the floor."
"He's alive. Seems like he doesn't like to move. Maybe the dementors sucked every last bit of energy out of him."
Draco Malfoy slowly opened his crusted eyes, vision blurry and unfocused. For a few minutes, he couldn't even understand what the two sounds were that had disturbed his sleep. When he understood the voices, he let his eyes close. 'Another guard trying to get a rise out of me,' he thought dryly, his mental voice hoarse and coarse with disuse.
Really, he didn't think at all, at least not with a voice or string of words. He'd spent too much time in Azkaban to be that levelheaded. His thoughts were distorted and cut up slices of images and sound, nothing in sequence and no clear order. In fact, his mind had all but rotted to an animalistic state. All he really knew was that his tormentors were back, and that if he stayed still as usual they'd not harm him.
"Is that him in the corner?"
"Yea. Told you he was alive."
"What do they do about feeding him?"
"No idea. The dementors probably shove it down his dirty throat."
"Serves him right. Horrible. Heard his mum did herself in when the Ministry refused all appeals. Couldn't bear the thought of her little boy in Azkaban for life. You know, he's only 21."
"I'd never guess it--only 21 with a record to make the devils weep."
Draco let him mind drift back into the stupor he'd let it wallow in for the last three years. There, with no real conscious activity though he was awake, the dementors couldn't reach him. There, nothing could reach him.
"...Well, we're wasting time. Need to get this one upstairs and cleaned up before the Minister shows up. Heh, what'll you think it'll take to get this prat presentable."
"Nothing." The voice was dead somber, murdering the humorous undertone of the conversation. Shakily, it added, "After what he'd done... no, I don't think he'll ever be more presentable than he is now. Let's go."
Draco realized as rough hands grabbed him that this was no usual taunt. All his distorted and burned memories showed that never had anyone touched him, all being too afraid to go beyond verbal abuse. His mind was shocked back to awareness and, instinctively, he fought against the rough hands. His feet pounded against dusty stone slabs even as they were dragged from the cell. He snarled; he snapped; he bit down hard on one of his handlers' knuckles. All the while, as the two jailers cussed and cuffed him, Draco's mind was slowly sharpening itself like a dulled knife against a hard surface.
His memories slowly rose, connecting and reasserting his sanity. He was able to recognize the fact that the immediate area was empty of all life/soul-sucking dementors. When he did, he gasped aloud and stumbled, accidentally bring one of the jailers down with him. He lay on the group, gaping like a fish, his body a dead weight the two jailers struggled and failed against. For a moment, all his mind was focused on the memory of a dementor's constant presence, slowly replacing that memory with the freedom he felt now.
Happy memories that he'd carefully hidden from the dementor's reach like a forest stash slowly resurfaced, filling him with wonder after three years of reliving the worst of his life. He felt the wonder a boy felt with, stumbling in a toyshop, he sees the world laying in wait at his fingertips.
It was exhilarating.
The next thing Draco realized was pain--real, physical, tangible pain that had a source and reason and cause as a guard slammed a toe into his belly. Draco gasped again, his brief maniac grin replaced with a grimace, though that too twisted into a toothy smile. He could feel again, and he could know why he felt. He curled over to one side, gagging through his teeth as weakened flesh bruised and crumbled. He could feel... and he felt awful.
"-think a dementor-"
Draco withered on the floor but managed to choke out, "N-noo! No!"
His stutter was faint-sounding to his ears and he thought the jailers hadn't heard. Mind focussing and gathering his torn sanity, Draco blinked his eyes, trying to see in the dark. He could make out two towering, shifting, blurring shapes and over one hung a globe bright as any sun. Draco hissed in a breath, squeezing his eyes shut as the dim torch's light threatened to burn his paralyzed retinas.
"You think he hears us?" one voice asked hesitantly. "Hey Malfoy, you understand me?"
Somewhat dazed, Draco simply relaxed on the floor, ignoring his belly's cries of pain.
"Don't want any dementors, huh? Then how about you get up, nice and slow, and get to walking."
"N-no no no no," Draco whispered, unable to help himself as the thought of those monsters filled his mind with quivering, cowardly terror. He opened his eyes again, adjusting to the firelight, and then weakly struggled to get up. Two pairs of rough hands immediately grabbed his forearms, dragging him to a standing position, callously ignoring his body's fragile condition.
"Blimey, and I thought he was long gone."
"You ever heard of something like this?"
"Naw. I always thought the Death Eaters lost it after the first year--all 'cept that Black bloke."
"No one's caught him yet, right?"
The two's conversation drifted to topics beyond Draco's grasp, but as they walked and dragged him on, Draco quietly regained possession of his thoughts--enough, as least, to dimly understand the situation.
He was caught. The thought popped up and vanished without explanation. He accepted it anyway. Details would come later.
He had been caught a while yet. The two talked fearlessly, not paying any attention to his antics, so he had to have been held long enough to be thought broken.
Draco accepted this as well, taking a deep breath. His feet scrapped against something, nearly tripping him. The next step hit with the same obstacle, the floor rising about a hand from where it had been. In awe, Draco stared at the ground, each step forward progressively rising, and his mind drowned with the memory of a stairway. The two jailers laughed at him, poking fun in a morbid way, but the discovery had brought about his last and greatest realization.
He was not broken.
When the two jailers reached the top of the stairs, dragging Draco with them but basically ignoring his entire presence, they unknowingly brought back to the word and sane and intact Draco Malfoy, hiding his signature smirk as his self-made shields destructed, restoring him to his full capacities.
They unknowingly brought back Draco Malfoy, Lord Voldemort's dark dragon and right-hand man.
...
The jailers left him in the presence of a nameless witch, one whose only purpose in life was the washing of Azkaban inmates. As she wordlessly doused him in cleaning charms, cutting his hair to a disgracefully short length, fitting him in gray but new robes, Draco amused himself by trying to give her a name.
She was dressed in the same drab robes as she put on him. Her magical razor shaved close enough to nick him several times, but by the careless way she worked, Draco suspected that she still had no idea who he was -- that to her, he was just another bloody prisoner needing cleaning. Then again, from her mechanical moves, Draco thought that she really didn't care who he was and, if she knew his name, she'd treat him no differently.
From there, he was picked up by a grim faced wizard whose scarred skin suggested battle action in the war. The veteran glared suspiciously at Draco, but Draco played dumb by gaping at everyday things and gibbering quietly to himself. The veteran left him in a brightly-lit room, none the wiser of Draco's restored sanity.
'So,' Draco squinted in the face of the light, 'they want me dumb and blind?' He carefully guarded his features, letting nothing show as Aurors were doubtlessly watching, noting his every reaction to use the data in detailed reports for battling Death Eaters.
The only things Draco could see through his lidded eyes were two straight-backed chairs separated by an unsteady desk. All were darkly colored. Draco mentally smirked at the blinding technique then deliberately felt his way around the room until he stumbled into one chair. Gracefully, he threw himself into the cushions, allowing a moment or two of unguarded bliss at the feel of something so soft, so smooth, so inviting. His knees felt ready to come apart with a tap and the rest of his body felt as steady as a leaf. Even if he had a wand, at this point he probably wouldn't even get off the chair before collapsing.
That analysis brought a faint smile to his lips. 'All the times I planned on breaking into Azkaban, freeing my men while catching some prisoners... now that I get the chance, I'm as frail as a reed.'
Draco let his eyes close though the blinding light still leaked through to burn black spots on the insides of his lids. He had been given a moment of respite; might as well use the time to shape together his bruised mind.
He had been caught on July 17, 1998. He could recall the day in all its glory: crystal-clear skies, a beaming sun, birds calling in the distance... all about a month past Lord Voldemort's final fall at Potter's hands. Draco had been moping around, too shocked to accept that his time at the Dark Lord's side could be so short, refusing in fact to believe that his master had truly been defeated. In the month after that last battle, Draco had ordered countless scorpion strikes, pointless now without Voldemort but stinging the magical community nonetheless. While his Death Eaters killed, Draco paced around the Manor with sightless eyes recalling how Voldemort had once stood here, had planned a raid there, had been the master of the Manor as surely as any Malfoy.
That day... that day had become too much. Draco had decided once and for all to do something final in Voldemort's fallen honor.
His Death Eaters had been diminished. Without Voldemort, many turned tail to the Ministry. Others were caught or killed in duels. Even so, Draco had nearly succeeded where even his master failed. His surprise attack on Hogwarts almost destroyed the school. If there had only been a dozen more Death Eaters...
Afterwards, on his way to Azkaban, Draco had systematically shut down in the way of all high-level Death Eaters, and he'd stayed shut down until the chance for escape arose.
Escape... now...
Draco's reflections were cut back when he heard a door open. His eyes had adjusted to the light, and though they watered when he opened them, he found that the only real light was a low level Lumos spell. The discovery made his lips curl up in disgust. 'So weak now.'
"Will you be needing any assistance, Minister?"
"No, no, I'll be fine. And go find those blasted Aurors! Tell them I know when they're spying on me, and I want them to knock it off!"
"Yes, Minister."
The door opened again, closing with a final note.
The Minister was a wiry old wizard, clean-shaven and bald with dark spots littering his wrinkled forehead. Draco imagined he could wrap his hands around the wizards thing neck and squeeze. The wizard didn't look strong at all and probably wouldn't put up any resistance. Was there a wand hidden in those baggy robes?
"Ah, Mister Malfoy. It's good to see you again." The Minister took a seat on the other chair and offered Draco a grandfatherly smile. "Of course, you were out cold the last time I saw you. Did you know that I had only been sworn in three days before I got your case? Quite a shock, having to decide what to do about Draco Malfoy on the first week of the job."
Draco smiled back faintly, relaxing into his chair. This man was an imbecile. His father had managed to control Fudge for over a dozen years; would this wizard be so easily manipulated?
The question of a wand was answered as the Minister pulled his out, conjuring up some sweets and politely holding the bowl out. "Would you care for some?"
"Thank you, but no. Sugar ruins the teeth." His teeth cracked together as he spoke. Time in Azkaban rotted everything.
The Minister's face lit up with childish delight. "So you are lucid. Wonderful! I was worried -- three years and still holding on. Mind, it's nothing compared to Black's twelve-year streak. Drat the man, he'll have to turn up sooner or later, especially with this new business. We'd forgotten all about him, and now it seems that he's made use of that. I don't' suppose you could tell me where your man's hiding?"
Draco mutely shook his head.
"Oh well. I don't suppose you'd know where he was, anyway. Three years without contact. Well, well, well." The Minister sighed and stood. "I'll just go and tell Albus to come in. He's the one who really got me the job, so one favor is in order, but really! Releasing our top prisoner on some mission is a bit much to ask for, even if two Aurors will be watching..." Whatever the man was going on about, he trailed off out of earshot, leaving through a door Draco just noticed.
'Perplexing,' Draco thought. The feeling of being watching had vanished, so Draco leaned forward with a frown, ignoring his body's aching protest at any movement. 'Mission? Dumbledore? Freedom?'
He liked that last part a lot.
The door opened, and the bumbling Minister showed Dumbledore in, leaving the old headmaster alone with his old student. The door clicked shut.
For a long moment, Draco stared unblinkingly at Dumbledore. The wizard had aged noticeable. Always, Dumbledore had excluded a sort of timeless wisdom that never faded. Now that calming exterior was cracking at the edges. Physically, the wizard had only gained a half dozen new wrinkled and had shrunk a bit, becoming more prunish.
Dumbledore broke the silence by walking to the Minister's vacated chair and taking a seat. "Mister Malfoy," he greeted coolly, blue eyes measuring Draco up, dissecting him, leaving him feeling totally exposed.
Draco's jaw tightened. 'Mister Malfoy?' The headmaster was obviously forgetting the Hogwarts' professor-student relationship and the only protection Draco might have had went down the drain. Politely, Draco tipped his head forward. Even thought they'd been on different sides in a war, the power Dumbledore represented was one to be respected. "Headmaster."
Were those blue eyes twinkling? Unsettled, Draco sourly wished for his wand.
"I'm sure you're all too curious as to why your sentence is being temporarily lifted."
"Yes," Draco answered, his voice a measured drawl to hide his uneasiness. "I was rather enjoying my future of rotting away forever. Or had 'forever' been lifted as well?"
Dumbledore smiled thinly. "I'm afraid not. Minister Parkinson has continued his predecessor's wish that you be kept in Azkaban for three life sentences."
"That, combined with the condition of no visitors, has made my childhood dreams come true." Draco mentally flinched at the thought of just how horrible Fudge made things. "Are you going to tell me why you've taken me out of that paradise, or is this just some new Ministry torture tactic? Let Draco out of his cage every three years to show him what he's been stripped of." He hoped Dumbledore didn't catch the real bitterness of that, and then decided that he wanted the headmaster to know -- an angry Malfoy might get the attention that a comatose one didn't.
"Aside from the excessiveness, your punishment is fully justified, Mister Malfoy." Dumbledore's voice went cold. "Murder is a crime beyond regular punishment, and your death toll would turn even the most peaceful man bloodthirsty."
Draco limply shrugged a shoulder. "Death and war are the same things. Show me a peaceful wizard who's lived in England during the past five years, and I'll show you one who's mad. My trial should have been an international affair as it was clear where British sentiments ran."
Eyes glittering, he added, "And my alibi was completely disregarded without any proper consideration. You forget that I was a minor during the entirety of my association with Voldemort. Any jury in the world would have seen the truth of my innocence instead of condemning me here without a trial in the first place."
"I did not come here to discuss your technicalities, Draco," Dumbledore answered somberly. "I came here to bargain your release."
...
The sky was unusually bright for it being night, Draco decided, wincing at the glare on the moon and the piercing twinkle of the stars. He closed his eyes, letting the pain subside and adjust and then disappear altogether, then he allowed himself to be tugged to the boat that would serve as his transportation past the apparation point.
The guards glared at him, murder in their eyes if not on their hands. He let himself smirk, the muscles on his face stiffly contracting, and the pain was worth it to see their faces go stormy and sinister. If Dumbledore hadn't been onboard, Draco knew full well he'd probably be dead.
'That,' he realized, mental voice regaining its old silk, 'is definitely an issue I want to think about.' The smirk slid off his face as he focused his energy on something else, and the guards relaxed slightly at the empty look of concentration.
He doubted that many people would be happy to see his release, even for such a noble cause, and those people would be out for his blood when they had the chance. He'd offended many people during his short career, not that he really cared. The offending had been a fun task.
Aloud, voice craggy and unfit for his bloodline, Draco said, "It would be a pity for you to go through all this work, headmaster, only to have me end up on the smoking end of some widow's wand."
The old wizard stirred; had he been asleep? Blue eyes looked over at him from bags of aged skin and wrinkles. "A pity for you, but few others would mourn the loss."
Snorting, the sound coming out like some dying explosion, the captured/released Death Eater replied, "I thought it was you who said I'm the irreplaceable one."
"You will be a valuable asset among many equally valuable assets, Mister Malfoy. Your death would be unfortunate, but hardly tragic."
"So am I to assume an Auror protective force out of the question?"
"Shut yer mouth," one of the guards answered for him. "This ain't no questionnaire time. You'll get tha answers given you, and non else."
Draco was about to answer that interruption with something witty and cutting, but Dumbledore seemed to have fallen asleep again, and he doubted the old headmaster's reaction time would be quick enough to save him from the guard's speculating glare. Ignoring the two buffoons, Draco made himself as comfortable as possible on the boat. The waves rocked it back and forth, but never to the threat of capsizing.
If Dumbledore could catch some sleep on such a night as this, Draco wasn't about to allow himself to be caught lacking. Sleep, of course, would be a nightmare, but his eyes could still close and his heart could still slow.
'This is interesting,' he thought, voice unnaturally quiet in the still of his mind. As howly and loud as it was outside, his mind was quiet as a grave. Just the simple act of closing his eyes made him feel cut off from the world, more isolated than anything Azkaban could conjure.
Mister Malfoy, Dumbledore said and he leaned forward slightly as if to emphasize his words, I'm sure you're interested to know exactly why we are considering your temporary release.
Not really. I just want to get out of here.
Yes, of course I want to know.
Well, the headmaster continued when Draco kept quiet, I know that you haven't heard of recent events. It seems as though a new dark wizard has arisen, trying to take your… master's place in life.
Impossible. It'll never happen.
Is it possible? Who could do it, aside from myself?
The facts aren't important, said the old wizard, because once you're out, you'll be able to find out anything you want and in more detail than I could explain right now. The important part, and the reason you are here, is the fact that the wizarding world is currently defenseless against this power -- or, close to being defenseless.
Defenseless? What about Potter?
What about Potter and the Weasel and the Mudblood?
You're being released, and Dumbledore said this as if the words were dragged from his throat, to help us. In part, to repay society for the crimes you've committed against it.
I owe nothing.
They can never force me.
You're being released, and here the headmaster paused, to find Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, who have disappeared in the last three years. They will help you then find Harry Potter, who has not been seen since the last battle against Voldemort.
It was insulting and a little hurtful for Draco to realize that, in fact, he had never actually fought against Potter. In his mind, he had always thought that they'd battled and that he'd almost won, that day he'd brought his forces against Hogwarts. He was certain that the bespectacled, black-haired teenager had been there. He could remember clearly seeing Potter's anguished expression sometime during the fighting, face torn up in rage and defeat when it seemed that Hogwarts was certain to fail. Aside from utterly defeating Dumbledore and razing the castle to the ground, Draco's main motive had been the destruction of the Golden Boy.
And now Dumbledore had kindly informed him that Potter, in fact, had been missing for as much as a month before.
'Is it destiny?' he wondered, hardly feeling the rocky motions of the boat anymore, hardly noticing the cold winds and the weight of the guards. 'Will we ever have a proper duel?'
No, because Potter's luck prevented him from ever losing. Draco knew with a dead certainty, one that had buoyed him up through the years, that the only reason they'd never actually fought against each other was because Potter would lose. It had been Draco who had fought against a team of trained Aurors, grown wizards when he had been nothing more than a gangly teen, and Draco had won easily. It had been Draco who, not even graduated from Hogwarts, had flown through Lord Voldemort's ranks, moving past men who'd served years without change. What did Potter have? A Quidditch record and some fabricated school stories?
There had only been one time, back in first-year, and Draco had stupidly forfeited that opportunity. 'But never again, Potter. The next time, when your friends aren't there to interfere and when your professors aren't there to protect, when it's just you and me… then you will fall hard and you will realize who is the better of us.'
Find Harry Potter. What an utterly ridiculous reason to let out a Death Eater from Azkaban. And what a tantalizing opportunity.
Draco opened his eyes again. And even though Dumbledore looked asleep, he knew that the old wizard was awake. Mentally, he sneered. 'So you know,' he sent out towards the headmaster. 'That's why you're willing to risk my release. You know what I'll do.
'If it kills me, I'll find Potter for you. I won't rest, I won't sleep, I won't try to escape. I'll be too busy trying my best to kill him.'