Notes: It has been months since Draco and Narcissa have been imprisoned. Issues will be touched as Draco thinks about them. You will find out what happened with the footsteps in the next chapter.

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Mum suddenly went stiff and grabbed my shoulder. Footsteps.

Someone was coming.

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I have never lived in poorer conditions in my entire life and that includes the time that Father grounded me and hid my Nimbus for a week.

I am certainly not being overdramatic; it is completely true.

My hair is matted and dirty, my clothing rags smell like sewage, and if I ring the skin on my body I could fill a bucket with oil. My mum's probably much worse; I love her with all of my tiny little heart, but for the last couple months of our imprisonment she's been getting on my nerves with all of her complaining.

I don't really know how long we've been trapped, exactly, but it's long enough for my hair to go limp and greasy and my low amount of body fat to go even lower It's not like I was in good shape before I got thrown in there; I probably look like my father right now. On normal circumstances I wouldn't mind looking like Lucius Malfoy, but he's in Azkaban for fuck's sake! I do not want to look like I've been locked in a cell!

Bugger. I have been, haven't I? Still am, in fact.

I hate it when I sound like an idiot to myself in my own head.

Mum and I haven't seen light for ages, which was quite pathetic because we can move around the room as if we memorized exactly where we needed to go. I guess that we did, actually.

Groping blindly around the room revealed plenty; the cell (which is located in my own house, mind) is small and cramped and it has no doors or openings anywhere. It's like we're trapped in a cold, stone box with no way to open it; a cube, a very uncomfortable, never-going-to-get-out cube.

There's one dingy mattress on the floor in a corner and a self-cleaning toilet in another.

This toilet isn't your normal toilet, no Sir; it is—get this—a hole in the ground!

You'd think that a hole set in stone wouldn't be so amusing, but after utilizing it for the (maybe) tenth time, I noticed that there was no flushy-flush noise. I sacrificed some of the coins in my (still intact!) pocket and discovered that everything just vanishes once it passes in its entirety through a boundary point.

Every time I feel like crying, I fanaticize about relieving myself in the Hogwarts' vanishing cabinet and yelling, "Eat shit and die, bastards!" to the Death Eaters on the other side.

Not that I would.

Cry, that is; if I ever get out of this place I'll definitely try the cabinet thing out. It's just too funny to resist.

Does it make me weird that I mentally italicize words in my own mind? Peh! Why am I even talking to myself? Oh, that's right; I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO DO!

Great, now I'm starting to sound like Harry Potter. That kid has some major problems.

I'm gonna go stalk that pretty blond-haired kid that I hate because I have green eyes and a stupid scar!

Get back on track, Draco. (Sometimes I'm too queer for my own good.)

As I was saying, I don't know who the hell decorated this place, but it certainly was not a Malfoy. My father would surely have a conniption if he saw this place. Wait. Backup. Erase. He's a Death Eater, isn't he? I'm a Death Eater. We're all Death Eaters.

I could make a song about it …

Anyway, I clearly remember the first day that Mum and I were fed because I almost stepped on what I thought was dung. It turned out that the "dung" was actually a prisoner version of "food." We decided, my mother and I, that we had never been more disgusted to bear the Mark upon our arms; not that we liked it in the first place, but now it's even more revolting, despite the cool design.

The gloop, what I named the chunky/soupy matter, is absolutely gross; there's some kind of nutrient potion (I bet my eyeballs that it's Snape-made; he always adds cinnamon to everything that doesn't explode) mixed into the formula that is keeping Mum and I alive.

I can't even describe the taste, but I swear that I'll never lay a finger on it again for as long as I live, stating now, which probably won't be much longer since I'll starve to death eventually. I am completely firm in this decision, and I won't cave in again like I did yesterday and the day before that and so on.

Yep. It's time for a fast, Mr. Malfoy. Show that gloop who's boss!

"Darling," my Mum said, "I think that we need to Talk."

If I could groan out loud without getting slapped I would; my mother can be quite violent at times. She's absolutely frustrating; I can still recall the conversations from the previous week, no matter how hard I try not to listen. The Talks always go along the lines of: "Draco, you should appreciate that you are still alive and relatively healthy blah blah blah."

Riiight, Mum. The cuisine here is exquisite. Polly wanna crackah?

"You know that your father and I love you, right?" she continued.

I'd roll my eyes if I could remember how to use them; I don't even know if they're actually open or not. I must check…

And the verdict is: closed.

"Are your eyes open, Mum?" I asked. Whatever she was saying stopped and then there was silence.

"There's no difference," she replied shortly. "Draco, are you feeling okay? Do you think you are getting sick?"

"No." Pause. "I'm feeling 'relatively healthy' at the moment," I said cheekily.

"Draco Malfoy!" she shrieked in the way only annoyed mothers can shriek, which is equally as annoying as the original annoyance that set off the string of annoyances.

Actually, I am starting to get a head ache from thinking too much, but my mother wouldn't appreciate that fact that I lied to her. No matter, I just won't tell her; it's not like we have many potions on hand to drink at leisure.

"Yes, Mother?" I asked in my twee-yeaw-ol'-Dwaco voice.

I know that she can't resist my natural Malfoy Charm; not many can. The only time they ever fail me is when the Gryffindor boys in my year (Mudblood included) are around, but they don't deserve it anyway, the ingrates.

She made a 'hmm' kind of sound in the back of her throat. The last thing I heard her direct my way surprised me, to say the least.

"Try not to think out loud."

Woopsie.

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