A/N: I actually love Draco. I hope this shift isn't too quick for you, but I reckon he thought a lot about his life, family, and allegiances during his sixth and seventh years. When you're cock of the walk and freaking out about your family falling apart at the seams, there is ample opportunity to ruminate, reflect, and change your perspective. Plus, ,I really wanted to write prissy, spoiled, but also repentant and perhaps-not-actually-evil Draco.
Chapter Eight: Detachment
Friday, May 8, 1998: Early Morning
We are going to be tried together. That is what the Aurors told me yesterday when they came around to make sure I wasn't yet dead. The wards around my cell went down and a short man with a thin face walked inside. His voice had been soft, like he was talking to someone very ill. I am, in a way. When he saw me, I was lying on the steel frame that a Gryffindor would lovingly refer to as a bed. It may be my pampered upbringing, but I just don't see it. In any case, I will definitely not be leaving this place without some chronic injury. That is, if I leave at all.
His words hadn't registered straightaway. Merlin, I hadn't even noticed him entering. I was tired and hungry, and couldn't muster the energy to sit up, let alone know what was going on around me. He had to repeat himself a few times, had to gently shake my shoulder for me to finally understand that somebody else was intruding on my little piece of hell. I nodded my head and shrugged at his words, resolutely indifferent. On the inside though, I was ecstatic. A trial? That is more than I ever could have hoped for. Truthfully, I don't think it has sunk in, the implications of such an event. The fact we are being tried together must be significant; I am Slytherin enough to know that much at least. Nothing, especially anything political, is what it appears to be on the surface. I haven't come up with any theories as of yet, but I suppose all will become clear in time.
It has been less than a week and already I want to die. When the hopelessness of my situation overwhelms me, I close my eyes and pretend I am home with my family. Father is here, but it isn't quite the same. Not least of which because he thinks I'm safe with mother, plotting devious plans of escape for him and his friends. But no, I am with him, and she is alone. It must be very difficult for her. I do not envy the mission she has promised to carry out. Of course, she could just forget about us, leave her family to rot in these cells, praying that one day we will be saved. I don't know if she can do it though, cut us off. Mother always seemed like the kind of person to just get on with whatever task sat before her, not resting until it was completed to her satisfaction.
But this… this feat is surely too much. How can one person manipulate a mass breakout on their own? A short Azkaban stay is the best I can hope for, though it is a possibility hardly worth considering. All I can do is behave myself, act like a child who was caught up in something they didn't completely understand. That's my only chance, isn't it? Ignorance, sorrow, regret. No sir, I didn't mean to curse Katie Bell, I never intended to poison the weasel. No, all I wanted was to kill Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Fucking Dumbledore. That was my only crime. And I couldn't even do that. I am a failed Death Eater. The mark on my forearm binds me to a group of people who don't even want me. And I saved Potter's life, does that not count for anything? Yes, that will all go over swimmingly, I am sure.
Well then, it appears that I will be stuck here forever. Mother cannot help me, and Merlin knows I could never help myself. I should just accept my fate, just get through the next hour. I'll know how much suffering I shall need to endure soon enough. No point in nursing this pit in my stomach until these toxic butterflies kill me. I grit my teeth, gripping the bed frame so tightly that I can see the veins running underneath my translucent skin. I have always been pale, but this is ridiculous. Perhaps they will pity me once they lay eyes on my emaciated body and hollow eyes. Perhaps they will see the boy I am, not the Death Eater they have been trained to hate.
Of course, the fact that I genuinely feel like a bastard won't matter, or that Greyback held me down while Voldemort administered the mark. I can still feel his filthy fingernails digging into my wrists, far too long and sharp. His hungry expression still haunts my worst nightmares, those gravelly whispers promising fates darker than any Unforgivable. And father and mother had just stood there, watching as the only good parts of me were snuffed out.
I thought I had wanted it at the time, but they must have known it signified little more than my untimely death. My induction was merely the dark lord's retribution for my father's blunder. He had been bested by Potter and his friends, a band of teenagers playing heroes. Of course, I do not know exactly what events transpired in the Department of Mysteries, only that their plan had gone entirely wrong. It was bad for all of us, but father had definitely lost the most at the end of my fifth year. Little more than Voldemort's slave, reduced to the kind of person he had always looked down on with contempt.
But I was too far gone at that point to really understand, so fixated on who I thought I hated. Potter was The Chosen One. Voldemort's true rival. I remember being so angry at the time, so bitterly jealous that I was seen as nothing more than a pathetic schoolboy who clung to his father's leg and picked his snotty nose. I could never hope to be The Boy Who Lived. I don't really know how I feel now. Potter was a below average student, nothing remarkable about his magic as far as I could tell. But still Voldemort feared him, and failed to take him out time after time. A part of me, a larger part than I am willing to admit, is eternally grateful for his incompetence. So I put myself forward to receive the Dark Lord's gift. Anything to be noticed, anything to feel like I mattered.
Blessed with his symbol, I was officially one of them. Finally more than the terrified child crying in his bedroom while the grown-ups talked. What a good Death Eater I had pretended to be. I thought the mark elevated me above everyone else at school, bestowing on me the validation I had been craving all my life. I was operating on a different level to my peers. How could I worry about trivialities like homework and tests when I was acting on the dark lord's orders? I felt like an adult, possessed with the idea that my master actually trusted me to do his bidding. I wish I had never been branded with the mark, that the remainder of my time at Hogwarts had passed uneventfully. Even in my darkest moments, I never really wanted to be a Death Eater. I just wanted father to be proud of me.
Well fuck his pride, fuck everything. I want to go home. But instead, I sit waiting for this accursed trial to decide my fate with little to no say in the matter. Who is going to trust a repentant Death Eater anyway? It's his fault I'm here, isn't it? My darling father who fed me to the wolves? He promised mother and I the world, that his actions were true and just. Right. And I listened to him. I believed him. Yes, death to Mudbloods and blood traitors alike, what could possibly go wrong? Everything apparently, not to mention the soul-crushing pain that comes with being fed lies by those you most dearly trusted.
I still have so far to go on this path. I have barely begun walking it at all. But I know it is right, and I know that everything before this was wrong. Children are a product of their parents, I have started to understand that as well. My father's hatred found any means by which to infect those around him. I made my own terrible choices too, I am not so blind as to ignore my own insidious acts. But his corrupting influence cannot be denied. Finally beyond its reach, the darkness that dwelled within me has faded. Not entirely, but I'll take anything at this point.
I don't hate anyone anymore. Hating is wasted energy that could be better spent on self-preservation. It's all meaningless really, isn't it? Blood purity and all that. Granger was the best witch at Hogwarts no matter what blood ran through her veins. Having enemies and rivals never made me happy. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I was never sorted into Slytherin, if the Sorting Hat had seen past the Malfoy blood, the prejudices instilled in me before I could string a sentence together.
There has been so much time to think the past two years, to attempt to unlearn all of the backward morals and ancient belief systems. Racism, classism, hell even sexism thanks to father. Needless to say I had quite enough to begin unpacking. I would spend countless hours ruminating in the Room of Requirement, confident that Crabbe and Goyle could protect me. I knew that I was biting off far more than I could chew, but the dark lord said that my father would be punished if I failed. It is obvious to me now that he would have faced his master's wrath whether I successfully murdered Dumbledore or not. Incidentally, I must thank Potter for that find one day, if we ever meet again. I would have never been able to repair the vanishing cabinet otherwise, and I shudder to think at what would have happened to me if I had not even accomplish that much.
The hollow whir of the wards coming down fills my ears. It's time. I focus on each individual muscle as I stand up, go over all the excuses and justifications I can give to the prosecutor. If I fill my head with useless thoughts like these, there will not be enough room to be terrified of the next few hours. The Aurors watch me with blank expressions. I appreciate that they are not openly hostile, though I am sure they want nothing more than to spit on me as I join them. They nod in my general direction, flanking me on either side as we move into the endless corridor. I don't look at the inhabitants of the countless cells as I pass. it would hurt too much if I laid eyes on a familiar face, and I simply cannot take any more surprises.
I force my eyes shut and allow the Aurors to direct me wherever we are headed, grateful that the Dementors are no longer in our service. They have long since fled to breed, leaving wizards in charge of things here. I would not have been able to carry on if the malevolent creatures were still Azkaban's security guards. I suspect they will return in the future, but with any luck mother and I will be long gone. I hope so, anyway. I never truly understood what hope was before Azkaban. Now it is all I live and breathe, all I have left. There is something comforting about feeling the touch of flesh and blood from the men at my side, and I do my best to memorise the sensation. They look to be only a few years older than me. I have likely seen them around school, but I can't remember. I am alone with my thoughts again, the brief respite that accompanied their arrival having been well and truly exhausted.
I really don't want to do this. I wish everything could be taken care of without my presence being required. I am not even sure why I have to be there in all honesty. To plead my case? To make the whole thing legitimate? Or, more likely, to make me suffer. Make me sit through countless witness statements and evidence presentations. Exhibit A, exhibit B… or is that only a Muggle thing? Whilst I inhabited the Hogwarts castle, disconnected tidbits of information found my ears whether I was conscious of the cognitive phenomenon or not. Who am I supposed to hate again? It is becoming increasingly difficult to keep everything straight in my head. Do I still agree with my father? Have I really changed? What would have happened if I took the old man's offer that night? Did I even have a choice?
The Aurors slow their pace. A subtle change, but enough to jerk me out of my little crisis. We are standing in front of a heavy-looking wooden door. Taking in my surroundings, I realise that we are somehow in the Ministry. To be precise, the courtrooms down on Level Ten. The number is etched into a placard a few inches above my head, far more ominous than it should be. I have been here only a few times before, back when father used to give me guided tours of the place. He wanted me to become familiar with the layout in preparation for when I eventually commenced work.
Of course he expected me to work at the Ministry, but I had never come to a concrete decision regarding my future. By the time I was fifteen, I knew the dark lord had risen, and that my family would be given a high position in his regime. So I assumed that I wouldn't be required to do anything beyond serving our master, which would allow me plenty of time to spend doing what I enjoyed. Namely, chess, archery, and tormenting Potter and his worthless companions. At least, those were my interests, back when I was at school. But now… well, I can think of nothing better than a quiet night with mother. The fire crackling merrily in the corner as I lie on the hearth at her feet, just… talking.
I hear movement behind me, and I twist in the Aurors' grip to find my father being dragged over to join us. Our eyes meet, and I am paralysed by a million thoughts and emotions exploding throughout my mind and body. I knew that he would be next to me, in an identical chair, tied just as tightly with silver chains. But that is in there, in the courtroom. Not here, not now, not before I am ready to see him. I can't move, I can't even think properly. Nothing seems to be working.
He is gaunt like me, sallow skin stretched over bone. His eyes are sunken, hair matted and limp in a grey mane around his shoulders. But beyond the superficial, we could not be more different. His expression is one of pain, but oddly detached, like his true self is somewhere far away. He struggles feebly against the grip of the two men who hold his arms, however I cannot tell if he is trying to reach me, or to simply break free from his captors. Hate still smoulders in the depths of his eyes, at what they are doing to us, what they have done to his friends. For Mudbloods and blood traitors, for Order members and Dumbledore's Army. He holds onto the darkness that I relinquished months ago. It fuels him, gives him strength to keep going. But it only makes me sick.
He marked me, or as good as. At his blessing, I became the one thing mother desperately fought to prevent. She cried while the Dark Lord burned his sign on my skin, and father simply observed the scene like he was in the audience of a mildly-entertaining play. I still love my father, he did the best he could, in his own way. The words bounce around inside me, attempting to find purchase in the apathy flickering throughout my body. I love him. Children are supposed to love their parents. At least I haven't completely broken that rule, haven't completely severed the strongest ties I have ever formed. But in this moment, I wish only to be alone, where his corrosive touch and toxic affection cannot find me. I turn away, and he begins to utter some guttural cry, but one of the Aurors shove him into the stone wall, snuffing out the protests of his broken heart.
A/N: So did that work for you? If it didn't, I'm really sorry, but this is the Draco I will be writing moving forward. Truly, beyond "you're poor" and "your parents are dead", what hatred did he actually display towards the golden trio? And he obviously learned racial slurs from his morally reprehensible, racist, and generally garbage father. I hate Lucius if you couldn't already tell. Or maybe I'm just projecting my daddy issues. Yikes indeed. The next chapter will be up a few days early as it's pretty much a part two of this one. But then a slightly longer wait before the following one as I have some more editing to do on the rest of the story. And I still have to finish chapter sixteen. Oopsie.
