A/N: I am this chapter two days early as I will be travelling this weekend. Moving forward, chapters will continue to be posted on Sundays.
Shacklebolt has my wand in his hand. He does not look worried about my escape. Is it thanks to his magical hubris, or does he know that I was the one to draw them here?
A trio of wizards stands behind Shacklebolt, all pointing their wands at me. I presume that the remaining set has gone to collect my parents. But why have I been graced with the presence of the Minister? My father would deserve it more.
"Draco!" It is my mother this time.
"It'll be alright, Mother," I manage to shout back through lying teeth.
A witch steps toward me, and I make no motion to run off. Her eyebrows furrow slightly, and I notice a change in her approach. My lack of action has her fearing that I have something up my sleeve. Perhaps a secret portkey or a previously cast curse.
My hands rise slowly, showing her my empty palms. I will go quickly, with respect. This is what I deserve. For Olivia. For the others. But I cannot help but wonder how I would escape if this were not my design. The backup portkey would have been a nice touch and a safeguard I would have planned months ago if I'd had my wand in my possession. It's so clever that I wonder why my father didn't have the same idea. Unless he'd already escaped, but Shacklebolt wouldn't be standing in front of me if he had.
My only escape option would be to throw myself at the elf and hope that he has the sense to apparate back to the manor with me. Too risky. My eyes scan the room for other choices I might have, and I realize there are none. It's too late, even if I change my mind.
The witch looks back at Shacklebolt, and I watch a mutual nod between the two. It only takes a second before I feel the familiar lurch of apparition as the walls around me go dark. I am in the Ministry. Wait, no. It's colder than the Ministry.
Is this Azkaban? My body twists itself around, checking the room from every direction. It is damp. Black. Cold. I can hear waves crashing nearby and the faintest squall of birds. Azkaban.
The room is small. A dull mattress in the tightest corner is lying on the ground without a bed frame. A fraying Russian green blanket is in its company. There is no pillow. The opposite corner is home to a sink and a toilet. No mirror. It takes me a handful of sweeps across the room before I realize what is missing: a door. There are no doors and no windows. Is this what I have resigned myself to for the last of my days?
I try an easy spell that I could usually perform wandless. Nothing. No feeling of magic running through my fingers. I wonder where my wand is. Is it locked away, awaiting trial with me? Or has it been destroyed?
There would be no way to escape, just like the cottage. Many witches and wizards have run from Azkaban before, but never without help. There is nobody to help.
I had grown accustomed to the absence of others at the cottage, but there was always an understanding that somebody was just around the corner. Even before, at my loneliest nights before the war, spending hours in my room practicing spells and brewing potions, I understood that somebody was always watching. Assessing. This feels different. Like a solitude that I could only have dreamt of. I keep expecting a dementor to whisk by until I remember that Azkaban abandoned them.
People will be pleased to hear the news. I imagine cheers of celebration from everybody at Hogwarts. People celebrating in Diagon Alley once they read that the Malfoys have been captured. Potter and the rest of the Golden Trio clinking their butterbeer, relieved that I'm gone. They must know by now.
The house-elf brought us copies of the Daily Prophet every two weeks before the change in scenery. He would come back with each copy, and Mother would take the time to sort them by order of their release. Then she would send them off to Father, who would give back the highlights. I never listened to one of his retellings, but she seemed only to hear the positive stories.
He discarded them after he was done, but the elf knew to bring them to me afterward. I ignored the Quidditch summaries and looked for names of the Death Eaters I had met or heard of. Only a few dozen names were known before the Battle of Hogwarts, but hundreds faced charges. Anybody who fought alongside Voldemort had been named. Their family and friends, too. Anyone with ties to dark magic and those who wished for purity in the wizarding world was summoned, whether they were marked or not.
Our family name popped up a lot. It was there in the beginning, mostly—advertising rewards for our capture, sharing news of Aurors on the hunt. Slowly, the news pieces faded. As if drawing attention to the fact that the Ministry hadn't captured us would worry the community.
They hardly seemed to know what to do with the lot of us foes. The Death Eaters captured at Hogwarts were sent straight to Azkaban with the promise of a fair trial down the road. But more than a dozen members of the Council of Magical Law had been fired or sent to Azkaban themselves. It would be a long time before anybody was given proper sentencing. And that now included my family.
I wonder if our sentences will be doubled thanks to the time spent on the run. Would things have looked better if we had come quietly? If we had switched sides while we still had the chance? My father held a lot of respect within the Ministry walls, but fear can do that to people.
We did run in the end. And I let us get caught. Have I have sentenced my family to a future with no trial, no proper end? Would we sit in these rooms until we starve to death? Or would somebody come, eventually, to tell us what we're already expecting?
After an hour or so of going over possible sentences, a silver tray falls from mid-air. It clatters on the ground, and a fork and spoon go flying against the wall—half of the soup that had been tossed into a faded black bowl splashes to the ground. I approach the tray cautiously, checking its contents. It seems harmless enough. In addition to the soup, there is a dry bread roll. No butter.
I do not bother with the soup. The bread roll is filling, and its bland taste makes it hard to swallow. But the tray and the bowl keep sitting there in the middle of the room long after I've made my meal choices. Somebody has to come to fetch it. But the hours start dragging by even slower, and there it sits. I swallow it all in hopes that the smell of burned tomatoes fades.
Almost immediately, as if somebody were tracking the tray, it disappears. Everything must be eaten. Noted. They must want to avoid anyone purposefully starving themselves. Would that have been a suitable way to go? Would such a slow exit let me feel like I'd adequately punished myself for my crimes? Or would anything ever have that effect?
The weight of my surroundings begins setting in after dinner. I am trapped. Azkaban is no longer a concept or a threat that needs running from. It is reality. But what could we have done differently? What could we have done to run faster and further away? I make my way over to the pathetic excuse for a bed and lay down, wrapping myself in the details of my sins. I fall asleep to dreams of the days leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts.
I know that the screaming will start soon. Bellatrix doesn't just take others aside for a chat. It always ends in screams.
It takes longer than usual before I hear the familiar ring of pain. Hermione Granger must be brave. I would never have expected that from a Mudblood. She must be able to lie to herself about how little things hurt. But everyone feels it by the end.
I am standing in the corridor with my parents. Bellatrix likes privacy while she plays with her pets. We stand in silence, keeping our eyes on the ground. After a moment, I hear a low whimper. "I didn't take anything," Granger pleads. The Sword of Gryffindor. Of course, Bellatrix would want something belonging to a house that wasn't hers. She wanted everything to belong to her.
Her screams start to get louder. It could be the Cruciatus Curse. It could be fire. Bellatrix was even known for forcing potions down throats. There was once a potion that dissolved your skin from the inside. But this didn't sound like that.
The screaming goes from a piercing pitch to a low howl for several minutes. Finally, it's quiet. Too quiet. I turn to the door to the main hall, desperate to know what has been done. She was somebody I knew. She might not have been somebody special, but there would be no Potter without her. No way out. No hope of ever escaping Voldemort's power.
"Draco. Not yet," Father hisses as I try to enter the room. "We must wait for permission."
I stand still for another moment; my ear pressed to the door. Tell us your alive, I pray. And then she does, and the screaming starts up again. It's even louder this time, and I wonder if her death might be the best option after all. At least it would stop the pain for somebody. My hand makes its way to the doorknob again.
"Draco!"
My father hits me with a stunning spell. I am locked in place, incapable of moving or feeling. All I can do is hear the screams.
It takes thirty-six days before anything happens. At least, what feels like thirty-six days. I count a new day after each sleep and hope that my body can be trusted to keep track of time.
I spend the first half pacing the room, listening for any noise from outside the walls, wondering if there are any bodies behind them. Thinking about how close we are. I spend hours brewing potions in my head. Imagining myself shopping for the ingredients and picking the ones that can't be bought in shops. When I bore myself of these routines, I begin to revisit the familiarity of occulemcy.
I start by pulling memories to the surface for sorting. Bellatrix's efforts to make me an Occlumens taught me to bury everything under layers of concrete. I would visualize the pouring of grey goop, hiding emotions and dreams from Voldemort, from Father. From myself. It worked well enough, but things kept falling underneath the flow of wet concrete before I would have the chance to send them there. Bellatrix, the witch who wore her insanity on her sleeve. She hid nothing yet was tasked with showing me how she would. Of course it wouldn't be perfect.
Now there is enough time to play with the techniques—a chance to find something better, more thorough. I begin by spending time re-organizing the corners of my mind, bringing every memory, thought, and skill back to a brand new pile. It takes time to dig them out of the rubble. I visualize hammers, shovels, and prying hands that dip into my brain like excavators. Some are buried so deeply that I never thought I would see them again, like meeting Crabbe and Goyle for the first time or casting my first spell. Later, it's my first kiss with Pansy Parkinson in my fourth year. This unearths feelings of desire that I had forgotten how to feel—forgotten that I was supposed to feel. It makes me tug at my trousers, craving release.
My body hums at the surprise of hands wrapped around warm skin. I tug with intensity, praying that it can still work. My mind wanders to Pansy. I sort through our memories together, visualizing them with detail. Us running through the dungeons, leaving behind pranks for prefects. Walking around the grounds of Hogwarts late at night, careless about curfew. Escaping the rain. Dancing in it. Casting charms and comparing grades. Her hand on my knee. On my thighs. Running up my chest, fingers twirling my robes. Pulling me closer. Her heavy breaths.
Then it's my hands on her. Squeezing at her waist. Pressing my knee into her legs, trying to get her to open herself up to me. Fingers running over the lines of her knickers. Suddenly, I feel a bubbling wave of sensation running through me. But it's not coming from the work of my hands grabbing at my cock. It pushes past this, and my body deflates in agony. Instead, my memories start to pour out, blurring visions of Pansy. It's everything all at once, and I can't stop them. Pansy is thrown back onto the pile of mindless rubble and is buried as it breaks open with memories. Voldemort ordering Dumbledore's demise. Snape begging me to do better. Father walking away in disappointment. I have no choice but to pluck them from the concrete, drying them off and bringing them to the cluttered front of my mind.
My brain becomes littered, and the idea of trying to feel pleasure again makes me want to vomit. I can't stop the continuous outpouring of the things I have done, and I make my way to the damp walls surrounding me. I grasp the surface, swiftly pull my head toward the wall, and let it collide with the bricks.
Shut up, shut up.
I see stars flying around like a golden snitch. I let my eyes chase after it, hoping for points. And then things go black.
The tray of food comes banging down the following day, snapping me from my daze. There is dried blood on my forehead, which I crust off with a few rubs of my thumb. They wouldn't let me kill myself in here, would they?
I return to the task of re-organizing my brain after breakfast. No more concrete. Instead, I start to shuffle memories and thoughts around by placing them like a Sorting Hat might. I visualize the halls of Hogwarts, the corners that belong to a house. Memories that I want to avoid go into Gryffindor's common room. Everything from moments alone with Voldemort to awkward interactions with girls go here, along with my own insecurities. I slam the door to the common room shut behind me, giving it a magic word that I pray I forget.
I send the knowledge to Ravenclaw. My memories of spells, of potion brewing. The history of magic. It all goes up into the tower, ready to be accessed when needed. I do not bother closing the door.
Hufflepuff gets the assorted stuff. The things that I can't be bothered to label—good meals and trips to Diagon Alley. The door is left ajar.
The memories that I want to not only keep but often remember – the feeling of flying a broomstick, the sound of Mother's singing – all go into the dungeons marked "Slytherin." The memories that feel like home.
The sorting takes days. My body is exhausted by the time that it's all over. I fall to the dingy mattress, close my eyes, and beg for rest.
Later that day, on what is the thirty-sixth evening, there is the intruding sound of a feminine voice from somewhere above me.
"Draco Malfoy, you have been sent to Azkaban for your allegiance to the Dark Lord and your status as a Death Eater. Sentencing of the Malfoy family will begin tomorrow morning. A portkey will drop into your cell at approximately 9h00. Refusal to comply will result in force."
The message repeats itself three times, and my head is already buzzing by the time it ends. The unfamiliar noise intrudes into my ears and gives it a gentle pounding. I walk into the tower in my mind and think about what potion I would brew to get rid of it: some angelica, beetle eyes, fluxweed, and flobberworm mucus. Sleep falls over me as I stir the ingredients together.
Breakfast finally comes, snapping me from a restless sleep. Is it 9h00? How will I even know when it is? Nothing on the tray looks out of place, but I take the time to grab items individually in case it is the portkey. Nothing is. I choke down the stale bread and leave it to vanish, and something else drops down in its place after it does. It tells me the time.
I grab the clock and feel the expected yank. Bile rises in my throat. When the apparition ends, I spend a moment grasping at my body, which feels as if it's been pulled apart in a million different directions.
I am finally in the Ministry, with no limbs out of place. Instead, they're stunned. I can still move my head and look at the familiar black corridors that run in every direction. I am thankful for the darkness as my eyes adjust. As my vision goes back to normal, I pick the best hall that I would have been able to escape through. It would have been the one to the left of me. It leads to the closest elevator with the least amount of guards. How did it come to me so quickly? My head is dizzy with halls of its own, and the door to Gryffindor shakes.
There is a crack only moments after my arrival, and my parents are ahead of me. They both look skinnier, and I drop my eyes down to see if my body looks the same. I am immediately aware of the distance between my ribs and my jumper.
I want to speak to let Mother know that I am here. To ask her if she's alright. Or even ask Father if he knows it was his fault for sending her here. But my lips aren't moving.
We are led into the trial room of the Wizengamot. I recognize the layout from the Ministry blueprints I'd seen, but I could never have expected it to get this full. At least fifty people face me as I enter, and I am directed to a seat in the back corner. The sole chair in the middle of the room is for my father, who seats himself with a disturbing elegance that I had forgotten about, from a memory that was not organized. All that is missing is his cane and cloaks, and it would look like he had spent no time away from the Death Eater's council meetings.
Once seated, my eyes sweep around the room for possible exits. There is only one door - the way that I came in. But the circular room must have some way for those on the other side to escape in case of an emergency, as it seems unlikely that apparition would be allowed in the space. Eventually, I realize that the warm glow emanating from behind the Wizangamot is a fireplace.
There are pots of Floo Powder on each side. The space is not too crowded, but somebody sits closer than the rest. She is not dressed like the other wizards cloaked in red or black robes. Instead, she wears plain grey robes. She looks like an outsider but is positioned like somebody meant to be there.
Her face is concealed by the many witches and wizards sitting in front of her.
Finally, the Chief Warlock arrives. All members of the Wizengamot stand up. I do, too, as a reflex. I notice that my mother does the same. Father stays seated.
Everybody returns to their seat in unison after the Chief Warlock takes his. However, one witch lags as if unaware of the proceedings. This is when I see her face—the face of the witch who does not belong. Occlumency's door shakes again, and I see that it's Hermione Granger in the room with me.