And You Fade Away Before my Eyes

Dementors fed on your happiest memories, which meant you were left with only the worst.

Draco hadn't known what exactly the worst would turn out to be, but now that he did, he wished he'd never found out. As he watched, again and again, as his mother was tortured before his own eyes, he wondered how he'd ever doubted this was the worst ever. He had felt that sharp tug of fear that the curse would be too much, that his mother would lose her sanity – because that had always been his fear, ever since he'd realised his aunt was completely crazed. Between that memory and the one of taking the Dark Mark, there could be no respite, no happiness to breach the wall of darkness that surrounded his mind. The Dementors had taken laughter, joy, amusement, and contentment away from him, but they hadn't left him feeling numb. Instead, everything he had left – pain, hatred, horror – was clear, razor-sharp, and overwhelmingly present.

He had found no way to avoid the Dementors, but sometimes he could avoid the pain by focusing on a certain memory. A very recent memory that was anything but happy, so the Dementors couldn't feed on it. It was probably too confusing, even for them. Draco relived his saving Potter's life, over and over again, concentrated on the memory. A thought rang through his head, a question. Why? Why? Why? The thought did not help him keep his sanity – he was certain it would eventually drive him insane –, but it helped him hold on to something as the Dementors threatened to take everything else away from him. Sometimes, he had brief flashes of lucidity, in which he would just watch his parents quietly and wonder how far gone they were. It was impossible to tell if, somewhere deep within their minds, they were still his parents, or if they had left. The Dementors ate at their minds just like they ate at his, and it only made it worse that he had to witness it.

Three weeks and two or three or four days – he'd lost count twice – passed before something strange happened. On the outside, a law was passed. The Dementors left Azkaban. And above, the clouds parted over the prison, allowing light to pass through the barred windows, flooding the cells.

Strangely enough, the atmosphere didn't lighten immediately. You could still hear the awful moans of the prisoners echoing from the next cells, prisoners who had been there for years, prisoners who hardly noticed the Dementors had left and would relive those memories forever. But in Cell 216, the relief was immediate. Draco saw his parents stir, then rouse themselves as though waking up from a deep, deep sleep, and despite the look in theirs eyes that said they'd seen terrible things, he knew there was still something in there. It was hidden so deep it would take a long time to find it, but it was there. He had to hold on to that hope. Hope. Another thing the Dementors had almost taken away forever.

He asked one of the new guards how long they had been imprisoned and was surprised at how cracked, how raw his voice came out, as though he hadn't spoken in years. Or maybe as though he had been screaming for days.

"I don't know," the guard said, looking annoyed. "I don't know the bloody record of all you criminals by heart. I only started here today. And I'm not allowed to speak to you."

Draco sank back into his cell, the cell he shared with the two huddled, silent shapes that used to be his parents. Later, the guard returned, looking at him with something like pity – Pity, Draco thought, disgusted –, and said,

"Seventeen days."

Draco didn't believe him at first.

"Your trial is in one week. Well, eight days, actually," the guard corrected himself, as though it mattered, except it didn't, because Draco obviously didn't know what time was anymore.

Eight days? What did that mean? Eight more excruciating days as he watched his parents fade away before his own eyes.

But that wasn't what happened. He had forgotten the Dementors were gone.

Instead what happened was that his parents slowly came back to him. He had known they had seen worse things than he had, but the effect the Dementors had had on them had been the first sign he'd ever received that those things had affected them profoundly. Growing up, he'd always thought of his father as solid and cold. His mother had never wanted to appear weak in front of her son. But the Dementors and prison meals had taken that away, and his parents were weak and fragile and even – but he repressed the thought every time it threatened to surge forth – slightly unstable. Slowly, though, the absence of the Dementors and Draco talking to them was bringing them back.

That wasn't the only thing that happened. As the trial grew nearer, they received a few visits from employees at the Ministry. Those people tried to get him to agree to testify against his own parents. He refused, quick as a whip. That was never going to happen. He'd sign anything, he'd agree to anything to get out of here, but not that. Never that. They tried to turn his parents against each other, but that didn't work, either. All it did was make his mother cry.

They had never been as solidly united a family as they were now.

Days came and went, clearer now that the Dementors had left. Draco had regained the notion of time and was awake during the day and asleep at night so he could keep track of the days. The guard didn't become any warmer, but he didn't seem to mind giving Draco the time, which was something, at least. Though they never had a conversation, it comforted Draco to hear the voice of someone completely sane, if bored. His parents hardly ever spoke.

And they were hardly completely sane.

Then one day the guard came over and said, "It's today." He locked the magicuffs back on – Draco winced – and led them out of Cell 216. "With a little luck," he said with unexpected sympathy in his tone, "you won't ever see the place again."

Draco shot him an incredulous look that the guard didn't seem to catch. Of course there was nothing Draco wanted more than to never see Azkaban again, but what was the likeliness of that? Below zero, definitely. Whatever charges the Wizengamot had come up with, Draco knew his family was guilty of them. Murder, torture, possession of Dark Artefacts, use of the Dark Arts to cause harm, use of Unforgivable Curses... There was, simply put, no way they could avoid a life sentence in Azkaban. Maybe they would be lenient with Draco, because he was young, and only lock him up for ten or fifteen years; but then what? There was no life for him out there anymore. There was no place for Death Eaters in the wizarding world anymore. Besides, after ten years in Azkaban – even without the Dementors –, he wasn't sure he'd still be alive.

When they stepped out into the fresh outside air, it was like being a newborn taking in its first breath of air. Draco gasped as the smell of the sea hit him, fresh and salty and alive, and he stopped in his tracks. He tilted his head back and just looked, for a moment, at the blue sky. It was a beautiful day outside, sunny enough to make him squint. Azkaban struck a contrasting figure against the sky, dark and gloomy, but he tried not to see it. He watched the flock of birds soaring across the sky and the waves crashing against the island. He felt how the wind whipped at his face and how the sun warmed his cheeks. Little things. Insignificant things. Things that might have even, one day, irritated him. They were beautiful to him now.

"Being late wouldn't make a good impression on the Wizengamot," the guard said, bringing him back to the reality of the moment.

He wasn't here to admire the view. He was here because he was going to face the Wizengamot. He nodded curtly and followed the guard, along with his parents, to a smaller building on the side that housed the new, human (and a few not-so-human) guards of Azkaban. It was almost painful to let the door close behind them, blocking out the sunlight. Draco eyed the windows enviously, then returned his attention to the guard. He wasn't old, but a good deal older than Draco. Draco wondered what his name was, whether he had a girlfriend or a wife, or maybe children, and why he had taken this job. Did it pay well? Did he want to personally make sure the people the Ministry had locked up didn't get out?

"You know what to do," the guard said, nodding at the family.

Draco blinked, puzzled. Did they? Did he? He looked around. They had come here from the Ministry, he was sure. But as for how... He searched his memory and came up blank. It scared him. He should know. He should remember. But the past few weeks at Azkaban were fresh in his mind, a whirlwind of terror and horror and screams and pain, and the moments preceding that were a blur, as though nothing mattered right up until the moment he had seen the prison looming before him and felt the icy presence of the Dementors. Had Azkaban taken anything else? Had his memory been altered by the time he had spent here?

The guard held out a large metal hoop so that it was parallel to the ground. The memories sharpened, and Draco remembered that it was a Portkey, the same kind that had brought them here the first time. He and his parents shuffled into place, their backs to the ring, their shoulders touching, and their fingers curled around the ring behind their backs. The cuffs made this the only possible position.

"Due to leave in fifty seconds," the guard told them. "There's someone waiting for you on the other side, of course. Possibly Aurors, I don't know. Try not to react when they come at you or they'll be as rough as they can."
Draco stared at him, trying to decide whether that was a joke. Their wrists were bound. What were they supposed to do, run? They wouldn't get far, considering they were headed for the Ministry. Where they'd be surrounded by people with wands. They'd be lucky if they went two steps before being stopped. Painfully.

Neither Draco nor his parents reacted to what the guard had said, though he was still thinking about it when the fifty seconds were up and the familiar tug of the Portkey began in his belly. He closed his eyes, letting his thoughts go, because he knew they would just make his head spin. Draco had always been Portkey-sensitive, to the point of vomiting a couple of times, though it had faded somewhat in recent years. He felt a sickening discomfort now as the Portkey roughly pulled them to their destination, making his stomach heave. He stumbled and let go of the cold metal ring as soon as they reached the Ministry. Two men caught him by the arms and kept him on his feet.

"Draco Malfoy?"

He nodded, knowing the man already knew, anyway. Behind him, his parents were also taken hold of. Draco allowed the men to steer him through a dark corridor, hardly aware of his surroundings. He guessed they were underground, but couldn't have said for sure. He still felt dizzy and queasy. He wasn't sure whether it was just the Portkey, or his nerves. Nerves. What did he have to be anxious about? It wasn't like he didn't already know the verdict. There was no way they would be declared innocent. The trial was a joke, just something to make the Ministry feel justified and self-righteous. No, Draco wasn't worried about being judged. He was scared of facing the witnesses.

Witnesses. People who would look him right in the eye and describe what he had done to them, or what they had seen him do, or what he had told them he'd done – bragged about doing. The thought made him feel sicker than the Portkey.

Some of the dizziness faded as he walked, still surrounded by the two Ministry employees. They were both taller and stronger than him, and their hold on his shoulders was uncomfortably tight. They held their wands at the ready, as though there was any way he could escape. He looked around, taking in his surroundings. Definitely underground; the stone floor sloped downwards somewhat and the hallway was dark and cold, lit only by a few torches in brackets. Draco raised his head to get a better look at the wooden doors which were placed at regular intervals on the walls. He had come to the Ministry with his father a few times, but he had never been here. He glanced at his father, whose mouth was set in a thin hard line. Obviously, he knew the place.

The Ministry officials pulled him to a stop in front of one of the doors, identical to the others. Above the door, Draco could read the words Courtroom Ten. He shivered.

"You wait here," one of the men said. "Your father goes in first, then your mother, and you last."

Draco started. "We'll be judged separately?"

"Heard," the man corrected. "You'll be heard separately, and not for the exact same crimes. Chances are the verdict will be the same for all three of you, though." He nodded at the closed door. "The Wizengamot has already arrived. They're waiting. Your parents will go in, but you won't see them coming out. There's another door that leads out of the courtroom. The witnesses will come in through that, so they don't encounter you outside of the courtroom. Your parents will leave the room through that door. They won't witness your trial."

Draco wondered what difference that was supposed to make.

As the man had said, Lucius went first. It seemed to last hours, and as much as Draco strained to hear, he couldn't make out anything more than raised voices, not clear words. Then Narcissa disappeared into the room, and then it was Draco's turn. The first person he saw as he entered the courtroom was someone he had seen in his memories time and time again over the past few weeks, someone he hadn't expected to find here, someone who looked directly into his eyes when he entered and held his gaze firmly. In retrospect, Draco would realise he should have expected his presence.

Harry Potter stared at him, and in his green eyes Draco read the question he knew his own expression had to be reflecting.

Why?