Narcissa Malfoy's POV:

For the second time today, I looked outside my tiny window in my cramped, bare room. Still, the sun was only rising, not even high enough in the sky to let light into the darkness I had watched since the sun had set the previous day. I refused to sleep in the dark, because I have learned, not only do my guards like to pick names at random and go and beat the prisoner while they sleep, but they also tease an extra meal at the door occasionally in the pitch black of night and laugh at how poor sighted and useless the prisoner inside was. Of course, nothing exciting happened during the day. The guards would laugh from behind a solid, magic-proof door that remained shut at all times with only small exceptions being food, and the occasional recess, which I always remained in my cell for.

Sometimes, I never slept during the day either.

Sometimes I slept all day and night. After the first week of my stay here, in Azkaban, I had tried to pull out all of my hair, and now, after what felt like a lifetime later, it was just at my chin. There was little I actually felt like doing. I would not eat either if I hadn't convinced myself that I did not want to starve myself. Few things kept me going now, after so long in this cell, and with the rest of my life to go, I imagined that the few things would no longer push me on as well.

Originally, everything I had owned prior to my imprisonment was my motivation, and I constantly fought with the guards, and tried to rip off my chains, and even try some wandless magic, but in the end, nothing got better, and I realized I didn't need all that. Each thing from before had left individually; first my manor, then my power, then my name, and all the pride that went with it. Nothing was left now, except for Draco and my own life. I dearly missed my son. I had been the only one to ever love him, it seems, for actually being a person, and not an heir to the Malfoy name.

I wanted nothing more than to be able to have him here, and say hello, and tell me what he has been doing, and how much he enjoys life; that's all I ever wanted for him, to love the life he has. I had never, though, been the one in charge of what happened to him, as Lucius had taken that job upon himself, and left me to care for him, like a nanny rather than a mother. I had more than once refused, and in return received wounds from it. For a while, I was alright with Lucius deciding things for Draco.

That is, until Draco was receiving similar injuries and bruises as I had.

My eyes flung open and light now spilt from the small window onto the hard, cold floor of my cell, but not flooding it, which is what it desperately needed (along with a thorough cleaning). I hadn't realized that I had been nodding off, and now I stood up to prevent it from occurring again. Outside of my cell, I could hear the guards laughing at some poor other prisoner, taunting him, and beating him it sounded like. I covered my arms, feeling a cold draft over them, and decided to sit in the corner of my cell closest to the door, so if the guards opened it, I might have a chance at shutting it before they came in. Really, other than verbal and physical abuse, the prison wasn't all that bad as consequences for the most rotten and awful wizards out there.

Really, I could think of many people who deserved worse than this, but were only a few cells down from my own. With the Dementors gone, the terrifying reputation of Azkaban had vanished, and many thought they could escape now. Every day, it seemed, I would hear shouts outside my window, and look to see some criminals trying to escape, then get caught in the odd protection charm that was over the entire island, and the guards would retrieve them and put them back into their cells.

Every day, I would listen, through the small crack in the wall, into my neighboring cell, hearing the man inside talking to himself, planning how to get around the barrier. At first, he had plans that would seem like they would work, but as he tried them, they failed, and he would redraw them, and again he would get caught. Then more and more, they were becoming ridiculous, and completely unrealistic. Last night, his plan involved a wrench, a Pegasus, and a shovel.

Of course, he would never get his hands on even one of those things, especially the Pegasus. The prison had once known to make people mad because the Dementors would suck all the happiness out of the prisoners, but now, the prison itself was able to suck the sanity out of them. They could very well be happy, but the worst sort of insanity to occur happens when one is happy inside a prison. Yet I agreed with almost every single person's presence in the dreadful prison, for they had all tried to escape, and they all had plans of mutiny, and they all had done the appropriate crimes to be here, and they wanted nothing more than to be free and do them once more. I, however, did not belong here in the slightest.

Lucius, that bastard, had put me in here, whether directly or not. After the war, Lucius had decided we should go into hiding as a family, but of course, changed his mind when he thought of leaving our manor. We were, of course, found very easily, and put on trial for being Death Eaters. Lucius, the first to speak, told my story of lying to The Dark Lord, but with himself in my place. I was appalled, but I loved him so and did not want him to go to Azkaban, so when they finally put me up to trial, I told them the truth: that I had never been a Death Eater, but merely supported Lucius' being one by being at his side.

Poor Draco went on trial last, but was easily and quickly found not guilty, since he spoke of his fear of the Dark Lord, and how he was not able to do a single thing he had been told by him. At the end of the trial, Lucius too was found not guilty. As much as he would like to refuse it, however, I saw him whispering to the panel, and they made shocked faces, and Lucius pretended to look frightened, and the next thing I know, I was found guilty. After Draco was found not guilty, he had left to make a new life for himself, and I had hopeful wishes that he would be successful in doing so, and that I may have encouraged him. Of course now, I had no chance of ever seeing him again, because the sentence of a Death Eater (or rather just simply supporting the Dark Lord and his causes, in my case) was a lifetime.

There was a pounding at my door, and I was startled out of my sleep.

"Hey, Mrs. Malfoy, we gotcha breakfast here." A guard opened the door, and I almost slammed it back in his face, but my will was too weak, and he walked inside holding a bowl very much like I imagine a dog's would look like.

"It's your favorite" he said with a wicked grin, "Mushed Mystery. But what are you willing to do for it?"

I did nothing but stare at him, keeping my expression blank. The last time I had eaten was lunch yesterday, because the guard hadn't wanted to waste time teasing me when he could be with the other guards beating another prisoner before he got his meal. They made us do humiliating things to get our meals usually. Last night, for dinner, he had wanted me to get on my hind legs and beg like a dog, but I had no energy to do so, and so I did not get my meal.

"Aw, come one Mrs. Killjoy, you don't want your breakfast? Come on, today, all you have to do is rollover. Come on, girl, roll over." He spoke in an irritating voice that one would use to speak to a baby, or a pet.

As much as I did not want to starve, the ground tugged at my limbs, threatening to pull me through the floor if I so much a breathed too heavy. But as I looked at the man, I noticed he kept his wand in his back pocket, left side. I looked down for a moment, feeling a rush of adrenaline for even thinking about taking it.

"All right then," the guard said, "no breakfast for you" and turned to leave.

"No!" I said. It had been the first time I had spoken in a few weeks, so my voice was rough, and raspy, but he heard me. He smiled and turned back to me.

"Then roll over girl. Come on…" he patted his knee with his free hand, "roll over."

I crawled from the corner just enough so I would be able to move, and I tilted so I would fall on my back and roll back over. When my back hit the floor, a sharp pain soared through my back, but I finished the roll and looked up at the guard, whose wicked grin had returned.

"Very good!" he said, continuing to mock me.

"I knew you could do it. That's a good girl." He patted my head, and I thought for a slit second about biting him, but thought better of it. I didn't know where his hand had been, and I was sure I did not want to find out.

"Now, beg."

I sighed inside and got on my hind legs, and whimpered like a dog would.

"Good girl. Now, up. Get your food with your teeth."

Now was my chance. I crawled over to the guard, got up on my knees, and tried to bite the bowl he was holding in his hands, while reaching for his back pocket carefully.

"Oh no," he said, "The bowl's getting higher. You better get it fast" as he raised the bowl just barely out of my reach. I

slowly slid the wand out of his pocket, and simultaneously bit at the air between the bowl and my mouth. Once the wand was free, I slipped it into the leg of my pants and continued to try and reach the bowl.

"Oh, so close that time. Here, you can have it." He dropped the bowl over to the side of where I was biting air, and it fell, spilling some of the Mushed Mystery onto the floor. The guard laughed at my disgust, and left my cell.

I didn't know quite what to do then. It had been so long since I there had been a wand in my hand, but I was sure I could do something. Escape wasn't really my plan, not at all. Other prisoners had stolen wands, and tried to escape, but they all had failed. I did not want to give the guards a reason to think I belonged here, because I most certainly did not, by trying and failing to escape, but I absolutely hated everything about this place.

I pulled the wand out of my pants and looked it over. It was some sort of light wood, but being no wand maker, I had no idea what type of wood it was, much less what type of core the wand held. I took the handle in my right hand and pointed the tip at my unfortunate breakfast mess, imagining it to turn into some bread and wine, and flicking my wrist how I believed I should.

A red glass and a plate of warm bread appeared where once had been Mushed Mystery, and I inspected them to make sure I had done everything correctly. The bread was, thankfully, bread. When I tasted a sip of the wine, it turned out to be punch, but I did not care. I ate my breakfast happy, thinking for a moment I might actually be insane for being happy in a prison.

Draco's POV:

I had just sat on my bed since sunrise had begun to show its face through my large window, breaking any chance holding onto sleep. Not that it really mattered when I was awake or when I was asleep. Either way, I would have 3 plentiful meals, which were never really too appealing to me, and so I usually took the bread and sent the rest back for the elves to eat (they never had a good meal, and I felt bad for wasting food by having them throw it away). My father had told them to make sure I ate at every meal, and so I did, but to my relief either my father didn't care how much I ate, or the elves did not tell him how little it really was. It's one thing to get beaten for sneaking out, but another entirely to be beaten for not eating. I really had lost my appetite. Being in the same room every day of your life with all the entertaining bits removed, staring around at the walls like it was a movie, and listening to your breathing like it was music; it took a toll on your sanity.

I didn't dare ask my father how long I would be trapped; I feared him too much to hear his answer, and so I assumed that I would be here for the rest of my life. I would still send letters to Hermione, but they just weren't the same as seeing her concerned brown eyes and tamed brown hair trying to convince me to leave this awful house as soon as I could. Writing does not convey that which can only be expressed through voice, and it very much lacks the humanity of conversation. Really, it is just the means to pass information, not at all to keep a person company. I could no longer have Hermione over. My father had caught traces of her being in my room when I was lying on the floor and he saw two indentions in my bed where two people had sat earlier, and he knew someone else had been here. Along with my fading bruise on my cheek and wrist, I now had fresh, plum colored ones on my upper right arm and left middle back.

How is it possible to make such bruises in one beating you ask? Well, when my father had come into the room, I had stood up immediately, and when he saw it, he pushed me against the wall, where I hit my head and became dizzy, and then pulled me back up by my arm to yell at me and threaten to kick me out again, to which I begged him not to do, almost letting tears fall, but I stopped myself. There would be no beating worse than the one he would give me if he saw me crying.

"Malfoys do not cry!" he would say.

"You are so weak! No son of mine shall be this weak!" I really didn't care if I was a son of his or a son of some hobo in a London street. In fact, I might even pick the hobo.

There was a knock at my door. I didn't answer it, but the house elf helped themselves into my room.

"Here be young Mr. Malfoy's breakfast, sir," it squeaked, placing a cup of tea on my bedside table. I looked over as it held up the plate full of food that I usually would have loved, but my stomach felt like it would lurch up anything that I put into it. I took a bagel off the tray and mouthed, "You have the rest," to the elf. It smiled and bowed so low that its nose scraped across the floor.

"Thank you, young Mr. Malfoy."

With that, it left the room. I wrinkled my nose at the bagel and put it on my bedside table (which really was more of a small dining room table that was the height of my bed). I wasn't hungry, even more so than normal. I got up out of bed and got ready for the day, though there was no point in that either, since I had nowhere to go or anyone to impress. I didn't even want to impress myself, which is highly odd for me. I looked through my vast wardrobe, thinking of something I could put on that would make my day better. Unfortunately, I was all out of super fun clothes that bring friends to talk to and had a spare wand in its pocket. Even if those existed, I was more than sure that my father would have taken them out, just especially for me. After all my life, I was pretty sure my father hated me. He always beat me, and shouted insults to undermine me whenever he could, and just generally made my life a living hell.

That sounds familiar… I told myself. I thought about it as I put on a comfy pair of pants and a muggle shirt I had bought while out shopping once with Hermione.

Hurting me…insults…living hell…fucking Merlin… I finally realized that is exactly what I did to Potter through our years together at Hogwarts.

He must really hate me. But I love him… That could be what my father means by all his viciousness. He loves me, and just wants me to be safe. He could have been really worried when I snuck out; What if someone had kidnapped me? He might have been concerned about people mistreating me at the celebration, so he put a bruise on my face to make sure they pitied me instead. Of course, all this was about as likely as Dumbledore and the Dark Lord coming back to life and becoming the best of friends, complete with competitive wizard chess games, eating all the hard candies their gums could handle, and yelling at children to get off their grass, just like old people should be. Really, that whole idea was so absolutely ridiculous; I couldn't believe I had even thought of it.

My father caring about my well-being…I must be going mad… Of course, I had already figured I had started to go mad. Each day I only became more absolutely positive. It was like being in a padded room, in a straightjacket. There was nothing new to look at but blankness and gross familiarity, with the added handicap of not having a wand only made it more unbearable. It made me wonder why in the world muggles ever thought that was the thing to do with insane people. It would only make the insane person more so. Logic, though it may try and make sense of it, cannot explain it because it is inexplicably stupid. Logic would tell us, "Would you put a serial killer in a prison where they have to share a cell with people? Would you put an incredibly fat person into a room filled with cakes and various desserts that they should not eat?" and our answers would be "No", and Logic would then say "Then why do something like this? It's the exact same thing."

I'm thinking too much again, I told myself. I lied down on my bed and sighed, lifting the covers over me, and then cup of tea from my bedside, being sure I wouldn't spill a drop. Judging by the smell of it, which was an odd mix of fruity pine, malt, flowers, and almost a sort of citrus, it was my favorite breakfast tea that my mother called Golden Mooned Morning. I could still see steam rising from the cup in little wisps that always reminded me of fog. I pursed my lips and blew into the drink to cool it off. The surface rippled, with a rather large indent in it from the pointed air. I ran out of breath, and once the surface settled, I became keenly aware of my reflection staring back at me from the bonny, Cimmerian tea, surrounded by steam. I inhaled and blew once again, watching the liquid become disrupted once more from its calmness and the steam vanish into the air like it had suddenly found itself a cloak of invisibility.

Stopping, I saw the surface quake but a mere few seconds before settling again, revealing my face in its depths with new steam arriving from the surface, surrounding my face again and giving my fading bruise an ominous grey color that reflected awfully to my eyes. I raised the cup to my lips and sipped, feeling the warmth run down my throat and down into my stomach comfortably. The feeling spread through my body, making me uncomfortably warm being underneath my covers. I carefully placed the tea back down beside my bed, and lifted the covers off me, but making no move to sit up.

What would the point of getting up be? What good could possibly come of it? Absolutely none. It was better for me to just lie in bed all day and stay out of any possible shenanigans that I could get into. That's what my father expected of me. And my mother hadn't done anything to stop it, so I assume she must be preoccupied with something or other. It was so unusual for her to be so busy this long, but then again, I had no idea how much time had passed. It seemed like I had been trapped inside my own room for months upon months, but of course, I was sure that the celebration hadn't been too long ago…

I was very than certain that I was going to die in this very room. Yes, it seems like quite a depressing thought, but when the thought actually occurs inside your head that you will be sitting inside a room so long doing nothing that you will die there, it's quite comforting knowing that it will all come to an end and that it won't just go on forever. In all honesty, it was more than comforting. Anything seemed better than deteriorating my mental abilities any further, having the occasional visit from my father who would literally try and smack some sense into me. I was rapidly entering a period of madness where I would plan my escape of this dreadful place, and would actually want to go through with it, but the moment before I would do it, something would show me how awful the plan was, and how I would inevitably get caught, and beaten. Now, my plans were getting more and more impossible to go through with.

A little person in my head would ask me, "Draco, where in Merlin are you going to get enough magic ability to do that?" or "Draco, how on Earth do you plan to get past your father's office?" or "Draco, why for the love of all that is magically possible did you plan to cut a hole in the wall of your bedroom if you could just as easily use the door?" or worst of all "Draco, who in the world do you think you are? Godric Gryffindor? You cannot just waltz up to your father and punch him in the face then run out the door!"Today, the plans once again occurred in my mind.

All I have to do is wait until my father checks up on me again, hide in my closet, and then when he doesn't expect it, I run out of my room. When he is chasing after me, I drop some marbles behind me so that he trips over all of them and I can have enough time to run out the door. I stood up and searched my room for any marbles that I might own by chance. Though I usually would never be caught with anything muggle, I had gotten them to practice my wandless magic. They could spin in crazy orbits inside my palm now, and I had grown bored with them over time, and placed them somewhere in my room. I searched and searched, but did not find them.

"Pity, Draco, that you can't go through with your plan. Really, it's as brilliant as any plan could possibly be. If, of course, the planner was seven! Honestly Draco? Marbles to trip him? Is that all you can think of?" I sighed and slumped back beside my bed.

I wasn't sure how long I sat there; seconds, minutes, hours. Really, if I hadn't noticed the light from the window, I would have expected weeks to go by. The only measurement of time passing was my breathing. Really, it was all I could do. I was afraid that if I stopped breathing, that time would stop, and that it would never go on, and I would never see the end. I didn't want this to go on for eternity. I don't think I could handle that. And so, I kept breathing, never daring to pause for even a fraction of a second. Fear pierced my heart at the thought that if I stopped for just one moment, one millisecond, that it was all over. I started inhaling before I had finished exhaling, and then exhaling before I had finished inhaling. My breathing became more and more shallow, and begun to speed up with fear. I couldn't stop. I had to breathe. I couldn't let the world pause. I had to keep breathing. That was it. Breathing.

Breathe.

In and out. In and out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. In. In. In…

No, too much in, not enough out. My brain panicked. I had stopped breathing. Had the world stopped? No, it couldn't stop. It had to go on. It can't stop. I need to breathe. But I couldn't breathe. My lungs burned. I need to breathe. My throat was stopped. Start breathing! My eyes watered. For Merlin's sake, BREATHE! I couldn't move. The world was in a stand-still. I had done it. It was all over. I was stuck here. For all eternity. No more breathing.

BREATHE, DRACO, BREATHE!

My head had hit the side of my bed and I was startled awake. I was clammy and covered with sweat, shaking and struggling to breathe. What had happened? I looked around my too familiar room and noticed that the sun had set. I had fallen asleep. It had all just been a nightmare. I slumped over on my side and laid my head on the cold floor. My shoulder happened to land on something that made a very uncomfortable impression, so I had to sit back up and see what it was. My hand grazed the floor, and finally picked up six round marbles; all green or black or grey, even if I couldn't see them in the darkness. I felt around once more on the floor. I had seven marbles, not six. I was missing one; a red one, to be exact; the only one I had. My hand went underneath my bed, and sure enough, felt a small round sphere. I picked it up and let it join the others. Seven marbles in my hand; three green ones, two black ones, one grey one, and one red one, all in a bunch in my hand. At my will, they floated into the air just above my palm, moving into a perfect circle. I separated them by color; a triangle in midair of green, a short line of black, and two lonely spheres of grey and red. The colors had always disturbed me. I had gotten these with the approval of the Dark Lord, whom had chosen the colors out for me when I was younger for the purpose of practice in magic with them.

"The green ones," he had told me, "can represent your family. Your father, your mother, and you. The black ones, will represent your loyalty to me. Your father and you, in the future. This grey one here is me. And when there is a grey one, it must always be accompanied with red" and then an evil smile had come over his face. I had tried to change the colors, but somehow or another, they always changed back to their original color. Grey, and green, and black, and red; all in a circle, one accompanied with the others, never really able to be separated, no matter how hard one tried. I allowed the marbles to go into a sort of atom shape, with one as the center, with all the others revolving around it. As usual, the grey held steady in the center, letting the green, black, and red encircle it in a dance in which they did not control. I willed them to change into a different pattern, where the marbles lined in two lines across from each other. A green across from a black, then a green across from a green, the grey across from the red, and then a black in the very middle with the row of two green ones. With them all lined up, in order and unmoving in the air, I finally made my decision.

The marbles floated over and fell onto my bed as I crossed the room to my wardrobe. I stepped inside, not caring how dark it was because I knew every inch of it by memory. Walking over to the right corner farthest from the entrance, where I kept my vacation clothes, I pulled a bag from behind a long pair of pants. I opened the bag and walked around my wardrobe, filling it with various outfits I would need, then stepped out of my wardrobe and crossed to my bathroom and filled the little remaining space with my toiletries. I went back over to my bed and stuffed my pillows underneath the covers, and tucked them so that it looked as though it was me under them, holding the blanket over my head. Grabbing a piece of parchment and self-inking quill, I jotted a quick note.

Just leave me the bread and tea. You can have the rest.

I picked up my bagel from earlier and sat my note in its place. I looked at it for a moment, then finally decided I did not want to eat it, and shoved it into my bag, just in case. Grabbing the rings off my bedside table, I put them all on, even the silver one with one green and one black stone that read in haunting letters, "to be or not to be." I was ready. All I needed was to open the window, which of course, would be locked so that only magic could open it.

I called to the marbles, and they flung themselves into the window, each getting stuck midway through the glass leaving large fault lines in it. The window was obviously made to not shatter. I pulled out the red marble, and poked the hole that had been left from it. It was sturdy, still, around the edges, but it was definitely a perfect hole from it. I removed all the marbles, and pushed on the glass as hard as I could with my free hand. The glass did not shatter, as I thought it might have, but instead was pulled lose from the frame, and fell onto the grass far below my second story window, making nothing but a whoosh from air passing through it and around it and a soft thud after reaching the ground. I grabbed my bag, pulled the long strap around my shoulder, and pulled my legs through the frame.

"I guess this is goodbye, Paisley." The shining black mass that was my invisible, miniature dragon twisted until I could see shining silver eyes stick out through the darkness.

"Don't worry, Draco. I'll see you again."

And I jumped.

Weightlessness, sadly, was only a temporary feeling. As many people say, you don't die from falling off the top of the building, but from the impact at the bottom. As my feet hit the grass, my ankle gave way under me, and I crumpled. Hot pain seared up my calf. I hadn't broken it, but it wasn't exactly perfect for a long trek either. Trying to be as gentle and easy as I could, I stood back up, bag over my shoulder, marbles in hand. I realized, looking at the ground, that my foot had landed right on top of the glass, and slipped, causing it to twist in a painful sort of way. I limped away, already knowing where I was headed.

Through the forest, past trees with my engravings on them saying "Malfoy was here" or "DM", then over a small creek where I used to find toads and try and give them more warts than they already had, past a park where my mother had taken me once or twice when I was a small child that was always deserted these days, and finally to a large field with tall grasses that swayed in the night air and glistened with what little light the mischievous crescent moon had to offer.

I pulled my bag off my shoulder and dropped it onto the ground, inhaling the lovely scent of fresh air and freedom.

I'm home, I thought. After all that time in prison, I'm finally home.