Chapter Text
The only thing that was etched in his memory was the wetness in the air and the moisture that infiltrated his lungs. The pain radiating from his head intensified with each drop of water that echoed against the stone. He is unable to recall before. Before the hollow sensation that filled his soul and the musty odour that lingered in the air. Before the sound of ringing in his ears and the encompassing darkness that surrounded him.
Was there a before? Draco wasn’t sure.
He slowly brought his hand to his chest and took a deep breath, only to be met with a hollow rattle coming from beneath his ribs. His head throbbed with pressure, and he struggled to think as he stood in the shadows; his eyes drawn to the glistening light against the wall.
The cold rocks under his feet sent shockwaves up his limbs. The sensation caused him to stumble, knocking the dust on the ground loose and into the air. The inhalation of the debris compelled a cough to break the surface, his mouth filling with phlegm. The slimy consistency spewed out onto the floor in front of him; he was captivated by the contrast of the vivid red and green as it combined with the dirt. His body was heavy with exhaustion as he trudged forward. Reaching out to steady himself, a searing pain tore through his hand as the jagged edge of the stone penetrated his palm.
The ocean breeze floated through the bars, filling his lungs with its alluring clean scent. His grip tightened on the structure, the shimmer of the moonlight cast a glow upon his dirt covered skin. With every breath, the frigid wind from the open window made him tremble, his body erupting in goosebumps as he slowly became accustomed to the unfamiliar surroundings.
His knees gave out, and the hard surface reverberated with a crack as the realisation hit him.
Azkaban.
The dirt swirled around him as he lifted his chin. His chest heaved as he searched the night sky, trying to find solace from the stars he was named after.
He couldn’t think.
He couldn’t breathe.
A coolness descended upon him, causing his eyes to drift shut as the light from the window gradually grew dim. He attempted to build his mental walls, but they dissolved like mist as soon as he tried to steady them. In his panic, he failed to detect the loss of his magic, which usually tingled gently beneath his skin. His breathing was shallow and rapid as the icy coldness seeped into his bones. The fear within him tightened its grip on his chest.
As the howling of the wind ceased, the sound of shouting spells overtook him. The cries of the wounded filled his ears, and the smell of burning flesh assaulted his senses. The tattered memories moved with such intensity, and the pain in his head became unbearable as the loud noises reverberated in his mind.
An icy chill crept up his spine as the feel of dread slowly intensified.
The despair and fear of death made a home deep in his bones, as if it were an inescapable truth.
When the shadows of darkness swept over his closed lids, he cautiously opened his eyes to be greeted by a dark figure. The creature’s magnificence entranced him—moonlight bathed it in an ethereal glow.
The cloaked angel did nothing but float in front of his window—watching, waiting. A strong sense of familiarity washed over him, as if it was an old friend greeting him; as if it had always been a part of him. He embraced the feeling as the beast opened its mouth. Draco’s voice shouted in his head, warning him to flee, to move away from the wall opening, to cry out, and save himself; yet he remained rooted. He stared into the monster’s hollow eyes as the anguished cries grew louder, his hands clamped tightly over his ears. He did not dare look away as the soulless shadow unhinged his jaw as it inhaled.
As the being forced its mouth open, the hollowness returned. Draco now recognized that the screaming thundering against the stone was his own, and everything went dark again.
“Mr. Malfoy.” Draco jerked up onto his elbows, his pulse throbbing at the suddenness preventing him from fully rising. His eyes swept over the filthy space as he searched for the person.
The intense morning light made it difficult for him to distinguish the details of the room, but he could see the silhouettes gathering at the entrance. The idea that people could observe him without him being able to make them out left Draco feeling exposed and powerless. He couldn't get his bearings as the voices around him spoke in hushed tones. Pushing up, a sharp throb shot through his head, making him squeeze his eyes shut as he pressed his hands to his temples. His jaw tightened as he rocked back and forth, his teeth gritted in an attempt to muffle the pain.
"Here." He recoiled as the angry voice filled the air before something struck him. His body tensed as the small object hit the ground. He brought his knees up against his chest; his arms wrapping around the limbs as he waited for the blow of the next impact. He held on tightly, drawing strength on the warmth. The reputation of the Azkaban guards' cruelty preceded them , as Draco recalled the injuries bestowed on his father. The memories of his time had taken a physical toll on Lucius, and the once stoic man had become a frail version of his former self. The Manor walls stifled the screams of his nightmares, but the man’s face remained branded with dark circles, an image that Draco had burned into his mind.
“That’s quite enough.” A second voice reverberating through the air, eliciting a feral snarl from the man in front of him.
"Of course, Minister," he mumbled, his low voice tinged with resentment.
Minister for Magic?
He tried desperately to remember any detail of who last held the position, his hands trembled at the intensity of the effort. During the war, the Dark Lord had slithered his way into the Ministry, and the mere thought of being in the presence of an Official that was a follower or supporter of Voldemort prickled Draco’s skin. But, since he was in a cell that could only mean that Harry must have ended the man-like creature, right ? Many failures had resulted in the Malfoys being demoted, but he could not imagine if the Dark Lord had won he wouldn’t allow someone from a sacred twenty-eight bloodline to remain in here, would he ? A knot of dread coiled in his stomach like a snake.
“Draco, son.” His eyelids were a leaden weight, and he heard the gentle rustle of fabric as a hand brushed his forehead. With a groan, he tried to lift his head from his knees, but the intense brightness of the room was too much to bear and he had to squint to keep his eyes open.
“Take this.”
The Minister’s tones were soft,--encouraging, and the prisoner’s hands shook nervously as he accepted the object. Cradling the small bottle close to his chest, he found the cool glass soothing against his skin as he rocked himself gently. The intensity of his grip on the object increased as he found his mind in a daze. The drastic difference between the two men felt like a ploy, and he had a battle within himself. Did the man want him to be misled into a false sense of security?
“It’s not poison,” he whispered, as if he had seen inside his mind to his every thought.
His heart rate steadied, and he almost welcomed the thought of the liquid in the vial being poisonous. He opened his fingers slowly, finding his hands were now steady. Through squinted eyes he saw that the glass sparkled in the light, inviting him. Not considering the consequences, he pulled the cork from the bottle and took a long swig. The sensation of the cold liquid on his tongue completely overpowered his curiosity about the substance. Draco had no hesitation; if the draught would stop the pain it was worth the risk of death at the bottom of the vial.
With a movement of his hand, the man cleared away the hair from his vision. He could feel the potion's effects taking control as the spinning and turning in the room gradually ceased. “Are you alright, son?”
Kingsley Shacklebolt was crouching down in front of him, so close that it felt like the rest of the space was fading. Draco’s gaze swept across his features and although their past contact was brief, Draco found himself having to blink away the tears that threatened to escape when, at last, he recognized the face of someone he was familiar with.
A face of good.
A face that wasn’t in a black cloak.
Regret rose in him as he thought back to the incident in the alley, and he tried to shake it off by nodding his head and rubbing his hands on his pants. Yet the dirt seemed to have become a part of him. His body stiffened as Kingsley pulled out his wand, the grimy residue forgotten as he flinched away from the weapon. The wizard’s stance became rigid. Cautiously, he placed the wood down in front of him, raising his palms in a gesture of peace before speaking.
"You have nothing to fear from me," he said, his dark eyes staring intently at his own. “I’m going to reach for my wand to help, okay?”
Witnessing the sorrow in his gaze, Draco begrudgingly withdrew his hands from their shielding position, extending them. The cleaning charm washed over him quickly, leaving a tinge in its wake.
“I’ve been trying to get you out of here for months,” the Minister whispered. Despite the dirt and grime that surrounded them, the well-dressed wizard gracefully lowered himself to sit beside him.
“After the war, there was so much disarray that way too many of you ended up here, where you don’t belong.”
Don’t belong.
His heart was pounding painfully in his chest. Draco glanced around nervously, not sure if he had heard the man correctly. Or if this was just a memory of words once said to taunt him. Words that had been spoken in a dark corner as he entered Knockturn alley the summer before 6th year. A moment in time when he had believed that someone truly cared, a time he had held onto as he lay awake doubting if the words held any truth; You don’t belong with them, son.
His breath caught in his throat and his muscles tightened as his panic set in. Perhaps, in that moment, it had been the truth, but that was no longer the case. He was where he should be. After all the despicable, depraved, and evil things he had done; Draco had earned nothing but a place here.
Wheezing, the room spun around him, and he sensed the walls narrowing. His gaze drifted back to Kingsley as he felt the warmth of his palms bracketing his cheeks. “Son, look at me.” He couldn’t remember the last time he had experienced someone else’s skin pressed against his. He couldn’t recall the last time he had encountered something other than darkness.
A sob tore its way up his throat, the raw sound reverberating in the space between them as the burden that had held him down lessened. Kingsley merely stared at him, his hand tenderly resting on his cheek, clearing the dampness that had stained Draco’s skin.
Not alone.
He wasn’t alone anymore. Even if Kingsley walked out the cell door and left him there, he knew that he would cling to the feeling of gentle touch long after the cell door closed.
It was not until his breathing had calmed and the tears had stopped that the man released his hold. Rising, he spoke as if Draco moments before had not lost his composure. “Now, I have some things we must go over before we leave.”
Kingsley Stood in place, observing the newly conjured table, the sound of metal clinking as the guard adjusted two chairs around it.
“Leave?” His words were barely audible. A strained noise escaped his throat as he attempted to clear it, the motion resulted in a raspy, hacking cough. Kingsley fixed his gaze on the other man in the room as he sauntered forward and presented him with a cup. Draco ran his finger along the spotless glass, feeling the smooth surface before taking a drink. He eagerly drank the water, the taste of its freshness lingering on his tongue long after he had finished, and rose to his feet.
Kingsley gestured to the chair next to him, and he slowly made his way over, his fingers brushing over sturdy metal beneath him as he sat. He fidgeted with his hands, clasping them together in his lap as he waited for the man to continue. Draco usually would have grown frustrated because of the man's silence and smug grin, but he kept his composure. It was almost a relief to witness someone conveying any emotion apart from either anger or despair.
“I’ve been working on a way to shorten your sentences.” He paused, and when Draco didn’t react, he continued. “An unfair trial was the reason they threw you and many others into this place.” With a huff of frustration, he shot a glance over his shoulder at the guard.
Trial… There was a hearing?
Draco had no recollection of ever sitting in the Wizengamot. Was his mother present? Did she have to watch him as they took him away in a metal cage? Was she here herself?
His chest tightened. “Mother?” The young wizard’s voice was a faint whisper, the hushed question quivering with emotion as it hung there between them.
“Your mother is safe at her home in France with Andromeda.”
He shifted in his seat, desperately trying to remember the name that was on the tip of his tongue, yet it remained just out of his grasp. Andromeda . His cheeks flushed, and he could feel the heat radiating from it as he averted his gaze. Andromeda? Why couldn’t he place that name? His leg was bouncing as he refused to speak, he couldn’t bring himself to admit out loud that he didn’t know.
“Her sister, your aunt, Draco.”
Mother was safe. She wasn't enduring the darkness here. He hadn’t failed her.
He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, the relief of her safety washing over his face as settled in his chair. As he spoke, Kingsley's expression lit up with admiration. “The two of them had both experienced the tragedy of losing a child, and this shared understanding of pain drew them together and allowed them to work to make this dream a reality.”
A deep cough of impatience came after the wizard's words, causing the guard to shift his gaze to the floor as the dark-skinned wizard turned and shot him a warning look. Extracting a parchment and a self-filling quill from the inner pocket of his robes, he placed them atop the table.
“I merely need you to sign a few documents before we move you out of this cell.” Draco deflated, tapping his thumbs against the metal to distract himself. He knew it was too good to be true. He wouldn’t be leaving here. They would just be trading this Hell Hole for another. As the man spoke, he placed his palm on top of his hand to stop his anxious movements, and it remained there.
“Once you’ve signed these papers, we will move you to the hospital wing.” His eyes quickly scanned the area, taking in his unkempt and soiled appearance. “You don’t look well, son, and we want to ensure that we give you the proper attention you need before you go.”
With the realisation of his words, he felt a weight lift from his body. Although he had no other options, he knew any cell would be an improvement to what he was currently living in.
"Okay." Taking a deep breath, he reluctantly met the wizard's gaze. Kingsley delicately removed his hand from Draco’s as he unfolded the papers, his eyes fixed on the words.
“Draco Lucius Malfoy, you have served eleven months and three days of the ten-year Azkaban sentence.”
The air left his lungs. Eleven months . All that lingered in his memory of his time here was the cold and the dark.
“The verdict alteration comes with the stipulation that you must return for the rehabilitation of Hogwarts.”
“What?” he mumbled under his breath.
Kingsley carefully rearranged his papers, the rustle of the pages filling the silence before he continued. “You are required to stay at the castle until the completion of the program. Once the Headmistress signs off, the Ministry will absolve you, Draco Malfoy, of all charges.”
“What?” His voice rose in volume as he adjusted himself in his chair, the furrow in his brow deepening. Exonerated for going to Hogwarts?
He looked with uncertainty at the papers that were being handed to him as the Minister offered him the quill. “All you have to do is sign the agreement. It’s your choice, son, but we need you out there with us. You don’t belong here.” Draco’s eyes wandered around the man’s face, trying to work out if there was any truth to his words. “But this is a decision you have to make.”
A choice.
He accepted the quill from the wizard’s hand, feeling the softness of its downy feathers as he placed it on the parchment. He watched the ink spread in a dark pool when he pressed it too hard. The way he signed his name would horrify his mother, but the quill felt heavy in his grip. He ended his signature with a flourish and glanced at the section that said date with uncertainty. His eyelids were leaden as he gazed up at the man, and a faint, sad smile appeared on his face.
“It’s 2 May 1999.” He could sense the grief that laced his word’s as Kingsley looked at him.
A year had gone by since the Battle of Hogwarts, and it was time to return.