A/N Again a huge thank you goes to my coven for consistently encouraging me to pursue this writing thing. They're really very sweet but don't tell their black-hearted selves I said that. ;)

A special little shout out goes to my darling sister in law who reads all of my stuff and is my biggest fan. She started reading HP fanfiction because I started writing it. Everyone needs a Nic in their life.

As Draco is being led down what feels like a never-ending hallway all he can think is that he will finally get clean. His skin is thick with grime, and he's sure he smells like something dead found in a back alley. Not that he can smell himself anymore. So many senses are now dull. His sense of touch seems to be the only one heightened instead of diminished.

The poor excuse for clothes he was given on his first day here is threadbare and knotted together by hand. His body is numb, and he doesn't remember what warmth feels like. Merlin, what he would give to be warm.

What he is filled with now is such a very dangerous thing…..Hope. Hope that he will finally be free. Hope that he will see his mother's face. Hope for warmth.

Two years. Two painful, cold, dank, and humiliating years. While two years doesn't seem like a long time, anyone that has had the 'pleasure' of visiting Azkaban would disagree. The minutes even seem to drag to hours. He never wanted to count the seconds, minutes, hours, or days but if he didn't he is positive that his mind would be further gone than it already is. The urge to count was a compulsion until he was thrown in the pit. Now he has trouble holding onto thoughts.

Draco, if asked about his stay, would reply that this is what hell must feel like. Hell, he now knows, is anything but an inferno. It's a freezing, desolate, isolating thing. It creeps under your skin and burrows into your bones. It circles slowly around your mind and once it finds a foothold it devours your sanity until holding onto memories is like trying to catch smoke.

Draco feels a flash of sympathy for his cousin as he ponders all of this. It's amazing that Sirius left here even partly sane. The man should have been a patient in the Janice Thickey ward. The isolation of Grimmauld Place must have been a special kind of torture with no one there most of the time. The silence…..that thought alone causes him to shudder.

He hasn't had a conversation in these two years where an authority figure wasn't telling him what a complete fuck-up he is but at least he heard other voices with some regularity. Perhaps that is all he is. He doesn't know who or what he is. What is there on the outside for him? His standing in wizarding society is now less than the thestral shit on a beggars foot.

This leads him to wonder if his father is still alive, and how his mother is coping with both of them being gone, causing him to falter in his step. The guard rewards him for this with a spell that sends a jolt of pain to his ribs. Draco doesn't make a sound. He's learned the hard lesson that silence is preferred in this place. Noises are always rewarded with more pain and screams are what the guards strive for and thrive on.

His mind takes another quick detour to what he used to be like, but remembering becomes harder with the passing of each day. He's not sure what is reality and what is fantasy. He knows the important things like who his family consists of, which side won the war, and the friends he lost. His mother's smell escapes him and he is sure that at one point in time it was ingrained into his senses. He can't recall the name of his Abraxan growing up or what his favorite apples taste like. Although when you're fed a substance that resembles hippogriff waste every day and only rotates through three vaguely different flavors, it's hardly surprising that one forgets what real food tastes like. He doesn't even know what clean water feels like sliding down his throat anymore.

He continues to follow the guard and is led into a large room that looks vaguely familiar. Rough hands push him into a chair and the chains around his wrists and ankles are jostled as they're unlocked. He tries to watch as one of his tormentors walks behind him. The huge, dark, monster of a man has a predilection for violence and has never had a problem unleashing his frustrations on the inmates frequently. A hot and sour wheeze hits the back of Draco's neck, and it's only months of 'training' in here that prevent him from showing more than a tremble.

"Oh little Malfoy, aren't you a lucky bastard to be going free", Edgerton laughs out with a wheeze. If he's expecting a response he will be waiting until Jn the next winter. Draco can't quite manage to conjure anger much less indignation. They have taken even that in here. Even if he could feel more he would not give that part of himself to these leeches.

Draco can see the guard's blackened rotting teeth and is reminded that he himself hasn't had a way to clean his teeth in two years. Shame briefly crosses his features and colors his cheeks, but he lets go of it quickly. All he has the energy to focus on now is getting out of this nightmare. He's been given hope, and every part of his being is now focused on the door that leads to the exit. Hope is the thing that kills in a place like this, but he cannot force it down. It has been too long since he felt anything but apathy.

With another aggressive grab, Draco is pulled roughly to his feet by a bruising grip to his elbow, and a burlap sack is abruptly shoved into his stomach. Again, Draco doesn't make a sound. He has nothing left to give to these ill-bred fools.

"Let's get on with it. I'm tired of looking at your pathetic, worthless hide."

The sun coming through the high cutout windows on the walls prick his eyes before he even reaches the threshold of the heavy iron doors. While some prisoners were kept with a view of the sea with an excruciating set of wards where the wall facing out should be, he was never one of them. He muses that it may be worse to view what you cannot touch versus looking at dirt walls every day with the odd insect as your only company.

Draco knew his family was hated universally; either because of their death eater status or for their wealth and prominence. The cell of a Malfoy would never be charming, and the dirt pit he was thrown in was a daily reminder of just how low he had fallen. His soul might have been left in that pit, and it sometimes felt that the only way to regain it was with the sacrifice of one's self.

The rough stones beneath his feet, while painful, are a very welcome reminder that this is real. He really is walking out of here, and it's not just another nightmare. While Draco would like to call them dreams, nightmare can be the only fitting title to how they always end. Awakening, covered in sweat, and with your heart beating out of your chest is unpleasant. It is preferable to being convinced you're being buried alive though. Shaking his head, he forces himself to become present and aware of what is happening. He doesn't want to miss the moment he steps out of here.

From the very second that Draco set foot onto the soil leading to this hell hole, he knew he would never walk back out. It's quite curious that he is even being freed, but that thought is fleeting as he gets a whiff of fresh air. He has forgotten what that smells like and unconsciously tries to hold that breath in. Covering his eyes he takes a few steps onto the uneven terrain. Frost is crunching beneath his feet and when he finally lets out the air he can see it puff around him like smoke. It's glorious, and he makes a vow to himself at that moment to never again take for granted the simple joy of standing outside.

The path he finds that he is standing on leads down to the water, and Draco takes his time walking toward the ferryman as he tries to take everything in at once. His eyes are still a bit sensitive, but he can't bring himself to keep them shut for longer than a blink. Through his rapidly welling eyes, he sees the vivid color of the grass and the breathtaking blue that is the sky he never thought to look upon again. As he climbs into the boat he notices the feel of the wood beneath him and again a look of childlike wonder overtakes him. His escort doesn't give any indication that he wants to converse, and Draco is thankful for it because he is overwhelmed as all of his senses are bombarded at once. He marvels at the fact that he can taste the salt from the sea. Everything has been so dull and grey that this seems like a fantasy.

When they finally make it to shore Draco thanks the man and is offered only a grunt in return. Shrugging he makes his way out of the boat, and onto the shore as quickly as he can. Over and over he spins trying to truly believe that he is off that gods forsaken rock. Everything feels real but there is an unshakeable suspicion that resides inside him. What if this is another nightmare? No matter the pleasant start they always end in death.

Draco is still taking in his surroundings, and wondering just what the hell they expect him to do now when he feels someone's eyes on his back. This skill, honed from a very young age, has thankfully not left him. As his skin starts to prickle he slowly reaches into the canvas sack and prays to Merlin that his hand will connect with something that can be used as a weapon. Draco has no wand and had no way of practicing wandless magic. The magic dampening wards that are placed over the cells preclude one from being able to feel their own magical core, and Draco isn't sure he hasn't turned into a squib during his time spent in Azkaban.

He comes up with absolutely nothing that can possibly cause harm unless his attacker is allergic to the bespoke robes he arrived at Azkaban in. Spinning quickly, and preparing to just tackle the unknown person, he has a split second of recognition as he sees the person he is now jumping toward. His shoulders slump slightly even in this tension-filled scenario but become rigid once more as he remembers just who he is dealing with. While Hermione Granger is known as the champion of the underdogs she is also very much a powerful and terrifying witch.

Why the hell would Granger be here, Draco thinks just before she speaks?

"Draco, it's ok. I'm not here to cause you any harm. I promise I will explain everything later, but what I can tell you is that I have a portkey that will take us directly to your mother."

At hearing this he lets out a sound reminiscent of a wounded animal and falls to his knees. His mother is at the very least alive, and waiting for him. He finally lets the flood gates open to his tears and feels Granger kneel in front of him as she grabs hold of him tightly but tenderly. Allowing himself to sink into the warmth of her embrace he wonders about the last time someone touched him with a gentle hand and he can't recall it. There's a lot he can't recall anymore. Her arms somehow feel like safety, and Draco briefly wonders why but he allows that his sanity may just be slipping. He manages to choke out, "Mother is ok?"

"She is as well as can be expected in a circumstance such as this, and is very much looking forward to having you home with her", Granger tells him as she sweeps his overly long and dirty hair off of his forehead.

Realizing that he is still being held by Granger, and becoming uncomfortably aware of the state he is in Draco stiffens and leans back. Seeing the concern in her eyes as she takes him in up close confuses him even more. Why is she looking at me as if I'm someone who matters to her? He still doesn't really understand anything, but she has promised to take him home; where ever that may be, and if nothing else, he somehow knows with absolute certainty that he can trust her about this.

Granger stands then and he takes the time to study her. Turnabout is fair play after all. He notices that her mad hair is tamed into loose curls that hit the middle of her back. The fitted yellow jacket compliments her skin tone perfectly, and the tight jeans and knee-high brown boots are showcasing her legs in a way that should be indecent. When did Granger get hot and why the fuck am I noticing? She has put on weight that she desperately needed after the final battle and for some unknown reason, this thought brings him comfort. A thought begins to tickle his brain but he doesn't have the mental stamina right now to chase it down so it can fully form.

Before he can contemplate this, she is standing in front of him and offering her hand to him with that same gentle look she had while holding him. He no longer has enough pride to refuse the action, but he has enough shame to feel the sting of it. She is still scrutinizing him, and although he knows it should feel invasive and rude it doesn't coming from her. It feels like worry for a loved one, and he has to catch himself from grabbing her hand and trying to reassure her.

It then occurs to him that she has been calling him Draco. Not Malfoy. Draco. His world is shifting again, and he has no idea where to place his feet. He is too exhausted and weary to question her about this now, but he attempts to mentally hold on to that thought for later.

Once he is fully upright she holds out a black cloth that must contain the portkey. She smiles at him as she begins to reveal an empty soup tin. At this point, he would follow her anywhere else in the world as long as it wasn't anywhere near here. He notices that she has begun to cry even though she is still smiling at him. Nothing is making sense, and as they are pulled into the void Draco wonders if he lost his mind while imprisoned.

I'll be seeing y'all soon with chapter 2. Let me know what you thought about it. Even if you didn't like it. Haha.

Claw Out