THE VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCE
Author's Note: Whilst this story will strictly follow the canon information (aside from the slash, of course) in all seven books and their two companion books; any information that J. K. Rowling may have given after the seventh book (like in interviews and such), is not necessarily going to be followed in my story. For example, the banishment of the Dementors. Just so you know.
This story will eventually be slash. You have been warned! Don't give me reviews about how sordid I am. If you don't like it do not read it. It is also Post Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, which I am assuming ended in approximately June, 1998.
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling owns most of the characters and places in this fan fiction. I am not fiscally profiting from this at all and I have no money, so don't bother suing me.
"The test of courage comes when we are in the minority. The test of tolerance comes when we are in the majority." – Ralph W. Sockman
Chapter One: A New Order
42 days after the Battle of Hogwarts
"The time is 9:30AM, Monday the 25th of July, 1998." The courtroom fell silent as Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, addressed his peers on the Wizengamot and the various other wizards and witches present.
The murky, hoary room was surrounded by Aurors stationed at strategic points, their wands at the ready and their black uniforms looking crisp and clean. There were two Dementors that stood guard at the double oak doors, keeping obediently still. Shacklebolt's Patronus, a lynx, stalked up and down the black wood floors, holding the Dementor's misery back.
To the immediate right of Shacklebolt, a quill began scribbling quickly, copying down every spoken word.
"The Wizengamot Hearing into the offences committed under the Decree for Excessive Magical Force, the Muggle Protection Act of 1992, the Decree for Human Rights, the use of the Unforgivable Curses Act of 1813, the Murder by Magic Act of 1654, and the Servitudes of Dark Wizards Act of 1981, will commence."
All eyes fell on the young man trapped in the chair in the centre of the room, his hands, legs, arms and neck bound to the seat by chains. He was disturbing to look at, with his pale as porcelain skin that had a translucent, grey tinge to it. He seemed dangerously thin and brittle and there was a look in his eyes … a haunted look that said he had seen too much for one so young.
"Wizengamot interrogators are," continued Shacklebolt in his deep, calm voice, "Kingsley Armand Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic, Hestia Abidora Jones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Percy Ignatius Weasley, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, Hermione Jean Granger, Junior Undersecretary to the Minister, Arthur Hugo Weasley, Head of the Muggle Liaison Office, Professor Minerva Ophelia McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Dedalus Derryn Diggle, Order of the Phoenix Representative, Elizabeth Yolanda Croaker, Head of the Department of Mysteries, Tabitha Lilith Ngyuen, Head of the International Cooperation Office-"
The list continued and the courtroom remained silent, but for the scratching of journalist quills in the right hand corner, and Shacklebolt's magical scribe. Everyone's gaze remained on the young man in the chair, who was determinedly looking ahead, gazing at apparently nothing, not having moved an inch since his arrival.
"The accused, one Draco Abraxas Malfoy, eighteen-years-old, is present and stands on trial for the aforementioned charges." Shacklebolt looked up at the young man; no feeling in particular present in Shacklebolt's composed face. He was turning out to be the best thing that had happened to the Ministry in a long time. And with all the reforms that had been taking place, all the weeding out of the corrupt that he had been instigating, it was hard to imagine that the man had had enough sleep to be conducting all these trials.
"Mr. Malfoy, you may plead not guilty to all charges, guilty to all charges, or you may specifically state which charges you do and do not plead guilty too. What say you?"
Finally, there was movement from the prisoner, followed by a deep intake of breath – a difficult feat with the chain so secure around his neck. Draco Malfoy looked rather weak and anxious, and when he spoke it was with a slightly croaky voice. Like he had not used it for a while. "Guilty to all charges but Murder by Magic." And then in a quieter voice, "I never killed anyone."
"We will determine that," came the voice of Percy Weasley, the contempt evident. It was no secret that the Weasley family had lost their son, Frederick, in the war. Each member of the family was managing the loss in their own way. Percy Weasley's was to immerse himself in his work.
"Do you have a defense, Mr. Malfoy, for your atrocious crimes?" Percy Weasley's father asked in a grave tone. Arthur Weasley handled the death of his son quite differently. It appeared that the man was determined to see that no other person, good or bad, ever had to feel the great loss he was feeling. That no father ever have to look at their son with the life gone out of their eyes.
The prisoner struggled to keep his face impassive at the words of Mr. Weasley. He appeared in deep thought, as if wanting to perfectly choose the phrasing of his next sentence. "Self-preservation," he finally answered, carefully and truthfully. "The Dark Lord would have killed me and my family if I had not cooperated. I had no choice."
"You had a choice," came the bitter voice of Elizabeth Croaker. "Everyone in this room had a choice. And we have each suffered for ours, but we come out of it with clear consciences. A sentence in Azkaban may have to be your payment for your cowardice."
A tetchy throat was cleared meaningfully. It may have been Minerva McGonagall's. Croaker ignored it.
"You made the wrong choice. Besides which, new laws state the only witnesses that are allowed to present themselves to the Wizengamot are non-accused. As a result, you have no proof that you did not act on your own volition. You have no proof that the He Who Must Not Be Named forced you to do anything. And there are several, credible sources that put you at various crime scenes, including the murder of Albus Dumbledore." It was a good thing that the prisoner was not looking at Elizabeth Croaker. He would not have liked her unforgiving countenance. "So Mr. Malfoy, how is it that you plan on defending yourself for these crimes?"
The prisoner appeared visibly distressed by this speech. It was not surprising that his inability to procure a witness should concern him. Without one, it was unlikely that he could convince the Wizengamot that he had not been a completely willing participant in the war. There where only two people who could, and were disposed to confirm his story. His parents. Unfortunately for him, both had already been tried and convicted. Narcissa was handed a ten year sentence in the medium security floor of Azkaban. Surprisingly lenient, the public had thought. Lucius had not been so lucky. He barely escaped the Kiss. He was saved, miraculously, by one Wizengamot vote – Arthur Weasley's.
Seven others had been even less fortunate. Twelve Death Eaters, and other servants of the Dark Lord's, had faced the Wizengamot before Draco Malfoy. The New Ministry Order was being rigid and ruthless. They were determined to still any uprising that may come from the surviving Death Eaters, and were determined to discourage others to imitate the actions of them.
"He has a witness." It was Hermione Granger. Even though half the pre-war Ministry workers had been fired, murdered or imprisoned, many people still had found it hard to believe that she had been given such a high position without even having her N. E. W. T's. But then, what most didn't know was, the only person alive who knew more details about Voldemort's activities in the last four years, was Harry Potter himself. Hermione Granger would be more likely to catch a Death Eater in a lie than any other on the Wizengamot. "The witness waits in the side chamber."
There was a sudden rumble in the crowd and the prisoner curiously attempted to turn his head to the witness chamber door, but the chain around his neck held him tightly in place. The journalists became very animated in their corner. No other accused, thus far, had produced a witness that could come to their defense. Plenty could be found to incriminate them further, but none to absolve.
The only other way to prove innocence in a Wizengamot trial was through the extraction of memories. But when in desperate need, a wizard could manipulate a memory, and as these trials were so vital to the security of the magical world, the Wizengamot would not accept the memories of accused persons as evidence.
"Very well," said Shacklebolt in his calm, low voice. "Call him in."
The Auror by the witness box turned on his heel and opened the door. Harry Potter stepped out and the crowd virtually roared in shock. Potter ignored it and made his way to the witnesses' box; sitting himself deftly down, his eyes not even skimming over the man he was attempting to save.
Everyone's focus had shifted from the prisoner to the witness. If they had still been watching they may have seen the sudden relief that had flooded Draco Malfoy's face. Hardly unexpected, when you considered the likelihood of sustaining a severe convicting sentence with the saviour of the wizarding world coming to your aid.
"Silence!" boomed Shacklebolt, and the roar dimmed to murmurs. But this still was not good enough. "Those who cannot keep silent will be removed from the courtroom." The Aurors around the room stirred threateningly and the crowd fell silent again, but their faces were still ablaze with excitement.
Harry Potter had not been seen by the public since that night at Hogwarts, when it had all finally ended. Some believed that he was staying away from the wizarding world, until the New Order had gained full control. Others believed that he had renounced magic altogether and was going in to hiding. Draco Malfoy believed neither.
"Harry Potter," began Shacklebolt, his voice low and calm again. "You have evidence to give the Wizengamot, in regards to the guilt of Draco Malfoy?"
"Yes, I do," said Potter. The dim candlelight around the courtroom hid most of Potter's form in shadow so it was difficult to make out his expression.
"Then you may begin."
Potter took a deep breath, still determinedly not looking at the prisoner, and began, "In 1996, Draco was recruited by Lord Voldemort-" there was a sharp, collective intake of breath "-in an act of punishment. Punishment for Lucius Malfoy's indiscretions."
Malfoy scowled. The journalists – particularly a bottled blonde with a sharp, green Quick-Quotes Quill – enthusiastically jotted down Potter's story.
"How Draco felt about his recruitment, I cannot be sure. But, as he was sixteen-years-old, I think it does not matter."
"I think it does matter," Hestia Jones spoke up quickly. "A sixteen-year-old may not be of age, but they are still socially and morally aware."
"Oh, I don't know," said Arthur Weasley, listlessly shifting in his seat, an undeviating sadness in his eyes. "The war had only just started for everyone other than the Order of the Phoenix. I doubt the boy knew what he was getting himself into. He had only been a baby through the previous war."
"Regardless," Hestia Jones continued firmly, "he appears to willingly have joined a group of notorious murderers."
The conversation continued on this vein for some time, with the entire Wizengamot expressing differing views. Finally, as the conversation was beginning to become an argument, Hermione Granger spoke up again.
"Why don't we ask Malfoy?" A few of the Wizengamot glared disapprovingly at Granger, but she carried on undeterred. "Were you pleased to be recruited, Malfoy?"
It appeared that the prisoner did not appreciate being addressed by Granger. But he was not fool enough to degrade her. He answered quickly, "Yes. At the time I was pleased."
"And were you fully aware of what it meant to be a Death Eater?"
He could be seen pondering this question for a moment, before answering. "No. I knew what would be required of me. But I didn't understand how complicated it was."
Granger raised her eyebrows imploringly at him, as if to say, "go on". He frowned in thought. "I didn't … I …" he said in a small voice. "I didn't understand what death was."
A few significant looks were shared amongst the Wizengamot. Some of the faces were softening, ever so slightly.
"Well, then." Granger spoke, matter-of-factly. "It has been determined that Draco Malfoy did not fully comprehend the consequences of becoming a Death Eater. Harry, continue if you will."
Potter seemed to be holding back a smirk, but he quickly hid it. "Thank you, Hermione," he said, a slight trace of amusement in his voice. He cleared his throat. "Draco was given a mission," he sobered swiftly as he continued, "to murder Albus Dumbledore. But Draco, despite being given the opportunity to complete his mission, did not do it."
"Because Severus Snape beat him to it," argued Croaker.
Potter's face went very hard and many of the Wizengamot looked away, a certain amount of fear evident in their faces. Potter had just beaten the darkest wizard of all time, after all. Angering him would not be on a sensible person's To Do List. "Severus Snape was a hero," he said in a firm voice. "He and Dumbledore had an agreement. I have put forth all this, with evidence, to the Ministry."
Croaker looked away. Granger sighed, impatiently. Evidently this was an on-going argument for Potter. "The Ministry has already accepted this evidence and Snape's name-"
"Professor Snape."
Granger puckered her brow and reluctantly corrected herself. "Professor Snape has been cleared. His reputation restored. Please continue, Harry."
Potter still looked angry, but he trudged on. "I was there the night that Draco was meant to kill Dumbledore. I saw the whole thing. It is my belief, and I believe that it was Dumbledore's belief, that Draco could not and would not kill him. In fact, I am certain of it. If the Wizengamot feels that I am being untruthful, I can provide the memory through use of a Pensieve or-"
"Oh really, Potter," said Minerva McGonagall, almost affectionately. "Of course we believe you. But can you be certain that Malfoy did not kill any others? Dumbledore was his headmaster for six years. He made him a prefect. The boy may have had some kind of lukewarm feelings towards him. I doubt he would have felt the same about muggles or people he didn't know."
Potter considered this for a moment before shaking his head dismissively. "No. I do not believe that Draco killed anyone. I believe it was asked of him more than once, and that he did not comply."
"What reasons do you have, for thinking Malfoy innocent, other than your own belief, Harry?" Arthur Weasley asked, carefully.
Potter looked away in thought, his face grave. "A comment that Bellatrix Lestrange made … and the look on his face when Voldemort tried to make him torture Rowle. And probably Ollivander too." The prisoner's eyes had gone wide and the courtroom was deadly silent. Even the quills had stopped. Potter sighed. "I cannot know for certain, I suppose. Perhaps you should ask him. But I do not believe he killed anyone."
"We already asked him," said Croaker, a look of spite on her face. "He denied it."
"Then we will vote." Shacklebolt declared. "All those in favour of dismissing the charge of Murder by Magic, raise your hand."
No one raised their hand and Draco Malfoy's stomach began to fall. Then slowly, with a look on her face like she should know better, Granger raised her hand. Shacklebolt followed. Then McGonagall. Both Weasleys. And others too. It looked like it could be half. That's all he needed. A majority.
"It is agreed then, by a vote of 32 to 28. The charges of Murder by Magic are dismissed."
The prisoner smiled. A real one that went all the way up to those grey eyes and it was directed at Potter. But the witness still did not meet Malfoy's gaze. He continued to look at the Wizengamot coolly.
"Is there anything else you would like to add, Mr. Potter?" Shacklebolt asked.
Potter sighed. "Only that I do not believe that Draco wished death on anyone, once he fully understood what death meant. I believe that he is a victim of circumstance."
"A victim of – oh, honestly," Croaker sputtered, clearly unable to hold her disapproval in any longer. "You had half the wizarding world after you and you still didn't-"
"Whilst I'm sure," interrupted McGonagall protectively, "that Potter greatly appreciates your praise. We cannot expect every child to be like him."
"Very true," said Weasley senior. "Harry was groomed for it. Born for it. Many people did some suspect things in the war in order to survive. Not all of them are going to be on trial for it either, I might add. Malfoy was just a boy."
"Well then," said Shacklebolt, ending the matter as Croaker looked ready to throw dungbombs at people's heads. "Mr. Potter, you are dismissed. The final pending charges on Mr. Malfoy will be decided after a short recess. Aurors, escort the prisoner back to the brig."
Potter was on his feet and out the door, quick as a flash. The rest of the room began to disband quickly as Shacklebolt's lynx had disappeared, leaving the Dementors undefended. But as the Aurors approached the prisoner, they could see that a whole lot of colour seemed to have rushed back to his cheeks and there was a definite look of relief.
With Potter's testimony and the removal of the Murder charges, he would not be sentenced with the Kiss. He might still receive life imprisonment. But at least he would still have his soul – a little deflated though it might be, it was not broken. And he liked it where it was.
Potter's words had apparently done the trick. Many of the Wizengamot that had previously been looking at Draco like he'd skinned their puppies and was wearing them as a coat, now had an obvious look of pity in their eyes. Which Draco would've hated if it wasn't going to save his life.
It helped too, that Arthur Weasley continued to remind his peers that Draco had only been a boy when he was recruited. That McGonagall, who had taught him for several years, said loudly that she'd always thought Draco was a bully but never evil, also seemed to have an effect. And finally was Granger, who cinched it with the claim that without Draco, Potter would not have been able to defeat the Dark Lord. No matter how unaware Draco had been of this fact.
Draco was thinking that he might get a shorter sentence than his mother, and be able to live as a twenty-something after all, when Ollivander was summoned to the witness chair.
Potter had not lied to the Wizengamot; Draco had not wanted to torture Ollivander. But Potter obviously did not know that he had done it anyway. And Ollivander, ever the speaker of truth, told the Wizengamot as much.
Elizabeth Croaker had looked mightily pleased when Ollivander stated that Draco had been at it for minutes and Draco could see all Potter's words being forgotten until Ollivander added;
"Good thing it did not hurt much."
"What?" Croaker croaked. Draco thought she resembled a particularly ugly bullfrog. Like the ones that used to breed down by the creek at Malfoy Manor. Lucius had poisoned the creek to get rid of the disgusting beasts.
"It did not hurt much," repeated Ollivander. "I was surprised too. His wand was just the right one for the Cruciatus. That hawthorn, yew." Ollivander turned his inquisitive eyes to Draco. "I'm glad you did not mean it."
"What?" Croaker repeated. Definitely a bullfrog.
"You have to mean it," Granger said in exasperated tones and Draco was reminded of Potions classes. Only there was no Severus to beat her down anymore. "To successfully perform an effective unforgivable curse, you have to really, really mean it. Obviously Draco had no wish to torture Ollivander."
"Though it does beg the question," said Percy Weasley, pompously, "why Voldemort allowed Malfoy to perform the curse for so long if it had 'not hurt that much'?"
"Oh now," said Ollivander, his eyes shining. "I thrashed around and screamed appropriately. It was certainly a welcome break. Still, I was much happier when Harry Potter came and saved me with that clever muggleborn," Ollivander glanced to Granger, "and your youngest boy," Ollivander turned to Weasley senior.
The courtroom all looked to Granger and Weasley too, as Ollivander turned back to Draco. "I must know, young master Malfoy, if Mr. Potter gave you back your wand? He repaired his old one you know, with the Elder Wand." The journalists became very animated again. "He did not want the Elder Wand either. Though I must say, his original one, with that wonderful phoenix's feather was one of my better designs. Still, it is curious, that he should choose it over the Elder."
Ollivander gazed at Draco expectantly until Granger finally intercepted. "Malfoy has no wand and shall not have any unless all charges are dropped."
Ollivander frowned. "Yes, I suppose that's true. But, should you ask him for it," he continued, staring thoughtfully at Draco, "bare in mind that it will not work as well for you as it used to. He is the master of it now. You must get a new one from me as soon as you can."
Someone snorted behind Draco and Shacklebolt shuffled his papers in finality. "Mr. Ollivander, thank you for your testimony. The Wizengamot will now adjourn to reach an agreed charge and sentence. Aurors, remove the prisoner."
The Aurors came forward to detach Draco from the chair as the journalists and others left the courtroom. As the chains were released Draco immediately went to rub his sore neck but he was not given the opportunity as an Auror instantly put him in the full body bind and magicked thick coils around him. He was hovered out through the back door and down the stairs to the brig, one hundred feet below the courtroom.
This prison of cell blocks made from metals and magic was a holding area for those that still had their trials to come. This land of limbo between freedom and Azkaban was currently full and Dementors patrolled the brig in large numbers.
After the fall of the Dark Lord, the majority of the Dementors had all immediately returned to Azkaban, without any prompting from the Ministry. It was debated for several days about what should be done with them, but as there was no real way to destroy them, the Ministry decided to employ them for the time being. As there were more prisoners in the Ministry than Azkaban, at this stage, the Dementors presence was rather vast and foreboding. Steadily sucking the last vestiges of sanity from many of the inmates.
Draco was unceremoniously thrown into his cell and was taken aback to see someone there waiting for him, lounging on his wire cot. The Auror that had bound him reversed his spells and slammed the door shut without comment.
Harry Potter looked up at Draco for the first time in forty-two days. Draco stared back and saw a similar kind of haunted look in Potter's eyes that had been reflecting back at him of late. But aside from this, Potter looked much the same as he had on the first day of school all those years ago. Though of course, he was taller and burlier and his jaw line had widened. And, though it was hard to tell in the dim light of his cell, Draco thought he saw the faint outline of facial hair emerging. Potter had obviously forgotten to shave in the last couple of days.
They sat in silence as Draco waited for him to speak. After a few seconds he realised he was not going to.
Draco cleared his throat as Dementors shifted outside his door, their rattling breaths thinning the air. Draco, having been in the brig for forty days now, hardly noticed the difference. His insides had been frozen for over a month. Potter however, did notice.
"Jesus," he muttered. He pulled out his wand, which Draco noted was indeed his original one, and grunted, "Effin' Dementors." He waved his wand and a handsome stag erupted from it. The creature filled the room with warmth that Draco had never felt in that cell.
Draco tentatively sat down at the opposite end of the cot, now staring at the Patronus that was pawing the ground.
"I suppose," said Draco, after some time, his voice holding up well, "that I ought to thank you."
"Yes," said Potter in a small voice, running his hand through his jet black hair so that it stood up at awkward angles even more so than usual. "Yes, you probably should."
Draco scrunched up his face, clearly not liking the idea. "Can we just pretend I did?" He muttered so quietly that he didn't think that Potter had heard. A snort of derision told Draco otherwise though.
"I'm not here for gratitude," said Potter. The stag walked over to Potter and lowered its magnificent head to his, nudging him with its silvery nose. "Hiya, Prongs."
Draco watched this for a moment, fascinated. Draco had never been able to produce a corporeal Patronus. He felt that familiar twinge of jealousy that often came with being in the presence of Potter. "Prongs?" drawled Draco. "You named your Patronus?"
Potter turned to Draco, apparently pleased with the distraction. "Not exactly. My father was an Animagus, this was his form. His mates called him Prongs because of it."
Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes and said nothing to this. They sat in silence for awhile. Draco was considering asking him to leave but the presence of Prongs was a welcome break for him, and his head felt clearer than it had in weeks. He found himself longing for the voice of his father. And the scent of his mother. Finally, Draco was forced to say something.
"So if you're not here for a thank you, why are you here?"
Potter sighed and sat up straighter, resigned to the end of the small talk. "Because I need to know something." Potter looked across to Draco. "I need to know if you're worth it."
Draco stared back at him and blinked. Whatever it was the Draco had expected Potter to say, that wasn't it. "I, um, I'm not sure how you expect me to respond to that, Potter."
This answer, was evidently, not acceptable."You could tell me that you are worth it and that I did the right thing," said Potter looking rather agitated. Draco sneered. Really, he gives a bit of evidence and suddenly he's my saviour?
Potter saw the sneer and a rather nice one of his own began etching itself across his face. "You could tell me it was worth the two weeks of sucking up I did to Hermione," he began, "so she wouldn't bring up how many times you called her a Mudblood. Or the Buckbeak incident, or the Norbert incident, or the fact that you and Crabbe and Goyle tried to kill us in the Room of Requirement or the fact that you've never shown any remorse for any of these things."
Draco flinched at the mention of Crabbe and Potter stood up, pacing. Prongs looked at him thoughtfully.
"You could tell me it was worth the fifty hours of manual labour I spent working on Arthur's new bloody car so he wouldn't tell the Wizengamot about how your father had given his daughter a piece of Voldemort's soul that sent her around the castle trying to kill everyone, and that my word that Lucius didn't deserve the Kiss-" Potter paused to snort "-kept Arthur from voting for it at his trial."
Potter was really ranting now, his voice steadily rising and Draco just looked on, slightly horrified.
"You could tell me that I did the right thing, promising Professor McGonagall that I'd come in and teach Defense Against the Dark Arts in emergencies and show up whenever it pleased her to give all the students lectures, if she promised not to bring up how you let Death Eaters into the school and two students died because of it and my friend got his face bitten off!"
Prongs had faded in Potter's anger and the coldness of the Dementors was returning and Potter was shouting now and Draco got the vague impression that Potter was not necessarily just yelling for the obvious reasons, but that perhaps Potter was letting off some steam.
"You could let me know that it was worth giving up a trip to Australia with my girlfriend, to go and get Hermione's parents back, in favour of immediately beginning training as an Auror to please Kingsley so that he'll show you leniency!"
Potter suddenly shivered and looked about for Prongs, finally realising he'd faded. "FUCKING DEMENTORS!" Potter shouted angrily. He squinted his eyes for a moment, no doubt to think of something happy, and then shouted, "Expecto Patronum!"
Prongs reappeared and Potter looked at him reproachfully, like he'd chosen to fade away.
Draco looked at neither. The thought that Potter might've really put some effort into Draco's case was pretty shocking. And the fact that it had been Potter's intervention that had saved Lucius was beyond comprehension. It was almost as insane as the thought that Potter had most likely intervened for Draco's benefit. Draco couldn't think of anyone that would do that for him, bar his parents.
Potter seemed to be calming down a little. Draco opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He took a deep breath and tried again. "Why did you do it then?"
Potter turned to him, his face still red in aggravation. He turned away to face Prongs and said in a much more controlled voice, "All these people died. Mad-Eye and Hedwig … Dobby … Remus, Tonks and Fred. All because of me. Well, partly because of me." Potter's voice returned to normal and he turned back to the cot and sat back down. "But you I saved. Twice." He looked intently at Draco, willing him to understand. "I didn't want it to be for nothing."
Draco did not completely understand, but he nodded his head anyway. They sat in silence for a few minutes and then Draco could not help saying, "You know you're being a bit arrogant." Potter scowled. "None of those people died because of you. Not even partly because of you. It was all him."
Potter stared at Draco with a peculiar expression on his face. A mixture of gratitude and annoyance perhaps. He nodded his head to him but Draco could tell he didn't believe Draco's words. Potter stood up, and looked towards the cell door.
"You'll get two to four years," Potter declared matter-of-factly. "Minimum security most likely. That means you won't have Dementors stationed outside your door. A couple will hover around the general area, but you'll mainly be under the guard of wizards. And you get visitation rights. Once a month. You won't be allowed to see either of your parents though because they're not allowed visitation, but you can see people on the outside."
Draco snorted. "There is no one." But despite this knowledge his heart felt lighter than it had in a month. Two years? Minimum security? He could do that.
Something flittered across Potter's face for a moment, and Draco thought it might've been something like pity. But it was gone so quickly that Draco couldn't be sure.
Potter banged on the cell door. "I'm done!" he called out to the guard and then turned back to Draco. "I'll leave Prongs. He should last a few minutes, until I leave the building."
Draco smirked and drawled, "I don't suppose you'd feel like spending the night then?"
Potter gave a little smile as a Dementor came to the cell door. Potter eyed the putrid creature with disgust and then with a small billow of his cloak, was gone. The door was closed again and Draco looked to Prongs who was gazing out the cell door where its master had left him.
Draco attempted to comprehend everything that had just happened. It seemed surreal. But then again every event of the last two years had. A blur of red devil eyes, green mists of death, and Harry Potter circling the beast. The war was over. But he would never be rid of it. He sighed loudly, closed his eyes and concentrated on the sound of his father's voice, still not accepting the fact that he'd never hear it again, except in his mind. After some time, Draco knew not how long, he felt strange tingles on his nose and he opened his eyes to see Prongs standing over him, his big, doe eyes wide with wonder.
Draco stood up and he reached out a tentative hand to the silvery creature. He felt no fur or flesh, but rather intense feelings of pins and needles. Prongs looked at him curiously, his eyes intelligent and – Draco was surprised to see – playful. Draco smiled at him and patted him idly until finally, like a wisp of smoke, he disappeared. Draco felt the coldness envelope him instantly, but he refused to let it into his heart. It was filled with too much promise of a future he'd only just been given back.
Two years is going to be a lot harder than I thought.
The seconds dripped by. Like a droplet of rain running down the Eiffel Tower. He had no idea how long he had been in Azkaban. It could've been months, it could've been days. Draco would fall asleep and wake up suddenly with the thought that perhaps only hours had passed.
He could not keep track of the time, no matter how hard he tried. He thought that the guard was deliberately altering his meal patterns to throw Draco off. He would count in his head after lunch had been given to him. He got to five hours before the strain of concentrating that hard finally got to him, and the little grate that passed his food trays through the cell, had made no movement. Draco was sure that at least twenty-four hours passed before he was presented with his next meal – which should have been dinner. But it was sloppy, cold, porridge. Breakfast. So Draco tried to count again. But always, everything was out of order. Sometimes he was sure he had gone several days before being fed again. And then that dream would come once more, the dream that maybe he had only been there for a couple of days and that all this time he was imagining crawling by was only that, imagining.
Draco's cell was roughly the size of a cupboard, with a cot pushed flush against the wall, and a toilet in the corner. That was it. There was a tiny, hand size window, but it was boarded shut and painted black. Draco had clawed at the window more than once, but no paint had scratched off. No natural light, no breeze, no escape. The cold, grey stone offered no comfort and the lumpy mattress offered only disturbed sleep. He felt like every time his head had finally hit the mattress at a comfortable angle, and he was finally catching some decent sleep, he would suddenly wake. But then, he had no way of knowing if that was true or not. Perhaps he was unwittingly sleeping for hours. He found better rest on the dirty, gravel floor.
The lights to his cell were thrown on at what Draco was certain were random intervals. But he didn't know for sure. None of it made any sense. And then there was the cold. It was like a permanent frost but he had no blanket to escape it, and the raggedy clothes were completely inadequate.
The presence of Dementors was weak in his part of the prison, but they were still felt. They encouraged Draco's feeling of misery and loneliness and confusion. But he almost longed for their company outside his cell. If he were driven mad, his boredom would be sated. He had never thought boredom could be such a terrible thing. But it was slowly tearing him apart and he was starting to get strange urges to hurt himself, if only to pour some life out of him to remind him that he was real. That he existed. And then he would think to himself that he did not need Dementors. He was driving himself mad very well on his own.
Most of the time, when he could clear his head for long enough, he would think of his parents. He wondered how they were faring in this great fortress. He thought that that was the cruelest thing about being here. To know that his parents were so close, but still, so far away. It would be years until he saw his mother, and he would never see his father again. It seemed so unfair. And Draco wasn't sure who to blame anymore. Everything culminated in an all too painful emotion and a part of Draco found himself longing for death.
Suddenly, as Draco was lying on the floor, trying to get comfortable, there was the sound of scratching at his door. Then the door was thrown open and light flooded into his room. He threw his arms up to shield his eyes as the light flooded in. But then a spell was muttered and thick coils were thrown around him and there was nothing to stop the light burning his eyes. They watered painfully and Draco squinted hard.
Draco said nothing as he was hovered out of his cell. His eye-lids still firmly shut, painful tears sliding down his face. His mind tried to groggily take in the sounds and scents of his surroundings but it was all happening too fast. Draco tried to open his eyes, but the light burred into them and they were quickly closed again.
The hovering charm was suddenly, unceremoniously, removed. Draco fell to a stone floor, and he heard a loud crack and his wrist began to throb agonizingly, shooting bolts of pain up and down his arm. He whimpered and someone behind him sniggered quietly. There was a loud bang, like a heavy door closing. And then all sounds were gone. Draco clenched at his wrist. He thought it must be sprained. Not broken. If it were broken it would hurt more. Though, it hurt plenty as it was.
Draco attempted to calm himself and tried to organise his thoughts. Where was he now? The cold stone of the floor seemed smooth. Much smoother than the dirty gravel of his cell. He felt it with his good hand. Why would they move him?
Draco panicked. Maybe they had changed their minds and decided to give him The Kiss after all? His heart thumped in his chest. That must be it. What else could it be?
He would rather die. He would rather die than let one of those foul creatures have his soul. He began shaking and bile rose in his throat.
The sound of the door opening again caused a gasp from Draco. His eyes were still firmly shut. He crawled away from the footsteps until he hit the back wall. He crawled himself into a ball, turning his face away.
"Fuck."
Draco's panic lessened a little. Dementors didn't talk. The footsteps came right up to him and he could sense someone standing over him. He curled himself into a tighter ball, pulling against his sprained wrist excruciatingly. Suddenly, there was a tentative hand on his arm. He flinched, but the hand remained. The person was warm and their hand was shooting some much needed heat through his body. But he did not relax.
"What have they done to you?"
The voice was familiar. But Draco's mind could not process it. The pain, the cold, the fear – paralyzed him.
The hand was removed and with it, went the newfound heat. The person walked away from him and Draco relaxed slightly. Then there were voices. Angry voices. And then it all became too much and Draco knew no more.
Draco woke to the smell of honey. He breathed it in deeply. He cautiously opened his eyes. They did not burn. There was a dark glow about the room he was in. Like it was sunset. As his gaze focused, he saw a great window in front of him, confirming it was indeed, early evening.
Draco shifted himself and realised he was in a bed. A real one. With a blanket and a pillow. He groaned as his wrist stabbed at him and he looked down at it. It was wrapped firmly in a bandage.
He inhaled deeply again and turned to the scent of that sweet honey. He saw Harry Potter. Draco gasped in surprise. The young man was holding a tray in his hands of toast and honey and a glass of pumpkin juice. His face was full of concern.
Draco's attention was turned away from the food as he stared up at Potter, extremely confused and fatigued. "Where-" Draco's voice croaked and he cleared it awkwardly. "Where am I?"
Potter moved the tray onto the bedside table. "You're in the infirmary. In Azkaban," Potter said gently his face the most receptive Draco had ever seen it.
"Oh," replied Draco sleepily "Why?"
Suddenly Potter's open countenance changed into an angry scowl. "The guard. The one that was looking after you," Potter growled slightly. "He did things. Things to make you sick."
Draco gulped and found his mouth was very dry. He looked to the pumpkin juice. Potter followed his gaze and quickly picked the glass up and handed it to Draco who swiftly snatched it and began gulping it down. When it was half empty, Draco balanced it on his stomach and looked back to Potter.
"What did he do?"
Potter took a deep breath and dragged a stool over. He sat down on it. "For starters, he shrunk your room. Put dirt and gravel on the floor. Blocked your window."
Draco looked straight ahead. He attempted to make his face impassive, but he was too weary.
"He, ah," Potter continued, "put an anti-sleep charm on your mattress. Didn't feed you for days sometimes, some other little things."
Draco should have been furious. But he mainly just felt sadness. At least he knew he wasn't crazy. He continued gazing ahead through the barred windows of the infirmary. It appeared a lot like the hospital wing at Hogwarts, only it had a more sterile look about it – less homely. "Why did he do it?" asked Draco.
Potter sighed again and shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno. Why does anyone do the terrible things they do?"
Draco turned back to the tray and replaced his pumpkin juice for the toast. He bit into it, hoping the taste of the honey would sweeten the bitterness inside him. They sat in silence for awhile, Draco eating, Potter staring off sporadically, when a thought suddenly occurred to Draco.
"Why are you here?" he asked Potter, not unkindly, but very incredulously.
"Visitation," said Potter, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "It's been a month."
Draco still looked incredulous. "You have come to Azkaban to visit me."
Potter nodded his head slowly, and then suddenly smiled as if the ridiculousness of this action had finally just occurred to him.
Draco shook his head at him. "Why?"
Potter frowned in thought. "I dunno," he said. "I just … did. You said no one would come to visit you so I just …" Potter shrugged.
Draco wasn't sure what to make of that. So he turned away from Potter and resumed eating his toast.
"I did want to ask you something though," said Potter. "About school."
Draco said nothing and continued to eat his toast.
"Obviously a lot of our year level haven't finished our N. E. W. T's," said Potter. "So we're doing it via correspondence. It's a bit of a pain, but we don't have to do all the subjects. Ron and I are just doing Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, Charms and Herbology. The important stuff."
Draco finished his first piece of toast and moved on to the next, still lying there impassively.
"I spoke to the warden," Potter continued, unperturbed by Draco's silence, "and he said if you wanted to do some of the subjects that aren't practical, like Arithmancy or Ancient Runes, you could. So that, you know, you're more qualified for a job when all that comes around for you."
Draco stopped eating for a moment, considering this. He would've liked to say yes, but he was beginning to feel like he was accepting far too many favours from Potter, and he did not want to be in his debt anymore than he already was. These constant feelings of gratitude towards him were not really desirable.
"They were going to offer this to you anyway, you know," Potter said, clearly reading Draco's train of thought. "I didn't make this happen for you."
Draco turned to Potter and nodded his head in affirmation.
"Okay," said Potter, visibly brightening. "You can do History of Magic, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy and Muggle Studies. They'll send the text books to you."
Draco nodded his head again. And then an awkward silence ensued.
"Well, look. I've got to go now," said Potter, running his hands through his hair. "But you'll probably be in here for another couple of days 'til you get better. Everything's been put right in your, um … room. So you've got your shower back and a better bed and all the dirt's gone and stuff. So I'll-"
"What happened to the guard?" Draco asked, cutting in.
"He was fired," said Potter looking away. Draco read between the lines and couldn't help feeling both bemused and satisfied.
"Okay," said Potter, standing up. "I've really got to go, so bye." Potter turned and began walking towards the door where two guards stood.
"Wait," Draco found himself saying. Potter turned back around to him. Draco rolled his eyes at himself. "Are you, um," he bit his bottom lip, annoyed at his embarrassment, "are you going to come next time?"
Potter shook his head at him in amused disbelief. "Of course I am." Then he turned back around and left Draco, calmly eating his toast.
It is going to be a long two years.
Author's Note: Thanks to my beta, AbundantFear. Review and make me happy!