(no subject)
Title: Azkaban
Author: laughs_muses (fic journal)
Pairing: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: No, No, No. Make me feel worse.
Summary: Malfoy is in Azkaban.
Set: Azkaban.
Beta: None.
Authors Notes: If you own the Donnie Darko Soundtrack I recommend listening "Ensurance Trap" on repeat while you read. I wanted to make this depressingly blank, and this song to me encaptures that entirely. It's been a while since I've written, so this is re-entry-ing me.
Harry is thirty.
He feels very middle-aged.
He can hear his footsteps echoing sharply around the dank chambers and his heartbeat smattering awkwardly in his chest. His trousers are cut cleanly, and tailored to his hips. He feels terribly out of place. He passes cells and cells. Cells all exactly the same; the size of a cupboard. Bars framing each one. Some inmates are leaning up against the steel, their lank and unruly hair tumbling through the spaces, their eyes blank and expressionless. Many call out to him. Their voices matching their eyes. Flat. Void of life.
Harry keeps walking. His shoes still making that embarrassingly cutting noise, clips that ricochet around him. He slips his hand into his robes and fingers his wand. The wood is cool and dark, but he can feel a slight tremor from the core. Even his wand doesn’t like this place.
He reaches the end of the corridor.
The door here is thick and heavy. Very similar to the Muggle prisons in the movies. It opens silently for him and Harry swallows before forcing himself into the darkness that lies beyond. The atmosphere has changed here. If before was blank and expressionless, here is pure evil. The air is thick as wanton magic crackles around him and he moves slowly through the black. Dimly lit cells still line his sides. Hisses and screeches sear from behind the doors. As opposed to the bars gliding the full doorway of the first room, here there is roughly a thirty centimetre by thirty centimetre window chiselled into the thick doors. Eyes burn behind the steel. Eyes that rake over Harry’s form.
Insults and jeers are hurled crudely as he is recognised. Screaming starts from behind Harry’s eyelids, but he keeps his face vacant as he walks down the centre. Brittle hands stretch out at him, so thin that they slip easily through the barred windows. Tension blisters around his head as the hands desperately seek the magic particles in the air. Harry can’t help but stiffen as the hands wave dangerously close to his head and his scar prickles as they flick and twist; uselessly chanting poisonous curses.
The end of this corridor is a solid brick wall. The magic here is so strong that Harry can almost taste it. Protection spells woven so deeply into the barricade that they seem to be pushing and jostling against one another as if fighting for space. Dark attraction simmers thickly against Harry’s face and his scar burns painfully. He struggles to raise his hand. It is as if a thousand small hands are weakly pushing down on his skin. With difficulty, he places his palm on the wall. Pain bolts through his forehead and sears through his mind, momentarily blinding him so that he almost doesn’t see the wall melting away; dropping away to nothing.
He steps forward.
It feels remarkably as if he was pushed.
It is pitch black. No scrap of light. No glimmer or beam or flicker. Harry stands there, fighting desperately the rising feeling of panic in his chest. There is a sharp movement in front of him and Harry’s hand dives for his wand.
Light flares suddenly, burning his eyes and forcing him to shut them. As he squints, he can make out a wall of closely knit bars. There is movement behind them. Not much of a movement, but a stirring just the same. Harry steps forward, craning his neck to see past the closely set bars. He knows what he is going to see. He knows. But he still starts violently when he hears Malfoy speak.
“Potter,” his voice is raspy, as if it has been grated against a thousand blocks of sandpaper. Harry moves forward still so he is pressed up against the bars, his eyes fixed on the form inside the cell.
Malfoy’s impossibly thin wrists are handcuffed, as if handcuffs are an extra precaution to the powerful magic already binding him to this confine. He is wearing no shirt, and his torso is a web of scarring and markings. Low pants ride on his hips, exploiting his painfully angular form; hips that rise sharply and protrude outwards in such a way that they seem to cut through the air itself. He is leaning on the wall, with one long leg crooked behind him and his hands resting gently in front of his groin.
Harry’s eyes travel the length of Malfoy’s legs, further up to the forearm where the Dark Mark has been burned into the skin. Leering at him from the ridiculously skeletal arm. They then pass over the other’s collar bone, the hollow of his throat and finally settle on the face.
Harry cannot speak.
Malfoy’s face is marred by a scar that runs cruelly from his left ear to just under his chin, slicing up his features and forcing his cheekbones to look even higher than they already were. Malfoy’s lips are so thin that they seem to blend in with his skin and his nose is still as aristocratic and pointed as ever. The blond hair is still as bright only it seems to have lost its shine. But these aren’t the features of Malfoy’s face that stun Harry.
It’s his eyes.
A brilliant blue sears excruciatingly from under lids that are close to transparent. The gaze is fixed cruelly and mockingly on Harry’s own face and he suddenly becomes aware of his smooth, moisturised skin; his clean and washed hair; his painfully tailored and expensive clothes. He fidgets a little. Malfoy does not move, only gazes tantalisingly at Harry’s face. He can’t hold the piercing gaze for long. He looks around the cell. It is empty. Three walls of solid brick close in around its prisoner and Harry can’t see where the dull light is coming from.
Harry’s eyes snap back to Malfoy who has stretched his hands high above his head. Ribs protrude dangerously and Harry’s stare is drawn downwards to the skin just above the top of Malfoy’s pants. There is a tattoo of a serpent twisting its unhurried way across the white abdomen. Harry swallows with difficulty. Malfoy finishes stretching and lets his arms hang loosely in front of him, covering the snake tattoo. The glimmering light seems to flicker more prominently and Harry can hear a dull screaming starting at the back of his mind. Coldness gathers at the point in the centre of his forehead and he grips the bars in front of him. The only thing he hears is a faint; “Watch it, Potter” as the Dementor swoops through the thick brick somewhere to Harry’s left and moves unhurriedly through the cell. Harry can blearily see the Dementor stop in front of Malfoy’s crumpled body. He has sunk down the wall, his head curled inwards, allowing his blond hair to spill over his handcuffs as they cover his face.
Harry can feel a scream ripped from his mouth as his head plunges cruelly into ice. He sinks to the floor, the Dementor still floating lazily over Malfoy, and can hear his own voice reverberating around the cell. A clammy hand reaches out from underneath the guard’s robes and rests lightly on Malfoy’s head. The blond writhes suddenly, as if a thousand volts of electricity have been shot through him. Harry blinks through haze and can feel nausea sweep throughout his body.
The Dementor is gone.
Malfoy is silent, shaking slightly, but silent. Harry rests his head against the close bars of the cell and watches Malfoy’s form tremble. Harry’s arm quakes as he pulls himself to his haunches. He swallows hard, his saliva barely collecting at the back of his throat.
“Maximum security.”
Malfoy’s shivering form stops for a moment, and the blond head is raised from the crook of his elbow. Harry can see that the brilliant blue in his eyes from before has shuddered into a blank, pale grey. Malfoy nods.
“Every thirteen minutes.”
Harry swallows again and looks down at his hands. They are clammy and as he eases them off the bars, they have left patches of moisture. Malfoy is still looking at him, his eyes slowly turning back to blue. Harry finds himself drawn into their depths. He can remember Malfoy. Always, Malfoy.
He remembers him at school. He remembers him strutting around the castle as if he owned the place. His refined looks and expensive clothes had all the girls flocking to him. They would primp their hair as he walked past, they would shorten their skirts and tailor their blouses. Malfoy would nod at them and they would peal into gales of giggles, holding onto each other. Malfoy would glide past, fixing them with his gaze that was always either condescending and mocking or blank.
Crabbe and Goyle would hover around him, flanking his sides like ogres. It became soon apparent that Malfoy didn’t need their protection. The Slytherin would rarely bring his wand to class, always performing tasks with his bare hands. Clicking his fingers, flicking his wrist. Teachers gave up trying to convince him to use his wand. He was tall. A little taller than Harry and about as slim. In droves girls would crowd around the Slytherin Change Rooms as Malfoy would change into his Quidditch uniform, alternatively silent or breathless with giggles. But they never got close.
Bad things happened around Draco Malfoy.
The Slytherin would stride confidently around the school, hexing those who got in his way. Always the same incantation. Clicking his long slim fingers drove people to their knees, hands covering their faces as some hidden sound tormented them in their minds. Teachers constantly handed out detentions to Malfoy who would simply smile, a smile full of loathing that many teachers never followed through with their threats.
Harry would often watch students curled up on the ground, wondering what they were hearing as a result of Malfoy’s click. Because it was expected of him, Harry would often intervene when the student on the ground began to whimper. He would stand in front of Malfoy and stare at him. Harry never understood why Malfoy’s eyes burned into blue when they looked at him, but the Slytherin would simply smile his hate filled smile, and leave.
Harry looks at Malfoy now, slowly rising to his feet and leaning once again against the wall. His body is still lithe and slim; still the same shape of slender hips and long legs. But now it is simply battered. His skin seems to be too small for him and stretches over angles and limbs. Another long scar races its way down from his collarbone and rests just at his heart. Harry wets his lips and looks down. He can feel his wand still vibrating a little in his pocket. The magic in this room playing havoc with its core.
“How come you don’t scream?”
Harry’s voice sounds thin and brittle in the air and he sounds as if he’s speaking from the base of a well. Malfoy’s expression doesn’t change.
“Every thirteen minutes,” he says again, his voice as raspy as before only know Harry can begin to recognise traces of his old voice. Malfoy’s tongue darts out and sweeps across his lips. And he smiles. A sallow smile that reminds Harry of a vampire and he starts as Malfoy says: “For the last six years.”
Harry can remember Malfoy’s voice. He can remember being seventeen and hearing it and almost being sick. He was crouching in Grimmauld Place, behind a huge antique chest of drawers. He could hear crashes and blasts downstairs. In the kitchen. He could hear raised voices and laughs. He could almost imagine the Death Eaters pulling of their masks as they realised no one is home. Harry flattened himself against the wood of the furniture and prayed that they won’t stay long. He could hear his name shouted downstairs and then a dozen laughs. They were so loud.
Harry can remember looking up. He can remember the brightness of Malfoy’s hair. It gleamed in the darkness, blond strands illuminated from the light slipping in under the door. Malfoy was leaning casually against the wall just in front of Harry. His leg crooked up almost exactly in the same way he is standing now. There was no wand in his hand, simply a thick, heavy locket. Harry can remember being paralysed with fear as he gazed into Malfoy’s face. In the dark it looked transparently white, as did his teeth as he smiled. The same smile filled with dislike.
“Potter,” he had said and nodded.
Harry can remember swallowing and slowly rising to his feet.
“Malfoy,”
Then the Slytherin had disappeared. Vanished.
Harry hears a clink and his eyes snap to Malfoy’s handcuffs as he moves his wrists so they rest behind his head. The snake on his abdomen seems darker and as Harry looks he can see a decorated cross printed on Malfoy’s left side. It is about the size of a handprint. Malfoy shifts again, this time sliding down the wall so that he is sitting. Harry stays on his haunches and realises his scar is pulsing slightly.
“Was there ever any doubt?”
Malfoy’s voice seems stronger now. And Harry can see him swallow, his throat working.
“Doubt of what?”
Malfoy raises an eyebrow. Memories rush back at Harry like a gale and he remembers.
He remembers being nineteen and bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. He remembers being alone and waiting. Always alone, always waiting. He could see shapes moving over the hill from the wood where he was waiting. He can see about five or six forms darting over the peak and disappearing over the other side. He sprinted forward as soon as they vanished into the darkness. He had his wand out. He was running as fast as he could after them. He remembers rounding the top of the hill and seeing them there. Waiting for him. He remembers Malfoy’s face, his hair glowing in the moonlight. He remembers watching the others crumple as a result of his wand. Green light searing through the trees and lighting up the surroundings. But only for a second.
Malfoy had raised an eyebrow. He had smiled his loathing smile.
“Malfoy,” Harry had said.
“Potter,” Malfoy had replied. And Harry had nodded once to him and then Apparated.
Malfoy turns his wrists over in his lap and the clinking brings Harry back to the present.
“Doubt that I would be here?”
Harry pauses for a moment and then shrugs.
“I was never sure.”
Malfoy’s expression lightens for a moment. Harry looks down.
“I never,” he manages to swallow again, “I always thought you wouldn’t…somehow wouldn’t…”
Malfoy smiles again, his face uncannily like a vampire’s.
“I was always going to, Potter. Always.”
Harry feels a rising in his stomach, but still he nods. A dull screaming starts again behind his vision and a Dementor casually glides through the corner of Malfoy’s cell. This time Malfoy doesn’t crumple, he simply shuts his eyes and leans his head back against the stone. Harry sees this as his eyes blur before he bows his head.
“But,” Malfoy speaks again as if there has been no interruption. “I never envisaged ending up here.” Harry looks at him, or rather the Dark Mark on his arm. It’s cut deeply into the skin. He can remember seeing it. He can remember it saving his life.
He remembers being twenty-one. He was in a crowd of people gathered at the Ministry of Magic. He was there for security. People seemed to feel safe whenever Harry Potter was around. Everywhere he looked he could see a member of the Order stationed casually, not intruding. Witches and Wizards swarmed and jostled. They were all nervous. Angry. Deaths had plagued the country. Dark magic signatures were everywhere. They wanted help and answers. They didn’t care how it happened; they just wanted it to end. Harry had been wearing a low hat, pulled roughly over his face so that people wouldn’t talk to him. He can remember watching as the Minister for Magic had mounted the makeshift podium. Watching as the buzz of voices had quietened. He can remember being shoved suddenly. He remembers a feeling akin to electricity shoot through his body. Someone dressed very similar to him pushed their way past. Then they had stopped. Without turning, a slim and pale arm had snaked out of the heavy sleeves. And Harry saw the Dark Mark.
A deliberate warning.
“I never caught you.” Harry muttered, eyes still fixed on Malfoy’s arm. “And you were always so close.”
Malfoy shifted slightly and made as if to stand and then thought better of it.
“You could never have caught me, Potter.”
Harry’s eyes travelled once again up the length of the skeletal torso, until they rested on Malfoy’s face.
“Why not?”
A smirk laced the pale lips. And Harry felt the urge to hit something.
“You never wanted to enough.”
Screaming started at Harry’s brow again and as he sank to his knees, he saw Malfoy crumple as the Dementor poured through the wall. Like smoke filling a bottle, it lazily made its way over to Malfoy and hover there. And once again a clammy hand made as if to tousle the blond hair. Harry didn’t see Malfoy’s body jerk, but he heard the thud of his head hitting the wall. Nausea crept through his veins.
When he looked up again, Malfoy was panting. In a heap on the floor, his breathing was coming in ragged gasps. The handcuffs were twisted in front of him, his slim wrists occasionally spasming.
Harry forced his tongue back over his lips; dragging it across the skin.
Malfoy had straightened again, sitting back straight against the wall. He clinked his wrists together lazily.
Harry remembers being twenty-four. He remembers being under a house, in a snake of crudely blasted tunnels. He can hear his men shouting negatives and positives. Got another Harry. Here’s one. No, this room is clear. Harry remembers pushing passed a thick mat of cobwebs and seeing Malfoy step calmly out from behind a wooden door. Wand raised. Harry remembers hearing someone walking heavily behind him. “Clear.” He shouts, looking directly into Malfoy’s excruciating, blue eyes. “Dead end. Go back.” He hears the walking behind him stop, and then go back the way it came. Malfoy lowers his wand and Harry nods at him.
“Malfoy.”
“Potter.”
And the blond vanishes.
Harry remembers the day after being in those tunnels. He remembers the frenzied glee at his headquarters. He remembers people slapping hands and backs, people hugging and someone overflowing champagne on a desk.
Draco Malfoy had been caught.
The same Malfoy arches his back against the wall and coughs. Harry blinks out of his memory and watches the blond rise again.
“I didn’t want to catch you.”
Malfoy raises an eyebrow.
“I know.”
“I don’t know why though.”
“Neither do I.”
There is a silence. And Harry’s fingers run over the bar.
“I was never close to you.”
“I know.”
“I never wanted to be on your side.”
“I know.”
“I hated you.”
Silence.
Malfoy’s scars seem to glisten in the dull light.
“Maximum security.” Harry’s tongue tastes the words. “For the last six years.”
Malfoy nods; not taking his eyes off Harry’s.
“You’ll never be released.”
Malfoy shakes his head slowly.
“You’ll die in here.”
Nod.
“And I won’t have had to do anything.”
Shake.
“I never thought you would end up here.”
Malfoy’s voice is sharp and cutting and it severs through the thick air.
“But I did.”
Harry stands very quickly. He releases his grip from the bars.
“I’m leaving now.”
Malfoy’s lips are the only things that move.
“You won’t see me again, Potter.”
“How do you know?”
A smile staggers its way onto Malfoy’s face.
“I just know.”
Harry abruptly turns and walks into the blackness behind him.
He can feel the dull light behind him go out.
Harry’s edition of the paper the next day has a screaming front page.
“DRACO MALFOY DIES IN AZKABAN.”
Harry doesn’t feel anything. He doesn’t feel cold. He doesn’t feel hot.
But he can hear.
He hears a memory so perfectly that it could be mistaken for the present.
“Potter.”
“Malfoy.”
~~~fin~~~
Author's Notes: Please let me know what you think. Good Golly, it has been so long.
Author: laughs_muses (fic journal)
Pairing: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: No, No, No. Make me feel worse.
Summary: Malfoy is in Azkaban.
Set: Azkaban.
Beta: None.
Authors Notes: If you own the Donnie Darko Soundtrack I recommend listening "Ensurance Trap" on repeat while you read. I wanted to make this depressingly blank, and this song to me encaptures that entirely. It's been a while since I've written, so this is re-entry-ing me.
Harry is thirty.
He feels very middle-aged.
He can hear his footsteps echoing sharply around the dank chambers and his heartbeat smattering awkwardly in his chest. His trousers are cut cleanly, and tailored to his hips. He feels terribly out of place. He passes cells and cells. Cells all exactly the same; the size of a cupboard. Bars framing each one. Some inmates are leaning up against the steel, their lank and unruly hair tumbling through the spaces, their eyes blank and expressionless. Many call out to him. Their voices matching their eyes. Flat. Void of life.
Harry keeps walking. His shoes still making that embarrassingly cutting noise, clips that ricochet around him. He slips his hand into his robes and fingers his wand. The wood is cool and dark, but he can feel a slight tremor from the core. Even his wand doesn’t like this place.
He reaches the end of the corridor.
The door here is thick and heavy. Very similar to the Muggle prisons in the movies. It opens silently for him and Harry swallows before forcing himself into the darkness that lies beyond. The atmosphere has changed here. If before was blank and expressionless, here is pure evil. The air is thick as wanton magic crackles around him and he moves slowly through the black. Dimly lit cells still line his sides. Hisses and screeches sear from behind the doors. As opposed to the bars gliding the full doorway of the first room, here there is roughly a thirty centimetre by thirty centimetre window chiselled into the thick doors. Eyes burn behind the steel. Eyes that rake over Harry’s form.
Insults and jeers are hurled crudely as he is recognised. Screaming starts from behind Harry’s eyelids, but he keeps his face vacant as he walks down the centre. Brittle hands stretch out at him, so thin that they slip easily through the barred windows. Tension blisters around his head as the hands desperately seek the magic particles in the air. Harry can’t help but stiffen as the hands wave dangerously close to his head and his scar prickles as they flick and twist; uselessly chanting poisonous curses.
The end of this corridor is a solid brick wall. The magic here is so strong that Harry can almost taste it. Protection spells woven so deeply into the barricade that they seem to be pushing and jostling against one another as if fighting for space. Dark attraction simmers thickly against Harry’s face and his scar burns painfully. He struggles to raise his hand. It is as if a thousand small hands are weakly pushing down on his skin. With difficulty, he places his palm on the wall. Pain bolts through his forehead and sears through his mind, momentarily blinding him so that he almost doesn’t see the wall melting away; dropping away to nothing.
He steps forward.
It feels remarkably as if he was pushed.
It is pitch black. No scrap of light. No glimmer or beam or flicker. Harry stands there, fighting desperately the rising feeling of panic in his chest. There is a sharp movement in front of him and Harry’s hand dives for his wand.
Light flares suddenly, burning his eyes and forcing him to shut them. As he squints, he can make out a wall of closely knit bars. There is movement behind them. Not much of a movement, but a stirring just the same. Harry steps forward, craning his neck to see past the closely set bars. He knows what he is going to see. He knows. But he still starts violently when he hears Malfoy speak.
“Potter,” his voice is raspy, as if it has been grated against a thousand blocks of sandpaper. Harry moves forward still so he is pressed up against the bars, his eyes fixed on the form inside the cell.
Malfoy’s impossibly thin wrists are handcuffed, as if handcuffs are an extra precaution to the powerful magic already binding him to this confine. He is wearing no shirt, and his torso is a web of scarring and markings. Low pants ride on his hips, exploiting his painfully angular form; hips that rise sharply and protrude outwards in such a way that they seem to cut through the air itself. He is leaning on the wall, with one long leg crooked behind him and his hands resting gently in front of his groin.
Harry’s eyes travel the length of Malfoy’s legs, further up to the forearm where the Dark Mark has been burned into the skin. Leering at him from the ridiculously skeletal arm. They then pass over the other’s collar bone, the hollow of his throat and finally settle on the face.
Harry cannot speak.
Malfoy’s face is marred by a scar that runs cruelly from his left ear to just under his chin, slicing up his features and forcing his cheekbones to look even higher than they already were. Malfoy’s lips are so thin that they seem to blend in with his skin and his nose is still as aristocratic and pointed as ever. The blond hair is still as bright only it seems to have lost its shine. But these aren’t the features of Malfoy’s face that stun Harry.
It’s his eyes.
A brilliant blue sears excruciatingly from under lids that are close to transparent. The gaze is fixed cruelly and mockingly on Harry’s own face and he suddenly becomes aware of his smooth, moisturised skin; his clean and washed hair; his painfully tailored and expensive clothes. He fidgets a little. Malfoy does not move, only gazes tantalisingly at Harry’s face. He can’t hold the piercing gaze for long. He looks around the cell. It is empty. Three walls of solid brick close in around its prisoner and Harry can’t see where the dull light is coming from.
Harry’s eyes snap back to Malfoy who has stretched his hands high above his head. Ribs protrude dangerously and Harry’s stare is drawn downwards to the skin just above the top of Malfoy’s pants. There is a tattoo of a serpent twisting its unhurried way across the white abdomen. Harry swallows with difficulty. Malfoy finishes stretching and lets his arms hang loosely in front of him, covering the snake tattoo. The glimmering light seems to flicker more prominently and Harry can hear a dull screaming starting at the back of his mind. Coldness gathers at the point in the centre of his forehead and he grips the bars in front of him. The only thing he hears is a faint; “Watch it, Potter” as the Dementor swoops through the thick brick somewhere to Harry’s left and moves unhurriedly through the cell. Harry can blearily see the Dementor stop in front of Malfoy’s crumpled body. He has sunk down the wall, his head curled inwards, allowing his blond hair to spill over his handcuffs as they cover his face.
Harry can feel a scream ripped from his mouth as his head plunges cruelly into ice. He sinks to the floor, the Dementor still floating lazily over Malfoy, and can hear his own voice reverberating around the cell. A clammy hand reaches out from underneath the guard’s robes and rests lightly on Malfoy’s head. The blond writhes suddenly, as if a thousand volts of electricity have been shot through him. Harry blinks through haze and can feel nausea sweep throughout his body.
The Dementor is gone.
Malfoy is silent, shaking slightly, but silent. Harry rests his head against the close bars of the cell and watches Malfoy’s form tremble. Harry’s arm quakes as he pulls himself to his haunches. He swallows hard, his saliva barely collecting at the back of his throat.
“Maximum security.”
Malfoy’s shivering form stops for a moment, and the blond head is raised from the crook of his elbow. Harry can see that the brilliant blue in his eyes from before has shuddered into a blank, pale grey. Malfoy nods.
“Every thirteen minutes.”
Harry swallows again and looks down at his hands. They are clammy and as he eases them off the bars, they have left patches of moisture. Malfoy is still looking at him, his eyes slowly turning back to blue. Harry finds himself drawn into their depths. He can remember Malfoy. Always, Malfoy.
He remembers him at school. He remembers him strutting around the castle as if he owned the place. His refined looks and expensive clothes had all the girls flocking to him. They would primp their hair as he walked past, they would shorten their skirts and tailor their blouses. Malfoy would nod at them and they would peal into gales of giggles, holding onto each other. Malfoy would glide past, fixing them with his gaze that was always either condescending and mocking or blank.
Crabbe and Goyle would hover around him, flanking his sides like ogres. It became soon apparent that Malfoy didn’t need their protection. The Slytherin would rarely bring his wand to class, always performing tasks with his bare hands. Clicking his fingers, flicking his wrist. Teachers gave up trying to convince him to use his wand. He was tall. A little taller than Harry and about as slim. In droves girls would crowd around the Slytherin Change Rooms as Malfoy would change into his Quidditch uniform, alternatively silent or breathless with giggles. But they never got close.
Bad things happened around Draco Malfoy.
The Slytherin would stride confidently around the school, hexing those who got in his way. Always the same incantation. Clicking his long slim fingers drove people to their knees, hands covering their faces as some hidden sound tormented them in their minds. Teachers constantly handed out detentions to Malfoy who would simply smile, a smile full of loathing that many teachers never followed through with their threats.
Harry would often watch students curled up on the ground, wondering what they were hearing as a result of Malfoy’s click. Because it was expected of him, Harry would often intervene when the student on the ground began to whimper. He would stand in front of Malfoy and stare at him. Harry never understood why Malfoy’s eyes burned into blue when they looked at him, but the Slytherin would simply smile his hate filled smile, and leave.
Harry looks at Malfoy now, slowly rising to his feet and leaning once again against the wall. His body is still lithe and slim; still the same shape of slender hips and long legs. But now it is simply battered. His skin seems to be too small for him and stretches over angles and limbs. Another long scar races its way down from his collarbone and rests just at his heart. Harry wets his lips and looks down. He can feel his wand still vibrating a little in his pocket. The magic in this room playing havoc with its core.
“How come you don’t scream?”
Harry’s voice sounds thin and brittle in the air and he sounds as if he’s speaking from the base of a well. Malfoy’s expression doesn’t change.
“Every thirteen minutes,” he says again, his voice as raspy as before only know Harry can begin to recognise traces of his old voice. Malfoy’s tongue darts out and sweeps across his lips. And he smiles. A sallow smile that reminds Harry of a vampire and he starts as Malfoy says: “For the last six years.”
Harry can remember Malfoy’s voice. He can remember being seventeen and hearing it and almost being sick. He was crouching in Grimmauld Place, behind a huge antique chest of drawers. He could hear crashes and blasts downstairs. In the kitchen. He could hear raised voices and laughs. He could almost imagine the Death Eaters pulling of their masks as they realised no one is home. Harry flattened himself against the wood of the furniture and prayed that they won’t stay long. He could hear his name shouted downstairs and then a dozen laughs. They were so loud.
Harry can remember looking up. He can remember the brightness of Malfoy’s hair. It gleamed in the darkness, blond strands illuminated from the light slipping in under the door. Malfoy was leaning casually against the wall just in front of Harry. His leg crooked up almost exactly in the same way he is standing now. There was no wand in his hand, simply a thick, heavy locket. Harry can remember being paralysed with fear as he gazed into Malfoy’s face. In the dark it looked transparently white, as did his teeth as he smiled. The same smile filled with dislike.
“Potter,” he had said and nodded.
Harry can remember swallowing and slowly rising to his feet.
“Malfoy,”
Then the Slytherin had disappeared. Vanished.
Harry hears a clink and his eyes snap to Malfoy’s handcuffs as he moves his wrists so they rest behind his head. The snake on his abdomen seems darker and as Harry looks he can see a decorated cross printed on Malfoy’s left side. It is about the size of a handprint. Malfoy shifts again, this time sliding down the wall so that he is sitting. Harry stays on his haunches and realises his scar is pulsing slightly.
“Was there ever any doubt?”
Malfoy’s voice seems stronger now. And Harry can see him swallow, his throat working.
“Doubt of what?”
Malfoy raises an eyebrow. Memories rush back at Harry like a gale and he remembers.
He remembers being nineteen and bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. He remembers being alone and waiting. Always alone, always waiting. He could see shapes moving over the hill from the wood where he was waiting. He can see about five or six forms darting over the peak and disappearing over the other side. He sprinted forward as soon as they vanished into the darkness. He had his wand out. He was running as fast as he could after them. He remembers rounding the top of the hill and seeing them there. Waiting for him. He remembers Malfoy’s face, his hair glowing in the moonlight. He remembers watching the others crumple as a result of his wand. Green light searing through the trees and lighting up the surroundings. But only for a second.
Malfoy had raised an eyebrow. He had smiled his loathing smile.
“Malfoy,” Harry had said.
“Potter,” Malfoy had replied. And Harry had nodded once to him and then Apparated.
Malfoy turns his wrists over in his lap and the clinking brings Harry back to the present.
“Doubt that I would be here?”
Harry pauses for a moment and then shrugs.
“I was never sure.”
Malfoy’s expression lightens for a moment. Harry looks down.
“I never,” he manages to swallow again, “I always thought you wouldn’t…somehow wouldn’t…”
Malfoy smiles again, his face uncannily like a vampire’s.
“I was always going to, Potter. Always.”
Harry feels a rising in his stomach, but still he nods. A dull screaming starts again behind his vision and a Dementor casually glides through the corner of Malfoy’s cell. This time Malfoy doesn’t crumple, he simply shuts his eyes and leans his head back against the stone. Harry sees this as his eyes blur before he bows his head.
“But,” Malfoy speaks again as if there has been no interruption. “I never envisaged ending up here.” Harry looks at him, or rather the Dark Mark on his arm. It’s cut deeply into the skin. He can remember seeing it. He can remember it saving his life.
He remembers being twenty-one. He was in a crowd of people gathered at the Ministry of Magic. He was there for security. People seemed to feel safe whenever Harry Potter was around. Everywhere he looked he could see a member of the Order stationed casually, not intruding. Witches and Wizards swarmed and jostled. They were all nervous. Angry. Deaths had plagued the country. Dark magic signatures were everywhere. They wanted help and answers. They didn’t care how it happened; they just wanted it to end. Harry had been wearing a low hat, pulled roughly over his face so that people wouldn’t talk to him. He can remember watching as the Minister for Magic had mounted the makeshift podium. Watching as the buzz of voices had quietened. He can remember being shoved suddenly. He remembers a feeling akin to electricity shoot through his body. Someone dressed very similar to him pushed their way past. Then they had stopped. Without turning, a slim and pale arm had snaked out of the heavy sleeves. And Harry saw the Dark Mark.
A deliberate warning.
“I never caught you.” Harry muttered, eyes still fixed on Malfoy’s arm. “And you were always so close.”
Malfoy shifted slightly and made as if to stand and then thought better of it.
“You could never have caught me, Potter.”
Harry’s eyes travelled once again up the length of the skeletal torso, until they rested on Malfoy’s face.
“Why not?”
A smirk laced the pale lips. And Harry felt the urge to hit something.
“You never wanted to enough.”
Screaming started at Harry’s brow again and as he sank to his knees, he saw Malfoy crumple as the Dementor poured through the wall. Like smoke filling a bottle, it lazily made its way over to Malfoy and hover there. And once again a clammy hand made as if to tousle the blond hair. Harry didn’t see Malfoy’s body jerk, but he heard the thud of his head hitting the wall. Nausea crept through his veins.
When he looked up again, Malfoy was panting. In a heap on the floor, his breathing was coming in ragged gasps. The handcuffs were twisted in front of him, his slim wrists occasionally spasming.
Harry forced his tongue back over his lips; dragging it across the skin.
Malfoy had straightened again, sitting back straight against the wall. He clinked his wrists together lazily.
Harry remembers being twenty-four. He remembers being under a house, in a snake of crudely blasted tunnels. He can hear his men shouting negatives and positives. Got another Harry. Here’s one. No, this room is clear. Harry remembers pushing passed a thick mat of cobwebs and seeing Malfoy step calmly out from behind a wooden door. Wand raised. Harry remembers hearing someone walking heavily behind him. “Clear.” He shouts, looking directly into Malfoy’s excruciating, blue eyes. “Dead end. Go back.” He hears the walking behind him stop, and then go back the way it came. Malfoy lowers his wand and Harry nods at him.
“Malfoy.”
“Potter.”
And the blond vanishes.
Harry remembers the day after being in those tunnels. He remembers the frenzied glee at his headquarters. He remembers people slapping hands and backs, people hugging and someone overflowing champagne on a desk.
Draco Malfoy had been caught.
The same Malfoy arches his back against the wall and coughs. Harry blinks out of his memory and watches the blond rise again.
“I didn’t want to catch you.”
Malfoy raises an eyebrow.
“I know.”
“I don’t know why though.”
“Neither do I.”
There is a silence. And Harry’s fingers run over the bar.
“I was never close to you.”
“I know.”
“I never wanted to be on your side.”
“I know.”
“I hated you.”
Silence.
Malfoy’s scars seem to glisten in the dull light.
“Maximum security.” Harry’s tongue tastes the words. “For the last six years.”
Malfoy nods; not taking his eyes off Harry’s.
“You’ll never be released.”
Malfoy shakes his head slowly.
“You’ll die in here.”
Nod.
“And I won’t have had to do anything.”
Shake.
“I never thought you would end up here.”
Malfoy’s voice is sharp and cutting and it severs through the thick air.
“But I did.”
Harry stands very quickly. He releases his grip from the bars.
“I’m leaving now.”
Malfoy’s lips are the only things that move.
“You won’t see me again, Potter.”
“How do you know?”
A smile staggers its way onto Malfoy’s face.
“I just know.”
Harry abruptly turns and walks into the blackness behind him.
He can feel the dull light behind him go out.
Harry’s edition of the paper the next day has a screaming front page.
“DRACO MALFOY DIES IN AZKABAN.”
Harry doesn’t feel anything. He doesn’t feel cold. He doesn’t feel hot.
But he can hear.
He hears a memory so perfectly that it could be mistaken for the present.
“Potter.”
“Malfoy.”
~~~fin~~~
Author's Notes: Please let me know what you think. Good Golly, it has been so long.