Abandoned Hope
Title: Abandoned Hope
Word count: 400
Characters/pairings: Ron/Draco
Rating: R
Summary: Draco dreams of Voldemort, Bellatrix, Fenrir... and Azkaban. He doesn’t want Ron to know about the Azkaban nightmares.
Warnings: mentions of rape threats and torture, angst
Challenge: walls
Disclaimer: The boys belong to JKR, even though I’m often much nicer to them than she is.
Author’s Notes: This is a continuation of Grey, and was written for the old prompt walls at rondracodrabble. Sorry for the increasingly emo titles!
Everyone Draco’s age had nightmares. Ravenclaws who’d kept their heads down dreamt of the Carrows torturing the students while Snape watched with a face etched in stone. Harry Potter himself had a head full of Voldemort’s red eyes and Hermione Granger screaming.
Draco dreamt about Voldemort, of course; and about his mother crying, his father being beaten, Aunt Bellatrix’s mad grin and Fenrir’s threats. But they only came occasionally; when something happened to trigger them, or for no reason at all.
The dreams that came nightly - regular as clockwork, as guards’ boots tramping down a stone hall - were of Azkaban.
~*~
The dreams came in different forms. There was one wizard who’d clocked him straight away, and kept leering, brushing up against him, muttering threats. Finally he grabbed at Draco’s crotch in the cafeteria. Draco had been so terrified he’d burst into tears.
That man had been transferred before he could make his threats real. Sometimes Draco dreamt that it had ended a different way.
Or the guards beat him, the constant humiliating cuffs to the ears becoming something worse; or the Dementors returned; or his old friends visited him, and laughed.
Or he went mad.
Those were the worst ones.
~*~
Most often it was just feeling trapped: he was back in the cell and no one was coming for him, nobody would save him. He wouldn’t be led out into the light this time, he’d just stay here forever in this faceless grey box. Like being buried alive.
The people who hurt him in dreams were dead, or unable to reach him. Azkaban still stood. And Ron didn’t use it against him any more - he didn’t have a chance to, with Draco remaining stony and silent as the wizard prison itself - but he could still send him back. Any time.
~*~
He wouldn’t, Draco was (almost) sure. Not unless Draco broke his parole, and he would never be that stupid. But still, Draco couldn’t quite bear to reveal his weaknesses to Ron, not when he had the power to make those fears real.
He might have to give in and ask for a sleeping potion soon. He was sick of waking in the early morning, too heartsick to try to sleep, with nothing to do for hours until Ron woke.
It was always foggy outside Ron’s flat, that early.
There was nothing to see but fog from the windows of Azkaban.
Word count: 400
Characters/pairings: Ron/Draco
Rating: R
Summary: Draco dreams of Voldemort, Bellatrix, Fenrir... and Azkaban. He doesn’t want Ron to know about the Azkaban nightmares.
Warnings: mentions of rape threats and torture, angst
Challenge: walls
Disclaimer: The boys belong to JKR, even though I’m often much nicer to them than she is.
Author’s Notes: This is a continuation of Grey, and was written for the old prompt walls at rondracodrabble. Sorry for the increasingly emo titles!
Everyone Draco’s age had nightmares. Ravenclaws who’d kept their heads down dreamt of the Carrows torturing the students while Snape watched with a face etched in stone. Harry Potter himself had a head full of Voldemort’s red eyes and Hermione Granger screaming.
Draco dreamt about Voldemort, of course; and about his mother crying, his father being beaten, Aunt Bellatrix’s mad grin and Fenrir’s threats. But they only came occasionally; when something happened to trigger them, or for no reason at all.
The dreams that came nightly - regular as clockwork, as guards’ boots tramping down a stone hall - were of Azkaban.
~*~
The dreams came in different forms. There was one wizard who’d clocked him straight away, and kept leering, brushing up against him, muttering threats. Finally he grabbed at Draco’s crotch in the cafeteria. Draco had been so terrified he’d burst into tears.
That man had been transferred before he could make his threats real. Sometimes Draco dreamt that it had ended a different way.
Or the guards beat him, the constant humiliating cuffs to the ears becoming something worse; or the Dementors returned; or his old friends visited him, and laughed.
Or he went mad.
Those were the worst ones.
~*~
Most often it was just feeling trapped: he was back in the cell and no one was coming for him, nobody would save him. He wouldn’t be led out into the light this time, he’d just stay here forever in this faceless grey box. Like being buried alive.
The people who hurt him in dreams were dead, or unable to reach him. Azkaban still stood. And Ron didn’t use it against him any more - he didn’t have a chance to, with Draco remaining stony and silent as the wizard prison itself - but he could still send him back. Any time.
~*~
He wouldn’t, Draco was (almost) sure. Not unless Draco broke his parole, and he would never be that stupid. But still, Draco couldn’t quite bear to reveal his weaknesses to Ron, not when he had the power to make those fears real.
He might have to give in and ask for a sleeping potion soon. He was sick of waking in the early morning, too heartsick to try to sleep, with nothing to do for hours until Ron woke.
It was always foggy outside Ron’s flat, that early.
There was nothing to see but fog from the windows of Azkaban.