Hard Time

Chapter Two: Dreams and Nightmares

It was a familiar nightmare, variations of which had come to him at least once a month since that fateful night of Dumbledore’s death.

“Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.”

The look on Dumbledore’s face had seared right through Draco, straight to his heart, and made his wand tremble. Even so, he could almost hear Voldemort’s laughter in the back bedroom, with Lucius, and those screams of pain from his father. He could still see his mother’s tears, hear her whispered words to him, “Save us, Draco! Bring our family honour back.”

He faced Dumbledore down, knowing with despair that Dumbledore was right, that he was a coward, too afraid to kill, too afraid not to kill, to afraid to move, or to even think. He was just a lost child who knew that the monster in the dark was real and that he’d never be safe.

In his dream, it wasn’t Snape who came, the green fire spitting from his wand to strike Dumbledore in the chest, but Harry, seeming to appear out of nowhere, yanking Draco’s wand away and pointing it at him. Those green eyes, scorching him, sending heat all the way down through him. “We’re taking you with us,” he said, and then he pulled Draco forward into an embrace, protecting him, but even as Draco felt himself yielding, even as he felt the solid body of the Boy Who Lived against him, heart beating fast, there was
Voldemort, holding his father’s severed head, and laughing as he raised his wand at them. “Duck!” screamed Harry, but there was no shielding against the killing curse which slammed into both of them.

“No!” Draco sat bolt upright, and nearly knocked his head up against the wooden frame of the bunk bed above him. The movement seemed to awaken every nerve in throbbing pain, and he lied back down again, trying not to move. Muscles spasmed in agony. From one nightmare to another. He was still in Azkaban.

When the pain in his arse died down somewhat and the pounding in his head eased enough to let him think again, he opened his eyes. It seemed awfully quiet. One look around the room confirmed it; Goyle and Pucey were nowhere to be seen. Cautiously, moving very carefully with his injuries, Draco crawled out of bed, noting as he did so that someone had seen fit to drape a blanket to cover his nakedness. He found his trousers on the floor and put them on, grimacing at the stink of dirt and sweat on them. His shirt was ripped and bloody, but he put that on too, just to cover up the marks on his chest and throat. He was parched.

He turned around to see if there was any kind of water—or any kind of a toilet, for that matter, and finally noticed it. The door was open. Had someone come to free them? Or perhaps it was an escape. In which case, there was no time to lose. Though his body protested, Draco stood up and staggered to the door. Peering out, he hunched down not only to hopefully remain unseen, but also because his body would not let him straighten fully at the moment. There was a short hallway, and then an open doorway which seemed to lead into a larger chamber. The hallway was empty and it was impossible to see what lay beyond. Slowly, cautiously, he stepped forward, hugging the wall, making his way to the doorway to peer around the corner.

It looked like the Slytherin Common Room, well, except for the fact that it wasn’t nearly as cozy; the tables were bare oak, and nobody seemed to be well groomed, wearing rumpled clothing at best and looking somewhat like Draco at worst. But there were many faces he recognised, beyond catching sight of Pucey and Goyle seated at a far table, eating something that looked like bread and sausage. That reminded Draco how very hungry he was. When had he last eaten?

Pucey had gathered himself a little group of ex-Quidditch buddies, including Miles Bletchley, Bole, and Terrance Higgs, though Draco did not see sign of Derrick, Montegue, or Flint. He wondered if they were dead. Other Slytherins including current and recent past students milled about the rest of the room, not one over the age of twenty-one. Blaise Zambini held another little ‘court’ of his own, with fawning admirers. Blaise had always been a show-off, and a ladies man—-though Draco knew first hand that he swung very easily both ways. Last, there were a few young men who had been combing the countryside for Mudbloods, blood traitors and truants, the Snatchers, including Scabior.

Draco shuddered. Anyone who would willingly hang out with Greyback and even call him friend was not someone he cared to be near. He ventured out a couple steps, trying to compose himself, and tucked in his shirt, futile though that might be, nodding over in Blaise’s direction. He’d protect him, surely. But Blaise took one look at him, sniffed contemptuously, and turned the other direction. Draco felt his heart fall to the soles of his feet. If not Blaise then . . .

Pucey was motioning for him to come over. Draco sent another urgent look to Blaise’s gang; after all, there were another couple of Slytherins from his year there, flunkies of Blaise. They all ignored him. A sense of panic was growing inside of him. He’d known that the Malfoy family was in disfavour among Death Eaters; fuck, they’d all let him know that with snide remarks and cool brushoffs all year. But it seemed he’d gone from simple disfavour to outright banishment. He couldn’t just let Pucey and Goyle—he didn’t even want to finish the thought. There had to be somebody he could talk to. He looked around, and sure enough, there was at least one guard watching over the common chamber, from behind iron bars, his wand at the ready. Draco hurried over to him.

Draco kept his hands raised in surrender as the guard pointed the wand directly at him, feeling a resurgence of fear. It was too like his punishment sessions, after Snape killed Dumbledore, Voldemort’s little public demonstration on how poorly he held up under the Cruciatus. “Please! I just need to talk to somebody,” he implored, feeling the eyes of others on him, wondering if Pucey would send Goyle to come fetch him. He pressed up against the bars, trying to speak in hushed tones so that the others wouldn’t hear him.

The guard looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re that Malfoy brat. What do you want?”

Where did he begin? “Are my parents here also?” That was the first concern, knowing where they were, whether they were free and could help in any way. The fact he’d been stunned while literally in their arms wasn’t encouraging. But he had to know.

That got a laugh from the guard. “Oh yes they are, upstairs.”

Draco wasn’t sure if he felt more depressed, or somewhat comforted by the fact they were near. “Would it be possible for me to speak to them?” His father, in particular, should know what to do. At least the father he remembered from before Voldemort. That man had been slowly disappearing into a pale shadow of a man, not much better than Wormtail. But Voldemort was gone now. Surely Father would be plotting the return of the Malfoy name.

The guard shook his head. "Sorry, that privilege doesn’t belong to criminals.”

Draco glanced over his shoulder. Pucey was speaking to Goyle, and others were turning to stare at him, murmuring amongst themselves. In desperation, he turned back to the guard. “I can’t stay in here. Give me a private cell if you must, but don’t leave me in here with the others.” In a lower voice, he added, “I didn’t come when You Know Who called for his followers. I didn’t fight anyone in the castle; you can ask Harry Potter. I switched sides. They know I switched sides. ”

His voice was quavering. He could see out of the corner of his eye that Goyle was on his way over. If he didn’t make the guard understand now . . .

But the guard only looked at him with contempt in his eyes. “Well that’s what you get for helping You Know Who then, right? You expect me to believe a word you say? A Malfoy?” He began to turn around, whether to call another guard or what, Draco couldn’t say, but he knew he was in trouble.

“Listen! At least switch me to a different cell here! Gregory Goyle tried to kill me earlier! Pucey wants—“ But the words stuck in his throat. No matter how desperate he was, he couldn’t admit that he’d become Pucey’s little plaything. Draco tore open his shirt to show the guard his marks. “Do you see? That’s not from the battle. That’s from them!”

The guard looked apologetic at least, and for a moment Draco thought perhaps he’d managed to get through to him. But then he shrugged, expression closed again, and Draco felt a wave of despair. “There’s no free cells, I’m sorry. Azkaban is full. You’ll just have to deal with your friends now.” He waved his wand, and the bars grew hot, forcing Draco to back away from them.

Goyle’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder. “Come with me,” Goyle said.

Defeatedly, Draco did so, following behind Goyle back over to the corner table where Pucey and his mates waited, laughing over some joke, very probably at his expense. As they passed by a cluster of other Slytherins, at least one of whom Draco knew was the son of a Death Eater, he was surprised as Theodore Nott turned at spat at him. “Coward,” he hissed.

Draco didn’t even bother to wipe the spittle from his cheek. Pucey was smiling at him, and just the look in his eyes made his skin crawl. I can’t do this, he thought to himself, and how many times had that thought crossed his mind in the last two years? Too many times, hiding in the Room of Requirement, crying in the loo while trying to explain things to Myrtle. But he walked over anyways, and was pushed down to his hands and knees on the floor beside Pucey.

Pucey petted his hair and held up a breadroll. “Have a nice nap? I reckon you must be hungry, ferret.” Draco flushed, remembering that particular transformation all too well. So that’s what they’d decided to call him. Brilliant.

He began to reach for the bread, but Pucey snatched it out of the way, and Goyle cuffed him in the back of the head. “Ah, ah. No food for you until you perform your little services, ferret.” Pucey patted the front of his trousers, a lewd expression on his face. Draco recalled all too well his earlier words. “First you have to have breakfast, before you get lunch.” The others at the table laughed.

Draco’s stomach growled, betraying him. He glanced at Bletchley and Miles, and decided they’d be just as likely as Pucey to tear him apart. “I was your captain!” He said in a desperate plea.

“Only because your bloody father financed the team! And where did you get us, anyway?” Miles stomped on Draco’s hand. Draco grimaced, pulling his hand back quickly.

“Get on with it, Draco, or you’ll have to wait until next meal to eat anything. Or drink.” Pucey made a show of gulping down a tankard of something—water, probably, but oh, that sounded so good right now. Draco swallowed.

With the table hiding what was going on from the guard (who didn’t much seem to care anyway), Draco finally kneeled up, reaching tentatively to unlace Pucey’s trousers. Pucey shoved his hands away. “With your mouth only, ferret. And better not use any teeth, or you’ll lose them.”

It was do, or starve, Draco could see. Part of him wished he had the courage to curse them all to Hades. But he obeyed anyways, leaning forward and trying not to breathe, knowing the scent would only make him choke. Delicately, he pulled each lace with his lips and tongue, resolutely trying not to think about anything as his mouth found warm hard flesh beneath.

At that point then, he couldn’t have stopped if he’d wanted to. Adrian grabbed his hair, forcing him down, and thrust up into his mouth, choking him. Draco gagged around the prick as Adrian began pumping up rhythmically, making soft grunting noises.

Draco heard sniggering—Miles or Bletchley, he was sure. He fought down the urge to panic, getting in breaths when he could, and not worrying about technique at all; it certainly seemed Adrian wasn’t interested in that. Finally Adrian came and he swallowed it down, feeling nauseous after, throat on fire. He coughed once, and sat back down on the floor, wiping tears from his eyes.

Pucey threw a lump of bread at him, which he quickly began tearing off chunks, eating quickly, and not just because he was hungry; it also helped to dispel the taste. Unthinkable, that a Malfoy could be here, sitting on the floor of this disgusting prison, performing oral sex. For food. The bread landed in a hard knot in his stomach. He swallowed uncomfortably, looking to the tankard of water. “Water? Please?”

Everyone at the table chuckled again, and Draco bit back a retort that would only get him cuffed—or worse. What was so funny now? “Please?” Water, and then the loo. In that order.

“You want water, you’ll have to treat Goyle to your mouth next. Or Miles is up for it, I believe,” Pucey calmly said, taking a long drink for himself.

The thought of putting Goyle’s thing inside his mouth was enough to make Draco retch. And then the thought of what he’d just done washed over him with new horror. Without another word, and without asking for permission, he stood up, and raced for the hallway, where he’d thought he’d seen an actual loo. Sure enough, it was there, at the end of the hall; he hurried inside and closed the door, kneeling by the toilet, a hand clapped over his mouth to try to keep things down. Needed the food. Needed the strength. Needed water. There was a tiny sink, half rusted away. He turned it on and drank greedily from it, hoping that the water wasn’t tainted. It certainly tasted dirty, but he didn’t care.

He couldn’t go back out there. He couldn’t face another moment of this. He took care of his other needs and washed what he could of himself, trying to erase the stench. But nothing could erase the memories.

“Back to yer cells, everyone!” He heard the guard call out, heard the muted voices of other young men, returning. Someone pounded on the door. Draco whimpered.

The pounding continued for a moment more, and then there was silence, and Draco dared hope that he’d be left alone—perhaps he could sleep here ,on the tiny space of floor in front of the sink. But then there were heavy footsteps again outside, and then the unmistakable sound of a key being turned. A guard, different than the one he’d spoken to earlier, opened the door and gave him a dark look. “Back to your cell. Or I’ll take a switch to you.”

Resignedly, Draco left the loo, taking slow steps to that awful cell where Pucey and Goyle waited for him. The guard shoved him the last couple feet, and he saw that there was another surprise—a third cellmate. Warrington. The Sloth, as he’d thought of him during his brief stint as Chaser. Well wasn’t this just cozy.

Before he could think further on that, however, the door slammed shut. Pucey had a deadly look in his eyes, and Draco knew, with as much certainty as he’d faced Voldemort’s punishment, that he would pay for his brief escape to the loo.

In the end, he wished he’d just sucked off Goyle.

***
TBC