Hard Time

Chapter Seven: A Visit to Azkaban


It took Harry another week before he actually arranged a visit to check up on Draco in Azkaban as Narcissa had asked of him. During that time, he transferred the money for the manor, signed the deed, and wondered if he was going completely insane. He'd also moved out of the Burrow. Life with the Weasleys was becoming too uncomfortable for him, especially with the long sad looks from Ginny. He'd taken to sleeping at the Grimmauld place for the moment, but it didn't feel right. He wondered if he'd ever feel at home anywhere.

Kreacher, for his part, was excited at the prospect of adding his services to the manor.

The prison, seen by Harry only in visions and dreams before, loomed tall and foreboding, staring over the North Sea; the damages caused by the breakout a couple years earlier had all been repaired, and it was once again impenetrable. Also nearly impossible to escape, even without the Dementors. A guard checked Harry in and led him through the lower level where the 'juveniles', those aged 17 to 21, were being held. From the guards' understanding, it was likely that all the prisoners would be kept until they turned twenty-one, and then they would be up for review by the Ministry to see if they needed to serve more time for their crimes or if they would be allowed to rejoin wizarding society. It was likely that those nearer to twenty-one were guilty of graver crimes and would stay longer. For Draco and others of his year, it meant that a four year stay was likely.

Harry followed the guard into the guard's area, a viewing chamber separated by the juvenile common room by sliding bars--very modern, one of the guards bragged. Most of the prison took its design from about Tower of London era history. Harry stood at the bars, ignoring the muttered curses from some of the inmates, and looked for Draco. He recognized an unfortunate number of Hogwarts students, some a little older than the last time he'd seen him, others looking just the same. But he saw no sign of Draco. In fact, the common room didn't look all that full. Perhaps Kingsley was exaggerating about the overcrowding.

"I don't see Draco," he commented to Bertie, the guard.

Bertie studied the room for a moment, frowning. "Neither do I. I don't see Pucey either--they're usually together, along with Goyle and Warrington. They must be still in their cell; it's down the hallway." He brought out his wand, indicating that Harry should do the same. "Come with me."

Into the den of lions, Harry thought with a small shiver, holding his wand out as Bertie opened the gate into the common room. Eyes watched Harry, filled with hatred, resentment, but none of them dared come close. Wandless, they knew they were no match. Harry followed Bertie back to the back of the chamber where it opened into a hallway, trying to be aware of everything at once, wishing for a moment that he had Moody's eye. They were young, but he could see the problem Kingsley had with them. They were dangerous.

Time seemed to slow as they turned down the hallway. Harry could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and it seemed silly, because it wasn't like this was a battle situation; no one here posed any real danger to him. But he didn't know what he would say when he saw Draco. Draco would probably let that cool gaze of his slither over Harry, give him that funny pit of the stomach feeling he got every time . . . and then he'd probably let loose with one of his many stinging insults. Harry would feel humiliated once again.

Something was strange, however. The hallway was full of people; Harry recognised Blaise and a couple other Slytherins from his year standing around, in line for something, it seemed. The guard looked at them angrily. "What are you all doing milling around here? Back to the common room! You all have to take a piss or what?"

Blaise gave Harry a very peculiar smile, one that sent shivers up his spine, and lazily sauntered back out to the common room. One of the other fellows muttered something and went down to the end, opening a door to what Harry realized was in fact the loo. Slowly, the other two backed away from a doorway they had been hanging near, and Harry suddenly heard noises. Rhythmic noises of flesh slapping on flesh, grunts . . . . Almost involuntarily, he took the last few steps to look into the cell.

At first his eyes refused to believe what he was seeing. Somebody on top; the fellow who had been with Grayback, Scabior the Snatcher, Harry realized. He had his pants open, but otherwise he was fully clothed, pounding away into someone a lot less dressed, a lot more beautiful. It couldn't be Draco. But it was. He could see Draco's face clearly despite the long pale blond hair falling into his eyes; Draco's eyes were open, but they stared off as if blind, as if seeing something else. He lay there limply, being fucked for all he was worth.

Two things slammed into Harry at once; horror, but just as sharply, and even more terrible, desire. The guard was yelling something; Harry couldn't hear. All he could see were those grey eyes, calmly accepting . . . and then suddenly those cloudy eyes went into focus, and locked onto him. Harry saw the recognition click in. And horror.

"EVERYBODY OUT NOW!" Bertie yelled, and time seemed to flow again. Harry couldn't face that look on Draco's eyes, the tightness in his groin, the knowledge that . . . that . . .

Harry ran. He simply turned around, not caring who was in his way, or what they thought, and ran, back to the iron gate, demanding that the guards open it to let him through, and then through the twisting passageways, out through the main door of the prison, onto the stone terrace where Ministry people could Apparate back and forth, under open sky, pacing frantically, as if he could run off the edge of the cliff. He . . . he . . .

What was he going to tell Narcissa? Your son's a whore. But was it voluntary? Involuntary? Either way, it seemed incomprehensible. Draco just didn't --Harry shook his head, pacing the terrace. That wasn't any Malfoy he knew. To let others have such control, not to the be one running the show--

But then, once he thought about it, none of them had been running things for some time. Draco's attempt to control Crabbe in the Room of Requirement had been feeble at best.

What was he going to tell Narcissa? He couldn't talk to Draco now, not after . . . and the worst part of it was, even if it was rape, and he seriously believed it had been, even so, he'd been aroused. Excited by it. What kind of a monster am I? Perhaps Dumbledore had been wrong. Maybe Voldemort was still a part of him, in some deep, depraved sort of way. He couldn't talk to Draco. But he needed to know what was happening. He'd promised.

Harry finally sat down in a miserable ball next to the wooden double doors, huddled against the cool stone of the prison. He wanted to run away and never come back. Wanted to unsee--but he would never be able to forget the image of Draco, being violently fucked. The line. A fucking line of them, just waiting. How was he supposed to tell Draco's mother?! Why did it excite him?!

The doors opened. Bertie was there, looking angry and embarrassed; Harry made himself get to his feet again to speak to the man. Kingsley had pulled quite a few strings just to get him here for this visit.

"My deepest apologies, Mr. Potter--I had no idea something like that was going on. We've locked everyone back in their cells--we'll make sure to keep the cell doors locked when they're out for meal times. We'll monitor things more closely." Harry nodded, feeling shocky and disjointed. There were four of them to a room, he'd already said. How much monitoring could they really do?

Bertie continued. "We've got Draco Malfoy cleaned up and ready for you, if you still wanted to speak with him. Don't worry; we'll make sure he's punished for what you had to witness. We've got quite a few good hexes I've been dying to try out--I understand they're talking of using some of the Weasley joke items, sort of ironic justice. I imagine the puking pastilles might be one option."

Harry shook his head, horrified anew at the thought. "That's not necessary." It was like talking to Filch with his talk of old fashioned punishments; there was a cheerless thought. He swallowed, afraid he might do a little puking of his own. "I'll see him." At least he could get the truth before he left.

"This way. I've got him in the infirmary for the moment." Bertie lead, and Harry followed, closing the door behind them. His hands were shaking. But he followed Bertie anyway, and at least he knew what he was going to say to Draco, or some approximation of it. What happened to you?

The words died on his lips when he spotted Draco, dressed in prison garb, sitting on a chair in the middle of some kind of examination room, his shoulders hunched, head down, hiding behind a curtain of hair, two spots of bright color on his pale cheeks. Draco didn't look up as Harry entered, but seemed to curl even more in on himself, as if he'd pull out his own Invisibility Cloak to hide under. There was nothing proud or haughty about this Draco. He looked utterly humiliated.

Harry turned to the guard. "Give us a moment of privacy." He waited until Bertie had shut the door, then regarded Draco, swallowing. Merlin, he wished he were elsewhere.

"I'm here because your mother asked me to see how you were doing. I testified on her behalf because she saved my life. She'll be out in three years." He didn't know what kind of news they received here in Azkaban.

Draco looked up, and Harry felt a searing flash of shock at the look in Draco's eyes--hurt, such hurt, and anger. Why would that news be hurtful? "So nice of you to drop by, Potter," Draco spat with enough venom to make Harry's grimace. So much for the not proud thing. He sounded just as spiteful as ever.

"I'm checking to see if you're all right," Harry returned, ire creeping into his voice. Maybe the puking pastilles weren't such a bad idea after all. But one look at Draco killed that thought. He looked underfed, and there were dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn't slept in weeks. Between that and the grime in his hair, he looked very un-Dracoish.

"No need to trouble yourself, Potter. Sure you're busy saving the world or somesuch."

Such anger, such hatred. The words stung at Harry, each one a little jagged cut. He whirled and strode up to Draco, but again, he lost track of whatever he was going to say. Draco's body had gone into defensive posture, one hand raised as if to ward off a blow. Harry hesitated. "What happened in there?"

Draco seemed to recover, straightening again. "What, Scabior and me? Just typical prison fare. I bet you bloody well liked that, seeing me take it up the arse. I'm sure they could save you a space in line."

He couldn't do this, Harry thought, feeling his cheeks go hot. He turned away, trying to think how he could bridge this gap, just get the truth and get out of here. Just as he did that, however, Draco was on top of him, reaching for his wand in his pocket, desperately trying to wrest it from him. Harry acted on pure instinct, born of over a year of peril. He pulled his wand out of Draco's grasp and said, "Stupefy!"

The stunning spell knocked Draco to the floor several feet away. He made a sound like a wounded animal, high pitched and pitiful, a sound of agony.

Harry didn't hesitate. He ran over to Draco's side, pocketing his wand again and releasing the spell. "Oh my God, are you all right?"

Draco was panting as if it hurt to breathe; his face was ashen. Even so, as Harry tried to lift up his shirt to check for injuries, Draco tried to swat his hand away, ineffectually. Harry gasped at the sight of bruises, some new, some old, covering Draco's torso. Draco was holding one side in particular. Harry wedged his hand underneath Draco's to check. Draco cried out.

"Bloody hell, who did this to you? Scabior?" Harry pulled away, intent on getting Bertie back. If this was the infirmary, they had to have people to fix this sort of thing.

Draco shrugged, painfully. "All of them. Any of them. It doesn't matter." He shoved his shirt down again, glaring at Harry. "Just go home, Potter. There's nothing you can do to help."

Harry shook his head. This wasn't right. As much as Draco could be an arse at times, there was no way he could stand by and let something like this be. He backed away, keeping a hand on his pocket and an eye on Draco this time, and called for the guard. "There's got to be something. Your own cell, at least."

Draco laughed without mirth. "Already begged for it. They've watched, Harry. They don't care what happens to any of us." He fell silent, shaking his head. Harry turned as Bertie came in.

"Is that true?" Harry asked, glaring at the man. "He's covered in bruises. He says you guards have seen him receive some of them. What are you doing to keep your prisoners safe from each other?"

Bertie shrugged. "Not our job. It's our job to make sure they aren't doing any harm to any law abiding wizards, or Muggles. They're evil. Of course they beat up each other!"

Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing. That same damned archaic mentality, all through the wizarding community. "Doesn't anyone keep track of how Muggles handle these things? At least they try to have justice!" He paced in anger now, and frustration. Draco had a point--he didn't have any special deed proclaiming him as a good guy. Everyone knew he was a Death Eater, that he'd been housing Voldemort. At best he'd be released at twenty-one. If he survived that long.

"I'll speak to the Minister. There's got to be something that can be done." He gave one last glance at Draco, who was still sitting on the floor, head bowed and arms holding himself in defensive posture. Then Harry swept out of the room, and out of Azkaban. He'd arrange a meeting with Kinsgley. Surely after what he'd done for everyone they could give him this.

Part of him still couldn't stand Draco. Hated the conniving, cowardly, snarky little bastard. But that image didn't match the scared, lost young man he'd heard crying in the bathroom, the one who hadn't been able to kill Dumbledore. Nor the one staring sightlessly as he was being brutally raped.

Harry arrived at the Manor and walked in, ignoring the shriek from a portrait of Bellatrix in the hall. He really needed to have Kreacher take down all the paintings. A lot of things had already been removed from the place by the Ministry; anything that was Black family property, or Narcissa's. They'd be held in storage pending her release. But there was still plenty of furniture in the place. No house elf; apparently they hadn't been able to obtain another one after the loss of Dobby. Kreacher, however, was doing his part to clean up things.

When he'd first walked into the house bearing the shiny keys handed to him from the Ministry, it had been a barrage of memories, one after the other. The spot on the floor where the chandelier crashed. The corner where they tortured Hermione. He'd even gone to where they'd held Luna and Ollivander, where Wormtail had died, but of course all trace of that had long since been removed.

It hadn't taken long to find Draco's room. Sparse, surprisingly sparse, but for a few mementos from school including his Quidditch uniform, a picture of Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini and Pansy Parkinson, and the results from his O.W.L.s. Little else, except a very ornate Wizard's Chess set, and a childhood potions kit. No childhood pictures, no toys. He wondered what kind of existence Draco had lived.

He stood there again, wondering how much of what Draco had done was really his fault. What would he have been like if he'd had someone other than Lucius for a father? Harry shook his head, feeling suddenly too old for his years.

He still wanted Draco, god help him.

"We'll see what I can do to get you out," he said to a picture of Draco, from about fourth year, it looked like.

"Ponce," the picture said.

"Prat," Harry returned. He turned the portrait around.

***

TBC