Hard Time

Chapter 1: A Rock and A Hard Place

After the death of Voldemort, came the Hunt.

The Ministry had finally seen the wisdom of not using Dementors at Azkaban (well that, and the fact that nobody could seem to find, much less reorganize the feared demons), but even without their help, Azkaban was still a formidable fortress with plenty of magic protection against escape as well as gloomy and harsh environment for those deemed ripe for punishment. Thanks to the fact that the final battle had been fought on the ground of Hogwarts School of Wizardry, there was a new complication; the arrest of several Slytherin students who had fought on the side of the Death Eaters, and indeed in some cases numbered among their ranks. Then too there were the former members of the bully clubs (formerly known as Snatchers) who also needed chastisement. While the more dangerous adults were locked away in private cells, there simply wasn’t enough room for everyone.

And so was born the Juvenile Ward of Azkaban.

***

Draco had been more than a little in shock when they’d captured him, soon after the battle. He held onto his mother’s hand and watching dazedly as students and teachers tended the wounded, covered the faces of the dead . . . many faces, among those dead, that he had known. It made him shudder to think of it. No time to flee home to the Malfoy Manor, no time to even think of escape. He thought it had been one of the Parvarti twins who had set the stunning spells on him and his parents. Or perhaps it had been Ginny Weasley. A flash of light, and the ground flew up to meet him. Then nothing.

He awoke in a dank cell with a splitting headache. It took only seconds to confirm a few things; one, that he had no wand, two, that he was wearing the same clothing, torn and half burned from the battle (and holding a most unpleasant stench), and last, that he wasn’t alone.

Two bunk beds occupied the room, and upon one of the lower beds sat Gregory Goyle, looking similarly disheveled, blood caked and dried on his shirt. Upon the other was Adrian Pucey, graduated two years ago from Hogwarts and wearing black robes, which suggested that he’d been among the Death Eaters outside the castle. He was a big brute of a young man, leaner than Gregory, more muscular. He’d been an outstanding Chaser in his time at Hogwarts.

Draco gave a weak smile to Goyle. If he had Goyle at his side, then he could still be a force to be reckoned with, despite his slighter frame, his more delicate features. Draco had started growing his hair longer in the past year, more like his father’s. Which begged another question—where were his parents? “Goyle—what place is this?”

Goyle gave him a most unusual look—a glare. “Azkaban.”

He wasn’t conscious of standing up; just suddenly he was, and then it felt like daggers working their way into his skull, twisting deeper and deeper, behind his eye sockets. Draco stumbled, holding his miserable head, and tried to look out of the tiny window that let in just a spot of sunlight, and air, presumably, but he saw nothing, only sky. The door was solid wood, no window, no holes. There was a drain in the floor with a rather unmistakable stench. Draco retched. “It can’t be.” Potter—he’d saved his life. Twice. Why save it, only to throw him into a dungeon?

Goyle’s voice was flat, emotionless. Somehow that fact made Draco shiver; it was as if they’d never met before, as if they were strangers. “It is. It bloody well is.” He stood up as well, and then he was in front of Draco, and standing too close, forcing Draco to back up, until he could go no further, his back against the cool stone wall. There was a menacing look in Goyle’s eyes that Draco never thought he’d see directed at him. “Your bloody parents could have gotten us out. Your stupid plan trapped us in there with them.”

His plan to ambush Potter and his gang in the Room of Requirement—well, it should have worked. It would have, if Crabbe hadn’t foolishly tampered with spells beyond his learning and released the Fiendfyre. Goyle wasn’t the brightest lad ever, but given time, he did eventually work things out. Draco put a hand on his chest. Behind Goyle, Adrian had stood as well, watching them, a dark, thoughtful look on his face. Something about that look set off warning bells in Draco’s head. “It was a good plan. We just needed more help, I think. It would have worked if Crabbe—“

“CRABBE IS DEAD!” The intensity of emotion startled Draco, and he could have slapped himself for not realizing it sooner, for not seeing it—Crabbe, and Goyle, so quiet all the time, always together . . . but he didn’t have time to ponder it, because Gregory was grabbing him, shoving him up against the wall, over and over so that his skull cracked hard against the stone and a new wave of pain washed over him, sending the world spinning and undoubtedly whatever was in his stomach was not going to stay there long if this continued.

“Gregory,” he tried to say, and then suddenly there was a punch to the gut, and he couldn’t even breathe, much less speak. He was aware of sliding down the wall, of Gregory’s hands picking him up, and he feared what would come next would be his brains dashed all over the wall and floor. Then Adrian was there, speaking coaxingly to Goyle, telling him to let go. His face red with unshed tears, Goyle did so, but finished his statement by kicking Draco in the shin. Pain exploded and Draco went down, clutching at the leg.

Adrian rolled Draco over, and Draco looked gratefully at him, but the hope died when he saw the look on Adrian’s face. Something dark, predatory, and hungry filled his features. A look he suddenly recognized from their days playing Quidditch, before Adrian had graduated, when Draco had only been sixteen . . . looks directed at him in the locker room, looks which had made him hurry to shower and dress. Looks, which up until now, had seemed harmless with the close protection of Crabbe and Goyle. Draco swallowed, and choked on a searing lungful of air. “Adrian—“

“You little coward. You think we didn’t all notice you? How you tried to play You Know Who’s favour, and what a shitty job you made of anything he entrusted you with? You couldn’t kill Dumbledore, you botched the castle, and the Horcrux, and it’s because of you that we’re all bloody in this place!” Adrian grabbed hold of Draco’s shirt, pulling, and Draco heard the sound of tearing, of buttons popping off.

“Gregory!” Draco cried, because while Goyle might be angry, might want to hurt him because of his anguish in losing Crabbe, he couldn’t stand by and let Adrian do that to him. It was inconceivable! But Goyle had turned his back. Adrian’s hands were on Draco’s trousers, and then they were pulled off as well, and Adrian was fumbling at his own trousers, a malicious grin on his face.

Draco tried to fight back, but he didn’t have a hope, against either Adrian’s size or his strength. His arms were pinned back, and a punch in the stomach stopped all thought of trying to kick. Another blow to the head left him reeling, and then he was being torn open, split wide open, and the pain was worse than he ever could have imagined it to be. He screamed, but then Adrian’s mouth was on his own, silencing him, denying him even that.

He wanted to retch, he wanted to explode in a burst of flame, like fiendfyre. Adrian tasted of something dark and foul, and each thrust made everything clench harder, shooting agony up his spine. Somewhere in all that misery, Draco finally gave up fighting, and lay limply, letting Adrian do as he pleased. Adrian felt him finally relax, and chuckled, ending the kiss, a trail of spittle from his lip landing on Draco’s cheek. He fought the urge to swipe at it, fought against the urge to move. The pain was less when he didn’t fight. He should have remembered that from his father’s punishments.

Adrian came with a groan and Draco tried to think of just sand, rocks, something dry, rather than the putrid wetness leaking out of him. He stared up at the ceiling, feigning catatonia, but his heart betrayed him with its staccato beat. The former Chaser finally rolled off of him, smiling in satisfaction. “As good as I knew you would be. We’ll make you use your mouth next time.”

Draco swallowed hard. Dear Merlin, get me out of here. Somebody tell them, I tried to keep Harry’s identity a secret when they captured him! I tried to protect them all! And Harry had saved him, twice. He’d held onto that body while the fires had raged around them, and somehow he’d known, that Harry wouldn’t let him die, that it would have been both, or neither . . . But Harry wasn’t here now. His parents, Dumbledore, Snape, none of them were here. He looked to Gregory again.

Adrian was back on his bunk, stretched out lazily, tucking himself back into his trousers and humming a little tune to himself. Gregory finally glanced over, as Draco began to reach for his clothes. A dark light came into his eyes. Draco froze.

“He’s all yours,” Adrian drawled in a low voice. He yawned, watching Draco lazily. Draco tried to say it with his eyes, because his tongue seemed swollen, his throat dry with terror. Not Goyle, no. It wasn’t possible. Granted he hadn’t been as active and outgoing in school this year, not with the thought of Voldemort calling his house a home base, but . . . things couldn’t have changed that much. Could they?

Goyle stood and shook his head slightly, hands moving slowly down his body to the fastenings of his trousers. There was such hatred in those eyes. Draco forced himself to speak, shrinking back, “Gregory . . . no.” No power behind his words. And as Goyle closed in, shoving Draco back down against the dirty floor, Draco kept repeating the words, in a despairing litany, until a blow to the head shut him up, and pain lanced through him again.

After that, there was only darkness.