Erlestoke

Erlestoke

I. Prison

It is an odd coincidence that brings Draco Malfoy and his mother to the iron gates of Erlestoke House of Corrections at the same time as Barnabas Greengrass arrives with his two daughters. They stand in awkward silence, Draco's elegant mother and Daphne and Astoria in robes with fur trimmings and wool caps, wrapped in the morning mist before the looming gate.

Mr Greengrass and he both wear simple robes, Draco notices, nothing extravagant or expensive. You don't want to draw attention to yourself in a place like this, his mother said, in a tone that carried all the unspoken fears that have been going through Draco's head ever since the verdict was declared. A blond posh pure-blood boy in prison. Alone. He takes a deep breath to stop the hot fear that washes over him as he looks down the quaint, cobble-stoned road that leads into the village. In just five months he will be home again, celebrating his nineteenth birthday with a beast of a party before he leaves wizarding England for good. The dark brick building before him is not Azkaban. His father is the one he should be afraid for.

His mother and Mr Greengrass chat amiably now, which Draco thinks is wholly inappropriate. Greengrass isn't even old blood, he's a carpenter turned nouveau rich when he took over the family business of his wife and started supplying the wizarding world with antique furniture.

Daphne tries to speak to him, but Draco turns away. She'd been a favourite of the Carrows, always ready to cast a Crucio. Draco doesn't recall her having any qualms about using an Unforgivable, and yet she is free while he has to go to gaol.

Astoria doesn't let go of her father, hides her face in his robes and clings to them when Daphne tries to take her away. Mr Greengrass bends down to her and Astoria gives him something that makes him smile and pat her blonde head, as he puts the gift into the pocket of his robes. He has large, strong hands, Draco notices, the hands of a man who works with them.

The high gate opens and swings back without a sound. Two guards clad in the maroon Erlestoke uniforms check Draco and Mr Greengrass' names on a roll of parchment. What a pair they make: the youth offender with the faded Dark Mark and the slightly balding man without the Mark, guilty of funnelling large sums of Galleons into the Dark Lord's cause. The unfairness of it all comes back to Draco and he swallows. This is not the place or time to rage against what has happened to him. He will get back at them, all of them, one day. But first he has to make it through the next five months. And make it he will.

A black bird swoops out of the mist with a caw and alights on one of the old, stone gate piers. Draco glares at it when they pass the gate and are lead through the courtyard into the building. Tears prick his eyes. Soon Mother will have to leave and he's going to be alone with all these strangers.

But first they have an appointment with the prison's Governor, a round-bellied wizard dressed in robes that match the colour of the guards' uniforms. He is friendly enough when he asks Draco and Mother into his office, introduces himself with John Wilmot, Madam, no relations to the Earl of Rochester, and a chuckle. They go through the terms of Draco's sentence again. He's convicted of 'accessory to trespassing, assault and murder'; only his youth and mitigating circumstances kept him out of Azkaban. It makes Draco angry to hear it all spelled out again. He doesn't deserve any of this. Merlin, he had that lunatic in his home and Draco won't even think of the things the Dark Lord made him do. Using the Imperius and smuggling a necklace and mead into Hogwarts was nothing compared to it. It is punishment enough that he is not allowed to finish his education, but is forced to spend months in this sordid place instead of studying for his N.E.W.T.s. in Durmstrang where Mother secured a place for him.

Better angry than afraid, he thinks, when the Governor pats him on the shoulder and says, "Couple of months fly by in no time." In Mother's direction he mutters something that sounds like, "Mudblood justice, shame for the boy," and Draco cannot help but smirk.

He is careful not to let that smirk show when he and Mother are sent off with a burly guard whose eyes are icy-blue and cold and all that Draco is afraid of. But the guard is not looking at him; he stares at his mother. They say good-bye and Draco almost cries when he watches her slender shape walk down the long grey corridor, waving at him and mouthing, It will be all right, darling.

The guard at his side chuckles and Draco realises this was the wrong thing for him to see.

He's brought to Storage where they meet up with Mr Greengrass again. The corridors are filled with a rush of inmates in prison garb, but it's eerily quiet in the storage room with its high wooden counter and the rows of shelves. The burly guard snaps Draco's trunk open and throws everything on the floor -- his robes, his shirts, his socks, his books. They leave him nothing but his wash bag; all else is logged into storage. The guard even haggles about the toothpaste, but the officer in charge slaps the expensive French brand back into Draco's hands.

"What about my Potions book?" he asks, keeping his voice soft and timid. He has not packed any book he cares about but he's planned to study up on Potions, make use of the waste of time as best as he can.

"No personal things." The officer behind the counter wears a long thin moustache, to hide a harelip, Draco suspects, from the strong nasal tone in his voice.

"It's a school-book," he tries one more time.

"You won't be studying here, pretty boy," the burly guard says, icy-blue eyes twinkling, and Draco knows he should never have mentioned the book. He is asked to hand over his belt, his tie; they make him kneel down and take the shoelaces out of his custom-made Italian shoes. Then the officer takes his wand, ties a piece of parchment around it that says no. 3168 and drops it into a drawer underneath the counter. By the clattering sound of it, there are dozens of wands stored in there. It makes Draco furious. Nobody should be allowed to take a wizard's wand from him.

Further down the counter, Mr Greengrass is having his own argument.

"No pictures, no jewellery, no valuables," a red-haired, tight-lipped guard yells at him. "Can't you read the rules, prisoner?" His uniform is buttoned up all the way to his pronounced Adam's apple. Draco hates him instantly.

"My daughter gave me the locket just now in front of the gate. Come on, chap, you're a married man yourself." Mr Greengrass points at the golden ring on the guard's left hand. "It's just a picture and a lock of her hair. Sentimental stuff. You know how girls are at this age."

Draco is impressed and it's not that he wants to be. If Mr Greengrass uses this smoothly honed voice to sell his antique couches, then Draco may be tempted to buy one himself, once he is out of here. But the friendly talk clearly doesn't impress the guard. He rips something out of Mr Greengrass' hand and throws it onto the counter. It's a small oval-shaped locket on a golden chain.

"Don't get chummy with me, prisoner." The guard is standing very close to Mr Greengrass now, too close for it to be comfortable. "Nobody here cares about who you are outside. Forget your pretty little daughter, forget your precious connections. At Erlestoke, you're nothing. Is that clear?"

Mr Greengrass nods, his eyes drawn to the storage officer who gives the golden locket a curious look, then shoves it into a small brown envelope. With his baton the red-haired guard slaps at Mr Greengrass' jaw so he has to look at him. "Never mention my wife again," he mutters, his voice so low Draco can only hear it because of the uncanny quiet in the room.

"Think you're better off than him?" a soft voice drawls behind him.

Draco shakes his head when a paw-like hand hits his back so hard he's stumbling towards the door. The burly guard makes him walk down the busy hallway, then up narrow stairs and more stairs and more. They end up in a deserted corridor underneath the roof, where Governor Wilmot is waiting for them with still another long roll of parchment in his hands.

The guard steps up to him and they quietly talk. Draco feels ridiculous with his stack of linen sheets, wool blanket, maroon-striped clothes and his wash bag with the half-emptied toothpaste on top.

They make him wait forever. He's counted the fourteen doors in the corridor three times and acquainted himself with the peeling paint on the wall beside him. Finally his guard turns to him and says, "All right, Sir, we'll have him single-celled."

He grabs Draco by the elbow as if he couldn't walk by himself, but before Draco can pull away, the Governor calls out to them from the stairs, "Put him to work in the library, Fenwick."

The guard -- Fenwick -- keeps silent as they walk to the end of the corridor. He opens the cell with a long iron key. Draco feels the wards beating down on him like sharp, cold hail. The room is smaller than his closet at the Manor, eight by five feet at the most. The smell of stale cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air. But other than that the cell is all right. The square barred window goes out towards the old park and grey sky. In the distance runs the dark line of Erlestoke Manor's woods.

Draco takes one step into the cell, then turns with a questioning look towards the guard -- Fenwick, he reminds himself -- before he puts his things on the bed. Fenwick nods and Draco sits down. The mattress is so thin he can see the metal springs pushing up through it. Fenwick watches him from the door, a toothy smile on his ruddy face that does nothing to warm the cold in his eyes.

"Enjoy your first day, blondie," he says, then slams the door shut behind him.

Draco lets out a deep breath. There's a sconce on the wall, a wooden chair, a rickety table. Underneath the bed he discovers the chamber pot. No Moste Potente Potions, but they left him his fucking toothpaste! Draco laughs out loud. The sound is brittle and shaky, but it feels good to laugh in this place. He doesn't need his potions book to make it through this.

*

The food is disgusting, over-cooked and too salty, but the servings are big enough for those brawny blokes over at the tables where the real criminals sit. Draco only sees his fellow inmates at mealtimes and in the bathroom. Nobody has yet come on to him. There are guards watching everywhere.

There are no windows in the room off the library where Draco has to work. It is even smaller than his cell, with one desk, one chair and stacks and stacks of books. The air is so dry his eyes burn within hours. But it's clean and the job is easy. The library is changing its classification system, going from the old Wenlock Code to a numerical system that has been in use at Hogwarts forever. Welcome to the twenty-first century, Draco thinks when the librarian, a wrinkled, grey-haired wizard who looks older than even Dumbledore, tells him what to do.

Every day he sits in the small coop, removes the old labels with solvent and glues on the new ones when the parchment and leather have dried. He does it without any magic, but he suspects the glue is some kind of sticking potion. The solvent smells acidic and medicinal, like something Muggles would use. They make him do elves' work and his throat is parched from the dust and his back hurts badly in the evenings. Still it's much better than he'd expected. In the afternoon, when the wizened librarian has left for the day, Draco is allowed to keep the door open for fresh air and daylight.

And then there's Elliot, a thin boy with sandy hair who delivers books to the inmates and in general gives the librarian a hand. He can't be much older than Draco; he hardly looks old enough to be working in a prison. Muggle-born, Draco quickly finds out, but Elliot seems to hold no grudge against wizards with the Dark Mark on their arm. He smuggles pumpkin juice into the library for Draco, he chats with him whenever he comes by on his rounds. Predictably, Elliot's hero is Harry-Circe's-gift-to-wizarding-kind-Potter, and once he learns Draco was at Hogwarts with Potter, he wants to know everything about him. Draco's not seen Potter since the battle in the Great Hall. It's rumoured he's at St. Mungo's, recovering from what's politely labelled 'nervous exhaustion,' but everybody suspects is spell damage from the Dark Lord's Killing Curse. Of course, Draco mentions nothing of this to Elliot, but sticks to telling funny stories about Potter blowing up cauldrons in Potions class. Which inevitably enamours Elliot, who's only been to Muggle schools, even more to the Chosen One. Inwardly Draco rolls his eyes at the boy, but he's grateful for the quiet afternoons when they talk about Potter and Hogwarts and Muggle books. Elliot never asks why Draco's at Erlestoke, and Draco doesn't tell him.

He writes his mother every other day. He has to ask Fenwick for parchment and quill. The guard grins at him knowingly when Draco hands him a letter to be approved for delivery. Draco knows they read his letters; they are allowed to, after all. Still, the thought of Fenwick touching the parchment his mother will hold in her beautiful hands makes him sick. He looks forward to the days when he does not have to write. It's all meaningless drivel, anyway. Mother will come visit on Sunday. Then he'll tell her everything about this place.

He's not yet been allowed yard exercise; he's not been out of the building in five days. He misses flying, the wind in his hair. He finds himself walking around in his tiny cell, three steps to the window, three steps back to the door. He sleeps badly on the hard mattress. The hours are long at night when he stares out the window until daybreak.

*

On Friday evening, shortly after lockdown, they come for him: the red-haired guard, the moustached officer from Storage, and Fenwick. Draco's half asleep in his bed when the door to his cell bangs open and the three uniformed men enter. With a Lumos Fenwick lights the candle on the wall he extinguished not half an hour ago.

This is it, Draco thinks. In the blink of an eye he is back at the Manor, the red-eyed maniac sitting at the head of the table, throwing threats and deadly insults at his father, casting the Killing Curse with such ruthless nonchalance ... Draco forces himself to calm his breathing. He will not pass out like he did when the Dark Lord killed that silly teacher. Then the tight-lipped guard pulls Elliot into the cell.

It's the moment when Draco realises Elliot, no matter his age, is so much younger than him. His brown eyes are wild with fear; he is pale like a ghost. Fly open, belt removed from his trousers, he tries to cover his groin with his hand. The red-haired guard will have none of that; he yanks both of the boy's arms behind his back, so hard Elliot screams out loud. They shove him against the side of Draco's bed.

Draco instinctively scrambles against the wall, clutching the blanket to his chest. He sees the leather belt in Fenwick's fist just before it comes lashing across his head. Entirely unprepared for it, the pain overwhelms him. It's as if boiling water is scalding the skin on his temple and ear. He tears up instantly and covers his face with his arms. Sounds echo back and forth in the small cell, the light dims to a fuzzy dusk. He hears clearly the words, "Hold on to the boy, McKinnon. The poof'll blow him." Then Draco is wrenched from the bed and finds himself on his knees.

The cock in front of him is soft, a pale piece of flesh hanging from the unbuttoned fly. Uncut, he notices, the foreskin wrinkled and trembling. The whole body before him is trembling.

"No," Elliot whispers. "I don't want that."

"Every man wants that," Fenwick says and the red-haired guard -- McKinnon, Draco forces himself not to forget -- chuckles. It sounds like he's got pneumonia, wheezy and wet.

Fenwick's fist is in Draco's hair, his grip so tight Draco cannot move his head even one inch. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the other fist, the belt wrapped around it. No ring, Draco notices and concentrates on this knowledge, tries to think logically, tries to remember details. No ring. Small blue tattoo on the thumb. A faint scar across the knuckle.

Elliot moves away from him. "I don't," he says, sounding desperate. "Draco, I don't want this." He's begging him, not the bloody guards. Begging Draco not to do what these men are forcing him to. He has no choice in this. That Elliot is begging him, more than anything, makes Draco shake with fear, all of a sudden. He shakes still when that red-haired McKinnon pushes Elliot towards him. Draco's mouth and nose are pressed against the limp cock that seems so small and child-like. Elliot starts crying, he whimpers, "Don't do it, don't, please. Don't."

All Draco wonders is, How the hell am I going to get him off? He tentatively licks at the soft cock, one swipe around the head. Elliot bowls over, pulls away. He screams and struggles in McKinnon's hold until the belt whips across his head, too. There's blood on Draco's face; drops of it run down his cheek and fall to the floor. They shove him against Elliot again. McKinnon has the boy in an iron hold, one arm around his chest, making it impossible for Elliot to use his arms. McKinnon yanks his trousers further down, exposing pubic hair, base of prick, balls. He is careful not to touch the boy's skin, Draco notices.

"Suck him." Fenwick's voice is low and commanding.

Draco takes the drooping head of Elliot's cock between his lips. Gently, for he doesn't want to hurt him. He doubts pain turns Elliot on. The welt on his temple burns like hot coal. At least he imagines that's how hot coals on skin must feel. Fenwick pushes him forward, makes him take in more. Elliot whimpers as if he's hurting, but Draco feels his cock twitch ever so slightly in his mouth.

"You like to eat dick, blondie, don't you?" Fenwick's loosened his grip on Draco and he's crouched beside him. "Knew it," he says with a nod towards the third man in the cell. "Our little Death Eater here is a poof."

The storage officer has not moved or said one word since they came. Draco glances at him and finds him staring, baleful dark eyes on him. That man hates him. And Draco has no idea why.

Fenwick yanks him back to the business at hand. "Blow him, blondie. If little Elliot here does not come in three minutes, you'll feel the belt again."

Shit. Draco takes in more of Elliot's cock. He is definitely getting hard now and Draco sucks gently, twirling his tongue around the soft rim of the foreskin. Elliot cries and moans and whimpers in McKinnon's hold, but he's no longer pulling back. Quite the opposite. Draco feels him thrusting, slowly and so hesitantly he's sure Fenwick doesn't even notice. He pulls back, lets the head glide almost out of his mouth. It's not the first cock Draco's sucked and he knows from experience the irresistible pleasure when someone sucks on the slit of the head just as it slips from soft lips.

"Oh God," Elliot groans and starts struggling again. He wrenches one arm free and smacks his fist fully into Draco's face, shoving him away. "Don't do this!" he screams.

Blithering idiot. Merlin, that hurt! Blood gushes from Draco's nose and it runs into his mouth. He grabs Elliot by the waistband, makes him stop squirming. "Hold still," he says as calmly as he can. If his nose is broken, he'll make the git pay. Fuck!

Fenwick's fist pulls just a bit harder at Draco's hair.

"I'm going to make this good for you," Draco says to Elliot. Hold still and it'll be over in a minute, he means, but that would be a dumb thing to say aloud. Never let the enemy know what you want -- and Draco wants this to be over and done with, have the arseholes out of his cell, including that bleeding wet who is making things hard for him.

Draco doubts very much that Fenwick and McKinnon want it to be over quickly. No, have the Death Eater suck the Mudblood a bit longer, break them both, take their pride, make them shame each other. Salazar, those low-lives are not worthy of the name of wizard!

"Now, that's the spirit." Fenwick practically purrs. He lets go of Draco's hair and caresses his neck. The tender touch makes Draco almost jump out of his skin. He jerks forward, away from those strong hands; he clutches Elliot's hips and holds on to the other boy.

"Fucking ponce," he hears a voice behind him, gone so hoarse and dark he barely recognises Fenwick. It is all the warning Draco gets.

The air hisses before his pyjama top is wrenched from his back and pain sears into him like a bolt of lightning. His skin snaps open -- he can feel it splinter and break like the thin wood panels he clamped too hard with pliers when repairing the Vanishing Cabinet. Draco's head tilts towards Elliot's belly. Red sparks before his eyes as he tries to keep his body upright. It feels like his head has been severed from his neck where the belt lashed across it.

"Please," he moans.

"See what you've done?" McKinnon sounds impossibly cool and calm. "Your boyfriend's so bored with your weenie, he's falling asleep."

Trembling fingers touch Draco's face and move along his jawline. They scrape his smarting ear and Elliot doesn't mean to hurt him, but Draco lets out a sob; he can't hold back anymore. Not with the flaming pain across his neck that makes him sweat and shake and want to bury ever deeper into Elliot.

"Okay," the boy says, smoothing away Draco's hair from his face. "Okay." So gently.

Magic surges, so powerful it makes the metal bed rattle. A spell enfolds Draco in a cloud like smoke, moments before he hears the muttered, "Episkey". Pain trickles away as his skin closes and is healed by magic. A glorious sense of comfort radiates from his back; it feels so good with the smarting pain gone.

It takes seconds before Draco registers just how strong the healing spell had been. With his lips wrapped again around Elliot's dick, he sucks, takes in the small shy thrusts, swirls his tongue around the cock that hardens and thickens in his mouth, all the while thinking Fenwick didn't need to say the spell aloud, didn't need his wand, which is safely tucked back into the sleeve of his uniform. The man is capable of wandless magic. The bastard is playing with him, letting him feel a touch of his power. Draco doubts anybody here -- McKinnon, Governor Wilmot, the bloke from Storage -- have any idea just how powerful a wizard Fenwick is. How dangerous.

While his teeth graze gently along Elliot's erection, teasing him, making him moan, Draco tries to remember who all went to Hogwarts with his parents. Fenwick is their generation. Not Slytherin -- Lucius Malfoy made sure his son knows all wizards and witches who were Sorted into the House of the Basilisk. But the name seems familiar, now that Draco thinks about it. A memory tickles at the back of his mind, something to do with Prefect's duty and the Armoury Gallery. But how could such a powerful wizard who's been to Hogwarts end up as a lowly guard in a small wizarding gaol?

Elliot thrusts harder, clearly aroused, but he still has a long way to go.

"You have one more minute, pretty boy," Fenwick whispers at Draco's side.

The threat of the belt is enough to make him concentrate on his task. He prides himself on being good at this -- Merlin, he brought Blaise off in no time, and not only once. And Blaise Zabini is as straight as a rod. Lightly, Draco squeezes the head of Elliot's cock between his lips, he moves the tip of his tongue against the slit and rubs it. Elliot's hips jerk forward and he is panting, trying to hold back but unable to resist the tease of Draco's tongue. His fingers are still touching Draco's face, pulling him close, pushing him away, wanting this. Hating it.

Draco lets the length of Elliot's cock slide against the roof of his mouth. A sharp gasp and a violent thrust; Elliot is losing control. Draco's pretty sure this is his first blowjob ever, and he remembers how quickly he himself came when Theo sucked him off that first time at the lake. The boy is hard now and so thick Draco's struggling not to gag. But he doesn't pull back, instead he sucks and licks as well as he can with a mouthful of cock. Come on, he thinks, come on.

He moves his head back and Elliot thrusts forward, too close now to be gentle, body set on release. Behind Draco, Fenwick steps nearer. His knees grind into Draco's shoulder blades, which are still tender from the belt. The guard's groin is pressed against the back of his head. He is hard as a rock. Draco hides a smirk as he blows Elliot for real, head bobbing up and down, taking him in deep. The boy's thighs shake like he's about to buckle any moment.

Fenwick bears down on Draco's head. Magic slices through him, sharp and sickeningly familiar -- Imperio. Just for a split second and it's gone. Draco finds himself with more cock down his throat than he can handle. He tries to swallow, gags, tries to breathe and can't. Stay calm. Breathe through you nose. He can hear Theo's voice from years ago, but he can't breathe, can't. With his body's full weight Fenwick is forcing him to take Elliot in deeper and deeper. Draco's throat seizes shut, tears spring from his eyes as his body reacts, survival instincts kicking in. He fights, arches up with vicious effort, using hands and head and all his strength to get away, to come up for air. But Fenwick is so much stronger. A short burst of magic sweeps through Draco and saps away his will power. He screams, or he tries to, for no sound comes from his mouth filled to the hilt with twitching cock.

Someone laughs, cruel and languorous, but Draco, squeezed in without anywhere to go, without air, can't see who it is. He is gagging constantly, his body jerking wildly, tears streaming down his face. Black dots swim before his eyes. He needs to breathe, needs air, needs --

He's yanked back so hard the collar of his pyjamas comes off. His stomach roils as he lands smack with one cheek on the grimy floor and gulps, gulps for air so greedily, he is making himself sick with dust motes and age-old smells, sucking it all in.

When his vision returns, Elliot is on his knees before him, eyes closed, one hand clutching the bed frame, his erection impossibly huge and red. He sways back and forth, croaks, "No, no ..." as a drop of pre-come seeps from the tip of his cock. The clear fluid dribbles down the length of Elliot's prick, shimmering pearl against thick purple vein.

Draco chokes on the sharp acid rising from his stomach. His body jerks and he brings it all up in forced, painful heaps: half-digested fishcake, carrots and sugary lemon tart. He pukes all over the floor before him, can't stop puking until he's a sweating, trembling mess.

Elliot is crying silently, imploring Draco with wide eyes to be all right. Draco is not sure himself, but he nods. He has to lie down. One more second upright and he's going to pass out. Elliot scrambles to force his erection into his trousers. His fly won't close all the way, and he pulls his shirt over it. Draco curls up in the vomit on the floor. What does he care? He wants them all to leave. He wants his bloody cell back. And if Fenwick still wants him to blow that kid, forget it! He's going to show them all his own bit of wandless magic.

"Well?" McKinnon asks. He sounds bored. One day Draco will get back at him for that.

"Let's leave." It's the first word the officer from Storage has said during the entire half hour or so since they've invaded Draco's cell.

"Second thoughts, Pep?" Fenwick drawls. "Pissing your pants already?"

"I'm going." The nasal tone in the officer's voice is stronger than before.

The three of them disappear without another word. They leave Elliot in Draco's cell and the door wide open. It's clearly his job now to lock prisoner number 3168 in for the night.

Maybe Draco expects some kind of apology. Maybe he thinks Elliot will clean up the mess on the floor. He has a wand, after all. Instead Elliot keeps crying and just looks at Draco for so long finally he can't stand it anymore.

He says, "What the fuck are you staring at?" His throat bloody hurts and it's all Elliot's fault.

Elliot's eyes never leave Draco as he moves back towards the door and pulls himself up. A red welt runs across his left cheek where Fenwick hit him with the belt. His shirt is spotted red on the collar and damp where it covers his receding erection. He lowers his gaze for a moment as if to collect himself before saying something, anything. When he looks up again, he stares out the window. It is the moment when Draco becomes invisible to him; Draco can feel it. He lifts his head to turn to the window, too. The bright glow of the candle on the wall glimmers against the barred night.

A whisper, "Nox," then darkness.

The door slams shut and leaves Draco blind on the floor. He breathes slowly, once, twice. He thinks, I can deal with this. Over and over again. He spent an entire year scared out of his mind; he will make it through these five months. Slowly he rises and wipes the vomit from his face and hair. The stink is unbearable. He curls up on the bed, trying to calm the frantic beating of his heart. It hurts in his chest, almost as much as his neck and the burning welt across his temple. He reaches underneath the pillow for the tube of toothpaste. He unscrews the cap and sucks at it, savouring the clean taste. He thinks of summers spent in Aix-en-Provence with his parents. Lavender fields sparkle sweet and purple in the dazzling light of the sun.

This night, lying awake and waiting for dawn, Draco hears the bells for the first time, far away but coming closer.

*