Draco Malfoy, Broken

Draco Malfoy stared at the imposing man in front of him. Pure terror flowed through his veins as the slit eyes of the Dark Lord turned toward him. Too late, he realized that he was caught staring and now his master held him in his sights. He froze, his heart stuttered like sludge pumping through a sieve. The Dark Lord's deformed face twisted into a smile as he pulled out his wand. Draco wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. His home was a prison... there was no escape. 

The house was filled with his willing minions, who knew that he was less-than-willing. His Aunt Bellatrix loved to toughen him up, though nothing she did worked. He said the words they wanted, but they could still see the fear and cowardice in his eyes. They would never trust him, again. He was their entertainment. No one was going to save him. Not his aunt, not his father and not his mother.

Voldemort pointed his wand at him and hissed, "Scream."

He did. The Cruciatus Curse dropped him to the ground and he flailed on the ground, wailing against the pain. Even when his master stopped, he still twitched in pain and fear. He looked up in silent prayer that one dose of pain was enough to sate the Dark Lord's anger. But the withering look he got in return told him it wasn't over.

Footsteps made Draco look over at the door. His screams brought an audience: three Death Eaters and his father. Lucius Malfoy stared at him with deep loathing. He was a complete failure in his father's eyes, he knew that. The Dark Lord had ordered him to kill Dumbledore. He had every opportunity, but he didn't do it. He couldn't kill a wandless, defenseless old man. He was paying for that failure, every day. Every single day since he left the tower.

"Lucius... come. Teach your son a lesson," Lord Voldemort ordered.

"Of course, master," his father said, readily.

"Father... please..." Draco pleaded.

"Silence. You deserve this pain. You have failed me. You don't deserve to be called my son. If I had another child, I'd have already ridded myself of you. You're a disgrace to the Malfoy name," Lucius growled, viciously. There was no doubt in his voice or hesitation.

Draco eyes watered with shame, but his fear quickly overrode that emotion. His father had pulled out his wand and Draco was a coward before anything else.

"Please..." he begged, but it was useless.

"Crucio!" his father said, hatred apparent in his eyes.

Draco screamed, this time waking. It took several seconds to remember where he was, when he was. He remembered the truth. Lord Voldemort was gone. His father was gone. The war was over, at least for the good guys, which he wasn't. His turmoil was still stewing.

He was on the cement floor. It was nearly daylight. The sun's first rays cresting through the slits in the bars. His hands were clenched against his chest as the phantom pains still wreaked havoc on his body. He couldn't stop shaking. Tears welled in his eyes. He was trapped. Cold.

The dementors outside his cell fed on his pain... and ramped it up. He had fallen unconscious the first time they brought him to Azkaban, the darkest memories pulled out of him in excruciating detail. He fainted, just like Potter had when they were younger. But no one saved him, forced them away. No, Azkaban is where they pushed dementors on to you. Of course, it was to "drain a wizard of his powers". But Draco knew better. It was to torture them. Make them pay for every life lost during the war and every scream that the Death Eaters forced out of their victims and Draco was one of them. The skull and serpent branded on his skin with magic marked him as one of them.

No respite would come to him, now. His sleep was nothing but nightmares, and his waking hours were plagued with flashbacks. He didn't pass out anymore, he had become accustomed to the waves of darkness thrown out by the creatures that guarded him.

The tremors finally settled down. He finally got control of his breathing, but he couldn't find the willpower to climb back into his stripped bunk. Too many suicides in years past, made the wizard guards take precautions. There were more dementors than ever before, bred during the war by Voldemort's supporters. Ironically enough, they now were inflicting their darkness upon their former compatriots. They easily switched sides for the promise of defenseless, captive prey.

Draco remembered that Potter had been against their return to Azkaban. It was during the trials, when Potter was making his speeches, that he said it was wrong to allow such traitorous, evil creatures to watch over their worst criminals. However, Draco knew that Potter hated them more for their darkness, not out of a fear of their flimsy sense of loyalty. Still, the public cried for justice. They knew the torment and pain the dementors brought out of their victims, and they wanted to make their enemies pay. The Chosen One's opinion was shot down flat. It was easier than risking another open war, hunting dementors down individually. Better to have them safely locked up and feeding off those who deserve it.

Draco breathed deeply, sense and reasoning finally returning to him. He found himself outside his memories for once. He wondered how long he'd been here or even when the last time he ate. A tray of untouched food was rotting on the slot in the door. He was fading away. His face was shallow, his ribs were prominent on his chest. His stomach had been shrunken to the point that he didn't even feel the pain. He wondered if he should even bother. It was just like the dream. He had no one. He didn't even know what happened to his mother or if she even survived the trials. Her trial was set after he was sentenced. Dementors didn't speak and the wizards and witches that he saw, ignored him. Keeping him in the dark was a whole new way to torment him.

He sighed. He had to know. He had to keep fighting... for her, at least. She almost died because of him. He sat up, his head swirled from the movement. He reached up on the plate and took an orange. It was small and deformed, but unspoiled. He sat on his bed and peeled it, slowly. His once immaculately kept nails, clawed the skin off. It smelled amazing, like the outside. Clean and natural. He wondered idly if he'd ever breathe fresh air, again. If he didn't eat, then he definitely wouldn't. He pulled a quarter off and stuffed it into his mouth. The juice from the orange inflamed his senses.

Unbidden, a memory of his childhood came to the surface, shining through the darkness.

His mother, pulled an orange out of a basket of fruit out on their dining room table. She brushed his hair with her fingers and said, "I love you little one. You know that, right?"

"I know, Mama. I love you, too!" he said back. He had to have been 8. His mother ruffled his hair, more. "Stop Mama, you're messing up my hair!

"It looks fine. Would you like some of my orange?" she asked.

"Yes! I like oranges!" he said, his face bright as he looked at her. There was no fear or worry on her face.

"I love oranges, too. How about we go outside into the gardens after this? Your father will be gone all day. It'll be just us. You can play on your broomstick, if you want."

"My broomstick? Really, Mama? Daddy said..."

"I don't care what he said. I want you to have fun, while you can."

She pulled out her wand and his small broomstick flew out to them. She handed to him and led him out into their yard. He was ecstatic. Brooms were for when the Quidditch coach came only. He jumped on the broomstick and took off, flying up into the air. It only would go 10 feet, but it was enough. The wind whipped through his hair as he looped the garden. He felt alive. His heart raced and he looked at his mother. Her eyes, filled with tears of happiness, watched him proudly.

Draco smiled for the first time since he was dragged to his cell. No, it was the first time since... he couldn't even remember. Probably the last time he flew. He always felt he was free and in control of something. He ate the orange filled with content.

But the feeling was short-lived. The door unlatched and creaked open. Draco pulled away, scrambling to the back of his bunk, pressing up to the wall, terror seizing him. It came into the room, menacingly, stalking toward him with slow deliberateness. Draco stared at the dark creature. The dementor sucked out the air, any warmth that Draco had felt moments ago. It was dragging him under.

"No... please..." he cried out, so similar to other prisoners he heard sometimes, screaming out at the darkness. But this was different, almost purposeful. "Get out! You can't come in here!"

The dementor seemingly cocked its head, Draco could feel it smirking at him. It sent a fresh wave of misery at him and his nightmares took him again.

"Your husband has failed me!" Lord Voldemort growled. Still venting over the loss of the prophecy.

"I apologize on behalf of Lucius, sire," Narcissa Malfoy breathed. She was afraid. Draco didn't move and certainly didn't look at the evilest thing he ever knew. He wasn't brave enough for that.

"You think words will placate me?" he roared.

"Master... let my family make it up to you!" Aunt Bellatrix offered. Not showing fear, but hatred toward Lucius.

Narcissa gave her sister a look of warning. Draco even tensed. The death-defying Lord Voldemort would not give a small task. The Dark Lord looked at his lieutenant thoughtfully and then smiled.

"I have an idea," he murmured and looked deliberately at Draco, who shrunk under his gaze.

Narcissa gasped, "No, please, you can't!"

"What did you say?" the Dark Lord growled. His mother's hand went to her mouth. She forgot how close to danger she really was.

"I'm sorry... I just..." she pleaded.

Bellatrix smacked her face. "How dare you speak to our master like that!"

"I'm sorry," his mother repeated.

"I will accept your apology, after I reprimand you, of course," he growled.

Draco blanched and made to step forward, but his aunt whispered in his ear. "Interfere and you'll kill her." He steadied himself.

Narcissa looked at him, with aristocratic pride, and then turned to the Dark Lord. She nodded. "I understand, my lord. I am ready."

"Crucio!" he growled and she fell to the floor screaming.

Draco watched wide-eyed and frozen. There was nothing he could do. If he even moved his hand to his wand, they would see and they would kill him or her. He watched helplessly as she endured the Cruciatus Curse.

Draco woke again curled up into a ball on his bunk, tears streaming down his face. He hated seeing his mother in pain, he hated that he had just watched. He should have done something... anything....

He pressed his face into the mattress. He wanted to die. What was the point to living now? He cried out for his mother and clamped his mouth shut. Pride telling him that crying like a 6-year old was insulting. He was still a Malfoy. Broken, crying, starving, convicted criminal, but still a Malfoy. His father had beat into him that he must uphold the family name. Of course, his father was dead, he was in prison, and as far as he knew, everyone hated him and his name.

Ominously, he thought that he deserved to die. He should have died, the fire... the Fiendfyre should have killed him.

Saint Potter, of course, had saved him. He never knew why. Crabbe and Goyle had just cornered Potter, knowing how important he was to the Dark Lord. But they wanted nothing more than to kill him. He could barely hold them back. Crabbe set the fire loose. It burned out of control, killing him. Draco thought it was the end and even accepted it. But Potter came back, for him, a Death Eater. Why? Potter's actions were baffling. He couldn't fathom why anyone would save their known enemy. He supposed that Potter just had a big-time hero complex and had to save everyone. How very Gryffindor of him. Potter would love to see how far he had fallen, now.

He breathed easier. The episode was over. His mind relaxed and his heart slowed down. There was a new tray of cold food on the door. Eat, he told himself. He crawled off his bed, took the tray and ate it all. He set it back in the tray return. His personal dementor came to the door and sent another wave of darkness at him.

He moved to the far corner of his room, attempting to get away from the door. The distance helped. He didn't slip back into his memories, again. He wrapped his arms around legs and curled into a ball. His stomach churned with the influx of food, but he ignored it. He stared at the door, considering the dementor's actions from before. It had deliberately come into his cell. He was happy, or at least not sad, and his...the dementor (he mentally stuttered), came in just to hurt him, or to get a bigger meal. But why him? Why are they feeding off him excessively? Dementors shouldn't do that... unless they were told to. Why did he even have an assigned dementor? He wasn't even in the maximum security area.

He supposed it was possible his dementor especially hated him, but that seemed unrealistic. Nor did the idea that he was "uncharacteristically" happy and therefore a bigger meal. But there was only two plausible answers he could think of.

One, the imprisoned Death Eaters somehow blamed him or his mother for the demise of Lord Voldemort and convinced the dementors to target him. Or two, someone on the outside pushed for the additional punishment just to hurt him in particular. If Potter wasn't a diehard savior-of-the-world, Malfoy might have suspected him. The rest of his trio would surely follow their hero's lead. It could have been Death Eaters or their supporters that were still free, too, like his uncles. He even considered Goyle. He escaped the Battle of Hogwarts without getting caught and knew what Draco had done.

His head found home on the thin, plastic-coated pillow and he curled up. There were no blankets or sheets to keep him warm. He was always cold and shivering.

He looked at the options and decided they didn't matter. It was his fault, either way. Everything. Plus, there was nothing he could do. He was trapped, though in a different house of horrors. Banished effectively from memory. Everyone will forget about him, except maybe Potter. But he would be glad that Draco was getting his just desserts, now. Letting him die surely was not allowed for the heroic Gryffindor, but Draco had to be punished for his crimes. What better punishment than a lengthily prison sentence in hell-on-earth? The tears came again, and he wondered how long he'd last.