Welcome to Azkaban
Courtroom 76 - Day of Draco Lucius Malfoy’s Trial
The chains on my chair rattle as I shift, but they remain loose, unfastened. I don't know if that's a good sign. My mouth is dry, my hands clenched into fists against my knees as I sit in the center of the vast, circular chamber of the Wizengamot. The high-backed benches tower above me, filled with witches and wizards in plum-colored robes. Some of them whisper behind their hands, others glare openly.
At the front, Chief Warlock Ogden clears his throat. His voice is steady, formal. "We convene today for the sentencing of Draco Lucius Malfoy, accused of serving Tom Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort, during the Second Wizarding War.” Some of the wizards and witches in the crowd cry out in fear at the use of the Dark Lord’s name, obviously still frightened it will hold power. Ogden gives them only a moment before he carries on, “The accused stands charged with aiding and abetting known Death Eaters, coercion under the Imperius Curse, and failure to act against Dark forces occupying his family home."
My heartbeat pounds so loudly I almost miss his next words. "The floor is now open for testimony before sentencing."
A man stands immediately—his face lined with age and judgment. "This is a waste of time," he sneers. "His family were marked supporters of You-Know-Who for years! He let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, nearly got the Headmaster killed before—”
"Enough! The death of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore was at the hand of Severus Snape. You will not allege that Draco Malfoy is responsible in that incident as it is a previously closed case and not up for debate at today’s hearing." Ogden cuts him off, but the murmurs swell.
Another woman shoots up to speak, voice sharp and cold. “Draco Malfoy was not a child when he took the Dark Mark. He knew what he was doing, and he did nothing to stop the horrors that took place in Malfoy Manor. He watched as muggle-borns were tortured, as our people were dragged before Voldemort. Aiding him in any way should warrant the full weight of the law!"
Wave after wave of testimonies come, many not even vilifying me but airing out general grievances about Death Eaters. I sit motionless. I don't defend myself. It doesn’t matter what I say. They’ve already decided.
Then, a voice I never expected speaks up.
Harry Potter.
He stands from his place among the observers, stepping forward with that stubborn determination that has haunted me since we were eleven. "Draco Malfoy hesitated." His voice rings through the chamber. "He was ordered to kill Dumbledore, but he didn't. He couldn't. And in the end, it was Snape who took the burden from him. He was a sixteen-year-old boy, forced into an impossible situation because Voldemort threatened to kill his parents. He was a child taking that mark, under duress and fear. We were all children fighting the war of adults who came before us."
More murmuring, but Harry isn't done. His green eyes lock onto the assembled members of the Wizengamot. "And later, when I was caught by the Snatchers, he was the only person in that room who could have identified me. He knew it was me. He looked me right in the face, and he denied it. That act saved my life, and as a result the rest of the wizarding world. Had he not, it would have all ended there, and Voldemort would have won."
His words are daggers to my ribs. I don't know how to breathe around them. I’m no hero.
A softer but sure voice follows. Hermione Granger. "I know what Draco Malfoy was raised to believe," she says carefully. "But at the Quidditch World Cup, before the Death Eaters attacked, he warned me to leave. A muggle-born witch." Her voice wavers for a moment before hardening again. "He had no reason to do that unless, even then, he knew there was something wrong about what his family stood for. Draco was a teenager who was burdened with unimaginable tasks dealt to him by a tyrannical psychopath."
Luna Lovegood steps up next, dreamlike as always, but her words are steady. "I was in Malfoy Manor’s dungeons," she says. “Draco brought food when no one else would. He left Warming Charms to keep me and Dean Thomas from freezing. He couldn't save us, but he tried to help in the ways he could. A sweet boy."
Dean follows her, nodding. "He was trapped like the rest of us," he says. "I saw how it ate him up inside. He couldn't fight back, not directly. But he made sure we didn't starve. He gave me bandages for the wounds we got from Bellatrix’s lot. Sometimes it led to him even being punished by his aunt whenever he hesitated in carrying out her orders to harm us. He wasn’t our enemy, not really."
My lungs feel as if they’re collapsing in on themselves. I stare at the stone floor, my breath coming too fast. Not fast enough. I can feel the weight of the room shifting, the tide turning, but I can’t trust it. This isn’t my life. This isn’t real.
The Wizengamot murmurs amongst themselves for what feels like hours. I barely hear Ogden's voice when he finally speaks again. "Draco Malfoy, after consideration of the testimonies given, this court finds you guilty of aiding the Dark forces during the war." The air disappears from my lungs completely. "However, due to mitigating circumstances, including coercion, duress, and acts of defiance against Tom Riddle, we do not find the full extent of the charges warrant the maximum sentence."
I am shaking.
"You are hereby sentenced to one year in Azkaban, followed by two years probation. During this time, your wand will be monitored and bound by Tracking Charms similar to those used on underage wizards. Upon release, you will also be required to complete Muggle Studies coursework to further your understanding of the world outside pure-blood ideals."
I don’t hear anything else. I’m frozen in place as reality slams into me, harder than I can brace for. I expect to feel relief, but I don’t—I only feel hollow.
The chains around my wrists vanish.
I am not going to Azkaban for life.
I am not being kissed.
One year.
One year, and then I will be free. Not truly free—monitored, bound, controlled—but alive, at least physically.
I expected to be sentenced to rot in Azkaban. I had braced myself for a lifetime in a cell, or worse, the Dementor’s Kiss. I thought that was what I deserved.
But they are letting me go after just one year.
Not because I deserve mercy, but because—against all odds—people I once called enemies stood up and gave it to me anyway.
Azkaban – Day 1
The moment I step off the prison transport, the cold sinks into my bones. It is the kind of cold that isn’t just temperature—it’s alive, twisting through the stone walls, creeping under my skin. I can feel it in my teeth, in my lungs. It smells of salt and decay, of damp stone and something else, something worse.
Azkaban.
Two guards flank me, their grips firm on my upper arms as they march me forward. The iron doors groan open, the sound grinding against my skull. I keep my head down, my jaw clenched, my breathing measured. Only one year. I tell myself over and over. One year. I deserve more.
The first stop is processing.
"Strip," one of the guards orders.
I hesitate, just for a second. A mistake.
A fist slams into my ribs, and I stagger. "Didn’t you hear him, Death Eater?" the other sneers. "Clothes. Off."
My fingers are stiff as I unbutton my robes and let them fall to the floor. I shiver, exposed under the flickering lights of the stone chamber. They don’t give me privacy. Of course they don’t. My hands shake as I pull off my trousers, then my pants, then my socks.
I stand naked before them, my skin covered in goosebumps, hands over my personal bits.
One of the guards walks in a slow circle around me. I force myself to stay still as he inspects me like I’m some kind of animal. He grips my arm, jerking it up to examine the Dark Mark. His fingers press into the faded ink, and I want to rip my arm away, but I don’t.
"Filthy little snake," he mutters. "Bet you enjoyed what your lot did during the war."
I don't respond.
The other one grins. "Best make sure he’s not hiding anything."
I grit my teeth as they roughly pat me down, wrenching my remaining hand from where I cupped myself, prodding and pressing without an ounce of care. My ears burn, my skin crawls, but I don’t react. I can’t. I just stare at the stone wall, counting the cracks. One year. One year. One year.
"Move."
They shove me forward into the next room.
Freezing water blasts me from all sides, shocking the breath from my lungs. My feet slip against the slick stone as the spray pounds into me, colder than anything I’ve ever felt. I bite my tongue so hard I taste the copper tang of blood, forcing myself not to shiver, not to react.
The water stops, leaving me drenched, shaking, humiliated.
A rough towel is tossed at my feet.
I pick it up with stiff fingers, drying myself as best I can before they thrust a gray, striped, threadbare uniform into my arms. It stinks of mildew. I pull it on, and it scratches against my skin. The sleeves are too short. The trousers sag around my waist.
I am led into another room.
A stone desk sits against the far wall, covered in parchment and quills. A heavy-set wizard glares at me from behind it. "Sit."
I obey.
"Hands."
I place them on the desk, palms up. He grabs my fingers, pressing each one into a damp black pad before rolling them onto parchment. A record. My identity, reduced to ink.
Next, he waves his wand, and my magic flares inside me, twisting as it’s forced to the surface. A quill records my magical signature, binding me to Azkaban’s system. I shudder at the sensation—it feels like something inside me is being branded, marked forever.
The final step is the photo.
A camera is mounted on the wall, and I stand in front of it. The flash is blinding, burning into my retinas. My face—hollow, pale, defeated—is now part of the prison’s permanent files.
"Take him to his cell," the man mutters.
The guards don’t wait. They seize my arms and haul me through the endless corridors of Azkaban.
The deeper we go, the colder it becomes.
Then, I feel them.
Above us, gliding through the air, the Dementors circle like vultures. The temperature drops further, my breath turning to mist. My hands shake despite myself. Without a wand, I have no defense. If they decide to come for me, there will be nothing I can do.
I pull in a sharp breath. My mother’s face flickers in my mind, followed by my father’s weary, defeated stare. Then the memories twist, turning darker—Greyback’s bloodied hands, screams echoing through Malfoy Manor, the sight of Dumbledore standing unarmed before me—
No. No, no, no —
"Move, Malfoy," one of the guards snaps, shoving me forward.
My legs feel weak as I follow them down the endless corridors, past cells filled with hunched, whispering figures. Some stare at me with hollow eyes, others don’t even look up.
Finally, we stop. A metal door creaks open.
They push me inside.
The door slams shut behind me. The lock clicks into place.
I am alone.
Shaking still, the chill of having been near so many dementors already settled into my bones. I run my hands over my arms in an attempt to warm them despite knowing it will do little to alleviate this kind of cold.
In an attempt to distract myself, I look around the place I will be calling home for the next year.
The cell is disgusting.
A small desk is built into the wall, its surface covered in scratches and stains. Opposite it, a ledge juts out, barely wide enough to sit on in place of a chair or stool. In the far corner, a stainless steel loo and sink sit against the wall, both crusted with grime.
The mattress is the worst of it. A rotting, sagging thing in the corner, covered in dark stains.
This is my world now.
This tiny, frozen, foul-smelling box.
One year.
One year in this.
I don’t know when I sit down. When I curl in on myself, my arms wrapped around my knees, my forehead pressed to my sleeves.
The realisation finally sinks in. The weight of it crashes over me, suffocating.
I press my face into my arms, and I cry.
Azkaban – Night 1
I have cried myself dry.
There are no more tears left, only the hollow, empty weight in my chest and the dull ache in my throat. My limbs feel like lead, and my skin is raw from the cold, but there’s no point in fighting it. This is my world now. This stone, this filth, this cold.
I lift my head from my arms and take in my surroundings again, this time not through the haze of panic and grief, but with the slow, resigned clarity of someone cataloging the details of their new prison.
The walls are gray, the stone cracked and chipped from age, each flaw a permanent scar on this miserable place. I start counting them.
One. Two. Three.
A thin hairline crack snakes its way from the ceiling down to the left of my desk, splitting off into smaller fractures, like the veins of a dying leaf.
Four. Five. Six.
My gaze drifts lower, to the uneven stone floor, where the dampness clings to the corners. The smell of mildew is thick, mingling with the sharp tang of salt from the sea beyond these cursed walls.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
I could keep going. I will keep going.
A single droplet falls from the tap of my sink, the sound breaking the silence. Another follows a few seconds later. And another. It’s inconsistent, uneven, just enough to be maddening.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. This is my reality now, every second stretching into an eternity.
At least I won’t be here forever.
Only one year.
Only one year.
The words ring hollow in my head. A year in Azkaban isn’t a punishment people survive—it’s a sentence people endure. And some don’t even do that.
I let my head fall back against the cold stone and stare at the ceiling, at the flickering torchlight casting faint shadows across the damp surface. My thoughts drift, unbidden, back to the trial.
The hearing had been… surreal.
Hearing my name spoken with such venom. Hearing strangers demand my imprisonment, my suffering, my death.
I had expected that.
What I hadn’t expected—what still doesn’t make sense—was the defense.
Potter. Granger. Lovegood. Thomas.
People I had mocked, insulted, dismissed. People I had tormented.
Yet they had spoken for me.
Why?
Because they were right.
I never wanted the Mark. I had never wanted any of it. I had simply not wanted to die. Or for my mother to die.
Too bad I couldn’t say the same for my father.
Lucius Malfoy is here, somewhere, rotting in his own cell. But unlike me, he isn’t leaving. A life sentence. No trial, no defense, no mercy. The Ministry had been waiting for the chance to lock him away for good, and he had handed it to them with both hands.
I don’t know how I feel about that.
Once, I might have thought it was unfair. A Malfoy locked away like some common criminal? Unthinkable.
Now?
Now, I just feel… nothing.
Maybe that’s the real punishment. Not the years spent in a cell. Not the absence of wealth or power.
But the knowing.
The knowing that he chose his fate.
That he could have left, taken my mother and me, and run. But he didn’t.
He stayed. He served. And he lost everything.
A shiver runs through me, though I can’t tell if it’s from the cold or something deeper, something nameless pressing at the edges of my mind.
I pull my knees up to my chest and listen to the steady hum of the magical wards around the cell bars.
The glow is faint, but I can feel the power thrumming through the air, laced with Monitoring Spells, Tracking Charms, Suppression Wards. A living cage.
I am trapped.
One year.
I let out a slow breath and close my eyes.
Tomorrow will come, whether I want it to or not.
Looking down, I see a small pile of debris, I bend down, picking up the largest piece, a stone. The stone is small, rough against my fingers. It must have fallen from the crumbling wall near the ceiling, a casualty of time and neglect.
I turn it over in my palm, feeling its jagged edges. It is unremarkable—just another piece of this wretched place—but to me, it is something else.
A tool.
A way to mark the days.
I crawl to the farthest corner of my cell, where the stone wall is slightly smoother, less eroded. With deliberate pressure, I press the rock’s edge against the surface and drag it downward.
A thin, pale line appears.
One day.
One day gone.
Three hundred and sixty-four left to go.
The number is staggering, pressing against my ribs like a physical weight, but I push it aside.
One day at a time.
I let the stone drop from my fingers and sink down onto the filthy mattress.
Lying flat on my back, I stare at the ceiling, at the uneven stone, trying to imagine something—anything—else.
A sky.
Not this dead, suffocating gray, but a proper night sky. Endless, vast, dotted with stars.
I trace them in my mind, one by one, calling forth the constellations the way my mother taught me when I was young.
Orion. His belt of three bright stars, his raised club frozen in eternal battle.
Canis Major. The great hunting dog, home to Sirius, the brightest star in the sky.
Lyra. The harp of Orpheus, its stars delicate and distant.
And finally—
Draco.
The great dragon.
My namesake.
My favorite constellation.
I imagine it's twisting form, coiled around the northern sky, unyielding, ever-watchful. A protector. A survivor.
A breath shudders from my lips. My limbs feel impossibly heavy, exhaustion pulling at the edges of my mind.
I hold onto the constellation as sleep drags me under, gripping it like a lifeline.
Even here, in this cold, dark cell—
The stars are still there.
Waiting.