It was quiet.
It always was.
Well, not really.
The steady drip drop dropof water had been going for weeks now. At least, he thinks it’s been weeks.
And like clockwork, everyday, without fail, click clack clackingshoes of their sadistic watchers would walk up and down the hall. The sound of metal being shoved along stone created a steady rhythm, right until the footsteps faded again, along with the slid slid sliding of the food trays.
Then, the clambering would begin. Men, women, humans, beings, creatures — all clambered for their merger amount of slimy, tasteless goo.
It was always the same.
The same food.
The same clambering.
The same miserable moaning.
The same disgusted, sneering Aurors.
The same dull sun.
The same cold wind.
The same grey days, bleeding into one another. Bleeding like his wrists. His wrists, which were shackled in sharp, hard metal cuffs, keeping him chained to the wall. Chained to the prison. Chained to keep a monster like him away from the outside world.
Because that’s what he was.
A monster.
A being so vile he shouldn’t be allowed to live. So vile this prison was not punishment enough.
At least, that’s what the guards told him.
Every day. Always the same.
Screams. Grunts. Drip drop drop. Click clack clack. Slid slid slid. Sneers. Hatred. Monster. Click clack clack. Slid slid slid. Click clack cla…
Silence.
Utterly deafening silence.
… Drip drop drop.
xXxXxXx
It was colder now. The days were just as grey, though.
It was also darker. But that could be because of the sun; getting duller and more lifeless as the weeks wore on.
Motionless, he stared at the lacklustre, bare walls of his residence. They were grey. And dull. And lifeless. Like… everything here. Just grey stone sat upon another, grey stone. Again and again and again. Eventually, they created his little world.
Not a nice world. Everything was just too grey. And cold. And silent. And moist.
He strained his ears.
…
The dripping had stopped.
…
The moans and grunts of the others also.
It all had faded into silence. Into this grey, lifeless nothingness everything here seemed to be.
Sometimes he wondered. Was he nothing too? Were his deeds not heroic enough?
Is that why they threw him away?
Is that why they never visited? Not even once?
They were his friends, he’d believed. His very best friends, they’d said.
But now they weren’t there. Like so often, now that he thought about it. They hadn’t been there for a lot of things.
His heart must still be bleeding, he thought when a familiar pain surged through his body. Originating in his heart, and spreading out through every vein and with every beat his heart gave.
It… hurt. But it was okay, it was duller now. Like everything else.
Well… that’s not true. Not everything.
One bony, pale hand traced lines and curves, ridges and hollows. The shackles bound to his fragile wrists were heavy and his fingers shaky, but he still had strength enough to feel and read the clear ‘I must not tell lies’.
It had not faded. Nor had any other of his scars.
The passing months were healing his bleeding heart, yes, but his scars would stay forever.
Always a reminder. Always a warning. Always an advise. Always a story.
Always there.
Click clack clack — Oh. He looked up, his vivid green eyes meeting familiar black boots, dark trousers, maroon uniform, unfamiliar face, familiar, faint sneer.
Slid slid slid — Another day. Another human. Another one the years have not been kind to.
Click clack clack — he was alone again.
xXxXxXx
Now it was quiet.
Really, really quiet.
His heartbeat seemed to echo through these empty halls, his soft breathing filling his small space with noise.
His eyelids were heavy, yet his eyes flitted all around the room, memorising all the things that he’d already memorised all those decades ago.
The hard stone floor was still dirty, the walls wittered with age and tiny, weeny flowers that had managed to live in such a dreary place.
Above him, the ceiling was still just as dank as he remembered. Though, it didn’t leak anymore. Sadly, the steady, loyal drip, drip, drip had long ago faded into nothingness. Only leaving behind the hollow silence that had reigned here ever since the others had gone.
Sometimes he wondered, just to humour himself, if setting up a trial always took this long.
After all, all his neighbours were long since gone.
(Not for a trial or freed, no. They were dead, he knew it, had know it the moment their tortured moans of agony had stopped, but… let him humour himself. What else was he to do?)
Even the clock-working, never failing click clack clacks of the guards had tampered off. As had the meals they’d always slid slid slidthe prisoners.
It used to be every day.
Not anymore.
After all, why should they? He was the only one left. They needn’t remember him.
And… they didn’t.
The sneering faces, burning with hatred and disgust, spewing insults and thinly veiled threats had long since turned into faint sneers, then fading disgust and hate. Finally, only blank, bored faces had looked at him through the bars, never deigning him with more than maybe a little interest as to why he was here or who he even was.
In the end though, even the blank faces had vanished, and along with them the persons they belonged to.
And now all that was left was silence.
And loneliness.
And emptiness.
And boredom.
But still, utter, deafening silence. Until, one day, his sharp ears pricked up on something faint. Something new. Something that didn’t belong here.
Patch, patch, patch.
xXxXxXx
“H-hello?” The young timid voice seemed to echo endlessly through the hollow halls. “Please, is someone there? I-I got lost.”
Soft footsteps followed, hesitatingly, slowly.
The person who heard this cry for help lifted his gaunt face, greasy locks of tangled hair falling into his eyes.
He opened his mouth.
“Here, little one.” He rasped out. His throat was raw like sandpaper and it hurt to talk but…
… Patch… patch, patch.
“Hello?” The voice asked again, closer, not as hesitant and with a spark of something the person had not heard in centuries: hope. “Were are you, sir?”
“Right here.”
The footsteps grew quicker and louder and bolder and —
A small delicate hand took hold of the bars of the person’s home, another followed. Then there appeared a pale face with wide, frightened eyes.
“Are you— are you a prisoner?”
The person inside the cell smiled humourlessly. “Kind of, but not really, no.”
But the little boy’s eyes showed his doubt better than his words could have.
They called him out on his words — challenging their truth.
“You’re chained to a wall and sit in a prison cell of Azkaban. How can you not be a prisoner?” He asked confused. Cute. “And where are the others? Are you the only one?”
“All the others are gone, I guess. Dead. As for me, well, I just woke up here one day.” He shrugged, “I’m not even really sure why I’m here.”
The kid furrowed his brows. “But — why would they just throw you in here if you haven’t done anything?”
“Because they could.”
The person grinned brightly at the child’s horrified gaze.
“What’s your name, little one?”
“My name’s Malfoy,” he said, cocking his head to the side so a strand of his platinum hair fell onto his forehead, “Cepheus Malfoy. And yours?”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Cepheus Malfoy.” The person greeted the child regally, smiling slightly before it widened to a frightening grin, “I’m Harry. Just Harry. You—“
Click clack clack. The person — Harry — turned his head to where the footsteps came from. A few seconds later Cepheus also turned around.
“Cepheus — oh thank Merlin!” The tall man exclaimed relieved. He was as pale as the boy and the same, platinum coloured hair fell on his shoulders, but it where the eyes of the man that really drew Harry in. Because his eyes were the same color another Malfoy’s eyes had been.
Harry looked away and to the guard who’s accompanied to man, who was looking at him confused — no recognition bloomed on his face.
“I told you to be careful and stay with me at all times. Something could have happened to you and I wouldn’t have known.”
“I’m sorry, father, I didn’t watch where I was going.” Cepheus said to his fuzzing, clearly concerned, father, “But I found Mr Harry.”
‘Mr Harry?’ The older Malfoy echoed and looked into Harry’s cell. The moment he laid his eyes upon his form, they widened comically and he tucked his son closer — away from Harry.
”Mhhm, he says he is not a prisoner. That they just threw him in here.”
Now, the guard also pecked up. He stepped forwards. “What’s your name and number?”
Harry blinked up at him lazily, his head lolling to the side with a vaguely interested look in his poisonous gleaming eyes.
The guard swallowed. The older Malfoy took a step back, his — not at all scared looking child — safely enclosed in his arms.
“Harry.” The two men blinked, thrown off by the sudden, (almost) unexpected word of the man. He just continued talking. “XY3427.”
The guard continued to stare at Harry at bit longer before finally, doubtfully, taking out a scroll and reading through it.
“You are not on the list.” He said after a while, his face showing his confusion. “Why were you brought here?”
“Dunno,” he shrugged lightly, “I just woke up one day and was here.” And as if to highlight where exactly he meant, he waved slightly, making the dull light catch on his old, old shackles.
“I must say, this is preposterous.” Malfoy senior exclaimed in that moment. He had straightened up again with his young son comfortably sitting on his hip, watching the proceedings with curiosity only a child could have.
“But,” the guard started, obviously shocked, “that would mean someone got through the wards. And without us noticing.”
Malfoy Sr sneered just like any other Malfoy could. “Really?” He drawled, “Are you certain, Auror Yaxley? To me it looks like the Ministry still has the habit to lock innocent people up unjustly. For that you wouldn’t have to creep through high-level wards that never failed before.”
The Auror — Yaxley — shook his head at once.
“Lord Malfoy, this—“ he swallowed heavily, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, “this wing had been shut down years ago. No-one comes here anymore. No prisoner, no Dementor and no guard. It should be empty.”
Harry’s face graced a humourless smile, far too sharp, with far too many teeth. “Well, as you can see, I’m still here.”
“How long have you been here? It must have been a few months at least, you’re nothing but skin and bones… I’ll alert the Healer. You’re coming with us sir.” With that, the Auror sent his hare Patronus off.
The next moment he muttered some latin words and, with a creak, the door slowly swung open. It was such an unexpected, unknown, development, Harry sat stunned for a moment. Then, he held out his scarred, bloodied wrists, where the heavy shackles glistened beautifully in the dim light.
Lord Malfoy looked murderous.
“Father, does that mean Mr Harry is free?” Cepheus asked, unbothered by the ramifications these revelations brought. “Can he come home with us? He’s nice.”
“I don’t know, son. He could be dangerous…” though, he trailed off. His face contorted to a small, barely-there pout; probably in the face of his son’s big puppet eyes. In the end, he sighed. “Alright. I guess Mr… Harry does need somewhere to stay, after all. I will, of course, make sure he receives the care he needs,” he assured Auror Yaxley, who himself still looked shocked and unsure about this whole thing.
“It is no problem for us, Auror Yaxley. Also, he might like a more comfortable place with secure outside surroundings. Malfoy Manor is much more suitable than anything the Ministry could procure.”
“I guess you are right, Lord Malfoy. But what happened to Mr Harry is still the Ministry’s responsibility. The paperwork is cut out for us, we wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“If I may,” Harry cut in, making both men turn to him surprised, as if they had forgotten all about him being there, even though this whole discussion was about him. “I do not care much for politics or getting revenge on the perpetrators. I have come to peace with it. But a change of scenery would be quite nice. This place has grown quite a bit dreary after all this time. There is no need for all this effort.”
Harry smiled serenely at their uncomprehending looks.
“It would be lovely to accompany you, little one.”
Cepheus cheered happily from his place in his father’s arms.
Sighing, Yaxley stepped forwards and released his still raised hands from the shackles, before holding his hand out to support Harry’s weak body.
How long had it been since he last walked? Weeks? Months? Years?
The days had beed into one another. Their grey monotony not distinguishable; all sense of time lost.
Time did not matter. Not anymore. Not to Harry.
He took a hold of the hand.
xXxXxXx
The healer pronounced him dead.
That was alright.
xXxXxXx
An endless expense of blue sky stretched over Harry’s head. Under his feet was a lush, green meadow, as wide as the eyes could see and covered in dots of brightly coloured flowers.
The clothes he wore were soft and smooth on his clean skin. No speck of dirt or grey anywhere.
There was no steady drip drop drop. No clack clack clack. No monster.
There was only blue, and green, and red, and yellow, and pink, and purple.
A fresh breeze ruffled his hair.
Sweet, earthly air filled his lungs.
Here stood Harry. And he was free.
Cepheus grabbed his hand, babbling excitedly, and Harry let himself be pulled along. Unsteady, and stumbling, slowly but surely, closer and closer to the huge house in the middle of all of that.
Malfoy Manor.
It looked good; opulent, grande, wealthy.
It looked weird; no destruction, no blood, no atmosphere of death and misery.
The manor was different. So where the people. So was the time.
xXxXxXx
“And this is the family room —“ Cepheus was still talking animatedly. Harry heard him. He did not listen.
Frames of all forms and sizes were around him, covering the walls and leaving no space for anything else.
There were people in there, in these frames. Painted with fine strokes and expensive paint, in perfect detail. Their attire ranged, as did their age, and gender, and form, and species.
There was a Veela. And that’s a fey.
Portraits of the Malfoy family covering hundreds of years of generations.
Family room, indeed.
“My, my,” a male voice drawled in an awfully familiar tone.
Harry turned.
There was an awfully familiar face — familiar hair, familiar features, familiar eyes.
“Now, that’s someone I never expected to see again.”
Harry grinned, bright and youngish.
“That’s my great-great-great-grandfather,” the little boy said proudly, reading the name-tag under the portrait, “Draco Lucius Malfoy.”
“You’ve aged.” There were lines an his face that hadn’t been the last time he had seen the boy. He had a beard and long hair. He was a man now. Or, had been.
Draco Malfoy inclined his head, his silvery painted eyes racking over his form. His youthful form. “You haven’t.”
“Malfoy,” he greeted.
“Potter,” he returned.
Cepheus looked on with his huge, grey eyes. His head cocked to the side, confused. “Do you know my great-great-great-grandfather?”
“Yes,” Harry smiled. “We went to school together.”
Cepheus’ mouth dropped open.
“You know,” Harry continued, ignoring the burning of his unused throat, “I found out that some wizarding families are better than others. I made friends with the wrong sort.”
The portrait of Draco Malfoy smiled; fond and sad, smug and humble.
“You couldn’t tell the wrong sort for yourself, could you?”
He offered his hand.
“I can help you there.”
There was a stillness as every portrait in the room seemed to freeze.
Cepheus hands stifled his gasp.
Somewhere, far away and close by, a clock was tick tock ticking.
Gleaming death green eyes met painted silver.
Tick tock.
An outstretched hand in a portrait of a person that had been dead for close to a millennia.
Tick tock.
A soft wind picked up, caressing deathly pale skin and dark locks.
Tick tock.
The grande door slammed shut, its bang echoing around the room. Echoing and echoing. Always getting quieter, never quite dying away.
Tick… tock.
Harry lifted his hand; gaunt and bony, covered in wounds and scars.
Tick…
He had to hold his hand steady in the strong wind, had to make careful he wasn’t swept away. Delicate swirls and carefully lain preservation charms flitted over his fingertips. The frame was old, the portrait expensive. It vibrated with magic.
Harry grasped Draco’s hand.
… Tock.
There was a flash; bright and blinding.
There was a boom; loud and staggering.
There was magic; soft and powerful.
And there was Death.
Cepheus blinked around the empty room, wondering just what he’d been doing, standing in front of an empty portrait in the family room.
Skipping out of the room and down the corridor, the child never noticed the broken clock.
It was quiet.