To sit in solemn silence
Draco stared into the dark distance, solely soundless. The cell was cold, and every mere whisper of wind echoed endlessly. Little more than bated breath fell from his lips as he waited. That was all he could do. Wait
In a dull, dark dock
Everything was thoroughly tiresome. Grey granite walls envelope and enclose the husk of a human inside. No period had ever been as particularly pedestrian as the present. Wave after wave toss themselves relentlessly, drenching the dank outside with salty water.
In a pestilential prison
At first, the awe-inspiring greatness of Azkaban astounded and alarmed him. The sizable, startling stone structure stood stark against the sombre sky, outlined ominously. Now the confines met him cruelly as he walked through cold, concrete corridors. An example that things can change. Though whether others would see is something else.
With a life-long lock
The trial had been tedious, and the upshot had been utterly unpleasant. Harry had either flouted or forgotten Draco’s own trial, but for his mother’s, the man had contested the magical court. She was unharmed, now unrestricted, and unbound. While the blond wiles away behind walls of minerals and magic. Draco and his father left to rot as they should. Yet there would be no such slow death for them.
Awaiting the sensation
Routinely, he reckoned with the ravaging feeling of expectancy. It would come for him. He knew it would. Draco dreamed of the day that everything would desist. The expectation would evaporate, and he would finally be free. They had told him three weeks before the date. He would not have to endure slowly fading away
Of a short, sharp shock
The feeling was inexplicably infamous. Some would say it stings, slightly singeing skin even though the steel is stone-cold. Others would say it’s numbing, nothingness. They could not feel the metal. Though there have been worse feelings, neither of them were desirable. And they were both wrong anyway.
From a cheap and chippy chopper
The council had seen it fit for him and his father to face a fate they had once tried to force on another. Degrading and deplorable, they deserved it. Same axe, same executioner. Draco only begged it wasn’t blunt.
On a big black block
He had perceived where he would perish. And again, he perceives it. People look on loathingly, having already seen his father’s doom first-hand. Blotches of bloodstain the stone floor splattered everywhere. They don’t bother to clean it for him. The weapon and its wielder watch as the wizard is dragged out, being thrown before him. Pathetic, pitiful. His head is hurled to the hunk of wood, neck nestled rather neatly into a concavity. There was no speech, no sad silence nor screaming. Mere murmurs meandering throughout the mob. Gleefully, they wait for the final swing. And Draco does too. He thinks of things never told, and he wishes he could take them back. Or at least apologise. Tension falls from his shoulders like water. This is the finale, the last curtain, the last page of the epilogue.
The swing came. It seems Draco’s begs, and pleas fell on deaf ears.