Chapter Text
August 1998
Freedom was something Draco Malfoy never had to wonder about, question, or even think of while growing up. The topic never roamed his mind, and if he were to look back, it was not something he would have ever lost sleep over before the war.
The name he bore, his position in the magical world, his birthright, and his lineage all guaranteed him privileges that were inherently his. Being free to do as he pleased was not only expected, but encouraged–always within reason and always observing the boundaries of propriety.
But, in time, he would learn that the freedom afforded by his childhood didn’t extend beyond the formative years—not when one was shackled to a name and weighed down by it.
The life of a Malfoy heir was planned even before conception, and Draco’s was not the exception to that rule. The mould had been cast centuries ago, and there was little room for the one inside it to move around or expand beyond its confines. He would live the same existence every Malfoy male had lived for generations, and Draco was aware he’d been bred to follow tradition.
To question this was to doubt the judgment of those who came before him—the ones who had turned the Malfoy name into what it was today, a symbol of power and purity. Magic in its most distilled form ran through his veins, and it was his duty to strengthen it, to improve it, to keep it pure.
This was all Draco Malfoy knew, all he had been taught, all he had believed. It never occurred to him to ask why; it simply was. To challenge his creed was unimaginable when he only believed in absolutes, and Draco was content, eager to comply and prove himself worthy,
Unfortunately, life had other plans, as it often did.
From the moment the Dark Lord set foot in Malfoy Manor (and maybe even before that), the course of his predestined life had been altered. Now, his future was uncertain. Everything he ever believed in, everything he thought he was and deserved, had been rocked at its foundations. What was once his armour had unravelled at the seams, and Draco was left raw and exposed, questioning every belief he ever held.
The memories of his past were tainted, distorted, wrong. In his despair, he had no other option than to accept the ugly truth that his father–as doting and loving as he had been–was not the man Draco believed him to be.
The consequences of the war were not unexpected, but their predictability didn’t make them any easier to swallow. Draco had lost his sense of self, his place in the world, and now there was a possibility he would lose his freedom–however feeble and fabricated it had been.
Suddenly, what had always been taken for granted was a precious gift that could easily be taken away, perhaps forever.
Like most people in wizarding society, Draco had never set foot in Azkaban, but they all knew about it. Hell was not a place magical beings believed in, but if they did, Azkaban would be the closest thing to it—somewhere where eternal torment ruled through constant fear and anguish. Instead of the flames of damnation, a bitter cold seeped into the bones, making the mind insane while the body wasted away—a place where death seemed like mercy.
It was thoughts like these–of constant gloom and darkness–that kept him awake at night.
What if the hours melted into time that never came to pass?
What if the grimness drove him mad?
In the past, before the stronghold of his beliefs had crumbled, Draco had thought himself stronger. Evidently, he wasn’t, and he tried to lean into the love his parents had bestowed on him to find a sliver of optimism. He tried to cling to the happy memories of better times and a near-perfect childhood, except it all had been touched by the dark, too, and he felt empty.
Now, he found himself at a crossroads where he had no say in which path his future would follow. Tomorrow, he could be free, or he could be at the mercy of darkness and sent to Azkaban to pay for all the harm he had caused.
Fear, the sound of chattering teeth and the feel of aching bones consumed him as he lay in bed, unable to fall asleep. The hope of clemency was a distant dream; he was aware of his wrongdoings and the part he played.
Still, he’d like to at least keep his wits about him, to hold on to his sanity even if it was his fate to be sent… there.
“You must not lose hope, my love. Neither of us can afford to,” his mother had said, the words playing over and over in his head like an incantation.
The cool breeze of the late summer night cut through the warming charm in his bedroom and made him shiver. There, surrounded by darkness and silence, Draco wondered how, in the absence of sunlight, he would be able to see light shine again.