Beauty From Pain

Chapter Sixteen

The trek up to the front gate felt miles long. Draco pulled his cloak tighter around himself to try and fight off the icy wind, but it seemed to cut straight through to his bones. His nose burned from the salty sea air, and he told himself it was the chill and not fear that caused his body to tremble. Azkaban had always been a formidable sight, but knowing what lay in wait for him behind it's unforgiving stone walls made it even more sinister.

He inhaled a deep breath to try and clear his mind, his occlumency shields falling into place with an iron will and calming the whirlwind of panicked thoughts circling his mind. Give him twenty minutes, he thought, and you can be enjoying dinner with Hermione in a Merlin-blessed warm restaurant. Just twenty minutes.

As the auror at the front gate scanned his wand and verified his identity, Draco felt a twinge of sympathy. No one could pay him enough to stand in the cold for hours on end. He nodded his appreciation and entered the prison. Draco huffed in frustration and buried his hands deeper into his cloak pockets. He had forgotten that the inside of the fortress was just as cold and heartless as the island it was built on. Regretting his decision to forgo wearing a scarf and cursing the man who summoned him to such a Salazar-forsaken place, Draco walked the familiar path through the depths of the winding hallways. Although dementors were no longer used as prison guards, the prison itself was still functioning and used to house the prisoners that remained from the war with Voldemort.

Buried in the depths of the prison were the worst Death Eaters and prisoners of war, and his appointment brought him to the hall containing cells of Voldemort's most loyal followers. Draco stopped before the last door on the right and steeled himself for what lay beyond the sealed door.

There was a scuffle of movement in the darkness before him, and he caught a glimpse of tattered stripes moving through the singular stream of sunlight illuminating the cell. His face remained carefully impassive as he took in the withered appearance of the once great man held within.

"Hello, Father."

The once aristocratic face of Lucius Malfoy twisted into a cruel, hollow smile. "Draco, my son." His voice was hoarse from what Draco assumed was years of screaming his indignation at the Azkaban guards.

Disgust settled deep in Draco's stomach as he gazed at his father's haggard appearance. Thin and frail, Lucius was a far cry from the highborn pureblood he had once been.

Lucius leaned against the barred window of his cell and gave Draco a critical once over. "Don't you look... muggle," he rasped with a sneer.

Draco did in fact look quite muggle. He had worn blue jeans and a casual shirt from some random muggle shop beneath his robes specifically to anger his father, and he was satisfied to know it was working. "Yes, I've decided to try and repair our family name." He clenched his fists tightly in his pockets and forced himself to meet Lucius' gaze. "I have approached new forms of business in the muggle world," he said. His lips twisted into an irritated grimace and he added, "After all, no wizard will do business with Malfoy Co. anymore."

His father sneered, his prominent cheekbones and sunken face making the expression look ghastly. "How quaint," he said. "Doing business with muggles and saving the family name. You have grown into quite the philanthropist."

"Why did you call me here, Lucius?"

Lucius grinned at Draco's frustrated tone of voice and said, "I have called you here as my heir to ask a favor of my dearest son."

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "After everything you've done, what gives you the right to ask me for anything?"

Lucius's laugh was derisive and rasped painfully from his throat. "After everything you have been through," he murmured, "how dare I? After raising you in a life of luxury and giving you everything your silly little heart could desire, how dare I?"