The World and Her Stars: One Shots

Azkaban

(POST-WAR; Draco in Azkaban for the week after the war; I cried writing this)

DRACO POV

"The food isn't...that bad. If you just—chew and swallow before your taste buds can process it." Blaise rambled on through the cracks in the mildew ridden walls.

I sat on the floor of my cell with my back leaning up against said mildew-ridden walls, listening to the constant drip of water that I couldn't determine the location of, the sounds of the angry and deranged that filled these cells, and Blaise's voice as he continued to try and get me to eat that poor excuse for a "meal" they served us.

That wasn't a meal. I had seen the cruelest of wizards feed their house elves better than this. It was moldy bread, a rotten banana, and unidentifiable mush. No amount of hunger would make me want to eat that. Even if this shit hole in the middle of the ocean served five-star worthy dishes, I still wouldn't be eating.

When the guards passed by and see that I hadn't eaten, they would send for a sustenance potion, so they wouldn't have to deal with a dead death eater, I'm sure. And I took it, because I would rather take a potion that barely gave me the vitamins to keep me alive, than to eat a piece of bread that looked like it would kill me within the hour.

Worry ate me alive while I ate nothing, because my thoughts alone were making me feel nauseated. Add sea sickness because of the slight tilting and swaying of the building, the smell of mildew, mold, and Merlin-only-knows, and the mush on a tray in the corner of my cell to the list of things making me feel absolutely sick.

No wonder Bellatrix went fucking insane in here.

The worst of it thought was the fact that I had no fucking idea what was going on outside of here. Here I saw in Azkaban, in the middle of the fucking ocean, miles and miles away from her.

She needed me and they took her away from me. She needs me and I'm here.

And no one will tell me anything.

The guards won't speak, the Aurors only walk away when they see me approach the bars, and those that deliver that vile shit they're calling food won't answer any of my questions either. Nothing. Not a word.

What if she's dead? What if she died, and that's why they aren't speaking to me?

And not only her, but the baby too. Our baby.

What if I had lost them both? My wife and my child. Taken away from me.

A new wave of nausea hit me. I squeezed my eyes shut, tightened my fists, clenched my jaw, and tilted my head back; fighting the bile that I could feel rising up my throat.

We had been here a week. A fucking week.

And all I've been able to think about is Rose, and how she looked before they took me away. After they all but ripped her away from me. My wife—my pregnant wife—that I vowed to love and cherish and protect for the rest of my life—was alone.

She could be dead.

And there's nothing I could have done, or can do. I was supposed to protect her. I was supposed to be there with her. It was supposed to be me and her and our child. We had fought in this fucking war, and we won, and in return, I lose everything I ever fucking cared about. Everything I fought for was ripped out of my hands.