Prisoner 63

Anarchist

It was with great apprehension and regret that Draco pulled on his coat on that Saturday morning, wanting nothing more than to roll right back into his bed and to stay there. Sadly, no, that wasn't the wonderful reality he was presented with, and instead he was tasked with going to visit a prison.

His bag contained a few sandwiches and a flask of water, as no doubt the boy would be starved, and perhaps Draco could use food to get on his good side. That thought made him feel slightly uncomfortable though, because he knew that the boy wasn't some common animal who could be tempted into trust through food. He was intelligent, incredibly so.

With his bag over his shoulder and his coat sweeping around his ankles, he left his room and made his way along the winding, ornate corridors that were his home. Anxiety gripped him as he walked, growing closer and closer to the main living room where the portkey lay, the one he'd be using to get to the prison.

The portkey was a hairbrush; his mother's favourite hairbrush. It was a pearly, opal sort of colour, the bristles still carrying some of her lingering bright blond hair. Small jewels of different colours were encrusted along the handle and back of the brush, shimmering gently in the morning light.

Draco knew his mother would be furious if she found out that her husband, Draco's father, had enchanted to object to be a portkey, and that his father had probably done it just to spite or annoy her. He sighed, never having enjoyed his parents seemingly permanent mini feud that they entertained, and made a promise to himself to bring the brush back and give it to his mother.

His stormy grey eyes found the enchanted grandfather clock standing in one of the corners, the hands ticking onwards as the pendulum swung back and forth in a constant rhythm. He counted down in his mind with the ticking of the second hand. Three, two, one...

He lay a finger on the handle of the hairbrush.

******

Draco passed the guards outside of Azkaban quickly, thankful to be inside where there was warmth and not outside, where a seemingly permanent storm raged overhead. The building looked exactly as decrepit as before, Draco unable to help wrinkling his nose. He hated this place with a fiery passion, and also a burning terror.

After giving his name to the same sleep deprived man at the desk, Victor emerged from his office. He looked exhausted as well, and regarded the younger Malfoy with nervousness, as if he didn't know what to expect from him. Draco just gave him an indifferent look, fairly unimpressed. He wasn't exactly like his father, but at the same time, wasn't taught to be pleasant.

He followed the man through the maze like hallways, silently thanking the heavens that he was there, otherwise Draco would have ended up horridly lost. Although, that was probably the intention of this place, just in case any of the prisoners escaped, they wouldn't get farm without getting lost in the hallways. Victor seemed to know exactly where he was going though, and they reached the cells even though the man looked as if he was half asleep.

Without his father here he felt even more frightened by the prisoners in the cells, some of them staring at him with dark grins on their faces, and he even heard one of them catcall as they left the cells. They were depraved, perverted, disgusting people.

The corridor they were walking down now seemed a lot more familiar, mostly because it had haunted him ever since he'd been in it last. Two dementors emerged, and thankfully, they went away quickly.

"Right," Victor murmured. "This is where I'll leave you. You have your wand, and if you need to use it, do."

Draco gulped nervously, but nodded. "Alright."

He stepped forward into the room, which was illuminated dimly by flickering lights. The panel of glass that had separated the two sides of the room last time had disappeared, no barrier standing between him and the figure who was sitting motionless in the exact same spot as last time.