Draco leaned against the ship’s guardrail and stared out at the ocean thoughtfully. The breeze blew through his hair, whipping it about his face. The rubber band that was supposed to hold his shaggy hair together was useless.
The ocean seemed to go on for miles. There wasn’t a single speck of land in sight. The brilliant sun captured the various blue-green hues of the water, inviting an adventurous swimmer to immerse themselves in it.
He liked the openness of the ocean. It was a stark contrast to his days in Azkaban where he’d grown accustomed to sitting in a confined space for prolonged periods of time. Looking out at the ocean gave him the hope of endless opportunities.
He missed his mother. She would’ve loved to have been standing there with him, watching the sun as it prepared to set. Her golden hair would’ve been blowing about her face, just as his was. And she would’ve laughed, her eyes dancing. He could picture her white teeth as she did so; the music of her laughter comforting him. Her forehead would’ve reddened slightly from the heat of the sun, and her small chin would’ve been titled upward ever so slightly, as it always was, with pride.
Draco was having a good time. He couldn’t say that he was happy. Oh no, he didn’t think he could ever feel that again. In fact, he didn’t think could even remember what it felt like to be happy. It was an alien concept to him. But he was definitely satisfied. He’d bumped into several familiar faces, most of whom chose to ignore him, but some who were genuinely pleased to see that he was doing “well”.
He smiled as he thought back to his encounter with Pansy Parkinson earlier that day.
“Draco Malfoy!” his former housemate called out after him, dragging a pudgy boy with sand colored hair after her. He looked to be about four. “I never thought I’d see that face again.”
She extended her hand to shake his, but when he made contact, she pulled him into an awkward hug, still holding onto the boy.
“Pansy Parkinson,” he smiled genuinely when she released him.
She blushed slightly. “Actually, it’s Pansy Bletchley now.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, all the while still smiling. “Miles…really? Well, how about that.” He hadn’t seen Miles Bletchley in ages. They’d played Quidditch together in school.
The little boy made an incomprehensible whimpering sound that made the two of them look down at him suddenly, as if they just noticed he was there.
“Mummy! I need to…” he began, and turned a dark shade of crimson.
“What is it, sweetie? Mummy is talking to a friend.” Pansy rolled her eyes apologetically. “I don’t know where that worthless house elf is. She’s supposed to be looking after him.”
“I presume this is your child?” Draco asked. He’d never thought Pansy to be the mothering type.
She looked embarrassed for a moment. “Oh! I’m sorry. Draco, this is Malcolm. Malcolm, say hello to Draco. He’s an old school chum of Mummy and Daddy’s.”
The boy screwed up his face in defiance. It was remarkable how much he resembled his mother.
“Malcolm, you’re being very rude. Do you need a time out?”
Malcolm wailed in protest before scowling at Draco. “Hello,” he mumbled.
Pansy looked around her. “Where is Misty?” She looked flustered.
“Mummy,” Malcolm cried as he tugged on the sleeve of Pansy’s expensive robes. “I NEED TO GO POTTY NOW!”
Draco didn’t know if he should be disgusted or he if he could laugh. Pansy turned red.
“I must get going. Malcolm is out of control. It was really good seeing you,” she said. She leaned in to the plant two kisses into the air around his head before dragging her son along.
A twinge of sadness swept over him as he realized how many years of life he’d missed out on. His classmates had all moved on with their lives, having settled down comfortably with new families, and burying the past behind them. He, however, had to rebuild from scratch.
Draco rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The deck was too warm to be wearing Wizarding robes. Instead he wore a striped white polo on Muggle khaki trousers. He’d grown accustomed to wearing such clothing since he’d been released from Azkaban. Muggle clothing was cheaper and had become a fad among the lower classes. He shuddered involuntarily. It was still difficult to accept the fact that his position in society had plummeted in seven years. He was now one of them, a simple, plain commoner with only a prison record and an ugly tattoo on his left forearm to separate him from the masses.
The old friends he’d run into on the ship had been polite enough to refrain from commenting on his attire. But that didn’t stop them from gaping at his long hair, pointing out what he’d heard many times before – how much he resembled his father. He’d grown over the years, as had everyone else. He was tall, broad shouldered, and surprisingly tan. His skin had darkened after meeting with the sun for extended periods of time after his release from prison. Daphne Greengrass joked that he looked like he’d been vacationing on the beaches of Tuscany. He’d also finally grown into his features. The little shard of dignity he had left in him told him he was quite handsome. But the other thing people were too scared to point out in him was the haunted look in his eyes. He was told from day one in Azkaban that the look never really disappeared. Every time he looked in the mirror he saw a defeated, tired man.
Draco watched the golden sun increasingly begin to blur around the edges as it began its descent. He headed towards the lift that would take him below deck where he would meet Blaise in one of the dining halls.
He found his friend sitting at a small table while casually looking through a menu. He didn’t bother to look up when Draco took a seat across from him.
“I’m thinking roast beef. What do you say?”
“Sounds all right. I think I’m going try some curry.”
“Hmm, sexy,” Blaise said thoughtfully. “Where are you coming in from?”
“Above.”
Blaise raised an eyebrow at the brief response.
“I was taking in the view, nothing special.”
Blaise shrugged. “Whatever, mate. I went to the gym.”
Draco snorted. “When did we become queer?”
“I didn’t have the luxury of spending time in Azkaban until I had a body that witches fantasize over, okay? I have to compensate.”
Draco smirked. It was true. The reason he turned the heads of many women was because of the grueling work they’d made him and the other inmates do at Azkaban.
When they’d finished their meal, their waitress, a mousy witch with short, brown hair and beady eyes, approached them. She had a smile plastered on her face, quite similar to the one the guest services representative that had greeted them on their first day had had on her own face.
“Would you mind filling out a comment card, please? This will ensure that our services are-”
Blaise held up a hand to silence her. “No thanks.”
She looked crestfallen and looked to Draco hopefully.
He nodded absently.
The fake smile returned and she handed him a piece of parchment.
“Don’t I need a quill?”
The woman searched through the pockets of her uniform. “Er…I don’t seem to have one on me.” She didn’t look apologetic.
Draco rolled his eyes. “I think I may have one.”
He rifled through the pockets of his pants and found a Muggle-style fountain pen his grandfather had given him years ago. The gold lettering on the pen spelled out A. Malfoy. It twinkled as he wrote, which it did every time the pen was in use.
When he finished filling out the parchment, the woman took it from him and mumbled her gratitude as she took off.
“What a strange bint,” Blaise said, taking a swig from his glass of red wine.
Draco nodded in silent agreement.
“Want to go dancing?”
Draco smirked again. “I told you. We’ve become queer.”
“Piss off, you wanker.” Blaise scowled.
The two rose to their feet and left the dining hall.
“You sure you don’t want to join me?” Blaise asked him, eying a blonde witch as they headed towards the lobby.
Draco shook his head.
“Seriously, mate, you’ve looked a little out of sorts today. It may do you some good to come out tonight.” Blaise walked a few steps ahead of him, and Draco knew it was to avoid a serious conversation.
“What do you mean?” Draco asked slowly, trying to fall into step with his friend.
“I don’t know. Have you been sleeping well?”
“We’ve only been here one night,” Draco responded.
Blaise stopped and waited for Draco to catch up. He ran a hand through his dark curly hair and stared at the ground. “You were…saying…stuff in your sleep last night. I just…I’m worried, is all.”
Draco felt as though his insides had fallen through him. “I did what?”
“Sleep talking,” Blaise tried. “Or well…to be honest, it was more like…shouting.”
It was Draco’s turn to run a hand through his hair. They were standing in the crowded lobby. A few passersby stared at them. “N-no, I can’t have been doing that. You sure?”
“Positive.”
There was an awkward silence between the two of them before Blaise decided to fill it with a sigh. “I think you were dreaming about…” His voice caught in his throat momentarily. “Azkaban.” The word came out in a raspy whisper.
Draco swallowed. “Oh.” And he suddenly remembered his dream.
He crawled along the stone floor, feeling his knees scrape with every move he made. The thin fabric of his prison garb did little to soothe the pain. His fingers felt numb as his nails raked across the stone. His breathing was ragged and sounded like tearing parchment every time he exhaled.
A deep croaking sound echoed from behind him. An icy chill crept down his spine.
His eyes widened and he slowly dared himself to turn around. The prison was dark save the flitting light from the moon that escaped through the small windows. The bars from the empty prison cells cast eerie shadows about him.
“W-who’s there?”
When there was no immediate response, Draco continued to drag himself along the ground.
Where are all the other inmates? he thought, panic rising. Surely his father wouldn’t have left without him…right?
“Draco.”
The whisper was barely audible and sounded almost like a mouse scurrying in the darkness. But Draco heard it clearly.
He stopped moving, his heart thudding.
“But you’re dead,” Draco said, the fear evident in his voice. He quickly rose to his feet, almost tumbling over. He made a grab for the wall and limped forward, his shoulder dragging along the cool stone for support.
The croaking noise returned, this time from right behind Draco. He whipped around to face the source, sweat dripping from his forehead. “No!”
A white face stared at him, partly shielded by a curtain of dark hair that caught the moonlight around the crown, like an ominous halo. The face was set in a pained expression and black eyes stared at Draco.
“No!” he cried out again, backing away.
But the figure made a grab for him. An ice cold hand latched onto his wrist and pulled him closer. He smelled the stench of decaying flesh. It was then that he noticed the crimson blood pouring from his assailant’s white throat. So much blood…
Draco gasped and tried to shake himself free, but to no avail.
“But…w-why?”
“You killed me!”
“No!” Draco screamed as the corpse pulled him even closer, their faces inches apart. He continued to scream into the darkness, all the while unable to tear his gaze from the dead, black eyes that stared at him accusingly.
“You okay?” Blaise’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“Yeah,” Draco said, lips pursed. “I think I’m going to get some fresh air.”
Blaise looked concerned, but when Draco waved him off, the two parted away.
He needed to clear his head. The dream had plagued him for many years. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get over the death of Severus Snape.
The ocean seemed to go on for miles. There wasn’t a single speck of land in sight. The brilliant sun captured the various blue-green hues of the water, inviting an adventurous swimmer to immerse themselves in it.
He liked the openness of the ocean. It was a stark contrast to his days in Azkaban where he’d grown accustomed to sitting in a confined space for prolonged periods of time. Looking out at the ocean gave him the hope of endless opportunities.
He missed his mother. She would’ve loved to have been standing there with him, watching the sun as it prepared to set. Her golden hair would’ve been blowing about her face, just as his was. And she would’ve laughed, her eyes dancing. He could picture her white teeth as she did so; the music of her laughter comforting him. Her forehead would’ve reddened slightly from the heat of the sun, and her small chin would’ve been titled upward ever so slightly, as it always was, with pride.
Draco was having a good time. He couldn’t say that he was happy. Oh no, he didn’t think he could ever feel that again. In fact, he didn’t think could even remember what it felt like to be happy. It was an alien concept to him. But he was definitely satisfied. He’d bumped into several familiar faces, most of whom chose to ignore him, but some who were genuinely pleased to see that he was doing “well”.
He smiled as he thought back to his encounter with Pansy Parkinson earlier that day.
“Draco Malfoy!” his former housemate called out after him, dragging a pudgy boy with sand colored hair after her. He looked to be about four. “I never thought I’d see that face again.”
She extended her hand to shake his, but when he made contact, she pulled him into an awkward hug, still holding onto the boy.
“Pansy Parkinson,” he smiled genuinely when she released him.
She blushed slightly. “Actually, it’s Pansy Bletchley now.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, all the while still smiling. “Miles…really? Well, how about that.” He hadn’t seen Miles Bletchley in ages. They’d played Quidditch together in school.
The little boy made an incomprehensible whimpering sound that made the two of them look down at him suddenly, as if they just noticed he was there.
“Mummy! I need to…” he began, and turned a dark shade of crimson.
“What is it, sweetie? Mummy is talking to a friend.” Pansy rolled her eyes apologetically. “I don’t know where that worthless house elf is. She’s supposed to be looking after him.”
“I presume this is your child?” Draco asked. He’d never thought Pansy to be the mothering type.
She looked embarrassed for a moment. “Oh! I’m sorry. Draco, this is Malcolm. Malcolm, say hello to Draco. He’s an old school chum of Mummy and Daddy’s.”
The boy screwed up his face in defiance. It was remarkable how much he resembled his mother.
“Malcolm, you’re being very rude. Do you need a time out?”
Malcolm wailed in protest before scowling at Draco. “Hello,” he mumbled.
Pansy looked around her. “Where is Misty?” She looked flustered.
“Mummy,” Malcolm cried as he tugged on the sleeve of Pansy’s expensive robes. “I NEED TO GO POTTY NOW!”
Draco didn’t know if he should be disgusted or he if he could laugh. Pansy turned red.
“I must get going. Malcolm is out of control. It was really good seeing you,” she said. She leaned in to the plant two kisses into the air around his head before dragging her son along.
A twinge of sadness swept over him as he realized how many years of life he’d missed out on. His classmates had all moved on with their lives, having settled down comfortably with new families, and burying the past behind them. He, however, had to rebuild from scratch.
Draco rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The deck was too warm to be wearing Wizarding robes. Instead he wore a striped white polo on Muggle khaki trousers. He’d grown accustomed to wearing such clothing since he’d been released from Azkaban. Muggle clothing was cheaper and had become a fad among the lower classes. He shuddered involuntarily. It was still difficult to accept the fact that his position in society had plummeted in seven years. He was now one of them, a simple, plain commoner with only a prison record and an ugly tattoo on his left forearm to separate him from the masses.
The old friends he’d run into on the ship had been polite enough to refrain from commenting on his attire. But that didn’t stop them from gaping at his long hair, pointing out what he’d heard many times before – how much he resembled his father. He’d grown over the years, as had everyone else. He was tall, broad shouldered, and surprisingly tan. His skin had darkened after meeting with the sun for extended periods of time after his release from prison. Daphne Greengrass joked that he looked like he’d been vacationing on the beaches of Tuscany. He’d also finally grown into his features. The little shard of dignity he had left in him told him he was quite handsome. But the other thing people were too scared to point out in him was the haunted look in his eyes. He was told from day one in Azkaban that the look never really disappeared. Every time he looked in the mirror he saw a defeated, tired man.
Draco watched the golden sun increasingly begin to blur around the edges as it began its descent. He headed towards the lift that would take him below deck where he would meet Blaise in one of the dining halls.
He found his friend sitting at a small table while casually looking through a menu. He didn’t bother to look up when Draco took a seat across from him.
“I’m thinking roast beef. What do you say?”
“Sounds all right. I think I’m going try some curry.”
“Hmm, sexy,” Blaise said thoughtfully. “Where are you coming in from?”
“Above.”
Blaise raised an eyebrow at the brief response.
“I was taking in the view, nothing special.”
Blaise shrugged. “Whatever, mate. I went to the gym.”
Draco snorted. “When did we become queer?”
“I didn’t have the luxury of spending time in Azkaban until I had a body that witches fantasize over, okay? I have to compensate.”
Draco smirked. It was true. The reason he turned the heads of many women was because of the grueling work they’d made him and the other inmates do at Azkaban.
When they’d finished their meal, their waitress, a mousy witch with short, brown hair and beady eyes, approached them. She had a smile plastered on her face, quite similar to the one the guest services representative that had greeted them on their first day had had on her own face.
“Would you mind filling out a comment card, please? This will ensure that our services are-”
Blaise held up a hand to silence her. “No thanks.”
She looked crestfallen and looked to Draco hopefully.
He nodded absently.
The fake smile returned and she handed him a piece of parchment.
“Don’t I need a quill?”
The woman searched through the pockets of her uniform. “Er…I don’t seem to have one on me.” She didn’t look apologetic.
Draco rolled his eyes. “I think I may have one.”
He rifled through the pockets of his pants and found a Muggle-style fountain pen his grandfather had given him years ago. The gold lettering on the pen spelled out A. Malfoy. It twinkled as he wrote, which it did every time the pen was in use.
When he finished filling out the parchment, the woman took it from him and mumbled her gratitude as she took off.
“What a strange bint,” Blaise said, taking a swig from his glass of red wine.
Draco nodded in silent agreement.
“Want to go dancing?”
Draco smirked again. “I told you. We’ve become queer.”
“Piss off, you wanker.” Blaise scowled.
The two rose to their feet and left the dining hall.
“You sure you don’t want to join me?” Blaise asked him, eying a blonde witch as they headed towards the lobby.
Draco shook his head.
“Seriously, mate, you’ve looked a little out of sorts today. It may do you some good to come out tonight.” Blaise walked a few steps ahead of him, and Draco knew it was to avoid a serious conversation.
“What do you mean?” Draco asked slowly, trying to fall into step with his friend.
“I don’t know. Have you been sleeping well?”
“We’ve only been here one night,” Draco responded.
Blaise stopped and waited for Draco to catch up. He ran a hand through his dark curly hair and stared at the ground. “You were…saying…stuff in your sleep last night. I just…I’m worried, is all.”
Draco felt as though his insides had fallen through him. “I did what?”
“Sleep talking,” Blaise tried. “Or well…to be honest, it was more like…shouting.”
It was Draco’s turn to run a hand through his hair. They were standing in the crowded lobby. A few passersby stared at them. “N-no, I can’t have been doing that. You sure?”
“Positive.”
There was an awkward silence between the two of them before Blaise decided to fill it with a sigh. “I think you were dreaming about…” His voice caught in his throat momentarily. “Azkaban.” The word came out in a raspy whisper.
Draco swallowed. “Oh.” And he suddenly remembered his dream.
He crawled along the stone floor, feeling his knees scrape with every move he made. The thin fabric of his prison garb did little to soothe the pain. His fingers felt numb as his nails raked across the stone. His breathing was ragged and sounded like tearing parchment every time he exhaled.
A deep croaking sound echoed from behind him. An icy chill crept down his spine.
His eyes widened and he slowly dared himself to turn around. The prison was dark save the flitting light from the moon that escaped through the small windows. The bars from the empty prison cells cast eerie shadows about him.
“W-who’s there?”
When there was no immediate response, Draco continued to drag himself along the ground.
Where are all the other inmates? he thought, panic rising. Surely his father wouldn’t have left without him…right?
“Draco.”
The whisper was barely audible and sounded almost like a mouse scurrying in the darkness. But Draco heard it clearly.
He stopped moving, his heart thudding.
“But you’re dead,” Draco said, the fear evident in his voice. He quickly rose to his feet, almost tumbling over. He made a grab for the wall and limped forward, his shoulder dragging along the cool stone for support.
The croaking noise returned, this time from right behind Draco. He whipped around to face the source, sweat dripping from his forehead. “No!”
A white face stared at him, partly shielded by a curtain of dark hair that caught the moonlight around the crown, like an ominous halo. The face was set in a pained expression and black eyes stared at Draco.
“No!” he cried out again, backing away.
But the figure made a grab for him. An ice cold hand latched onto his wrist and pulled him closer. He smelled the stench of decaying flesh. It was then that he noticed the crimson blood pouring from his assailant’s white throat. So much blood…
Draco gasped and tried to shake himself free, but to no avail.
“But…w-why?”
“You killed me!”
“No!” Draco screamed as the corpse pulled him even closer, their faces inches apart. He continued to scream into the darkness, all the while unable to tear his gaze from the dead, black eyes that stared at him accusingly.
“You okay?” Blaise’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“Yeah,” Draco said, lips pursed. “I think I’m going to get some fresh air.”
Blaise looked concerned, but when Draco waved him off, the two parted away.
He needed to clear his head. The dream had plagued him for many years. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get over the death of Severus Snape.
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