And She Was Golden

and he's breathless (at the sight of her)

Draco used to believe in a very different future. He is a Malfoy, after all. It isn't something to question. The sky is blue while the grass is green, and his family is better than most. The blood running through his veins is pure. Generations of Malfoys have taken great pride in ensuring the line remained untainted.He would graduate top of the class at Hogwarts. Yes, Draco would be captain of the Quidditch team. He would be Head Boy, following in his father's footsteps. These are the elementary facts upon which he constructed his life. It is a framework of belief that held true...until it didn't.

Malfoy. Bad faith.

They doomed him right from the start.

The voice of the Head Warlock is unwavering, as it lists out Draco's crimes. His eyes gleam with vindication, eager to dish out presumed justice. There is no point to this trial in Draco's mind. He has that sinister mark on his skin, a symbol of unwavering faith and loyalty to a Lord who had promised glory. A man who Draco watched fall to his knees, dying the sorry death of a peasant, painfully mortal in his last moments. Nothing regal left.

He heard whispers in his sequestered cell, hushed exchange of information among the guards. Voices bringing news of the exoneration of questionable individuals. Murmured condolences mourning the death of innocents whose only crimes were unfortunate circumstances. The Ministry is conducting trials for all who were in His service, but Draco isn't naïve enough to believe their claims of fair judgement.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

"Marked Death Eater... Draco Lucius Malfoy, heir to the Family Malfoy... guilty... attempted assassination... use of the Imperius... victim Kathrine Anne Bell..."

The voice drones on, grating on his ears. He lists out Draco's misgivings, reading them in an unfeeling monotone, making a show of the matter. Draco doesn't pay attention, he didn't need an extensive reminder. His actions, or rather, inaction, haunt him. The days blend into one blur as the cold of Azkaban seeps into his skin. His memories stuck in a never-ending loop in his head as he waited for his turn on the Wizengamot Floor. It was a long year in the desolate cell, with nothing but the sound of crashing water to keep him company.

The removal of dementors after the war is a small mercy. Even without them, the prison makes his soul ache, every shadow a reflection of his own demons. The suffocating damp cell is revolting on a good day and unbearable on most. A horrid reality, where the grime coating his skin never went away and the screaming wind made it impossible to sleep. When the sun gave way to the moon, Draco wallowed in darkness, wishing to fall asleep and not deal with the consequences of waking up.

His crimes were sufficient to grant him at least ten more years in that place. It makes his skin crawl. Then again, perhaps years in Azkaban might be the lesser evil. If the gossip between the prison guards was to be believed, then his father had been stripped of his wand. Cursed to a life no better than a common muggle at his trial a few weeks ago and the thought of Lucius Malfoy without magic... It's so bizarre, it's nearly laughable. He wonders if his father might have preferred Azkaban to such a fate, though he can't fathom it. That island is blanketed in a haze of misery and pain. Besides, Draco doesn't think his father would ever do that to his mother.

His mother.

Her trial was a quiet affair, among the first. Draco is thankful for this. The thought of her inside a cell sets his teeth on edge. The whole affair was done and over with before the Aurors had dragged him off. It had been a quick decision with Potter on Mother's side and the absence of a Dark Mark staining her skin. Potter had claimed Narcissa Malfoy was the reason he was still alive-it was hard for anyone to argue after that. At least Draco can be assured that no matter what happens, his mother is safe with the testimony of the Golden Boy.