Save Me

DREAMS

Draco was running. No, not running, flying. Someone was screaming. He didn't know who. It started scared, but turned into an adrenaline filled, happy shrill that felt warm. It reminded Draco of crisp autumn air counteracted with stepping into a beam of sunshine. He loved it. He could fly forever.

Draco woke up sweating. He was, in fact, not flying and remained trapped in his cell. Hell can't be much worse than this, he thought. What I wouldn't give for a butterbeer. Malfoy decided to spend what little time he had left with dignity: he did push ups until he couldn't anymore, then sit ups, then paced back and forth in the small enclosure quietly rehearsing various spells. In school, he had always wanted to be an Auror after graduation and knew that he needed to be top of his class with outstanding O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. scores. Luckily, only one particular student seemed to best him, Hermoine Granger. Funny. Draco had spent his whole life with private tutors in every school subject imaginable: flying, quidditch, dancing, even gardening and herbology. (However, that was useful in Professor Sprout's year 2 lesson about Mandrakes.) Still, Hermione Granger, a brilliant witch from non-magical parents, still bested him in every skill except flying. Malfoy noted his poor use of the term "Mudblood" which he said straight to her face. He mentally added it to the list of things he had done to reflect his father's work and ideology. He reminded himself that if he ever made it out of his wretched cell, he would never use the term again. She remained a teacher's favorite, while his years of private tutoring were left in the dust. Nevertheless, second place and top scores had seemed promising, and he was even working for a summer internship in an Auror's office. Luckily Potter and Weasly were never the academic types. He really had a shot. But that was before. This was now.

He barred himself from reminiscing and daydreaming and rather set himself to making a plan. Why couldn't he remember what happened? Not just the final battle, but even before. How far back had he forgotten? A month? Multiple months? He wasn't sure. He was positive from the evidence on his face that he had probably suffered a concussion and had memory loss. If he could just remember something, anything, that would help him. Ugh. So much for being productive. The rest of the day was spent doing more pushups.

–

Draco had tracked the time by the small trays that arrived. Three times a day he received some variation of stale bread, overdried meat, or mashed potatoes that he refused to touch for fear of being prematurely poisoned. He got crackers if he was lucky. Clearly, Azkaban had gone all out on their budget. At least he always had fresh water.

Sometime around day 15 in prison, he started to wonder if it was a joke. Some mind games that Scrimgeour had played out of sheer amusement. He had no more visitors. He continued to have dreams coated with feelings of happiness that seemed just out of reach. Were they dreams or memories? He settled on dreams. If Malfoy had flown on a magic broomstick with a shrieking girl grabbing his waist, he surely would have remembered.

As another day ended and he went to retrieve his dinner platter, he noticed a small red envelope. A Howler? He eagerly picked it up and heard the voice of Scrimgeour: "Hello Mr. Malfoy. I would say I hope this howler finds you well, although I'm sure it won't. Right then, to the point. I am allowing you to receive one visitor out of sheer political pressure. Something about treating children like dehumanized animals I think. No matter, please respond with the materials provided as to who you wish to speak with. Choose carefully, this may very well be your last conversation of choice." The message ended and the Howler promptly tore itself to shreds leaving a quill and transformed parchment left in its place.

Draco immediately thought of his mother. No, she was dead. He hadn't had many friends at school, despite the illusion of being in control. Mainly people flocked to be around him because of his family's wealth. No one ever truly cared to ask what Malfoy was interested in. Books, he thought. He liked to read books. He decided to wait. It wasn't like Scrimgeour said he needed to answer immediately.