Prisoner 63

Sweater Weather

The air was cold on that morning, freezing in fact. The gusts of icy wind laced with the chilling drops of water blew Draco's blond hair back from his face, forcing him to close his eyes and raise a hand to shield his face from the onslaught of weather. It was difficult to prevent the water from reaching his skin, as Azkaban was situated in the middle of a large, circular waterfall basin.

He could hardly tell it was even morning; the sky was storm grey with no sign of sun or light, the clouds darkened and swirling overhead ominously. Yet the pocket watch in his coat pocket told him it was only ten past nine, ticking away merrily without a care about the weather or the anxiety biting at its owner.

Azkaban prison was a place no one in their right minds wanted to be, and even those who were completely bonkers would cut off an arm to avoid the place as well. It was tall, the stone building crawling upwards towards the heavens, a dark and foreboding black against the greys of the sky. The building was triangular in shape; a design detail that often seemed peculiar to Draco, but he didn't dare question it. He didn't like talking, or even thinking about Azkaban. He could see dementors swirling, flying overhead when he looked up, inky black, their cloak torn as they blew in the wind. The place filled him with a sense of sickening dread, yet one look towards his confident father motivated him to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

The human guards that stood at the entrance looked more dead than alive. Their eyes were dull, glassy and lifeless, as if the dementors had gotten to them long ago. They were wearing clothes that were no doubt warm, but they both seemed to be shivering almost subconsciously. Both of the men regarded Lucius Malfoy and his son with an apprehensive air, seeming almost nervous as the pair drew near.

"Lucius Malfoy," the older man spoke, his deep voice echoing and fading into the air. "I trust you know why I am here."

The two men looked even more scared, both giving slightly numb nods as they stepped aside, the huge enchanted gates leading into the prison opening with a sickening creak that made Draco wince.

The interior of the prison on the first level was nicer than expected. The walls were a pasty light grey, stained in some areas with peculiar looking colours. The floor was tiled with old white tiles, some cracking in places. Despite the run down appearance of the room, Draco was glad for the warmth coming from the heater in the corner.

A man sat at what looked like a receptionists desk, which was cluttered with papers and messy beyond saving. Draco looked in distaste at the mess, before turning to the man that had undoubtedly caused it.

He looked like everyone else in Azkaban, rugged, anxious and slightly shell shocked. His eyes were so bloodshot Draco could make out the veins from a few feet away, the dark circles under his eyes nearly black in colour. He was clutching a glass in one hand, filled with a red liquid Draco assumed was a Pepper Up potion.

"Lucius Malfoy," Draco watched his father introduce himself yet again. "Here to see Mr Shelley."

The man nodded shakily, his left eye twitching irritably as he scuffled around with the papers on his desk. After a few moments he nodded again stiffly. "Down the hall, and to the left," he said in a squeaky voice.

Lucius didn't thank the man before turning on his heel and following the man's directions, striding down a hallway. Draco followed, having to jog in some places to keep up with his father's long and quick steps. Finally they reached an old, stained oak door, one with black letters printed on a blurred window. The letters were old and peeling, so whoever was here had worked here for awhile.

Victor Shelley. Draco read the name in his mind, knowing who the man on the other side of the door was, but never having met him.

Lucius knocked on the door once before opening it, simply having knocked to announce his presence.