Prisoner 63

Anarchist: II

For the first time since its reconstruction in the early 1920's, Malfoy Manor was abuzz with life and activity.

The mansion, from a muggle perspective, would appear only as a broken down, old, haunted mansion, which sufficiently scared off any of them who were daring enough to get close - however, to a trained magical eye, the reality of the place was there for all to see.

It had taken months to comb through the manor, removing every dark artefact, every cursed object and removing all traces of dark magic from the house. The decor had been expunged, the old dark colours replaced with light ones, the windows open allowing sunlight to filter in.

House elves moved freely about the halls, speaking amongst each other, all dressed in proper attire. After the option to walk free, many had opted to stay, and be paid a full salary with days off.

Yet still a sense of gloom hung over the house, particularly in the master bedroom in the east wing, on the upmost floor of the house. The room that overlooked the manor gardens was almost silent, the crackling of the fire in the hearth filling the air.

Draco sat on the windowsill, looking out at the garden and watching the house elves as they continued the slow removal and destruction of the dangerous plants in the greenhouse, a few trimming the rose bushes and watering the plants. All of them were wearing their warm coats - winter would be cold this year.

It was cold. It was so cold, walking through this dark wasteland, the clouds covering the sky and trapping him with the cold. It was worse than anything the brutal winter could ever have to offer - it was a bone shaking cold, one that made you ache.

It had been a long twelve months, spent in this house with no one but the house elves to talk to, and even then the conversations were meagre and sparingly occurred. He'd picked up many pastimes, drawing, painting, reading, anything he could do to keep his mind and hands busy. The time spent indoors had reduced him into a gaunt young man, with white blond hair that now fell past his shoulders, and clothes that hung off him from his reluctance to eat and low appetite.

How long had it been since water had graced his lips, since he'd tasted anything? Time was simply immeasurable in this place, there was no day, no night... nothing.

Draco turned towards the fire, watching as the flames leapt and soared, and using a simple colour changing spell he'd learnt in second year, turned the fire green. His favourite colour.

Going back to Hogwarts wasn't an option anymore. He'd have to just finish his career with the school where it was now - he was comfortable with being in hiding for the time being. He'd missed far too much in the past school year to attend the one coming up in a week.

A tapping on the window made him look out, to see a working owl tapping its beak on the glass. He lifted the bottom off the window, gently untying the copy of the Daily Prophet from the creature's leg, and dropping a few coins in the pouch hooked to its talons. The tawny owl wasted no time, and took off out the window, beating its wings and gliding towards the horizon.

Draco unfolded the paper in his hands, and scanned across the front page.

Parkinson Trial Continues

The headline glared at him, and he scanned his eyes across the page. Pansy's family had to be one of the last to be tried for their crimes relating to Voldemort, as most of the others had already been given sentences. Draco was glad that it was all calming down now - he used to just refuse the Prophet from the owl, already knowing the headlines that would be on it.

Mystery boy kills the Dark Lord!

Malfoy family in disgrace: lone survivor gone into hiding.

Disbandment of Death Eater's following the Dark Lord's death

They were always terrible articles anyways - awfully insensitive and often misinformed. Full of gossip and half truths, yet the public would lap anything up so long as it entertained them.

His eyes flickered to the bed against the wall, where a small figure was bundled up beneath the blankets. How long had he been asleep now? Draco had stopped counting the seconds, hours, days, weeks, months... Too many sleepless nights,

Too many tears shed.

The nurses at St Mungo's words' still rung in his head. "It's unlikely he'll ever wake up, magically induced comas are nearly always fatal."

He'd ignored them, and ever since had kept Harry on his own magical form of life support, charms that kept him fed, dehydrated, clean, stable. The magical energy it took was exhausting, and had rendered Draco lethargic, often sleeping most of the time.

He wasn't sure where his life was supposed to go from this. He couldn't get a job, not with everyone knowing who he was and how he was tied to the most infamous mass murderer in a century, and despite being fully able to live comfortably off the money left the family Gringotts vault for the rest of his life, he almost didn't want to. That was his late mother and father's money, he almost didn't want to touch it. He wanted to make something of himself, to be his own person, not just a tabloid figure.

He closed his eyes and leaned back, letting his head rest on the wall and the glass, dropping the paper on the ground. He didn't bother to pick it up, and just left it on the floor, dozing quietly.

A sound. Where had that come from? He looked around, searching for it.

He was jolted awake when he felt the paper land back in his lap, and his eyes flew wide, looking around the room, to find himself completely alone apart from Harry, who was still unresponsive. Curious, he knocked the paper off his knee again, and watched, awed, as it levitated back again.

He looked towards Harry and gave a soft smile. That was a good sign, his magic was getting stronger. It had started as flashing lights, sometimes relighting a burnt out candle, and had progressed to the occasional levitation of objects. They were both healing it seemed, slowly, but healing.

The scars left on Draco from the binding spell were fading as time passed, now only a few thin white lines visible across his face, the others hidden by clothes.

Draco curled his legs underneath him, this time keeping a tight hold on the newspaper as he shut his eyes, letting himself drift off to sleep.

The room grew dark as time passed, yet a faint glow surrounded the boy in the bed, his pale skin glowing with a bright, white light.

He was running, running through the dark. Desperate to find the sound, to find a way out, and then he saw it. A bright light, shining in the distance. He was sprinting, hair blown back, tears falling from his eyes as the wind chilled him. He had to reach it, he had to, he had to!

His mouth twitched, then his brow furrowed. And slowly, his eyelashes fluttered, and his bright green eyes opened.