Expectations

It was entirely too warm a day to be wearing black robes. Draco Malfoy stared at the building ahead of him, and focused on looking like he didn't care. Malfoys never sweat, even in the middle of July. To sweat was a sign of vulnerability, a sign of being human. A Malfoy was trained from birth not to be human, but to be royalty.

Yet the past few weeks had been a stunning blur at the Malfoy estate. Just as Draco's fifth year at Hogwarts was drawing to a close, his father had been arrested at the Department of Mysteries and publicly exposed as a Death Eater. Lucius had, of course, known all of the risks involved. Still, the arrest had been a tremendous strain on the rest of the family. Lucius had been tried in wizarding court almost immediately and found guilty of being in alliance with the Dark Lord. His political connections had been of little use with the rest of the wizarding world, now that his loyalties were known. And now...

Draco studied the elaborate front doors of Azkaban before him, black and foreboding, now he's here. A trickle of sweat ran down Draco's neck, just below the line of perfectly combed hair. He studied Narcissa as she spoke with the guard. If she was stressed, she didn't show it. In fact, it appeared that more energy had gone into her naturally beautiful appearance than usual, as if she had needed something else to focus on.

The two of them submitted their wands to the chief door guard, a bulky wizard with a patchy beard. Voldemort was officially back from hiding; the Dementors had abandoned their posts. Ordinary wizards and witches were now left to guard Azkaban, until better overseers could be located. This improved the conditions his father was forced to endure, but the air of Dementors still seemed to hover over the place. The massive front doors swung open, and the Malfoys were instantly joined by two guard escorts. Draco subconsciously drew his robes around himself.

"Deplorable conditions, really," Narcissa sniffed. She held a cloth near her nose, as if such a small thing could shield her. The plain stone walkways were decorated by puddles and collections of mold. Draco watched a large, yellowish rat scuttle off at the sound of their footsteps.

Voices echoed from down the rock corridors. The Dementors were gone, but spells had been placed on the inmates to help produce a similar effect. The thought was that if the prisoners were forced to focus on the misery brewing in their own minds, they would be too distraught to plan an escape. That technique had always been quite successful in the past, after all, with the exception of Sirius Black. Draco passed cell after cell, each looking very much the same. A witch lying in the corner here, a wizard talking aloud there. One had managed to write on the walls of his chamber, but with what implement Draco had no idea. He peered closer and recognized it as dried blood. His stomach gave a lurch before he forced himself to look away.

The strange caravan of Malfoys and prison guards turned right, and began to descend into the bowels of the prison. They passed another group of cells, these even more dismal then the last. Draco brushed his way past the prisoners aristocratically, willing himself not to stare. Something gripped the edge of his robes. He whipped around to face a filthy old witch, gazing up at him from behind her bars.

"Young Master Malfoy! What might you be doin' 'ere? 'ope your father's been keepin' out of trouble?" She smiled emptily, revealing a mouth full of brown gums.

Draco struggled against her wildly, but she held him like death itself, "Let-- go-- of-- me!"

One of the guards appeared beside them, wielding his wand. A bolt of red light flashed, before the witch shrieked and fell backward into her chamber. Draco, suddenly released, skittered back onto the filthy stone floor. He frantically up righted himself, dusting off his hand-tailored robes. For a moment the party watched him, if not concerned then at least curious. He set his expression stonily, "You're right, mother. These conditions are simply deplorable."

They walked onward, until the screams and images had blurred into one long nightmare. It took Draco a few minutes to place where he'd known the old witch from; her face had looked impossibly familiar. If only he could place her name... Angela, Angora, Andora? That had been it, Andora. He paused to consider this while the guards opened a locked corridor. Her name was Andora Dellome; she had served as his nanny for about seven years until she'd just vanished one day. His parents had mentioned that she had an 'accident' involving some muggles, and had ended the conversation there.

"Lumos." The two guards lit their wands simultaneously as they passed into this new corridor. There were no screams here, no incessant babble. The door closed behind them, and everything grew horribly silent. In the feeble, flickering light of the guards' wands, Draco could see the outline of a single cell ahead of him. On the floor lay the body of a full-grown man, for whom no one had provided a bed. His robes had been expensive and stately at one point, but their elegance had faded quickly within a few weeks' abuse. Draco observed the scene with a detached curiosity, noting the shock of long, white-blonde hair the man possessed. It lay in filthy clumps, matted from too many nights of tossing about.

Narcissa's voice sounded pinched and too loud, "Lucius." The form murmured something incomprehensible, but seemed incapable of moving. She spoke again, sounding remarkably business-like, "Lucius, Draco and I are here to see you."

Painfully, the man lifted himself upward. In the yellowed light, Draco took in the perfect jaw-line, the cool green eyes he knew so well. The man's gaze locked with his. And finally, the reality of the scene caught up with him. Draco traced his fingers along the cold, magically-enhanced bars, "Father?"

Lucius Malfoy struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on a nearby wall. For a moment one of his sleeves lifted, revealing the Dark Mark that would never leave his porcelain skin. Although Draco had been raised with the knowledge that his father worked for the Dark Lord, he had always disliked the physical Mark on his father's arm. It made his place in the world all too pronounced. Lucius Malfoy was a servant. He may have been a servant to the most powerful wizard in the world, but he was a servant nonetheless.

Yet Draco had respected his father greatly all his life, the closest emotion a Malfoy can have to love. He had strived to become more like the man everyone had always said he resembled. His father was ambitious, wealthy, powerful and utterly heartless. Draco could not have been prouder, could not have admired him more.

And here he was, trapped. Humiliated, powerless, being punished like a common criminal. Draco was horrorstruck was he observed the clean lines on his father's face that could only have been made by tears. Lucius visibly collected himself, fighting against the torture-spells, drawing himself up to his full height. He took a tentative step towards them, "Narcissa."

She stepped backward nervously, as if something vile had approached her. Both mother and son knew Lucius would not appear his old self, but neither had expected the shock of seeing him like this. Lucius stumbled slightly, turning towards his son instead, "Draco... I'm sure this situation will be amending itself shortly. The Dark Lord would surely not abandon his most loyal servants."

One of the guards seemed to snort under his breath. Draco released the bars he had been holding; suddenly afraid they would open and pull him inside. His father pressed on, staring at him meaningfully, "Everything will fall into place when the time is right, when the Dark Lord is ready."

Draco Malfoy took three steps backward from his father's cell. His boots echoed loudly and emptily. He desired influence, but not at the risk of his own freedom. He was terrified at the prospect of living here one day, of facing spells that left prisoners alone for days at a time with nothing but their own thoughts. The man he had strived all of his life to become was suddenly a foreboding image of the future to be avoided. He searched for something to say, but found nothing. Draco grew aware of the fact that his exterior calm was dangerously close to breaking away- and suddenly, he didn't care.

He turned on his heel and left that place. Walked away from his father's private hell, through the dismal corridors, up staircases that had no end. Nobody bothered to follow him. He took his wand back from the guard at the front gate and pocketed it. The sunny day yet again greeted him, a solitary figure in black who walked away from Azkaban and fought the urge to panic. After a minute, his brisk walk turned into a jog, and eventually into a frantic run.

The perfectly combed hair of Draco Malfoy began to fall out of place, his robes grew caked with dirt. He had passed the portkey and no idea where he was headed or how to get home again. And still Draco ran- from his name, his future, from other people's expectations. When his body ached and his lungs felt ready to break, he finally stumbled to a halt. He crouched down in the wilderness with his head between his knees, his body shaking from exertion.

Narcissa cared about Draco only when his own achievements reflected well onto her. If Lucius had ever cared, he had never ventured to show it. His classmates treated him well out of fear, Professor Snape respected him only as a member of his house. There was nothing here for him. For a daring moment Draco considered running off, traveling until he found a place where people didn't react upon hearing his last name. He sat for a time considering this, thinking about his options as best he could. Perhaps there was a place without this damnable power-war, without politics and facades that drained his being beyond recognition.

And in the unsympathetic heat of a summer's day, Draco Malfoy's laugh echoed emptily all around him. There was nowhere for him to go.