Lost

Chapter Eight

Stained blueprint?

"I can too BAIL! Don't you treat me like the typical scum you pick up from the street, officer. My father will pay for my release; besides, I'm younger than eighteen. I'm innocent, damnit."

"They all say that. Sure, you're a minor, but guess what, kid...that makes it even worse."

Draco fumed, wanting to sock the man in the nose. Gaining his composure, he blew a strand of hair from his face with a puff, and sat down, saying, "How idiotic to call us, below eighteen or not, minors!...Minors don't go to Azkaban...do they?"

"The evidence goes against you, boy. Rich or not, your father can't bail you out this time. This isn't muggle jail, boy. It's not that easy."

Giving a grumpy sigh, Draco stood up and walked away, saying, "Well then, fuck you, alright? I'd rather enjoy the company of the friendly rats in my..." he spat out the word with deep contempt, "cell."

Inside his cell, lying down on the bed (it was a real bed, and it was clean and normal--wealth gave him better quality facilities, although not freedom), he tossed and turned in an attempt to sleep. The bed was, according to Draco's standards, low class. However, what mostly kept him awake were his thoughts.

Betrayed by my own lineage. Father's money won't help me now, nor mother's pathetic pleas--if they've even heard about my arrest yet, that is. All evidence points against me. Damnit. Can't the Aurors smell the suspicious air around her murder? My identity even turns against me now; my reputation makes it even worse, my father's reputation, my tossing insults of 'Mudblood' back and forth. God, I wonder how much info they have in tons of files on us Malfoys? Damn Aurors.

-----*-----

It had been one month since Draco's arrest. He was still stuck in the jail, various authorities still deciding on the trail date, judge, etcetera. Unlike with muggles, a convict waiting for their trial date to be decided had to remain in the jail, for the safety of others--or themselves. It was with bitterness each night that he talked to the officers, ate cornmeal slop, and slept fitfully. The thought that at least he was in the jail for wizard and witch minors--or people who had difficult cases--and not Azkaban, was the only positive, grateful thought ever in Draco's mind.

One night, as his cell door was closed for the night and darkness surrounded him, a plan, dangerous and daring, came to Draco's mind.

Pointing his hands to the ground, sweat beading down from his brow, Draco closed his eyes tightly as he cast the spell, praying it would work.

I'm a Malfoy...A Summoner...Summoners can't mess up...Malfoys...Malfoys don't splinch themselves!

-----*-----

"You're a Malfoy, aren't you?"

"What's it to you? I gave you the money, now you give me a room."

The gruff man, chin covered with stubble, body squat, nose squashed, harrumphed. Then, nodding his head with an odd twist to it--which suspiciously looked like only half a yes--he said, "Room 13. You should stay inside; Aurors and such are dealing with muggles outside. I even heard that, well..." the man whispered so Draco could barely hear him, "I heard that Harry Potter was given the job of dispatching muggles back to where they belong. If you see him around, get me his autograph, alright?"

Draco remained silent.

-----*-----

Quickly casting some cleansing spells to get the dust off of him, Draco clambered down from the shelf, grumbling at his surroundings: a closet, full of sweeping brooms, dusters, mops--cleaning tools. Glaring at his hands at their betrayal, he snapped, "Still haven't gotten the Apparation spell right, damnit."

Murmuring a quick accio spell, moments later Draco tucked his wand in his pocket; just for the sake of looking like a normal wizard. Stepping out of the closet slightly, he peered out cautiously. The Leaky Cauldron was in chaos!