Chapter Text
“Three years in Azkaban.”
The hammer echoed as his sentence was determined. All his influence, all his knowledge, all the fear he had instilled in people had come to nothing in the end. A shorter sentence meant nothing in comparison to freedom. He had lost control over over his situation and felt his world spiral further out of reach. Narcissa sat on the stand, poised with the smallest hint of a satisfied smile gracing her lips. Regulus and Sirius smirked. And Lupin. The werewolf who should have no power, friends, or influence, looked at him with--was that pity?
The judge continued, outlining his punishment. His wand, already taken at the beginning of the trial, was to be locked away until he was released. Poor behavior on his part would result in it being snapped. Two Aurors cuffed him and led him out, a dementor following after them.
As he reached the door, Lucius glanced back over his shoulder at Draco who stood in fear. Not fear of the Aurors, not fear of the confined space or the dementors, not fear of the situation--he had trained Draco too well for any of that. But fear of Lucius himself. He had trained Draco well for that, too.
Lucius had pulled every string he had had to be allowed one visit that last week before his three-year incarceration. Narcissa had come. He had been surprised that she had brought Draco along, too. The boy hadn't said a word but had clung to Narcissa’s skirt. The visitation had been a tense fifteen minutes with stilted conversation. He had cut it short, unable to meet Narcissa’s piercing gaze.
He no longer had the power he had once had. He had lost his place in their life and the wizarding world.
The transfer to Azkaban was simple. The aurors accompanying him apparated to the dock servicing the prison. It was one of the few places in the wizarding world which required muggle transportation to reach.
Insulting.
Two patronuses kept the dementors at bay, for the time being. They trudged up three flights of steps, down two hallways, and up seven more flights. The floor they came to twisted and turned. He passed cell after cell of unaware souls, barely living in the shell they had left. Some muttered to themselves, some cried, some begged for release. But the most unnerving ones were those who stared blankly out of their cages, eyes unblinking, no longer caring about why they were here or who they had become, the years they had spent locked up a blur in their minds.
How long had they been there?
His pride faltered.
No. I am a Malfoy, one of the Inner Circle, loyal to the Dark Lord. I am not weak. I will not fall.
Then again, he knew better than most what the dementors were capable of.
The clanging of the door to his cell as it slammed shut pulled him from his reverie, the sound ringing in his ears long after the echo had died. The cold, dark, miserable feel of the dementors surrounded him as his captors left with their patronuses and though the light of the day still shown through his window, he looked with dreary resolve to his imprisonment. Though much shorter than it could have been, he had no hope for what awaited him inside these four walls, and less for what awaited him afterwards. He knew, with grim finality, that the life he had so long enjoyed was permanently and irrevocably changed.