I'm not Allowed to Love You

The Prison of Despair

"Come on, Draco," Narcissa said through pursed lips. She ushered her son out of the door and paused on the porch to fix his white, slick-backed hair.

"Mother," Draco whispered pointedly. She must have gotten the hint and with a curt nod, backed away.

"We will be accompanied by a Ministry official. They will take our wands upon entering his cell. Do be careful around your father. He may be a bit upset."

Upset was a kind word for it. Draco suspected that the few months in Azkaban had shoved his father over the edge. But Draco nodded, not knowing what else to say.

They Disapparated to a dock with stormy clouds. The waves crashed against the stone wall that held it captive. A middle aged man with a billowing dark cloak was just a few feet down the boardwalk. Narcissa gripped Draco's hand, one tight squeeze then approached the man. The man made almost no sign of recognition, aside from holding his arm out like a butler. Draco railed after his mother and accepted her offered hand. Again, they twisted into suffocating darkness.

But then the air solidified, and Draco was struck instantly with the thought of how cold it was. If it had been cold on the dock, with the wind whipping your face, then this was downright freezing. Draco forced his head up, and saw a tall, sturdy black structure loom through the fog. It seemed to have no top, no end, but every brick was etched with the feeling of despair. Draco shivered.

The silent Ministry guide walked through the opening in the wall, which was guarded by two Dementors. This place doesn't need walls to keep the prisoners in, Draco realized in a frightening moment.

The two followed the nameless man around, going around endless turns, with prisoners moaning, crying to them in a small feeling of hope, or desperation.

Draco would walk past each Dementor with mounting unhappiness. The dark hooded figures were a sense of how he had been feeling, and he already felt the want to kill himself. The angry whispers from his father, somehow more frightening than if he'd yelled it. The silent watchful mother, with eyes of pity but of whom would do nothing to help. And him, with his eyes, his beautiful eyes. The eyes full of anger, or disdain, or pain. The shield of his glasses not being enough to cover the hate those eyes showed when they looked upon him. The hate, the hate, the hate.

Draco was pulled out of his nightmarish state when Narcissa gave the man her wand, and gestured for Draco to do the same. He did so, and after being searched with a Probity Probe, they were both allowed in. The small cell was gray and colorless, with a bed in one corner, a toilet in the other. It was plain and quite the opposite of luxurious, which is something that Lucius treasured deeply. And even though there was not much to look at, Draco found himself studying the wall, and promptly avoiding his father's gaze, who was sitting crouched on the bed.

"Draco. My son," Lucius whispered, and suddenly Draco could not take his eyes off of him. He had begun to grow shadowed stubble on his chin, and the smudges of dirt on his face have probably not been washed since his arrest. The grey eyes seemed no less intimidating, but seemed to have lost, if possible, even more color.

But strangely enough, a wide smile cracked his father's lips. He held his arms out, in an obvious invitation to hug. Draco was scared. This was not normal. Had his father really gone mad?

Draco slowly, cautiously approached his father, all the while looking into the colorless eyes, waiting for the strike. Lucius stood up and embraced him, and slowly circled him around until his father's back faced the prison door.

"Is He angry?" Lucius hissed into his ear.

Draco buried his head in his father's shoulder, something he wished he would never do again. His voice came out hoarse from lack of use as he whispered back, "Yes."

His father gave an almost silent growl, and the hug broke. There had been no love in it after all. His father was the same. And Draco could not help but be disappointed by such.

"Well, you will be an incredible replacement for me," Lucius stated in a loud voice, and slapped him on the back. It was an attempt at a playful gesture for the man standing outside the bars, but it still stung. But the words numbed him. He, Draco, would be a good replacement for his father, a violent and murderous supporter of the Dark Lord.

This was going to be a bad year.