There was a time in his life when he’d taken everything for granted. Stars were always in the sky above after dusk and the air always bore the scent of fresh grass in the summer months. Lucius Malfoy had never appreciated the beauty of a sunset nor enjoyed the view of a first snow blanketing the countryside. Such occurrences were natural and not worthy of his attention or focus. There were far more important things than spring rain or autumn foliage to occupy his thoughts even when he was a child.
Now, he could think of nothing but stars and grass, of snow and sunsets. He had no idea how long he had been in this dark and desolate prison. Time ceased to exist when you stepped into Azkaban. It was cold all the time so there was no hint of warm summer air or crisp breezes that signaled a lovely autumn afternoon. The only light in his life since arriving was a soft glow from candles he’d glimpse whenever the dementors came to visit.
He believed they came at night when his cell was even colder, if possible. They always left the door open just enough for him to see the haze of light, to remember a time when his life was not gray and dirty, and then they’d take those memories with gleeful screeches that resonated in his mind long after they’d left and the light was once again gone.
There were no windows in his cell. Cold stone, a worn mattress on the floor in the corner, a torn blanket that did not begin to cover his tall frame, and darkness. That was all he was given in this prison, but he refused to let it destroy him. He had seen the toll this place had taken on Bellatrix, on Lestrange, on many others. He refused to become yet another victim. If Sirius Black could survive a dozen years here with his sanity relatively intact, Lucius could keep his mind and wits about him until his Dark Lord tired of this punishment and released him.
Until then, he curled up in the corner and used the blanket to cover his feet and used his arms to keep the warmth against the rest of his body. He could feel the bones in his hips and knew his firm stomach was now a concave beneath his ribs. His hair was matted, tangled, and fell down his back in thick dirty locks that no longer shone with radiance and beauty. It was difficult to use his left hand: it shook slightly and he’d not made a fist in longer than he could recall. Lips were chapped and broken, his tongue rarely able to gather enough moisture to wet them.
Lucius could no longer recall the warm caress of his wife’s hand on his body or the taste of desire fresh and wet on his tongue. It was a struggle to remember Narcissa and Draco, to keep a simple image of his family to himself even as he lost everything else, but he refused to let them go. Without his family, he would be left with nothing except darkness.
Had it been weeks? Months? A year? It felt like an eternity. Every evening, the dementors came to his cell. He heard the sound of their robes before they ever reached him, material scraping against the stones of the floor as they moved closer and closer. They teased him with light, gave him a glimmer of hope that he would finally be released or manage to gather the energy to escape, and then they took until he was drained and could barely move.
He would lie back on the mattress as his body continued to shudder from the dementors’ visit and try to remember stars. If he thought about it long enough, he could almost see the twinkle of light on the dark ceiling above. The stale air of the prison would no longer stink of death and filth but bear the slight fragrance of fresh grass that surrounded the manor during the spring. He could hear his son’s laughter. He could see his wife and almost taste her kiss on his rough lips.
There was a time in his life when he’d taken everything for granted. The dementors came back each night and took everything they could. They left him trembling in pain on the cold stone floor with a blanket that would not completely cover his emaciated form, but they could not break him. Lucius Malfoy would never be broken. After all, he could still remember stars.
End
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