Prologue – Babyboy

A large, coarse hand dug into his upper arm, roughly pulling him towards his, still unseen, destination. He was manhandled through a doorway and into a long, colourless corridor. On both sides were little 'cages' – or so Draco thought of them.

They were little cages for dangerous, blood-thirsty animals. Like him.

He let out a short, dry bark that should have been laughter. Yes, he was one of the very bad ones. He was the scum under the shoes of the great and venerable war heroes – heroes like the honourable McGanister, who was too great and venerable to even spare scum like Draco so much as a glance. He hadn't even looked at him when he had decided Draco's future. When he decided a future in prison. Not a glance, not one look in the eye. The old man, the head of the Wizengamot, only stared into his documents, read from them in a monotone, yet disgusted, voice, like they held all the answers he needed to know. The criminal in front of him was scum. No wonder too, he was a Malfoy. He was just like his father. It would probably be best if the boy got the kiss, just like his father.

McGanister didn't say that, of course, but the whispers around the room did. It seemed like they didn't even bother to lower their voices. Or maybe Draco only had that impression because, other than their whispers, the room was deathly silent. Everything in the room, everything in himself. Except for the whispers. Except for the monotone and disgusted voice of McGanister.

It had taken Draco a few minutes to react when he was spoken to.

The prosecution was now read and the questioning had begun.

"Is your name Draco Malfoy?" the voice was louder than before, impatient. It's another man speaking, the questioner, probably.

"Yes."

"Son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy?"

"Yes."

"Who was your father?" another man. He sounded as though he were gloating.

Hadn't the questioner just said who his father was?

"He said it. Lucius Malfoy."

"You know why you are here Mr. Malfoy?" the questioner again.

"For being a Death Eater?" Draco murmured. The questioner looked at him coldly.

"You are charged with attempted murder of Albus Dumbledore and for negligently injuring a younger schoolmate of yours in the process, not to forget that you almost killed Ron Weasley, one of Harry Potter's best friends. You are also being prosecuted for bringing Death Eaters and a highly dangerous werewolf into Hogwarts, for facilitating the murder of Albus Dumbledore, and for numerous torturing and uncounted murders in the last year. What do you have to say to your defence?"

"I…"

Draco had a lot to say to this. He wanted to say that he hadn't killed anyone – that he never could and almost was killed because of it. He wanted to cry out that he had to torture these people, that he didn't have any option when standing in front of Voldemort. He wanted to tell them that he hadn't known Fenrir would come too, that he had been scared – scared of Voldemort, scared that he would kill his mother. He wanted to break down and sob out that he had been desperate to fulfil this impossible task, desperate enough that he would try anything even if it endangered other people too because he didn't know what else he could do. He wanted to say he was sorry and that he regretted it – regretted everything.

But nothing came out of his mouth. Just like always. Generations of politicians in his family, an aristocrat family at that, but he couldn't get out a word. Just like in front of Potter.

Draco had always been the one to pick a fight, to have a big mouth and pick on the other, but when it came down to a real face to face, a word fight, then it was always Draco to first draw his wand, always him who didn't know what to say, who ran out of witty retorts.

There in that hard dock, surrounded by Aurors, high politicians, Ministry officials, the Wizengamot, and anyone who wanted to see the last Malfoy sentenced, unable to move because of heavy chains on wrists and ankles so that he couldn't draw his wand – not that he had it, no it was still with Potter – he was defenceless, vulnerable, intimidated and speechless.

Draco had sat there, thoughts racing with everything he wanted – needed – to say, but not a word left his lips.

Not until later, walking through this lifeless corridor, he realised the lack of a defence attorney, who should have been there for exactly such a reason. Too late, though. Or maybe that man beside him was his attorney. This guy just hadn't said anything. It was Draco's own fault. He should have demanded a lawyer, but he hadn't, and so he got a defence counsel appointed by the court.

McGarister seemingly had taken Draco's motionless form as a silent confession of the reproaches. Sentence: 10 years in prison. Because of Draco's young age, he did not get into Azkaban, but a prison with human wards. Such luck he had.

.

.

Yes, such luck he had. Draco dryly though, pulling the thin, torn up blanket over his body. He winced as the movement shot stings of pain through his body. He pressed his teeth together and turned on his side on the narrow plank bed that wasn't quite long enough for him. He laid his hand on the bundle beside him.

Such luck he had, he thought sceptically, once again remembering.

.

Remembering walking through the colourless, lifeless corridor for the first time.

He had tried to count the cells they passed but gave up after a while. Did he have the very last one or what? It looked like it. What's it matter though?

His head felt heavy and so he bent it down. Every step brought him nearer to his cage.

He had been too young for Azkaban but old enough to be held responsible for something he did a lifetime ago. It seemed like a lifetime, at least. Truly, it had been only a year ago.

He had been sixteen. Old enough that he should have known better, right? But he hadn't.

He remembered the satisfaction and excitement he had had when he received his first task. He could finally show that he was grown up, could prove himself, follow in his father's footsteps, and all that naïve and childish rubbish. He hadn't known what it really meant to kill someone, what it meant to receive this task.

And when he eventually realised all the extent it took, it had been too late, and he had been stuck. He was stuck between either killing or being killed along with his whole family.

The cell doors grating on rusty hinges awoke him from his thoughts. He and his jailer had finally reached the cage in which he was to spend the next ten years.

Not much to say here really. Another one of these three square metres wide and two metres high cages with a too-short plank bed and a small toilette that did not offer any
sort of privacy.

The same rough hand pushed him again, though this time on his butt, and again he was shoved forward. He almost tripped but managed to catch himself before he fell.

He straightened up, as the doors closed behind him with a loud crash that echoed through the corridor.

Draco turned around, for the first time facing his prison guard. He wished he hadn't.

He looked straight in a dirty smirk and eyes with a strange gleam in them.

"No worries, you got all the time in the world to get to know every corner of this room," the guard spoke to him, leaning with his hands on the cell bars and laughing at Draco.

"And we're gonna get to know each other too."

With this the guard left and Draco was alone. At this time he hadn't understood what this meant – what awaited him.

He was to find out only a few days later. How many, he didn't exactly know. It's hard to keep track of time in such a tiny cell with nothing to do and only the blank, dirty walls to stare at. But he knew: it was shower day and therefore it must be Wednesday. He was told they would shower every Wednesday, and his jailer had told him this morning he would get him for it.

Draco looked forward to it. His expectations weren't very high. It was probably one shower room for all the prisoners or at least many at a time, only cold water, if he was lucky there would be a cheap, ineffective soap, still dirty from previous uses. But this also meant seeing other people again and for once not the bare walls in his cell. In any case he longed for some clean water – cold or not.

He was already waiting when the guard finally came to bring him to the showers. Draco wondered a little about the time. It had been said they had showers in the morning, but he had already gotten lunch – nothing tasty at all, somebody surprised?

As they walked through the corridor they turned towards a door which seemed to be their destination.

To Draco's further bewilderment, he could see the cross-stripped backs of some prisoners, heading away from the door escorted by two other gaolers. Their hair dripped from water, darkening their shirts around the neck. They were already done?

But then Draco thought it through: they had to take showers in groups. They couldn't all fit in one room. There were way too many prisoners.

The shower room was how Draco had expected a common one, dark and not too clean either. He had to undress right after coming in. Beside the door were some already full baskets with dirty clothes. The prison guard stayed near Draco and watched his every move.

Draco still felt awkward and exposed – well he was – but he also was almost used to it as the other man kept a close eye on him all the time, even when Draco was settling his toilette business, and so the sentenced boy was not surprised to be watched once again. He kept telling himself that the man was only doing his job but still he couldn't help the impression the guard was watching him a little too closely and looking at the wrong parts, too.

As he took off his clothes quickly, Draco soon stood naked in the cold room. One thing was evidently clear by now – nobody was going to come. Draco was all alone in there, except for the guard.

With an inhibiting feeling, Draco tripped to one of the shower heads and turned it on. As he had supposed the water was ice cold and dropped hard on his unprotected skin.

Draco held his arms tight to his body in a gesture of awkwardness and defence, a useless attempt to cover himself, still he couldn't help it.

He stood under the running water, soaking his water-darkened hair and wetting his body, in which he only let his hands wander up and down his biceps – his arms stayed tightly in an X-form in front of his chest. His head turned around again and again but he did not dare to fully turn around and facing the guard in this state of clothing – or lack therefore.

After some uncomfortable seconds – still alone with the guard – Draco looked for some of the cheap, ineffective soap. He did not have such luck, it seemed.

The sound of something hitting the floor and then slipping over it made the young man start. Looking down he discovered something dark and rectangular. Soap.

"There you are. So you can get your sweet little arse all cleaned up. Get on with it. Pick it up."

The hard voice behind him held something alarming in it that made Draco shiver and his heart speed up – and it was not in any good way.

He slowly got on his knees to grab for the soap, swallowing hard around a big gulp in his throat. As his fingers went around the soap, a deep moan made him look up and freeze in his tracks.

The guard stood there just as naked as Draco himself, the only difference being that between his legs didn't hang anything soft and, from the cold, retreated, but something very swollen and hard. The guard's hand was wrapped around it, moving up and down. After some strokes he stopped and automatically Draco's look went upwards to the man's face, only to meet with the again gleaming dark blue eyes and a cruel, dirty grin.

.

Draco closed his eyes and pressed his teeth together, wishing the memory away.

It had been the first of many times. Some time he had gotten used to it – somehow. He had learnt to deal with the stings of pain coming from his behind – learnt how to sit and how to move so it would hurt the least. He also had learnt to minimize pain during It.

When he opened his eyes again he looked straight into a pair of blue ones. Baby blue, as of yet. They were darkening already and would become dark blue, just like those of the guard.

Draco instantly started back at this thought, which only succeeded in another explosion of pain. He brought his hand to his hurting stomach. The operation hadn't gone too well, nor had it been done properly. Of course not, it had to stay secret, after all. In this society, not everything may be right, but still a guard raping, abusing, and even impregnating his prisoner was not looked upon approvingly. So the guard was, of course, concerned about it not coming out.

A movement from the bundle shook Draco out of his musing and he focussed his attention back to the child. For a moment, he felt nothing. Nothing at all, he just watched.

The eyes were now pressed close, while its mouth was ripped wide open as if to scream and cry. It did cry. Tear after tear rand down the rosy, though by now red, cheeks. Still no sound came from the little boy. Mute.

Draco wanted a child from the guard just as little as the guard himself. What a surprise too. Who wouldn't want to have a baby out of daily rape sessions on top of it all?

When he first had the suspicion that he was pregnant he had cursed and prayed he would be wrong. He hadn't been.

So he had hoped an embryo wouldn't survive with such poor food and in the poor residence Draco lived in. He had wished it away, wished it couldn't survive without medical treatment and supervision – after all a normal pregnancy needed to supervised, male pregnancy was even more troublesome. But it had.

In the end, his only hope had been that he would lose it as a result of the abusing or during what the guard called sex, which never once stopped in those nine months. He hadn't.

The child survived, grew until it had been time for it to come out. The guard had brought some, not quite sound, medi-witches but they could be bribed into silence. It still hurt like hell, but the child had seemed absolutely healthy and untouched by the rough pregnancy. It looked like he needed to reconsider this belief. The child was mute.

Draco kept watching the innocent little child. His child. With a sudden certainty he himself couldn't understand, he knew his baby was cold and felt alone.

Draco got closer to the bundle, this time with careful movements, and laid an arm around it along with the thin blanket. His child was not to feel alone, he won't feel cold anymore. He wasn't alone – they weren't alone.

Such luck he had, Draco thought with a smile as he felt his babyboy fall asleep against his chest.