Chapter Text
Several different smells attack his slowly awakening senses. The dusty and moist odor of ancient walls. The salty, fishy, rotten smell of the sea. But the most overwhelming one is the metallic smell of blood.
Coming back to consciousness is a difficult task. His eyelids are heavy and his head is throbbing painfully. His whole body is stiff and numb from the cold seeping through the thin layer of clothes. When he finally manages to open his eyes, he realises he is lying on his back on a hard stone floor.
Some part of his mind is telling him to just stay where he is, to close his eyes again and to sink back into the black abyss he just crawled out of. Common sense keeps him from giving in to that voice.
Carefully he starts moving, first only his fingers, then the hands. When he is sure he has control over his arms again, he shifts his weight a bit, trying to roll over onto his side and cautiously bringing himself into a sitting position.
Taking in his surroundings, he can't stifle a noise of surprise. Bare stone walls and floor, one dirty old mattress, one odd looking bucket, a small window without glass, but with iron bars. Opposite to it there's an iron door with an even smaller, grated window in it. The whole room is maybe nine or ten square metres. It looks like a kind of medieval prison cell.
From outside he can hear the sound of waves crashing on rocks, the screaming of sea-gulls.
What is this place, and why is he here?
Almost on second thought, the most important question pops into his mind. Who is he? When he tries to remember his name, he finds - nothing! Any kind of personal identity is non-existent, his memory seems to be nothing but blank, white space.
For moments he is unable to breathe, as panic rises like bile in his throat. When the pressure in his chest becomes too much, he starts panting, hyperventilating. Again, the smell of blood hits his nose. Concentrating hard, he forces himself to calm down into a deep and steady breathing pattern. With one sleeve he wipes the cold sweat from his forehead. When his pulse has slowed down enough, he begins to gather the facts.
There is a dark substance on the floor where his head has been. He touches it. Slightly sticky, almost dry blood. He runs his fingers over his head, feeling a lump and some cracked skin, but no obvious fracture. It's sensitive to the touch, and with a hiss of pain he takes the hand away. So he's probably suffering from a concussion, at least that would be a possible explanation for the memory loss. He notices he obviously has some medical knowledge...
Wait - his hair! It's very long and pale, that much he can see under the layer of dirt. Could this be an indicator as to how long he has been here?
He looks at his hands. They are not the hands of an old man. Taking off the bloodstained, blue and grey striped *thing* he is wearing over the trousers, he examines his body. Not the body of an old man, either. Dirty and covered in bruises, yes, but rather well in shape. There is hard, almost athletic muscle under taut skin. He can't help feeling a little pleased with his discovery. The long hair seems to be just his personal taste in coiffure...
But there is something about the shape of the bruises on his arms that alerts him. Their pattern indicates the grip of very strong hands. Had he been in a fight? He takes his trousers off as well and quickly runs his hands over his whole body, checking for injuries. There is pain, but luckily nothing is broken. He sighs in relief. More bruises, several cuts on his thighs and on the underside of his arms...it looks like he had been defending himself against a knife-attack.
Why does that thought seem so unlikely to him, that somebody would attack him with a *knife* of all things? He knows that there exists something far better suited for attacks, and that he himself is quite capable of using it. But he cannot grasp the thought regardless how hard he tries, even if it seems to be so very close to his mind.
Another question arises. When did that fight happen? Before or after he was brought here? The cuts are barely covered with scab, and the bruises are dark, not greenish or yellow. Maybe a day old, or two.
His clothes, however - well, the rags which are now lying on the floor, to be precise - they are dirty and well worn, they smell of blood and sweat, and they look like some kind of uniform to him. Not like some individually chosen clothes, and most certainly not to his taste. It's very likely that they have been given to him when he arrived at this place. And from the state they are in, that wasn't just two days ago.
He has to conclude that the attack took place when he was already here. And that means he has to be very cautious if he encounters other people.
And what is the significance of that ugly tattoo on his left forearm? A skull and a snake...well, he likes snakes, but why a skull? When he touches it, he feels a slight tingling sensation. Strange.
Turning up his nose at the rags in disgust, he dresses himself again. It's freezing cold in the room and there's no other alternative.
He rises from the floor and checks one last thing. As expected, the door is locked. He looks through the small window. It's not quite twice as big as his head, and the grates are so close together that it's not possible to put a hand through them. What he sees is a narrow corridor, dimly lit by a few torches on the wall.
He turns around and looks over the room again. There is nothing here that could give him any new information on his current situation. But if he was attacked just recently, then it's risky to get in contact with other people. Well. He has no choice in that matter, has he? Turning back to the door, he clears his throat and tries to form words. It seems like he has not used his voice for some time.
"Hello?"
"Hello, can somebody hear me?"
Nothing.
Raising his voice he tries once more.
"Hello, is there somebody out there?"
This time he can hear steps coming closer.
"Please, I would like to speak to you!"
The steps grow louder and then a man comes to a halt in front of the door. He is wearing long black robes. His scarred face breaks into a grotesque kind of sneer.
"What d'ya want, Malfoy?"
Malfoy.
A name with a familiar ring to it.
"You know who I am? Would you be so kind as to give me some information about my person, and about this place here?"
Dry laughter answers him.
"So, Azkaban's finally gettin' to ya, innit? Serves ya right, Death Eater scum!"
With that, the man turns to go.
"Wait, please! What do you mean by that?"
But he gets no more answer.
He takes a deep breath and starts pacing. Malfoy. His name, apparently. Azkaban. The name of a person? Or of this place? He thinks it's the latter, but he cannot be sure yet. Death Eater. It doesn't make any sense. What did the man, possibly a guard, mean by that?
Somehow he cannot think of himself as someone who has necrophilic or cannibalistic tendencies. Or both. He shudders. No, definitely not!
He sighs. Tomorrow, he will try again. Maybe then the man will be more talkative. Or maybe another person will answer his call. In his mind, he formulates the questions he will pose. When he is satisfied with them, he settles on the dirty mattress.
For a while he just lies there and listens to the waves and to the voices of the wind. The sounds are calming, lulling him to sleep. Dusk turns into night.
And with the night, come the nightmares...