Chapter 3
Azkaban – Day 167
The letters have become routine.
I don’t know when it happened—when Potter’s name scrawled across a scrap of parchment stopped feeling like an intrusion and started feeling like something expected. Maybe even something I looked forward to.
At first, our exchanges were as sharp as ever, laced with the same sarcastic barbs we’d flung at each other since we were eleven. Potter called me insufferable. I told him he was a self-righteous git. He accused me of being dramatic. I accused him of being dense. It was a game, something to fill the silence of my cell, something that made the long, empty days feel a little less like they were swallowing me whole.
But then, without meaning to, I started letting my guard down.
Not in any obvious way, of course. Just small things. Details that slipped through the cracks of my carefully constructed indifference.
Things like;
Potter,
The food here is inedible. It’s worse than St. Mungo’s if you can believe it. I’d kill for a proper cup of tea. But the bright side is my biscuits aren’t mouldy. A true highlight of my week.
— Malfoy
Malfoy,
You think you’d kill for a proper cup of tea, but you clearly haven’t had one of Ron’s attempts. He nearly set the Burrow on fire the last time he tried to boil water.
Good to hear about the biscuits, though. I’ll be sure to alert the Prophet that you’ve found something positive to say about your surroundings. Shocking development.
— Potter
Potter,
I was lucky enough to get not one, not two, but three Scourgifies this week. I don’t know if I’ve told you how bloody rare that is? They usually reserve cleaning charms for the Dementors’ favourite inmates, but it seems someone, somewhere, took pity on me. Either that or the stench was getting unbearable.
I wouldn’t get my hopes up for it happening again.
— Malfoy
Malfoy,
Maybe they finally realized you weren’t planning on dropping dead anytime soon and decided to make it slightly less miserable for everyone involved. I’m almost impressed you survived this long without demanding better accommodations.
I’d ask if you’ve been up to anything else, but I assume options are limited.
— Potter
It had been weeks of this now—this strange, unspoken thing between us. Potter kept writing. I kept writing back.
At some point, I stopped pretending I even thought about tearing the letters up when they arrived. Stopped pretending I didn’t read them twice—sometimes three times—before setting them aside.
And now, sitting on the edge of my cot, Potter’s latest letter in my hands, a quiet snicker escaping before I can stop it, I realize something else.
I don’t want it to stop.
I glance at the measly quarter-sheet of parchment in front of me. I’d long since given up using full pages—rationing my allowance, stretching it as far as I could.
Dipping my quill into the ink, I let the nib hover over the parchment for a moment before pressing it down.
Potter,
For someone who insists they aren’t bored, you do seem awfully invested in my day-to-day suffering. Should I be flattered?
As for what I’ve been up to—let’s see. Staring at the same four walls. Staring at the ceiling. Staring at the guards, who stare back with all the enthusiasm of a concussed Flobberworm.
Thrilling, isn’t it?
Options are limited, but I have been considering a project to keep myself occupied. Since my cell is windowless and I have an obscene amount of useless parchment (courtesy of the horrendous volume of letters you insist on sending), I’m thinking of crafting my own constellations. A bit of creative expression, if you will.
Of course, the sharpest object they allow me is the nib of my quill, which is dull at best, so this plan may take a while. But imagine it—hand-cut stars, pasted onto the ceiling, a personal night sky above my cot. A proper little Azkaban dreamscape.
I realize this sounds absolutely barmy.
Disregard my foolish prison fantasies.
— Malfoy
I stare at the letter for a moment before folding it neatly, sharp creases pressed into the stiff parchment. There’s something about the absurdity of it all—about the ridiculous thought of crafting stars out of Potter’s letters in this miserable, endless place—that makes my lips twitch.
When the guard passes, I slip the letter through the slot without hesitation.
This time, when I lean back against the cold stone wall, I close my eyes imagining a sky of my own making.
Azkaban- Day 168
The next day, when the guard slides my letter through the bars, I don’t move right away. I tell myself it’s indifference, but it’s not.
It’s anticipation.
I wait a beat—two—before reaching for it, unfolding the parchment with practised ease.
And then, suddenly, something flutters out.
A cluster of paper stars—horribly uneven, crinkled at the edges—spills into my lap.
I stare at them, blinking in stunned silence, before picking one up between my fingers. The creases are heavy where Potter clearly struggled to cut them out. The points are mismatched, one side always slightly longer than the others, and the whole lot of them looks like they barely survived the journey.
It’s absurd.
It’s ridiculous.
It’s the first real thing that’s been given to me in a long time.
I exhale sharply, half a scoff, half—something else. Something I don’t want to name.
Unfolding the letter, I brace myself for whatever nonsense Potter has deemed worth scrawling across the page this time.
Malfoy,
I hope you appreciate the masterful craftsmanship of the enclosed celestial wonders. I had to borrow Hermione’s scissors for this, and let’s just say she was deeply concerned about what I needed them for. She proper thought I “was finally losing it.”
(Finally, Hermione said, as if losing my mind is inevitable. Rude, right?).
But I had tried, truly I did, to make the stars with magic but I’m arse at the spell. When I tried, they just turned to dust at my touch. I’ve always been pants at transfiguration.
Anyway. You said you were working on an Azkaban dreamscape, and who am I to get in the way of a man and his artistic vision? Consider this a head start. Don’t let your dreams be dreams, Malfoy.
— Potter
P.S. There should be enough for a few, including your namesake, which I assume will be the first constellation to grace your cell. Wouldn’t want your massive ego feeling neglected.
I let the parchment rest against my knee, my fingers still curled around one of the pathetic little stars.
It’s stupid. It’s Potter being Potter.
And yet.
I lift my arm, holding one of the misshapen stars between my fingers, squinting at it like I can map out something coherent in the jagged edges.
Then, with a quiet exhale, I reach up and press it against the cold stone wall above my cot, flattening it with my palm.
It sticks, just barely.
I stare at it for a moment before looking down at the rest of the stars in my lap.
The first star doesn’t fall. It precariously clings to the ceiling.
I watch it for a long moment, half expecting it to peel away from the damp stone and flutter back down into my lap, but it stays. Barely. I need to find a way to more securely paste the stars to the ceiling.
I glance at the rest of the pile, Potter’s wonky, lopsided little stars scattered across my cot. It’s ridiculous, the whole thing, but—I want to see them up there.
I’ve been in this cell for months. I know every crack in the stone, every discolouration in the walls, every spot where the damp seeps in just a little too much. The ceiling, though—it’s just been empty. A stretch of nothing. A canvas for my imagination only.
But not tonight.
I glance toward the slot in the door. No movement. No leering guards watching for any excuse to rip this small thing away from me.
Quickly, quietly, I gather the rest of the stars, stack them neatly beside me, and reach for the one thing I can barely afford to spare.
A bit of toilet paper—clean, obviously—ripped into shreds and dampened with the heel of my palm and the condensation on the walls. It’s not much, but it’s enough. If it was mealtime, the sink in my cell would have running water and I’d use that. And I’m certainly not yet desperate enough to utilize the loo water.
One by one, I paste Potter’s stars to the ceiling. The first few are haphazardly stuck wherever my arm can comfortably reach, but then—then, I pause, considering.
With a slow breath, I arrange them properly.
Refusing to let Potter be right, I make Orion first. Easy, familiar.
Then the Pleiades, though Potter’s uneven craftsmanship makes them more of an abstract interpretation than anything.
Next, my namesake.
The irony isn’t lost on me—Potter of all people handing me Draco in the form of scrap stars made of parchment—but I smooth the dampened stars over its points with careful precision, pressing it firmly into place.
By the time I’m finished, my arms ache from reaching and being unused to any exertion, my fingers pruned and sticky from the tissue, but I don’t care.
Because when I lay back on my mattress, staring up at the ceiling, it’s not just stone anymore.
It’s mine.
A proper little Azkaban dreamscape.
Something new. Something good.
I exhale, warmth curling low in my stomach. For the first time in a long time, I feel almost—content.
And then, without thinking, I reach under my pillow.
Potter’s letters are still there. Every single one.
I run my thumb over the edges, feeling the worn creases, the slightly roughened parchment. I’d told myself I was cutting them up. That I was using them for stars, repurposing them into something else.
But now, with my own private sky stretched out above me, I realize I don’t want to.
I want them intact.
For safekeeping.
For the days when the walls feel too close, when the air feels too thin when I start to wonder if I’ve disappeared entirely.
For the days when I need proof that someone out there still remembers I exist.
I press the letters back under my pillow, settle in, and let my gaze drift to my stars once more.
With any luck, the shite guards won’t notice.
And if they do?
Well.
I’ll just have to write to Potter about it.
Azkaban - Day 197
The letters have become my lifeline. My days blur together except for those bloody letters. Every day, I scour the scraps of parchment Potter sends, letting his words fill the hollow spaces of this windowless cell. Today, as the muted light filters weakly through the grimy slot in the door, I lower my gaze to the letter I’ve just finished writing.
Harry,
Do you regret it? The war, I mean. Not the outcome, but how it happened?
– Draco
I pause, the question burning through the stale air like a hot brand. I remember the day he signed off with “Harry” instead of “Potter” on a previous letter—it appeared he had nearly scratched the name out but didn’t. In a fit of unsure anxiety, when I wrote it myself, I nearly did the same, debating on sticking with Potter. Yet somehow, I didn’t give in to the fear. It felt… right, even if that scared me, to use his name, Harry. A subtle shift in our war of words, hinting that he was reaching out beyond our customary barbs.
The more I write to him, the more I find myself pondering our past. I don’t merely dwell on it, I dissect it, wondering how things might have been different. How I might have acted, how different choices might have changed the outcome that now haunts me every day in this desolate place.
I stare at my letter for a long, silent moment, feeling the weight of every word. Then, with a deliberate motion, I fold it carefully. I wait eagerly for the guard's shift change—the moment when my letter will be whisked away to Potter… no, to Harry.
In this endless darkness, his words are the only spark that reminds me there’s still a life beyond these cold, unyielding walls.
Azkaban - Day 198
The guard on shift, Dayton, calls out, “Malfoy, mail!”
I spring from my cot and dash to the slot in my cell door. A thin letter tumbles through, and I snatch it mid-air before it can hit the filthy floor. Heart pounding, I hurry back to my bed.
For a long, agonizing moment, I hesitate. Fear flutters in my chest—what will Potter, no, Harry , say this time? My hands tremble as I slowly unfold the parchment.
Draco,
I think about it every day.
— Harry
Those sparse, six words send a chill down my spine. I stare at them longer than I care to admit, as if each syllable has dredged up long-buried regrets and memories from our shared past—regrets I had meticulously hidden beneath layers of indifference and defiance.
I cradle the letter in my hands, those six words echoing in the silence of my cell. I wonder—do they mean Harry thinks about his regrets? The outcome? Did he rue being part of it all, just as I sometimes do? Did he ever wish he could have slipped away from the terrible world our childhoods had been thrust into, pulled by the unyielding hands of adults and fate?
I let my mind drift back to that long-ago day when I first met Harry. My father had insisted I befriend him—a naive decree from a man who saw him only through the lens of emboldening the family name in the eyes of the public. But even then, I had longed for his friendship. I remembered growing up on the stories of the Boy Who Lived, not the venomous tales my father spewed.
I’d dreamed, in secret, of being friends with a kid who could stop the Dark Lord like some hero in a fairytale.
I recall the sting of hurt when Harry, at the tender age of eleven, had rejected my outstretched hand. I had repeated the vile things my father taught me, not out of genuine belief, but out of desperate need for acceptance. In that moment, I felt nothing but shame and longing. I had always envied Ron—not only for his easy camaraderie with Harry but for the way his parents never forced him into the rigid confines of pure-blood expectations. Even as a pure-blood wizarding family, they didn’t demand that he fulfil a future carved out by someone else’s ideals; they allowed him the freedom to simply be.
Now, in the dark confines of this cell, those memories blend with regret. I wish I could have silenced my father’s poisonous words, and stopped them from shaping me into something unrecognizable. Perhaps if I had been different—if I had been braver—Harry might have seen me not as the enemy my upbringing painted, but as someone worth knowing. And now, with Harry’s terse admission echoing in my ear, I can’t help but wonder: does he carry his own burdens of regret, too?
Azkaban Day 202
After that exchange, the letters become more than a distraction—they become a tether, a fragile link to a world beyond these stone walls. Each word is a reminder that, despite everything, I’m still a person, not merely a collection of regrets. Without them I would surely have been slipping from reality.
One particularly cold day, the guard, Simmons, delivers another letter:
Draco,
What’s the first thing you want to do when you get out? And while we’re at it, make a list. I know there’s still a while before you’re free, but you should be making plans—dreaming, even. Don’t let these walls dull your ambition. Write it all down, even if it sounds far-fetched.
—Harry
I let my eyes drift over his words, the question lingering like a fragile promise in the oppressive silence of my windowless cell. A list—a set of dreams, ambitions, things to do once I’m free—seems ludicrous in this place. And yet, somehow, it stirs something within me. A spark of amusement, perhaps even something that could resemble hope, if I ever hoped.
I pause, considering the absurdity of Harry’s insistence. Who in their right mind would be planning a future from behind these unyielding walls? And yet, his words—direct, unapologetic—demand I do just that. For a brief moment, I find myself chuckling softly at the irony. Harry, always the optimist, always the one to see potential where I see only desolation.
After a long, restless night where the question echoed in the corridors of my mind, I finally set quill to parchment:
Harry,
I don’t know. I haven’t allowed myself to think about it. Thinking about the outside feels like some kind of cruel joke. But if I had to choose… I think I’d go to a real café. Somewhere no one knows me. I’d sit with a proper cup of tea for as long as I wanted—maybe even read a book. That sounds stupid, doesn’t it?
Oh, and walk—just walk without looking over my shoulder, somewhere with sunlight that isn’t filtered through a dirty slot.
— Draco
Azkaban Day 204
A few days later, Harry’s reply comes swiftly:
Draco,
That doesn’t sound stupid at all—it sounds like a plan. I know a little café tucked away, where you can be yourself and enjoy a cup of tea in peace. When you’re out, I’ll take you there.
We will even walk there.
– Harry
I hold his letter against my chest, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
For the first time in what feels like an eternity, I let myself imagine a future not defined solely by my past or the misery of Azkaban. Harry’s words are a beacon in the storm of my soul, and as I carefully fold his letter and tuck it under my pillow alongside the others, I feel a spark of determination.
In this cold, windowless cell—with nothing but the harsh stone above and these fragile words to keep me company—I allow myself a rare, defiant moment of dreaming. And perhaps, one day, I’ll check off each item on that absurd little list.