The Language of Flowers
Azkaban – Day 264
The rare privilege of stepping into the prison yard felt almost foreign after so many days spent in the cold, oppressive shadows of my cell. Even if it was just sunbeams cutting through an enchanted barred roof.
The air is sharp, but the pale sunlight cut through it, warming my face as I leaned against the rough stone wall. For a moment, I allow my eyes to close and tilt my head toward the sun, basking in the fleeting warmth that brushes against my pale skin.
Harry’s words echo in my head. Make plans, Draco. Dream.
So, I let myself. I let myself imagine walking the grounds of the manor, the way I used to when I was a child, before the weight of my family’s legacy crushed the innocence out of me. I picture strolling through the halls of Honeydukes, filling my pockets with sweets, the way other Hogwarts students used to when I was too busy posturing to join them. And flying… Circe’s, how I miss flying. I can almost feel the wind whipping through my hair, the sun blazing down as I soar through the sky.
In my mind’s eye, there is another figure flying alongside me. Harry. I don’t know why my imagination conjures him, but I suppose it makes sense. He is the only person I’ve spoken to in months.
I allow myself to feel something dangerously close to hope.
Then it all shatters.
My eyes snap open at the sudden, crushing pressure around my throat. My back slammed against the wall as I was lifted clear off the ground. I gasp for air, clawing desperately at the iron grip that has cut off my breath. My fingers scrape against rough, calloused skin, but the man’s grip only tightens. He is broad-shouldered, with a weathered face marred by deep lines and a jagged scar running from temple to jaw. His eyes burn with fury, bloodshot and wild, and his breath reeks of stale tobacco and bitterness.
“This is your father’s doing,” he hisses. “My son—he died at the Ministry that night. An Auror. Cut down because of your family’s alliances. You Malfoys think you’re untouchable. I’m just returning the favour.”
Panic surges through me as my vision blurs. I thrash against him, kicking out blindly and digging my nails into the flesh of his forearm, but he lifts me higher until my Azkaban issued boots scrape uselessly against the stone wall. The edges of my world darken, and I see stars—not the ones I used to envision on fhe ceiling of my cell, but brilliant, burning specks dancing at the edge of unconsciousness.
This is it. This is how I die.
A loud “ Incarcerous ” is shouted out as ropes shoot through the air, binding the man’s arms and legs with a sickening snap. Released from my attacker's hold, I crumple to the ground, gasping and choking as I fill my lungs with precious air.
“About time you lot did your bloody job,” I rasp, shooting a venomous glare at the guard who stands over me, wand still raised. “Much appreciated.”
Simmons sneers down at me. “Count yourself lucky, Malfoy. Not sure why I bothered.”
The bound man thrashes against the magical restraints as Simmons hauls me to my feet with brutal force. My legs barely hold me as he drags me back toward the fortress that has become my cage. The weight of the man’s words cling to me, heavier than the cold iron walls of Azkaban itself.
As Simmons shoves me into my cell and the heavy door slams shut, I collapse onto the thin mattress, fingers gingerly touching the bruises already forming around my neck. I should have known better than to let myself dream.
Because in here, dreams are a dangerous thing.
Azkaban– Day 265
I’d spent most of the night lying awake, throat raw and aching from my near-death experience. But it wasn’t the attack that plagued me. It was Harry.
What did he want from me? Why did he keep writing, keep encouraging me, keep… caring? I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve the light his words offer, nor the way he’s distracted me with stories and witty banter. And yet, I crave it. I hate the days that stretch between each letter, and I suspect the guards delay them out of spite. But even so, Harry’s words are a lifeline, the only thing that reminds me I am still human.
“Oi, MALFOY—letters 'ere!” Samson, the most tolerable of the guards, bellows before hammering on my door. A thick envelope pressed through the slot, waiting for me.
Samson, at least, doesn’t toss my letters to the floor like Simmons does.
“Thank you, Samson! Hope your day is filled with minimal issues with prisoners and that you're blessed with an extra-long break,” I sing-song, snatching the envelope. Samson snorts in response. Not much of a talker, that one.
I shuffle back to my bed, tearing the envelope open. Four pressed flowers fell out, landing softly on the thin blanket as I unfolded Harry's latest letter.
My breath catches in my throat. For a moment, I simply stare at the delicate petals scattered across my lap, fragile and beautiful against the harsh grey of my prison cell.
The first is an almond blossom, delicate and white with a deep pink centre. My heart stutters. Does Harry know the language of flowers like I do? My mother had taught me when I was young, guiding me through the manor gardens. The almond blossom symbolizes renewal, hope, and rebirth.
The next flower is a lily of the valley, its white bells perfectly pressed. It stands for happiness and a return to joy.
The third makes me flush—a pink camellia, lush and soft. It symbolizes longing and missing someone. That one has to be a coincidence. There was no way Harry meant to send that message.
The final flower is a light purple astilbe, also known as false spirea. It symbolizes patience and dedication, often associated with the message, “I will be waiting for you.”
My eyes burn as I carefully place the flowers along the small table, the brightest, most colourful things my cell has likely ever seen. I hoped Harry had the foresight to cast Preservation Charms on them.
Finally, I unfold the letter.
Draco,
I figured there isn’t much in the way of a garden, or any colour really, so I thought you’d enjoy these.
I charmed them to keep them from deteriorating, which includes the smell. Should help during those long stints between decent guards and their Scourgifies.
—Harry
“Prat,” I muttered, my voice warbling. Of course, Harry had to rib me a bit with the gift.
I reached for the astilbe, inhaling the sweet, almost grape-like scent, and let a small, genuine smile tug at my lips.
“Thank you, Harry.”
Azkaban– Day 267
I hadn’t responded to Harry’s last letter right away. Instead, I spent two days trapped in my own mind, confusion and disbelief circling endlessly. Why, of all people, was Harry Potter writing to me? What did he gain from this after those initial, guilt-ridden letters? I didn’t deserve his kindness, nor the fragile refuge his words have become.
The question burns in me until I can’t hold it back any longer.
I scrawled a simple response:
Harry,
Why are you doing this?
— Draco
When I can hear the tell-tale sounds of the guard shift change, I pressed the letter through the slot, heart pounding as I wait for it to be taken.
“Received, Malfoy,” Samson’s deep voice rumbles as he pulls the parchment from my grip.
And with that, I am left once more with the crushing silence of my cell.
Azkaban– Day 268
The letter lands with a soft thud on the stone floor, kicking up a tiny cloud of dust as it slips through the slot in my cell door. I sat up from my cot, my heart inexplicably pounding as I stared at it. For a moment, I debate leaving it there, ignoring it. But I can’t.
With a quiet sigh, I push myself up, scrambling, crossing the cold, cramped space and crouching to pick it up. My fingers brush against the grit and dirt coating the floor, and I wipe the envelope against my uniform trousers, frowning at the smudges of dust left behind. Then I notice—there are two letters.
My throat feels tight as I unfold the first.
Draco,
Because I want to. Because I think about you. Because I don’t want you to disappear into that place forever.
— Harry
It wasn’t an obligation. It wasn’t guilt. Harry has been choosing to write to me. Not out of pity. Not because he felt he owed me something after the war.
He wanted to.
I swallow hard and unfold the second letter, my hands tremble as my pulse roars in my ears.
Draco,
I think about you more than I should. I don’t know what that means yet. But I wanted you to know.
—Harry
I didn’t know how to respond to that. So I don’t.
Not right away.
I sit on the edge of my bed, the letters clutched in my hands, heart hammering in my chest. My hands tremble.
Staring at the words that shouldn’t have sent my thoughts into such a chaotic spiral.
I think about you more than I should.
I’ve spent months in this place, trapped with nothing but my own thoughts and Harry's letters for company. And in that time, I’ve been forced to confront some hard truths.
Harry Potter has always been a constant in my life. From the moment we met at Madam Malkin’s, to the endless taunts in the Great Hall, to every bloody Quidditch match where I pushed myself harder just to be seen by him. Even during the war—through every moment of fear, every choice I made out of desperation to keep my family alive—he has been there. Watching me. Judging me. Saving me.
I’ve spent years chasing him. First out of envy. Then out of anger. And somewhere along the way, it had turned into something else. Something I never dared admit to myself.
I wanted him. Not just his attention or his hatred. I wanted...him.
I had listened to my parents, of course I did. I was raised to follow their lead. And when the Dark Lord came for us, I had no choice but to obey. But I wasn’t blind to what I was doing. I knew what side of the war I stood on. And I knew how far I’d fallen when I let that monster into my home and watched him torture Granger on my drawing room floor.
I’d told myself I didn’t have a choice. That I did what I had to do to survive.
But when I stood in at the doors to Hogwarts and watched Voldemort lift Harry’s lifeless body, none of that mattered.
In that moment, something inside me shattered. The world tilted, fractured, burned. Because without Harry Potter in it... what was left?
And when he moved—when he revealed himself to be alive—I hadn’t hesitated. I ran towards him, and I threw him my wand without a second thought.
Because if there was anyone who could fix the world I’d helped break, it was Harry. It had always been Harry.
So why was I surprised now?
Why did it scare me so much to see my own feelings mirrored back at me in these letters?
I let out a shaky breath, staring down at the delicate, looping script.
Harry Potter thinks about me.
More than he should.
Merlin, I was doomed.
So, when I finally put quill to parchment, it was the most honest thing I had ever written.
Harry,
I think about you, too.
— Draco
Azkaban – Day 346
The piece of stone crumbles slightly in my grip as I drag it against the wall, carving yet another tally into the rough surface. Three hundred and forty-six. I stare at the marks, each one a reminder of the days that have slipped through my fingers like grains of sand.
Nineteen more.
In just nineteen days, I will be free.
The word feels foreign, unfamiliar on my tongue. Free .
It isn’t a concept I’ve ever truly known. Even before Azkaban, I’d been trapped—by my family’s expectations, by the Dark Lord’s threats, by the weight of a name I hadn’t earned but had been forced to bear. I'd spent my youth clawing for approval, chasing shadows of power and a legacy that only led me to ruin.
And now, in nineteen days, all of that will be behind me.
No Dark Lord breathing down my neck. No father dictating my every move from the shadows of the manor. No guards watching my every breath, waiting for an excuse to beat me bloody.
For the first time in my life, I will be able to choose who I want to be.
And that terrifies me.
I turn the stone over in my hand, letting my eyes trace the endless tally marks that scar the wall of my cell. I’d come to Azkaban as a boy who had made cowardly choices in the name of survival. I’d been weak, desperate, and afraid. But I will not leave this place that way.
I’ve spent months—years—confronting the truth of who I am and the choices I’ve made. I’ve torn apart every bitter memory, every moment I let fear or pride rule me. I knew what the world thought of me. I knew what I’d done to deserve that hatred.
But I also knew I would never let anyone, not the world, not my father, not fear itself, dictate who I become from this point forward.
I will make choices—good or bad—but they will be mine.
And more than anything... I want to be worthy of Harry.
My chest tightens at the thought of him. His letters have been the only light in this wretched place. His words, his stubborn belief that I could be more than what I was, have kept me breathing on the darkest days. I didn’t deserve his kindness. I still don’t.
But I want to.
I want to be the man he sees in me. Someone capable of change. Someone capable of more than hatred and fear.
I let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle over me.
In nineteen days, I will step out of this cell. And I will face the world’s judgment. The distrust. The scorn. I will carry the shame of my past like a brand on my skin.
But I will face it head-on.
I will become someone I can live with. Someone Harry can trust.
Someone who is truly... free.
I blow a strand of filthy hair out of my face with a huff and let out a dry, humourless laugh.
Merlin and Morgana, I am going to have to deal with this disaster on my head when I get out.
I reach up and run my fingers through the matted strands, grimacing as they catch on knots that no amount of combing with my fingers can smooth out. The once pale platinum of my hair, a signature of the Malfoy line, is now stained a dull, tawny yellow from the grime and the pitiful excuse for soap we are given for our bi-monthly showers. I can’t imagine what I actually look like—there isn’t a single reflective surface in this place—but I don’t need a mirror to know I am barely more than skin and bone now.
My fingers drift to my ribs, counting each one beneath the thin fabric of my prison uniform. The slop they feed us here is enough to keep us alive, but just barely.
At least I still have muscle, lean and wiry from months of forcing myself through endless push-ups, sit-ups, and lunges in the cramped space of my cell. It wasn’t about vanity—those days had died with the Dark Lord’s fall. No, it was survival. If I let my body waste away, I’d lose what little control I have left in this place. And more than that, the exhaustion of pushing my body to its limits was the only thing that allowed me to sleep when my mind wouldn’t quiet.
Because when I lay in the dark, with nothing but the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs outside, the memories creep in. Of the war. Of what I’d done. Of what I hadn’t done.
Of him.
Harry.
I shake the thought away, dragging my fingers through my hair again with another grimace.
Nineteen days.
Nineteen days until I can see the sky without bars separating me from it. Nineteen days until I can feel the sun on my face without the cold weight of Azkaban pressing down on my chest.
I will hold my head high knowing I am a different man and I will face whatever the world thinks of me. The glares, the whispers, the hatred—I’ve earned it. But I will face it as something more than the coward who had walked into this place.
And maybe… I’ll be someone worthy of looking Harry Potter in the eye.
But first, I was getting a sodding haircut.