Freedom
Azkaban– Day 364
One more day.
I pace the length of my cell, the cold stone floor rough beneath my bare feet. I’d long since given up wearing the thin, threadbare slippers they provided. They offered no protection from the chill that seeped up from the stone, and besides, I’ve learned to prefer the grounding sensation of the earth beneath me.
I gather up the few possessions I’ve accumulated over the past year. Harry’s letters—every single one, worn from being read over and over until I could nearly recite them from memory. The pressed flowers he’d sent me, delicate and fragile things that felt so out of place in this grim, lifeless prison. And, of course, my constellations.
Those damn stars.
They are pathetic, really. Torn bits of parchment, stuck to the damp stone walls with paste I’d made from toilet paper and water. They are faded now, grimy from the endless moisture and the filth that clung to everything in this place. I had to repaste them over the months, whenever one would flutter from its place on the low ceiling, cursing them and wasting precious toilet paper on them. But I can’t leave them behind. They were my sky when I couldn’t see the real one. A reminder that there is a world beyond these walls, and somewhere in it, Harry Potter thought of me.
I carefully tuck everything into the makeshift cloth pouch I’d fashioned from my worn pillowcase.
My parole hearing is set for tomorrow morning—springtime, fittingly. I should be terrified. They’ll scrutinize my behaviour, my remorse, and whether I am fit to continue walking free. They can alter or amend my probation based on these things. And there is every chance they’ll extend my probation for years.
But I am not afraid.
As long as I am out of this place, as long as I can breathe air that doesn't taste like sea salt and decay, I can handle whatever restrictions they place on me. I’ve already decided I will accept whatever judgment the world has for me.
I deserve it.
I had been young, scared, and desperate to protect my family. But so had countless others at Hogwarts who had made the right choice. Some of them had died for it. And I’d hidden behind my father’s ideology and my mother’s pleading eyes, pretending I didn’t have a choice.
But I did.
I’d made those choices. I’d taken the Mark. I’d stood there, wand trembling, as Death Eaters tortured muggles in my family’s home. I hadn’t been able to stop it, but I hadn’t tried hard enough, either.
I will live with that.
But I will never be that boy again.
I don’t know what life outside these walls will look like. I don’t know if people will speak my name with scorn or simply pretend I don’t exist. And I don’t know if I will ever be able to look my mother in the eye again, knowing the shame I feel at not begging her to leave father with me, to defect like I knew we should have–I could have helped spare us both the hell that we’ve endured.
But I do know one thing.
I won’t be walking out of here alone.
The thought makes my throat tighten, and I force myself to swallow it down. I’ve spent years teaching myself not to hope. Hope was dangerous. Hope is what got people killed.
Hope is what I’d felt when I saw Harry in the final battle, thinking this was it, he would end the Dark Lord—only to watch the world fall apart when I thought he’d died.
Hope is what broke me when I realized he’d come back and I had already lost everything, that I had already made too many mistakes.
And yet…
Harry has been relentless. His letters. His flowers. His ridiculous jokes and small, mundane stories about his life outside these walls. Little by little, he’d chipped away at the thick, bitter walls I’d built around myself.
I still have no idea why he thought I was worth any of it.
But I know now that it doesn’t matter, all that matters is that he does.
The day before my release, one final letter slips through the slot in my cell door. I nearly trip over it as I pad toward the corner to do my nightly push-ups.
I snatch it up, fingers trembling as I unfold the parchment.
Draco,
You’re getting out tomorrow. I don’t know if you’re scared. Maybe you are. I would be. But I need you to know—you’re not alone.
I’ll be waiting for you.
–Harry
I clench the letter in my hands, my chest tightening painfully.
The old me—Malfoy the coward, Malfoy the Death Eater, Malfoy the disappointment—would have called him a fool. Would have sneered and mocked him for his savior complex, for thinking he could fix what I had broken.
But I wasn’t that person anymore.
Harry Potter had saved the world once.
And now, somehow, he’s saved me too.
I let out a slow, shuddering breath and sink onto the edge of the cot, clutching the letter like it’s the only thing tying me down in the storm of my emotions.
I have survived by learning not to hope.
But now, for the first time in my life, I allow myself to truly believe in something better.
I am walking out of this place tomorrow.
And Harry will be there, waiting
Azkaban– Day 365
I wake clutching my worn pillowcase to my chest, the faint scent of mildew and salt lingering in the fabric. The loud, jarring clank of my cell door unlocking echoes through the stone walls, followed by the ear-splitting squeal of rusted hinges.
I blink against the dim light, eyes adjusting as the heavy door swings inward. Standing in the doorway is Samson, the guard who has tormented me with his silence and cold indifference for the better part of a year. But today… today, there is something else. A smile. The first I’ve ever seen on his face.
"Up and at 'em, Malfoy," he says, his voice gruff but almost... kind. "It's home time."
Home.
The word feels foreign, like something from another life. But it is real. I am leaving.
I sit up slowly, scanning the cell that has been my world for the past 365 days. It is emptier now, without the few possessions that have kept me tethered to my sanity. My wall of tallies, the only evidence that I’ve endured every single day, stares back at me. I reach for the broken chunk of stone I’d used to etch each mark and cross out the final four slashes, completing the last set of five.
Three hundred and sixty-five.
A full year since I’d stepped into Azkaban. A full year of isolation, reflection, and the slow, agonizing process of stripping away everything I thought I was.
I’m not the boy who blindly followed his father anymore. I’m not the coward who stood in the shadows of the Dark Lord. I’m not the Malfoy heir who wore his family name like armour.
I am something else now.
And I earned this second chance I am being given.
Samson waits patiently as I rise to my feet, pillowcase in hand. I follow him without a word.
I still remember the day I was dragged through these halls, past the swirling shadows of Dementors that leeched the warmth from my skin and the hope from my soul. Today, the air feels lighter, protected by the steady, lazy circles of Samson’s Patronus—a hulking black bear that keeps the darkness at bay.
With a wave of his wand, Samson opens the massive iron doors that separate me from the outside world. Beyond them is a brightly lit room that makes me squint and shield my eyes. I’ve grown accustomed to the perpetual gloom of Azkaban, and the light feels harsh against my pale, light-starved skin.
"Here, Malfoy," Samson grunts, setting a simple wooden box on the counter. "Your wand and other belongings that were confiscated at your arrest."
I approach slowly, my heart hammering in my chest as I lift the lid.
The first thing I reach for is my wand. As soon as my fingers curl around the familiar hawthorn wood, magic surges through my veins, humming with a quiet, almost desperate joy. The very same wand that I had given Harry at the final battle.
Circe, I have missed this.
My throat tightens with relief, and I force down the emotion threatening to spill over.
Beneath my wand are my old robes—once tailored perfectly to my frame, now probably far too loose after months of prison rations. My dragonhide boots. A handful of sickles and knuts. And... a crumpled newspaper clipping.
I smoothed it out, unable to stop the small, bitter smile that tugs at my lips.
It is a photo of Harry. His awkward, nervous smile, and green eyes darting around as he flushed under the attention of the press. The caption reads: "The Boy Who Lived. The Boy Who Saved Us All."
Of course, I kept this.
Samson’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.
"To your left, there's a private space to clean up and change. Just remember—limited spell use until your parole package is reviewed. Don’t give them any reason to toss you back in here."
He hesitates, almost as if unsure whether to say more. Then, with a quiet nod, he adds, "After that, just some paperwork and you’re free to go."
Free.
The word makes my head spin.
I step into the small side room, not bothering to close the door. I haven’t known privacy for a year, and truthfully, the idea of a locked door sends a wave of panic through me. Wonderful, yet another fear to overcome.
Stripping off the scratchy prison garb, I stand bare, avoiding the cracked mirror on the far wall and lift my wand. For a fleeting moment, fear grips me. What if I can’t do it? What if Azkaban has stripped me of my magic as thoroughly as it has stripped me of my pride?
But I push the fear down and cast the first spell I’ve spoken in a year.
“Flumen Purificans.”
Warm, soapy water flows from the tip of my wand, swirling around my body in gentle currents, scrubbing away the grime that has built up over the year of meagre showers. The sensation was strange, almost foreign, but the weight of filth and Azkaban itself seemed to rinse away with the dirt.
My hair, once platinum and sleek, is now a tawny mess of knots and mats. I’ll cut it soon enough, but for now, I let the water run through it.
I dress slowly, and as I suspect, the fine fabrics of my robes hang off my thin frame. I feel no inclination to look at my reflection and do my best to avoid the cracked mirror still. I'm not ready to face the man I’ve become just yet.
Emptying my pillowcase’s contents into the wooden box of the rest of my measly belongings, I dump the empty pillowcase with my disregarded uniform. Good riddance.
When I step back into the room, Samson is laying out stacks of parchment.
"The first three piles are Azkaban processing papers. Sign them, and you’re officially released," he says. "The fourth is your resource package. Not standard procedure, but it was arranged by Miss Granger—she’s been advocating for those who… were children fighting in the war."
His voice softens, and I catch what sounds like admiration.
Of course, Granger was advocating for the likes of me, I smile despite the guilt that flashes as I recall her screaming in pain on the floor of the manor.
"The final stack is your parole information."
I stare at the papers, feeling the weight of this moment settle over me.
When I hesitate, Samson places a firm hand on my shoulder.
"You’ve got another chance, Malfoy. Don’t waste it."
My throat tightens, and for the first time in a year, I find the courage to speak the truth.
"Please… call me Draco. I want nothing to do with the Malfoy name."
Samson’s expression softens.
"Alright, Draco. Just… let’s never meet in these walls again, yeah?"
I manage a shaky nod.
One year in Azkaban.
I had walked in carrying the weight of my family’s sins.
I was walking out... ready to be something more.
And somewhere beyond these walls, Harry was waiting for me.
Freedom – Day 1
My palms are slick with sweat as I clutch the wooden box to my chest, following Samson through the winding corridors of Azkaban.
He moves with practised ease, unlocking door after door with the flick of his wand, leading me through the fortress that had caged me for the past year. The corridors feel endless, each heavy step echoing off the cold, stone walls. But then, at last, we reach the final set of doors—massive oak slabs with the words "Leave Azkaban a Better Wizard" carved into the wood.
I stop, staring at the words as something thick and heavy settles within me.
"Shall I get the door for you, Draco?" Samson's voice is quieter than usual, almost... kind.
I glance at him, unsure if I’m ready.
No. That’s a lie. I am more than bloody ready.
I nod, and with a flick of his wand, the great doors groan open.
Blinding daylight floods the corridor, and I have to squint against the sudden brightness. The ocean's roar crashes against the cliffs below, and the sharp, salty wind cuts through the thin fabric of my robes. But beneath the familiar scent of the sea, there’s something else. Something I haven’t tasted in over a year, maybe ever.
Freedom.
I step forward and raise my face to the sun, feeling its warmth on my pale, thin skin. I breathe deep, filling my lungs with air that doesn’t reek of damp stone and decay.
Behind me, Samson speaks one last time.
"Good day, Draco. Best of luck."
I turn just in time to see the doors swing shut with a heavy clang, sealing Azkaban—and the boy I’d been inside it—behind me.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring at the endless stretch of ocean and sky before me. It feels too vast, too open. I’ve been trapped in darkness for so long, that I almost can’t comprehend the world waiting beyond those rusted iron gates.
Then I see him.
Past the jagged stone path, just beyond the prison’s final gate, stands Harry Potter.
He’s there. Waiting.
My breath catches in my throat, and before I can think, my feet are moving. First, a walk, then a jog, and finally, I’m running—box clutched tightly to my chest, heart pounding, lungs burning as I close the distance between us.
I skid to a stop just an arm’s length away, gasping for breath, my body trembling with exhaustion and disbelief.
I look up and meet those familiar green eyes, bright and full of warmth.
“Harry—”
Before I can finish, Harry steps forward and pulls me into a crushing embrace.
I stiffen, startled by the sudden contact, but then... I sink into it. My head drops against his shoulder, and the tension that has kept me upright for the past year slowly unravels as his arms tighten around me.
"Draco," he murmurs against my ear.
I close my eyes and let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding.
I’m free.
And I’m not alone.