July. Letters
NORTH SEA. AZKABAN. MORNING
Draco Malfoy was dying of boredom. Returning to England, he was ready to suffer, to fight, to face the hatred of all who were hurt by the Death Eaters. And also to deal with the Death Eaters themselves, whom he tortured on Voldemort's orders. What he certainly did not expect was that he would lie on a bunk in a tiny cell for two weeks and do absolutely nothing. Looking out the window, looking up at the ceiling, eating and sleeping are all his amusements. And, also, to remember the past years and think about what comes next. And fantasize about her.
The deadbolt clanged open, and a stocky Auror with a displeased face brought breakfast. The food here was terrible, the guard almost never condescended to talk to him, but Draco always brightened up when someone came in. When the door was closed, it blocked all sounds. The only thing Malfoy heard in those two weeks was the howl of the wind and the sound of the sea. When the guard came to give or take away food, one could hear someone's voice from other cells and at least understand who might be among the neighbors. Three days ago, he thought he heard Theo Nott's snide tone, and now he listened intently, trying to confirm his hunch.
The Auror threw the tray on the table, and Malfoy saw that besides the bowl of porridge, there was something unusual.
- What's this? — Draco asked hurriedly, stopping the man at the door.
There was an envelope, a pen, and two sheets of paper on the tray.
- Envelope, pen and paper, — the guard muttered. — You can write a letter. I'll pick it up at lunchtime.
The door slammed shut. Malfoy forgot about breakfast. He has new entertainment.
The letter turned out to be a difficult task. What do people write who have nothing going on in their lives? It is unlikely that Mom will appreciate his description of fifty shades of the stormy sea. Malfoy wasn't going to complain about the food, boredom and the guard either, so as not to please his father. Remembering Lucius and his stories about being in Azkaban, the young man began to write, dispelling his mother's possible fears and comparing what had changed in prison after the war.
Draco was writing a tender but optimistic farewell to the letter as the bolt on the door began to move again. Malfoy wondered if he had spent several hours composing a half-page letter. However, Savage unexpectedly entered the cell. Is today Potter's birthday? Not a day, but some kind of holiday.
Savage stayed with him for a very short time, and Draco's hopes were not justified. Malfoy wanted to know when and how his trial would take place, but he replied that the Wizengamot was now busy with more serious matters. At the request for walks, training, or just talking with other prisoners, he mumbled indistinctly that “work is underway in this direction.” Draco still didn't understand why he came in at all. Apparently for the sake of the question: "Mr. Malfoy, at our first meeting I did not understand — what prompted you to return to the UK?" At the very least, his answer: “a chance to at least try to fix something in your life” — for some reason, Savage really liked it.
"At least try to fix something," repeated Malfoy, looking at the completed letter to his mother. And then he grabbed a pen and a second, unused sheet of paper and wrote in a flourish: “Sorry for being rude. D.M.” The bolt clanged, and the Auror looked into the cell.
- I'll need a second envelope.
- No, you won't need it. One letter a month,— the guard said indifferently.
Crap.
- But I got here in June. It's July now, which means I can send two letters, — Malfoy insisted.
The Auror gave him a contemptuous look.
- You will swing your rights in front of the Wizengamot. Tenth of the month, one letter. Are you sending it or not?
Malfoy looked at the two sheets on the table. Then it dawned on him. Draco selected a sheet with one line on it and added below it: "Please send a letter to my mother" and the address of a hotel in Bali. Then he folded both sheets, put them in an envelope, and signed "Hermione Granger."