It was a dreary morning at the harbour, as it always was when Draco deigned to make the passage to Azkaban. The sun's rays were barely beginning to peek over the clouds that loomed heavily over the water.
The wind rolling off the North Sea was fierce, the salty air striking his cheeks and dishevelling his hair even further than it already was. Exhausted, and more than mildly hungover, Draco found himself grateful for the rousing effects of the cold.
Visiting his father had been a sudden decision — spurred mostly by a belly full of Firewhisky and the sight of his mother's tears. Waking up to find his Mark caked with dried blood had also been a contributing factor.
Apparating directly to Azkaban was absolutely prohibited by the Ministry, so Draco had stumbled from his bed to meet the first ferry that made the dangerous trek across the unpredictable waters of the North Sea. Being unaware of the time, however, he had beaten it by several hours.
It was fine, really. Draco didn't leave the house too frequently these days, and the wind and the cold felt good against his skin. So he sat on the rocky shore, face chapped and hair tousled, waiting for a ferry to carry him to the man he had once idolised, and whom he now detested.
His face was numb and near freezing when the first ferry of the day appeared on the horizon. Draco stood and waited as it made its way to him — the only person waiting to visit the prison so early on a weekday. He was at the very tip of the dock, hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat, as the ferry finally reached its destination. The haggard ferryman looked at him with faint surprise, probably unused to having a passenger so early in the morning. "Azkaban, eh?" he asked, as if the ferry went anywhere else.
Draco met the man's eye and nodded.
"Five Galleons, it'll be," the man huffed. Already familiar with the cost of the journey, Draco produced a small pouch from his coat pocket, already filled with the required number of Galleons, which he pressed into the man's hand before boarding without another word.
The journey was not long, but the North Sea was infamous for its unpredictable temper and its sudden foul weather, so the going was slow. Waves slapped against the hull of the ferry — lazily at first, but as they sailed on they grew more aggressive, rocking the boat dramatically from side to side. Draco found himself wondering whether one of those infamous storms was rolling in — the boat could capsize, he could drown, and then it would all be over and — Stop it. He shivered at his own thoughts.
As if Neptune himself had heard him, the waves ceased their hostility against the hull, and suddenly the waters of the North Sea were calm. The sun began to break through what had previously been a flat, grey sky.
Draco flinched at the light and retreated beneath the awning of the ferry, the brightness much too sharp for his throbbing skull. The sea now settled, the ferry began to cut through the water at a quickened pace, and suddenly Azkaban loomed in the distance. His stomach dropped. His fingers began to tingle. He swallowed, and his tongue felt too large for his mouth, and for a moment he was certain he would choke on it.
He gripped the railing, fingers sprawled across the cold metal. You're free, he told himself. This is just a visit. His knuckles turned white as he held on, afraid his fingers might snap at the joints. Draco forced a breath out, then dragged one deep in, then exhaled again. Breathe. It was the same every visit. Every time he saw that dark silver tower rising on the horizon, the panic twisted deep inside him, making it hard to breathe, making him want to turn back, to flee — because he could not go back there, not ever, not under any circumstances —
He was startled from his thoughts as the ferryman appeared behind him and grasped his shoulder. Draco whipped around with a gasp, his hand flying to the wand in his trouser pocket. He couldn't let them take him — It's just the ferryman, you paranoid fool.
The ferryman gave him an odd look and ran a hand through his long, unkempt beard. "Apologies, lad, didn't mean ta spook ya."
Draco nodded, averting his eyes. "Place makes me a bit jumpy," he replied quietly. An understatement of significant proportions.
"Aye," he nodded. "Understand what ya mean, lad. Gives me the willies ma'self. We'll be docking in about fifteen minutes."
"Thank you," Draco replied, turning back to face the horizon, and Azkaban. He wasn't going back to prison. He was visiting his father. Everything was all right. He focused on his breathing. The panic had subsided but had not gone entirely — he doubted it ever would. He flexed his fingers, ignoring the lingering tingling in the pads. He could do this. This was not the first time, nor would it be the last, and he had always made it through before.
The ferry docked and Draco disembarked, the sound of waves gently lapping against the hull fading away as he walked towards the entrance of the prison. He could feel the despondency bearing down on him with every step. The Dementors were gone, but some residue of their magic surely remained — no place should feel the way this island did. The air was heavy and stagnant and cloying, pressing against him and making it hard to breathe. The misery in it was so dense and palpable that Draco had to fight the urge to simply lie down on the ground and wait for it to end.
Normal islands did not feel this way.
He wanted a drink — right now — to numb the desolation that crept up through the soles of his feet with every step. Or, at the very least, he wished he could still Occlude properly. He tried, briefly, to raise his walls, but with each brick he stacked, two more crumbled and fell, disintegrating into a fine red dust. He knew it was useless. It had been since the end of the War.
With a sigh, Draco continued on. Entering Azkaban was something of a blur, as it usually was; the anxiety eating away at his vision, tilting the world slightly on its axis. It took all of his fortitude to remain upright and moving as he followed a guard into a small, dark, windowless room. In its centre sat a table with an uncomfortable-looking metal chair on each side.
If Draco didn't look closely, he might have mistaken it for an ordinary table — perhaps in some cheap café. But Draco was observant, at least when sober, and there was an unmistakable shimmer of magic bisecting the table. A magical barrier, preventing the occupants from touching one another, from passing anything between them, from any meaningful interaction.
The thought that he would never touch his father again was a strangely sobering one.
Draco took his seat and stretched his fingers towards where he knew the barrier began. He had never tried before, but he wondered — Zap — he pulled his hand back. Well. That wasn't so bad.
He reached forward again, this time with his hand balled into a fist, and pushed through it forcefully. There was another zap, and then there was burning, the skin of his knuckles melting, and he couldn't move —
"Draco," a voice drawled.
Draco pulled back with a whimper, cradling his injured hand to his chest. "You were always such a curious boy," Lucius said, rounding the table to take the chair on the opposite side. Draco looked up, trembling. "Go on, then. Look at it," Lucius nodded towards Draco's hand.
Draco looked down, expecting ruined flesh and sinewy muscle, and found instead — a hand. Just a hand. His hand. "How—?" he whispered.
Lucius chuckled. "All in the mind, my son."
Draco dropped his hand into his lap and looked up at his father. Despite his imprisonment, Lucius Malfoy looked very much the same as Draco remembered. His strong jaw seemed somewhat narrower, his cheeks a little hollower — he had lost weight. His face was freshly shaved, and his hair was still the long, silvery blond that had always been his signature. Denied any rope or ribbon, Lucius' hair fell straight down his back and across his shoulders, still well-kept and shining. Draco thought he could see a few more grey strands in that long mane, though the silver quality of Malfoy colouring hid it admirably. "You look well, Father," Draco said simply.
Lucius' eyes moved over him. "You look like shit, Draco." Draco flinched. His father had certainly never been one to mince words. "I know facial hair is fashionable these days," Lucius continued, "but you look terribly unkempt. Plebeian, even."
"Simply trying something new, Father," Draco replied with a shrug.
"If I, a prisoner of Azkaban, can be afforded a razor, I'm quite certain you can find yourself one —"
"I did not come here to be mocked, Father," Draco interrupted.
"You could have fooled me, son. The beard, the shadows under your eyes, and the smell of alcohol on you at this hour?" Lucius smirked.
Draco wanted to strangle him. Reach across the barrier and strangle him while screaming that this was his fault, nobody's fault but his — "I am here for Mother," he said instead.
Lucius' smirk disappeared. He straightened in his chair. "'Cissa?" he asked, looking simultaneously hopeful and alarmed.
Draco nodded. "She hasn't been doing well."
Lucius was on his feet in an instant, pacing. "Where is she?" he demanded.
"She's at home, Father —"
"Then call a Healer immediately, Draco —"
"Father." Draco steadied his voice. "Please sit down so I can speak to you."
Lucius fixed his son with a narrow look, then took his seat again. "Speak," he said.
Draco's blood boiled. "She has problems with her memory, Father. Fugues, they're called —" he began.
"The Mudblood?" Lucius seethed.
"Don't use that word around me, Lucius," Draco said, his voice flat and very quiet.
"Gone soft for the Mudblood, have we, son?" Lucius taunted.
Now it was Draco who was out of his seat, both hands on the table. "Don't you dare. That poison ruined our lives. Look around you, Lucius. You are in prison. And still you sit there and spew the same vile vitriol?"
"The War may not have gone as planned, Draco, but that does not change the fundamental facts about Muggles and —"
Draco held up a hand. "Stop. Just stop. I am here for my mother, not for this."
Lucius closed his mouth.
"If you interrupt me one more time, I swear to Merlin I will leave this island and you will never see me, or her, again. Do you understand me?"
A flicker of something — pain, perhaps — crossed Lucius' face before he nodded. "Understood," he said quietly.
"As I was saying," Draco began, "she has fugues. She forgets what year it is with an alarming regularity. Right now, she doesn't know you're in Azkaban. I found her crying for you last night."
Lucius closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "I miss her more than anything," he said, low and unexpected in its sincerity.
"I told her you're in Lyon, with the peacocks. She seems to latch onto the peacocks."
"You won't tell her? That I'm —" Lucius began.
"No. I won't tell her anything that will hurt her. Any further," Draco added deliberately, because he wanted his father to feel it.
Lucius buried his face in his hands. "Merlin," he swore under his breath.
Draco was taken aback — he was fairly certain he had never heard his father swear before. "I'm attempting to have a potion made for her," he continued.
"The Granger girl?" Lucius asked, correcting himself quickly.
"Yes," Draco confirmed.
A long pause followed. "I didn't want this, you know," Lucius said at last.
"I know," Draco replied.
"All I wanted —"
"What you wanted doesn't matter, Lucius," Draco interrupted. "What you wanted was the destruction of Muggle-borns and Muggles alike. What you wanted poisoned my family and destroyed it entirely. So forgive me, Father, if I have little interest in hearing about your intentions."
"Son —"
"Don't." Draco looked at him squarely. "I came here to ask whether you could write to her. I think it would help, hearing from you." He watched the exact moment his father's heart fractured, and for one brief moment, he felt sorry for him.
Just the one moment.
"I'll do my best," Lucius replied quietly. "There may be a sympathetic guard who would carry letters out."
"Good," Draco replied, already moving towards the door.
"Draco, wait —"
He turned to face the man he had once idolised above all others. "What?"
"Will you tell her that I love her?" Lucius asked softly.
And what about me? his head screamed. "Yes," he said gruffly instead.
He turned on his heel and left his father, and Azkaban, behind.
—
When Draco finally made it home, he went straight to the kitchen and found a bottle. He drank directly from it, standing in the middle of the room.
The visit to Azkaban had gone almost exactly as he had expected: terribly. But he had gone, and done what he had set out to do, and now he deserved a drink. After several long pulls of Firewhisky, he felt the tension in his bones begin to ease. He leaned back against the counter and held the bottle against his chest. One more exhale, one more gulp.
He was just pulling himself away from the counter, preparing to check on his mother and head to the library — where he would either accomplish some research or get thoroughly sloshed — when he heard the distinctive crack of house-elf Apparition.
"Master Draco!" squeaked Jinxy. "Jinxy has been looking for you, sir!"
Draco smiled faintly. "Sorry, Jinxy. I went to see my father this morning."
Jinxy nodded, though he didn't miss the flash of unease in her eyes. "Master Draco got a letter while he was gone, sir!" she said, holding out a small envelope.
Draco took it from her and stared at it. Post was not a frequent occurrence these days. Most of his acquaintances were either imprisoned or had fled to the Continent to escape any association with Voldemort and his Death Eaters.
He turned it over. It was sealed with a purple wax seal embossed with a looping letter E. Curious, Draco broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.
Mr. Malfoy,
Our conversation yesterday led me to believe I should be expecting rather extensive research on my desk this morning. Imagine my surprise to find that not only had you failed to send it immediately, as you expressly stated you would, but you had not sent it at all.
I had thought you were serious about this venture, but if that is not the case, I request immediate payment for the valuable time you have wasted. If I do not receive your research by Monday, an Auror will be in contact with you regarding compensation.
Sincerely,
Hermione Granger
Master of Brewing and Potion-making
Owner and Founder, Elixir
The absolute nerve of this girl — he could feel the flush creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. His day had already been abysmal, and now this? He did not need this.
Angry, and more than slightly tipsy, Draco Apparated without a second thought, landing directly in the middle of Granger's potion shop. There was a shattering sound, and a gasp. He turned to find Granger with a customer, who had just dropped a vial onto the floor.
"Malfoy," Granger said coolly, apparently unsurprised to see him. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
Draco's eyes went to the customer, who looked both confused and startled. "Granger, may I have a moment?" he asked, his voice tight.
She turned to her customer with a bright smile. "Could you excuse me just one moment?" The man nodded dumbly, looking between the two of them. Granger squeezed his shoulder briefly, then Vanished the mess on the floor with a flick of her wand, and turned back to Draco. "You know the way to my office," she said, fury barely contained.
"After you," he bit out. She seethed at him before stepping past him, leading the way through the little shop and into her office. She settled herself behind her desk, and Draco, no longer able to hold himself together, slammed the door. "What the hell is this, Granger?" he snapped, holding her letter out in front of him.
"What does it look like?" she replied coldly.
"Passive-aggressive grandstanding is what it looks like."
"Lower your voice, Malfoy," she said.
Draco slammed his palms onto her desk and she flinched. "No! Do you have any idea — any idea what today has been? I don't need this from you. I came to you for help, and you send me this — I just — fuck." He knew he wasn't speaking in complete sentences. He was angry and drunk and ashamed, and—
"Malfoy —"
"Shut up, Granger." His anger left him all at once, and his voice dropped. "Just shut up."
"Malfoy, you're bleeding," she said, very calmly.
"What —"
"Your arm." Draco looked down at his left forearm, and indeed, blood had soaked through his sleeve in a dark, spreading patch of crimson.
"Merlin," he whispered.
Granger was out of her seat and beside him in an instant, her fingers wrapping around his forearm, already tugging at his sleeve. "Let me," she said.
"No —" he said hoarsely. But it was too late; she had already pushed the fabric up past his elbow, and what remained of his Mark was visible, glistening and seeping from the jagged wounds he had carved into himself the night before. Her eyes met his with an expression he couldn't quite name. Draco held her gaze for only a moment before he looked away.
"What happened?" she asked quietly.
"I fell," Draco replied, and tried to pull away from her hold.
She held on. "Stay here a moment. I'll get my kit and clean this up for you."
"Granger, you don't have to —"
"Just let me," she said. "I trained as a Healer. That's a serious wound, Malfoy — it could get infected. Let me look at it."
His anger now entirely spent, Draco became aware of the slow slide of blood down his arm, the distant, throbbing ache of a wound barely closed. He nodded. "Okay," he said quietly.
She was gone and back within moments, carrying a small kit. "Sit," she ordered, kneeling before him. "Arm out." He extended his arm and she took it in both hands, wand at the ready, and cleared the blood from his skin with a murmured spell. With the mess cleared, she studied what remained.
"Granger —"
"Be quiet," she said, not unkindly. She opened her kit and produced a small white compress, which she soaked in a clear liquid. "This is going to sting."
She pressed it to his wounds and it burned, fiercely, and then the pain was gone. "What was that?" he asked.
"Antiseptic. Muggles use it to clean wounds and prevent infection," she replied. She peered more closely at his arm. "Malfoy, there's glass in here."
"I fell a few times," he replied. It hadn't even occurred to him that he had pressed the shard so hard, so deep, that it had broken off beneath his skin. She cast several spells in quick succession, and when Draco looked down, his arm was healed completely — not so much as a scratch left to mark the damage.
The Mark was there, too. Whole and intact. Exactly as it had been since the end of the War.
"Why did you do that?" he asked, his voice rough.
"Do what?"
"Why — I didn't want to see it —" he started.
"The Mark? I'm sorry, I didn't think —"
"I wanted it gone, Granger. I don't want to see it. It's a brand, it's poison, it's a reminder of every single thing I did and didn't do — and I wanted it gone —"
"You tried to cut it off," she said softly. Not a question.
He met her eyes for a moment. "I told you. I fell," he said, without any real conviction.
Her hand was still around his arm. Her fingers tightened briefly — comfort, possibly; he wasn't entirely sure. "I'm sorry about the letter," she began.
"Don't be. You had no reason to think anything but the worst of me. That's fair," he replied, with a shrug.
She was quiet for a moment, studying his arm, before she looked back up at him. "True," she said. "But I should have been more patient, regardless."
"I can't argue with that."
"Send me your research when you can, Malfoy. Please disregard the letter. It was unprofessional."
He nodded, suddenly too aware of her hand still circling his forearm, and the open, unguarded concern in her expression. On instinct, Draco pulled back.
Granger let go immediately, leaning away from him. "I'm sorry, that was —"
"It's fine, Granger," he interrupted. The apologies were making him worse.
All of this was making him worse. He needed a drink.
"Oh — Gregory!" she exclaimed suddenly, rising from the floor. She didn't spare him another glance as she shot out of the office in search of whoever Gregory was.
Draco remained in his seat, staring at his forearm. The wounds had been deep and ugly, and he had found something perverse and relieved in the ruin of his own skin. But there it was: the Mark, smooth and legible against pale skin, as if it were merely a harmless tattoo rather than a symbol of everything he wished he could undo. What had been destroyed was anew, as though nothing had happened at all.
But everything had happened. The fear, the guilt, the shame, the certainty that it was wrong — it had always been wrong — and still having to bury it, Occlude it, hide it down and down because there had been no other choice, because the only other option was dying sooner —
"You hate it, don't you?" came Granger's voice from the doorway.
He turned. She was leaning against the frame, watching him. He had the sense she had been there a moment. "Of course I hate it," he said simply.
"I didn't realise —" she began.
"You still don't, Granger," Draco interrupted, sensing another apology gathering behind her teeth. "You don't know anything about me, or my family, or this Mark. You don't understand any of it — so please don't pretend that you do."
She looked down at her feet for a moment before meeting his eyes. "You shouldn't do that to yourself," she said quietly. "You know that."
"Don't," Draco said, rising from his chair and closing the distance between them. He stopped when they were too close — he wasn't entirely sure when or how he had decided to get so close to Hermione Granger — their faces inches apart. Her eyes were bright and fierce as she held his gaze. "Don't act like you give a damn about my wellbeing. I don't need your Gryffindor charity."
For a moment he was certain she would shove him back. Instead, she held her ground and looked him square in the face. "Forgive me," she said coolly, "for attempting to treat you like a human being."
"You weren't humanising me, Granger," he snarled, refusing to be the one to step back. "You found a wounded animal and cleaned up its blood. That doesn't make me your responsibility."
"Are you comparing yourself to a wounded animal, Malfoy?" she replied, her chin lifting. A small, satisfied smirk curved her mouth as she recognised she had won the exchange.
Her tongue swept briefly across her lower lip, and for one inexplicable moment Draco's gaze dropped there before he finally took a step back. "I think we're all very aware of how far the mighty have fallen."
The smirk faltered at his words. She stepped back too, looking briefly startled. "Malfoy, I didn't mean —"
"You're doing it again," Draco said. The venom had gone out of him entirely.
Granger closed her mouth. After a moment, she murmured, "Sorry."
He nodded. "Thanks for this," he said, gesturing vaguely at his forearm, "I suppose."
"Healer training," she replied by way of explanation, and he understood it for the olive branch it was.
"It's fine," he said, his mask sliding back into place — the cool distance he had spent years perfecting settling over him like a second skin. "This has been absolutely riveting, Granger, but I really must be going." Even as he said it, he was aware of the unease tightening in his gut, aware that she was looking at him with the unnerving impression of seeing straight through him.
If anyone ever could, it would probably be Granger.
But she only tilted her head slightly and said, very quietly, "You'll send me the research?"
"Yes." He moved towards the door, giving her a wide berth. "Straight away."
"That's what you said last time," she replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"Yes, well. I mean it this time."
"Right."
And for reasons he could not begin to fathom, Draco found he could not rid himself of the image of Hermione Granger's tongue sweeping across her lower lip all the long walk home.