It was a dreary morning at the harbor, as it always was when Draco deigned to make the passage to Azkaban. It was early morning, the rays of the sun barely beginning to peek over the clouds that loomed over the harbor.
The wind rolling off the North Sea was fierce, the salty breeze striking his cheeks and disheveling his hair even more than it already was. Exhausted, and more than mildly hungover, Draco relished the rousing effects that the sea provided for him.
Visiting his father had been a sudden decision for Draco, spurred mostly by a belly full of firewhiskey and the sight of his mother's tears. Waking up to his Mark caked with dried blood had also been a contributing factor.
Apparating directly to Azkaban was absolutely prohibited by the Ministry of Magic, 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 beat the first ferry by several hours.
It was fine, really. Draco didn't leave the house too frequently these days, and the wind and the chill felt good on his bare skin. So he sat on the rocky shore of the sea, face chapped and hair tousled by the wind, waiting for a ferry to visit the man who he had once idolized, 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 in the morning on a weekday. Draco was at the very tip of the dock, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat, as the ferry finally reached its first destination. The haggard ferryman looked at him with a bit of surprise, probably unused to having a charter so early in the morning. "Azkaban, eh?" he asked, as if the ferry went to any other location.
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 immediately pulled a small pouch from the pocket of his coat, already filled with the required number of Galleons, which he pressed into the man's hand before boarding the ferry without another word.
The journey was not long, but the North Sea was infamous for its unpredictable ways and its foul weather that seemingly appeared out of nowhere, so the going was slow. Waves slapped against the ferry; lazily, at first, but as they sailed on, they became more aggressive, rocking the boat dramatically from right to left. Draco wondered if one of those infamous storms was currently rolling in—the boat could sink and then he would drown and it would all be over and—Stop it. He shivered at his own thoughts.
As if Neptune himself had heard his thoughts, the waves ceased their hostile fluctuations against the side of the ferry, and suddenly the waters of the North Sea were calm, and the sun began to shine through the clouds of what had previously been a gray, overcast sky.
Draco flinched at the sunlight and retreated beneath the awning of the ferry, the stream of light much too bright for his throbbing skull. The sea now sated, the ferry began to slice through the waters at a quickened pace, and suddenly Azkaban loomed in the distance. Draco's stomach dropped, and his fingers began to tingle. He swallowed, and his tongue felt too big for his mouth, and for a moment he was certain he would choke on it.
He gripped the railing of the ferry, his fingers sprawled across the metal. It's fine, he told himself. You're free. His knuckles turned white on the railing, as he gripped the metal so hard he was afraid his fingers might snap away from their sockets. Draco huffed a breath, and then sucked in another deeply, before forcefully exhaling. Breathe. It was the same every visit. Every time he saw the dark silver tower of Azkaban looming on the horizon, the panic and anxiety—the fear—twisted deep inside of him, making it hard to breathe, making him want to run, to escape, because he could not go back there—he could not, not ever—
Draco was shocked from his thoughts as the ferryman came up behind him, grasping his shoulder. With a gasp, Draco whipped around, frantically searching for his wand tucked in the pocket of his trousers. He couldn't let them take him, no—It's just the ferryman, you psychotic fool.
The ferryman gave Draco an odd look, before running 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, a vast understatement.
"Aye," he nodded. "Understand what ya mean, lad. Place gives me the willies ma'self. We'll be docking in about fifteen minutes."
"Thank you," Draco responded, turning back to the sea, and to Azkaban. He wasn't going back to prison. He was going to visit his father. Everything was all right. Draco sighed, focusing on his breathing. The panic had subsided but was not wholly gone; he doubted it ever would be. Flexing his fingers, Draco ignored the tingling sensations in the pads of his fingertips. He could do this. This was not the first time, nor the last, and he had always made it through before. This time would be no different.
The ferry docked and Draco disembarked, the sounds of the waves gently lapping against the sides of the ferry fading away as he walked towards the entrance of the prison. He could feel the despondency bearing down on him the closer he got to Azkaban. The Dementors were gone, but Draco was certain that some of their magic remained. It was not normal for a place to feel the way that this island did: the air was heavy and stagnant and cloying, making it hard to breathe. The misery in the air was palpable and so dense, Draco fought the urge to lay down on the ground and curl up in on himself to wait for death.
No. Normal islands didn't feel this way.
He wanted a drink—right now—to numb the desolation that he felt with every step of his feet on the cursed coast of the island. Or, at the very least, he wished could still occlude. For a moment, Draco tried to bring his walls up, but with each brick that he packed onto the wall, two more cracked and fell, falling to the ground and exploding into a cloud of fine red dirt. Trying was useless, he knew. It had been since the end of the War.
With a sigh, Draco continued on. Entering Azkaban was a bit of blur, as it usually was; Draco's anxiety and fear eating away at his vision, tilting the world on its axis. It took all of his fortitude to remain upright and in motion as he trailed behind a guard, who led him into a small, dark, windowless room. In the middle of the room was a table and an uncomfortable-looking metal chair on each side.
If Draco didn't look closely, he could have mistaken it for a normal table, perhaps in a cheap café that sold swill as coffee. But Draco was observant—as long as he was sober—and there was an unmistakable ripple of magic that bisected the table. A magical barrier, preventing the occupants from touching, from passing contraband between each other, from interacting.
It sobered him, the thought that he would never touch his father again.
Draco took a seat at the table and stretched his fingers towards where he knew the magical barrier to begin. He had never tried before, but he wondered if he tried to get past the barrier— Zap—Draco pulled his hand back. Well, that wasn't so bad.
He reached forward again, this time his hand in a fist, and punched forcibly through the magical barrier. There was another zap, then there was burning, the skin of his hand was melting, and he couldn't move—
"Draco," a voice drawled. Draco pulled back with a whimper, cradling his injured hand against his chest. "You were always such a curious boy," Lucius said, taking the seat on the opposite side of the table. Draco looked up to his father, trembling. "Go on, look at it," Lucius nodded towards Draco's hand.
Draco's gaze dropped towards his maimed hand, and where he expected to see ruined flesh, blood, and sinewy muscle, he saw 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, now certain that his hand was not, in fact, completely disfigured, and looked up at his father. Despite imprisonment, Lucius Malfoy looked very much the same as Draco remembered when the man had been free. His strong, square jaw seemed a bit narrower, and his cheeks somewhat hollower, as if he had lost a bit of weight recently. His face was freshly shaved, and his hair was still the long, silvery blond that had always been his signature style. Forbidden access to any type of rope or ribbon, Lucius' hair fell straight down his back and across his shoulders, just as shiny and well-kept as always. Draco suspected that there were a few more strands of gray in that long blond mane, but the silvery quality that indicated the Malfoy heritage hid it well. "You look well, Father," Draco said simply.
Lucius' eyes flashed at him briefly as he looked Draco up and down. "You look like shit, Draco." Draco flinched. His father had certainly never been one to mince his words. "I know facial hair is in fashion these days," Lucius drawled, "but you look so very unkempt; dare I say, plebian."
"Simply trying something new, Father," Draco said with a shrug.
"Why, certainly, if I, a lowly prisoner of Azkaban, can be afforded a razor, you can certainly find yourself one—"
"I did not come here to be mocked, Father," Draco interrupted harshly.
"You certainly could have fooled me, son. The beard, the bags under the eyes, and the scent of alcohol all over you?" Lucius smirked.
Draco wanted to strangle him. Reach right over, barrier be damned, and strangle him as he screamed how this was his fault, nobody but his—"I am here for Mother," he said instead.
Lucius' smirk disappeared, and he straightened in the chair. "'Cissa?" he asked, looking equal parts hopeful and concerned.
Draco nodded. "She—she's not been doing well."
Lucius rose from his seat in a matter of seconds and began pacing back-and-forth. "Where is she?" he asked hotly.
"She's at home, Father—"
"Call a healer, immediately, Draco."
Draco mustered as much calm as he could before he spoke again. "Father, please sit down so I can talk to you."
Lucius narrowed his eyes at his son before once more taking a seat. "Speak, Draco," he commanded.
Draco's blood boiled. "She has problems with her memory, Father. Fugues, Granger called them—" he began.
"The Mudblood?" Lucius seethed.
"Don't use that word around me, Lucius," Draco spat.
"Gone soft for the Mudblood, have we, son?" Lucius taunted.
Now it was Draco who was out of his seat, slamming his hands down on the table. "Don't you dare spit that venom around me, Lucius. That poison ruined our lives. Look around you, Lucius. You are in prison! And still, you dare spew that same vile vitriol?"
"The War might not have gone as planned, Draco, but that does not change the facts about Muggles and Mudbloods—" Lucius began matter-of-factly.
Draco held up a hand, interrupting him. "Stop. Just stop. I am here for my mother, not for this."
Lucius snapped his mouth shut and nodded. "Tell me."
"If you interrupt me one more time, I swear to Merlin I will leave this forsaken island and you will never see me, or her, ever again. Do you understand, you odious old man?"
A hint of dejection flashed in Lucius' narrowed eyes before he nodded. "Understood," he said quietly.
"As I was saying," Draco began, "she has fugues. She forgets what year it is with a concerning regularity. Right now, she doesn't know that you're in Azkaban. I found her crying for you last night."
Lucius closed his eyes slowly and exhaled deeply. "I miss her more than anything," he said lowly, in a surprising display of emotion.
"I told her you're in Lyon, with the peacocks. She really latches onto the peacocks," Draco mused.
"You won't tell her? That I'm—" Lucius began.
"No, I'm not going to tell her anything that will hurt her. Any further," Draco added, just because he wanted his father to hurt.
Lucius buried his head in his hands. "Fuck," he swore.
Draco was taken aback; he was certain he had never seen his father swear before. "I'm attempting to have a potion made for her."
"The Mud—The Granger girl?" Lucius asked, correcting himself quickly.
"Yes," Draco affirmed with a nod.
"I didn't want this, you know," Lucius said after a long pause.
"I know that," Draco replied.
"All I wanted—"
Draco interrupted, "What you wanted doesn't matter, Lucius. What you wanted was to see the destruction of Muggles and Muggleborns. What you wanted poisoned, and subsequently destroyed my entire family. So, forgive me, Father, if I don't very much care to hear about what it was that you did want."
"Son—"
"Don't," Draco said. "I just came here to ask you if there was a way for you to write to her. I think it would help if she was hearing from you." Draco saw the moment his father's heart broke, and for a moment, he felt sorry for him. But just for a moment.
"I'll do my best," Lucius replied quietly. "I'm sure I can find a sympathetic guard who will smuggle some letters out."
"Wonderful," Draco replied sardonically, heading towards the door.
"Draco, wait—"
Draco whirled around the face the man he had idolized growing up. "What?" he asked coldly.
"Will you tell your mother that I love her?" Lucius asked softly.
And what about me? his head screamed. Instead, he replied with a gruff, "Yes."
With that, Draco turned on his heel, leaving his father, and Azkaban behind.
When Draco finally made it home, he rushed towards the kitchen in desperate search of a drink. Once he had found a bottle, he drank directly from it, standing in the middle of the kitchen.
His visit to Azkaban had gone very much the way he had expected: terribly. But he had gone, and completed his mission, and now he deserved a drink. After several long gulps of firewhiskey, Draco could finally feel the tension in his bones dissipating. Leaning back against the counter, Draco clutched the bottle of firewhiskey protectively against his chest. Another exhale of breath, another gulp of firewhiskey.
With a sigh, Draco pulled himself away from the counter, preparing himself to check on his mother and head to the library, where he would either accomplish a bit of research or get positively sloshed. Before he could make to leave the kitchen, however, Draco heard the distinctive pop of house elf apparition.
"Master Draco!" squeaked Jinxy. "Jinxy has been looking for you, sirs!"
Draco smiled faintly at Jinxy. "Sorry, Jinxy, I went to see my father this morning."
Jinxy nodded at Draco, but he didn't miss the flash of fear in her eyes. "Master Draco got a letter when his was gone, sirs!" said the elf, holding a missive out in front of her.
Draco took the letter from Jinxy and stared at it. It was not often that Draco received post anymore. Most of his acquaintances were either imprisoned or had fled for the continent and away from any and all ties of Voldemort and his Death Eaters.
Draco turned the letter over, where it was sealed with purple wax seal emblazoned with a loopy letter E. Confused, Draco ripped open the seal and a piece of parchment unfurled it with his fingers.
Mr. Malfoy,
Our conversation yesterday led me to believe that I should be expecting some rather extensive research on my desk this morning. Imagine my surprise, that not only did you not send your research to me immediately as you expressly stated you would, but you failed to send it to me at all.
I thought you were serious about this venture, but if that is not the case, I request immediate payment for my valuable time that you have wasted. If I do not receive your research by Monday, an Auror will be contacting you regarding compensation.
Sincerely,
Hermione Granger, Master of Brewing and Potion-making. Owner and founder of Elixir
The nerve—the absolute nerve of this girl—Draco could feel the flush creeping up his neck and to his cheeks. His day had already been supremely bad, and this? This? He did not need.
Angry, and now slightly tipsy, Draco apparated without a second thought, landing right in the middle of the insufferable swot's potion shop. There was the sound of a shattering glass, and a gasp. Draco turned around to see Granger with a customer, who had just dropped a vial of potion on the floor.
"Malfoy," Granger said coldly, seemingly unsurprised to see him. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
Draco's eyes flashed to the customer, who looked both confused and startled. "Granger, may I have a moment?" he asked tightly.
Granger turned to her customer, flashing a bright smile at him. "Can you excuse me for just a moment?" The customer nodded dumbly, looking at Granger, then back at Malfoy. Granger squeezed the customer's shoulder gently, then quickly vanished the mess that he had made on the floor before turning to Draco. "Malfoy, you know the way to my office," she said, fury flashing in her eyes.
"After you," he gritted out coldly. She seethed at him before stepping in front of him, leading him through the little shop and back into her office. Granger settled herself behind her desk primly, and unable to control his anger any longer, Draco slammed the door behind him. "What the fuck is this, Granger?" he shouted, holding her letter out in front of him.
"What does it look like, Malfoy?" she replied coldly.
"Passive-aggressive grandstanding is what it looks like to me, Granger."
"Lower your voice, Malfoy," she ordered.
Draco slammed his hands down onto her desk, and Granger jumped in her seat. "No! What the fuck, Granger?" he yelled again. "Do you have any idea—any idea? I don't need this passive-aggressive bullshit from you! I came to you for help, and you send me this shit—I don't—fuck." He knew he wasn't speaking in complete sentences, but he was angry, and drunk, and ashamed, and—
"Malfoy—"
"Shut up, Granger. Just shut up." His anger was gone now, his voice lower.
"Malfoy, you're bleeding," Granger said calmly.
"What—?"
"Your arm, it's bleeding." Draco looked down at his left arm, and indeed, blood had soaked the sleeve of his shirt, a dark crimson patch that seemed to be growing with every second that passed.
"Fuck," he whispered.
Granger was out of her seat and next to him in a flash, his outburst seemingly forgotten for the time being, and her lithe fingers wrapped around his forearm, tugging at the sleeve. "Let me," she said.
"No!" he cried hoarsely. But it was too late; she had already pushed his sleeve up to his elbow, and what was left of his mark was visible, glistening and dripping with blood from jagged wounds he had carved into himself the night before. Taking in the mess that was his forearm, her eyes met his with a look that he couldn't quite decipher. Draco met her eyes for only a brief moment before he looked away.
"What happened?" she asked quietly.
"I fell," Draco replied coldly, attempting to pull away from her grasp, but she held on tightly.
"Just stay here a moment, I'll go get my kit; I'll clean it up for you," she said, still holding onto his arm.
"Granger, you don't—"
"Just let me," she interrupted. "I trained as a Healer, too. That's a nasty injury, Malfoy. It could get infected. Just let me look at it."
Anger now gone and forgotten, Draco could feel the blood sliding down his arm, the distant pain of his forearm, throbbing with the itch of a newly opened—or, barely closed—wound. Draco nodded. "Okay," he said quietly.
She was gone and back within moments, carrying a small kit. "Sit," she ordered, settling herself down on her knees before him. "Arm." Draco held out his arm dutifully, and she took hold of it in the palm of her small hand. Wand in hand, she cleaned the blood from his arm. His wounds and Mark now visible without the mess that was his blood, she studied his arm.
"Granger—"
"Just be quiet," she said quietly. Her kit opened before her, she pulled out a small, white fluffy ball, which she drenched in some liquid. "This is going to hurt."
The ball was pressed to his wounds and it was searing, burning, and then the pain was gone. "What was that?" he asked.
"Alcohol. Cleans the wound, helps prevent it from becoming infected," she replied. Granger studied his arm once more. "Malfoy, there's glass in here." "
I fell a few times," he replied. It hadn't even occurred to him that he had cut so hard, so deep, that he had broken the glass off into his own skin. She cast a few spells, and when Draco looked down again, his arm was completely healed, naught a scar marring his forearm—nor his Mark. It was there, still. Completely healed. Looking the same as it always had since the end of the War. "Why did you do that?" he asked hoarsely.
"Do what?"
"Why did you—why? I don't—I didn't want to see it—" he stuttered.
"The Mark? I'm sorry, I didn't—"
"I wanted it gone, Granger, I don't want to see it—It's venom, it's poison, it's horrible—and I wanted it gone—"
"You tried to cut it off," she said quietly, not a question, but rather a statement.
He met her eyes for a brief second. "No, I told you—I fell," he said weakly.
Her hand was still around his arm, and her fingers squeezed him gently, possibly as a way to offer comfort; Draco was unsure. "I'm sorry, about the letter—" she began.
"Don't be. You have no reason to suspect that I'm anything but a total bastard. I should be treated as such," he replied with a shrug.
Granger stared at his Mark for a long moment, before looking up into his eyes. "True. But I should've been a bit more patient," she replied with a small smile.
"I can't argue with that."
"Send your research to me when you can, Malfoy. Please disregard my letter. It was unprofessional on my part."
Draco nodded, uncomfortable with her hand still around his forearm, compassion shining brightly in her eyes. Draco jerked away from her on instinct, completely unused to any form of kindness.
Granger jerked back as well, seeming to remember herself. "I'm sorry, that was—"
"It's fine, Granger," he interrupted; the apologies were making him uncomfortable.
All of this was making him uncomfortable. He wanted a drink.
"Oh, shoot!" she exclaimed suddenly, rising from where she knelt before him. "Gregory!" She didn't even look at him as she shot out of her office, presumably looking for Gregory, whoever that was.
Dumbfounded, Draco remained in his seat in her office, staring plaintively at the now-pristine Mark on his arm. The wounds had been deep, and ugly, marring his marble skin that he had once been so proud of. But it had been better. Only marginally, certainly, but better. He would have vastly preferred that disfigured mess to this. Flawless against his pale skin, as if were just a harmless tattoo and not a symbol of hate and violence. What had once been destroyed, was anew, as if nothing had happened.
But everything had happened, hadn't it? The fear, the guilt, the shame, the knowing that with absolute certainty that it was so wrong, but having to force the thoughts down, occlude, hide, because—no, there was no other choice, the only way to stay alive—
Draco gulped, pulling himself out of his thoughts. "You hate it, don't you?" came Granger's voice from behind him.
Draco turned to face her where she was leaning against the doorway. He got the sense that she had been watching him. "Of course I hate it," he said simply.
"I didn't realize—" she began.
Draco interrupted, sensing another apology coming. "You still don't realize, Granger. You don't know anything about me, or my family, or this fucking Mark. You don't understand a single thing, so please don't pretend that you do."
She was silent for a moment, looking down at her feet, before looking back at him. "You shouldn't do that, you know," she said quietly.
"Don't you dare pull that crap on me, Granger," Draco spat, rising to his feet and stalking towards her. "Don't act like you give a fuck about my wellbeing. I don't need your Gryffindor shite." He was close to her, too close. Their noses were almost touching, and he wasn't sure when or why or how he decided to get so close to Hermione Granger. Their eyes met, and hers were alight with fire as she looked at him.
For a moment, Draco was certain that she would push him away, but she simply held his gaze before she spat back at him: "Forgive me for trying to humanize you."
"You weren't trying to humanize me, Granger," he snarled, refusing to move away from her simply because she refused to move away. "You found a wounded animal lying in the grass—and just because you cleaned up my blood doesn't make me your pet."
"Are you comparing yourself to a wounded animal, Malfoy? My, how the mighty have fallen," Granger mocked. She smirked at him, realizing that she had won.
Her tongue peeked out of her lips, wetting them, and Draco's gaze fell to them momentarily before he finally backed away from her. "I think we're all aware of that."
Her smirk cracked momentarily at his words, and she also backed away, looking slightly shocked. "Malfoy, I didn't—"
"Gods, you're doing it again," Draco interrupted, his venom all but gone at this point.
Granger clamped her mouth shut with a nod. After a beat of silence, she murmured, "Sorry."
Her tongue rolled across lips once before she took her bottom lip between her teeth. Draco wasn't sure when he had started noticing her lips. He nodded. "Thanks for this—" he motioned towards his forearm, "I guess."
"I wasn't thinking, I just went with my Healer training," she replied, and he could tell that she meant it as an apology.
So many fucking apologies.
"It's fine," he said tightly. "This has been absolutely riveting, Granger, but I must be on my way now." His mask back in place, the faux coldness that was his entire well-constructed persona superseding the panic that was steadily building in his gut.
Granger narrowed her eyes at him slightly, as if she was able to see past his mask—truthfully if anyone ever could, it would be Granger—but only offered a slight tip of her head, and a quietly murmured, "You'll send me the research?"
"Yes." He walked towards the door, making sure to give himself a wide berth of her form. "Straight away."
"That's what you said last time," she replied with a slight grin.
"Yes, well, I mean it this time."
"Right."
And for reasons Draco could not fathom, he simply could not get the image of Hermione Granger's pretty pink tongue sweeping over her plump lips out of his head.