“Don’t look as if you’ll miss me, Potter,” is Malfoy’s amused quip fifteen minutes before he is due to be transported to Azkaban.

There is a wry, almost challenging smile on his lips, one that looks so out of place on his thin, wan face that Harry in his frustration almost wants to punch.

He isn’t even sure anymore if he is angry because the old wizards in the Wizengamot hadn’t listened to him (again) or because Draco Malfoy in general just has this talent of making people want to punch him, even when he is about to jump into the Dementors’ arms.

Even when it is obviously only false bravado and ego enabling him to stand straight then.

His stiff shoulders and red-rimmed, sunken eyes fool no one in the room, though Harry suspects that Draco isn’t really trying to deceive anyone.

The only ones present to send him off are Narcissa Malfoy and Harry himself after all.

Lucius Malfoy had already been sent to Azkaban since the Battle of Hogwarts, and it was quick and inevitable, and no one had argued the verdict of a life sentence—not his family, not even himself.

But Narcissa and Draco Malfoy—oh, Harry had fought tooth and nail for that.

But in the end, everything was decided on that blemish of ink, that monstrosity of a skull and a serpent.

Draco Malfoy is Marked. Narcissa Malfoy is not.

Three months, the Wizengamot had said. Three months in Azkaban and a magic ban, to be lifted on the 30th of August.

And it is a sentence obviously made light by the petition of Harry Potter—Gregory Goyle hadn’t been so lucky—but three months is still three months and three months is more than enough to be locked in a cage, surrounded by Dementors.

“Malfoy,” is the only thing Harry is able to say then, frustration making his tongue heavy, because Draco Malfoy, 17 years old and the sodding irritating slimy git that he is, saved him—

“The Ministry can’t be going around leaving Marked Death Eaters unpunished,” Malfoy says in reply, his face now fashioned into a careful mask of indifference. “It simply wouldn’t be appropriate.”

Harry shakes his head. “You told them it wasn’t me. You…you saved me,” he trails off, helpless, unsure how to convey the guilt that he feels for not being able to prevent this.

A wistful smile slowly slides its way on Malfoy’s lips. “I did, didn’t I?” And there is a distant look to his eyes, as if he is mulling over a thought that he has long since pondered. He sighs and fixes his robes, if only to avoid Harry’s gaze.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m glad I did.”

Harry can’t help his legs from moving forward at that admission, but a hand on his shoulder steadies him before he can do something stupid like grab Malfoy’s shoulders and shake him and demand that he be angry.

One glance over his shoulder has him looking into Narcissa Malfoy’s blank expression. She shakes her head, a minute tilt to the side, before returning her gaze to her son.

“I’ll be waiting, Draco.”

Malfoy nods to her, and Harry is sure that they have already had their moment before he had burst in the room to personally apologize. Or at least try to, but the words didn’t want toe out.

“Take care of my mother,” Malfoy says, the smile not quite reaching his eyes anymore. “It seems she’s taken a liking to you. See you later, Potter.”

And as he turns around and walks through the doors—because if he is going to hell, he certainly isn’t going to be dragged there—, Harry thinks that no matter what anyone says, Draco Malfoy is undoubtedly a very brave man.

The Manor is beautiful in the morning, with its pristine white walls and marble floors. Sunlight filters through the halls and the air is fresh and crisp. Harry definitely believes that there is some magic in the works here, but is nheless grateful for all efforts to remove the remnants of Voldemort’s stay.

Draco’s room is no exception, and it’s like his whole room is bathed in spring. It is large and spacious, with green walls and a beige carpet. His bed, with its green and whiteforter, is situated on one side, and there is a large amount of floor before one reaches the other side and arrives at the balcony.

The glass doors and heavy curtains are pushed aside, revealing a table, two chairs, and a garden.

The sky is blue, the air is refreshingly cold, and in the middle of it all is soft, blonde hair swaying with the wind.

Harry swallows hard at the sight. He doesn’t know if the heavy feeling in his gut is because of seeing Malfoy again or because of seeing the wheelchair that Malfoy is in.

Malfoy has his back to them, and doesn’t show any sign that he heard them enter the room. Harry thinks that maybe he’s asleep, but Narcissa strides towards the balcony and Harry follows mutely, and then he sees—

Draco Malfoy. Thin. Cheeks hollowed. Ghostly pale. And eyes open.

“Malfoy,” Harry croaks out in greeting, but there is no response.

Malfoy doesn’t raise his head or even turn to look at him. He’s staring at the floor, eyes vacant, with only the rise and fall of his chest the indication that he’s still alive.

The revulsion takes Harry by surprise and he takes a step back before he can stop himself.

The smile that Narcissa gives him is sad.

“You might want toe back in the afternoon. He’s more…present then.”

“Present,” Harry repeats shakily. He looks at Draco’s form and feels the guilt once again eating at his insides.

Three months in Azkaban. And he couldn’t do anything about it.

He closes his eyes, has to look away for a while. When he opens them, Narcissa is watching him carefully, and Harry speaks, just as careful, “May I stay until then?”

Narcissa is surprised, and it’s obvious how she tries to stop it from showing. She raises an eyebrow and then settles for, “Hiding from the Prophet, are you?”

Harry grins. It’s weak, but it’s real. He had spent the last three months trying to avoid every reporter and request for interview thrown his way. He thinks that Kingsley’s probably exasperated with him, but Harry doesn’t really care. He did his part. The wizarding world doesn’t have the right to demand anything from him now. “I reckon this’ll be the last place they’ll think to look.”

Narcissa chuckles. “I reckon as well.” She straightens her shoulders, and then glances at her son. “I’ll send Molly Weasley an Owl. Stay as long as you like.”

Harry starts to refuse, insist that she doesn’t need to, but the Weasleys know that he’s gone to the Manor today. Tried all tricks and tactics to get him not to, but in the end, relented with the promise that he was to take a Portkey in case of an emergency. He figures that Aurors storming the Manor isn’t an impossible idea should he be gone for an unusually long period of time.

“I…Thank you.”

It’s late in the afternoon when Malfoy starts to stir.

So far, Harry has spent his day engaging in small, polite talk with Narcissa and, when she had to leave due to a Floo-call, reading up on Potions with the book that Narcissa had io’ed from Draco’s trunk. He, Ron, and Hermione all decided to return to Hogwarts for their last year, jokingly referred to by Ron as their eighth year, and Hermione had been nagging at them all summer to read up lest they want to go for a ninth.

He is halfway asleep in the middle of chapter 4 when Malfoy stirs, as if waking up from a long nap, and Harry waits, nervously, as Malfoy raises his head and finally sees him.

His eyes are no longer glazed, but they squint at him, trying to remember who he is.

Harry hopes Malfoy remembers who he is.

“Potter.”

He releases a sigh of relief that he didn’t know he had been holding.

“Uhm,” he says, closing his book. “Hullo, Malfoy.”

A furrow forms between Malfoy’s eyebrows. “Right. Potter.”

Harry nods patiently. “Yes.”

Blinking, Malfoy turns his head around, looks at his surroundings. “Am I…”

“No,” Harry responds quickly. He shakes his head, tries to calm himself. Right. He’s supposed to be the calm one here. “You’re out. You’re in the Manor.”

“Oh.” The furrow deepens. There is a frown on his face, as he slowly looks at the marble floor, the white pillars, the white ledge of the balcony, and the garden. He looks at the table, his lap. His eyes widen, and then he takes a big, shaky breath. “Oh. Okay.”

And Harry isn’t prepared for the tears, the sudden, quiet tears that stream from Malfoy’s eyes.

Malfoy opens his hands, stares at his palms, clean and pristine, and takes another shaky inhale. “Merlin.”

Harry is at a loss. “Malfoy…” He starts, but doesn’t know how to finish. There’s something stuck in his throat.

“Merlin. Finally. I thought…I thought I was never going to get out.”

Harry swallows whatever it is that’s in his throat and it goes down, hard. “I…I’m sorry, Malfoy.”

But Malfoy doesn’t seem to hear him anymore, doesn’t seem to remember that he’s there.

He’s sobbing, head buried in his lap, and whole body trembling in his wheelchair.

Harry looks at that small frame—those sharp elbows digging into his knees and his thin wrists hiding little of the stream of tears on his face crumpled in despair and agony. The line of his back hunched over on the wheelchair, with his shoulder blades jutting so sharply out, Harry’s almost scared that it’ll tear his skin.

It looks hideous, and he has to close his eyes and look away from the scene, from the image of Draco Malfoy falling into pieces.

He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know if Malfoy remembers he’s there, doesn’t think that Malfoy will wee a hug. Not from him.

So he leaves the room, as quietly as he can, and stumbles his way to where Narcissa said the master room was.

He doesn’t really know how he gets there, his vision’s blurred and Harry belatedly realizes that they’re tears. There’s something really painful in his chest, like something clamping on his heart, and all he can think of is oh, god, I’m so sorry, Malfoy.

He registers the stunned surprise colouring her face once she sees him, but he doesn’t know what he says to her, only remembers Malfoy’s name slipping through his lips, and Narcissa’s off, hurried footsteps, and then, down the hall, a turn of the knob and the creak of the door opening and the click as it closes.

And Harry crumples to the floor, gasping, and finally lets himself cry.

He doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t understand why it affected him so much.

He thinks he’s crying because he didn’t expect it…like this. He expected something to happen, people don’t get out of Azkaban in the right state of mind, or at all, but he didn’t… He doesn’t even know what he thought anymore.

Did he think that Malfoy was going to get out of Azkaban okay and they can go through their eighth year in peace and everything’s going to be alright and everyone’s going to finally be happy?

Or maybe, maybe he’s crying because of everything he hadn’t been able to prevent.

Remus. Tonks. Fred. Snape. Dumbledore. Cedric. Sirius. God, Sirius.

And now Draco Malfoy losing his mind in Azkaban.

He should have been able to prevent at least that, right?

The war’s over. Why are those around him still suffering?

Maybe he’s tired.

He’s tired trying to a

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