A/N: This ficlet stands alone, but it takes place two weeks after the events of my other fics, "Almighty Fear" and "Walking Wounded", and the Second War has ended halfway through what would have been Draco's seventh year of schooling. Just to make things clear, Draco will be interacting with three other characters and the character category of this story will change to reflect the most recent chapter.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter One: Spectres of Christmas Past

Christmas Eve, 1997

Draco Malfoy had never been to Azkaban of his own volition before. He had never seen the gloomy view from the small, rickety boat that was propelling itself across the waves, and although he imagined that this briny spray must have spattered his face at least once before, he would have been unconscious at the time and thus had no recollection of it.

Even up close, the prison seemed new and unfamiliar. Then the forbidding doors of Azkaban creaked open to admit him and he recoiled as a storm surge of memories pummeled him. He had been in this receiving hall only briefly, but it was the smell, of mould and despair with lingering notes of madness, that truly brought him back to a time when the Malfoy name opened no doors, when he had no dignity and no rest, no visitors save a red-haired sylph who was there under duress…. He slammed down on that train of thought as hard as he could, but it cracked open again unexpectedly when he came face-to-face with Alec and he felt an inappropriate rush of happiness. In another lifetime, seeing Alec meant that he had visitors, a situation akin to Christmas. Now, he was merely another visitor himself and it really was Christmas.

"I'm sorry, sir," Alec said without preamble. "The prisoner refuses to see you."

The words brought Draco firmly out of his emotional trance. "Excuse me?" He could feel the grit in his mouth from the beach on which he had begun his nautical journey.

"The prisoner refuses to see you," Alec repeated, shrugging his shoulders.

"You mean to say, I've come all this way and-" Draco abruptly passed his hand over his face, struggling to contain himself. "Could you go to him again?"

"Mr. Malfoy," Alec began disapprovingly, "prisoners in Azkaban retain the right to refuse visitors, unless such visitors are approved by the Ministry for the purposes of intelligence or legal matters. Now, if you could prove-"

"Just once more. Tell him his son is here to visit him for Christmas. Could you just do that?" Draco asked, unable to lower himself to true begging.

Alec's sense of bureaucracy seemed to clash with compassion brought on by the invocation of family ties and the holiday season. "Alright," he said solemnly. "This answer is final, though."

"Of course." Alec disappeared through a door and Draco felt the room shrink in the guard's absence. Instinctively, he glanced to the door back to the outside. It was open. He could escape right now, if he wanted, and no one would punish him. He knew such thoughts were absurd, but that didn't stop them from occurring. To thwart them, he tried to think of more pleasant things. His mother laughing gaily from behind the piano with a sprig of holly behind her ear. No, that brought pain, too. The Christmas he had gotten his first real broomstick. He had insisted on rushing out into the snow, and the day had been crisp and perfect….

"He'll see you." Alec had returned and was standing in the doorway, waiting for Draco to follow him. It was with no small amount of trepidation that Draco crossed the threshold into the hallway that led past the interrogation rooms and off towards the cellblock. A fresh assault gripped him as the quality of the air changed, redoubling on dampness and mustiness, and desperation. He hesitated a few steps in and took a deep breath. You're free. The sight of the interrogation rooms, with their single high windows, cheered him. They were his happiest memory of the place.

Draco crept alongside Alec, unconsciously drawing nearer to the guard as their journey progressed. Random shouts reverberated off the stone walls and floors. He caught glimpses of prisoners in their dreary cells and could almost feel the beetles crawling up the back of his own neck. Finally Alec halted and beckoned Draco towards a barred door, and Draco drew forward, trepidation wiping his mind blank.

The cell was dim and at first it was difficult to discern its contents despite its spartan furnishings. Draco's eyes altered quickly and he saw his father seated inside, facing away from the door. Azkaban had shrunk him and withered his form. His lank hair had matted into fat, uneven dreadlocks, and he was wearing greyed rags. The dirt looked so much a part of him that he would disintegrate if ever brought into contact with fresh water. In short, he looked much as when Draco had last seen him. "Father," he said softly, "I'm here."

Lucius Malfoy didn't move. If anything, he had become unnaturally still at the sound of his son's voice.

Unfounded annoyance shot through Draco and for a moment, he wondered why he had bothered to come and why his father had agreed to see him if he had no intention of acknowledging his presence. He had to do this, though. He had to do it for her. He decided to try groveling instead. "Father," he began formally, "I bring no gift as nothing can replace what you have lost."

A rasping growl issued from the cell, nearly obscured by the deranged noises of the other inmates. "You took her from me."

The words stung, but Draco supposed he couldn't expect less. "I lost her through my incompetence." It hurt but he wrenched the words out, desperately willing his father to turn around and look at him. "I am a failure as a son." No response. "But I think that she would want us to – to have each other now."

"Do you?" His father turned, and his eyes were luminous and sardonic, incongruous against his grimy face. "I think she would rather be alive. Don't come here looking for absolution," he said, his voice eerily devoid of emotion, "seeking a family you destroyed, love you scorned. I'd bet a thousand Galleons that you haven't made a single attempt to release me from Azkaban, yet you sit before me, a free traitor, scrabbling for petty reassurances. You spit on the notion of family and dishonour your mother."

The only way Draco kept his composure was by reminding himself, fiercely, that this was not his father. His father's voice was preternaturally smooth, but this man sounded like gravel rolling down porcelain. His father would know how hard it was for him to visit this place, especially now. His father had run out into the snow after him that Christmas, wielding his own Comet Two Sixty and failing to keep the laughter out of his shouted command to wait for me! Draco casually slipped his hands into his pockets, where they immediately balled into fists. "Happy Christmas, Father," he muttered, turning away. Lucius didn't bother to respond.

Alec led him silently back to the reception area. This time, Draco didn't notice his surroundings. He was acutely aware of the guard's pity and he despised it. They parted wordlessly and Draco found his way back to the shore for his return trip. The sky was a deep indigo, and lack of cloud cover made the night crisp and biting. Draco crouched miserably in the boat, trying to clear his mind of everything but how much he was looking forward to a cup of tea and a draught of Dreamless Sleep. He deliberately hung his head over the side of the craft into the ocean's frigid, salty spray.