Malfoy Senior breaks out of Azkaban. But he doesn't get quite the warm welcome at home that he was bargaining on.

Please review but please don't flame.

Take me back!

Dear Officials in charge of Azkaban Prison, whoever you may be.

I am writing to ask you to consider taking me back. I will be available any time from now on.

As you may or may not have realised, I escaped from your prison three days ago using methods I would rather not disclose. I returned to my home expecting something of a warm welcome, having been away for nearly a year. Needless to say, the welcome I got was not what I had expected.

I entered my house using the spare key hidden under the doormat, and I was not surprised to find that there was no one in. A copy of The Daily Prophet on the kitchen table informed me that my son was on the run with his ex-teacher after assisting in a siege of his school and the murder of his headmaster. There was no sign of my wife, but this didn't worry me, as she is prone to wandering off. As I was contemplating the news that my son had become a fugitive, much like myself in fact, the Owl Post arrived, landing on my head with a force as such I was knocked out for two and a half hours.

I am still suffering from concussion.

Of the three letters, one was an advert for the delights of shopping in Diagon Alley, one was an official letter from the Ministry of Magic stating that my house would be repossessed the next day as I had fallen into arrears with my mortgage payments, and the third was a howler from my mother, annoyed that I had not been in contact with her for over a year, and telling me that she would be arriving in two days to ask me in person what on Earth did I think I was playing at. At this point, I considered putting my head in the gas oven, but after a few seconds I realised this would be futile as the repossession letter also informed me that the gas had been disconnected six months ago. Anxious to avoid being talked to by my mother, I left the house, writing a brief note to explain that I had been incarcerated and therefore unable to see her.

I went to my Aunt Sally's house, always a good place to go in times of crisis, and let myself in using the spare key hidden under the doormat in order to do some serious thinking. As soon as I entered the premises, I knew something was amiss, as I could distinctly hear blood curdling shrieking. My blood curdled even more when I recognised it as my wife's.

I ran through the house shouting various threats to whoever was causing the shrieking, but as I was hurtling up the stairs towards the source of the sound, I forgot to duck an overhanging beam and was knocked out for the second time that day.

I am still suffering from concussion.

I fell down twenty steps and, as my wife later informed me, broke my ankle and cracked four ribs. When I came round I found myself lying on a chaise longue slightly the worse for wear from seeing too many parties, with my wife and a stranger I soon recognised as the ex-teacher with whom my son was supposedly on the run looking down at me. I remembered the shrieking, took in my wife's scanty attire and put two and two together, coming up with the answer, Oh Dear. I declined from asking any questions on this topic, the sheepish looks passed between my so-called saviours were enough to confirm my suspicions. I instead asked what had become of my son. It transpired that the ex-teacher had mislaid him somewhere in the Brecon Beacons. It was at this point I fainted again, without the aid of anything hitting my head.

I am currently writing this in St Mungo's whilst deciphering the twenty-three pages of divorce application my solicitor so kindly presented to me this morning. A letter by Post Owl has just informed that my mother is on her way. As she was unable to get into my house, which was repossessed yesterday, and therefore unable to read my note, I suspect that I am going to have an awful lot of explaining to do.

I would therefore be very grateful if you would heed my plea to be taken back into custody on Azkaban Island. If I could receive your answer before visiting hours begin it would be most appreciated.

Yours,

L. Malfoy

A/N: I'm sorry! I love him really, honest. It's just I've always suspected Snape and Narcissa of having a thing going on, and I doubt Draco would last two minutes as a fugitive.

And I am aware that wizards probably have no need for gas ovens.