When Draco Malfoy opened his eyes again, he was in bed. It was a nice bed with soft sheets and a fluffy blanket. He rubbed his hands over the covers. They seemed real. He had dreamed madly in Azkaban, unsure of what was physical or phantasmal. Looking around, he saw a white ceiling, walls papered with blue stripes, and a darker blue rug on a wooden floor. There was a window with heavy curtains framing a misty world beyond.

If he were dreaming, this wasn't his usual fantasy. Mostly he was home in his own room safe or flying around the grounds impossibly unfettered. Draco pushed himself up against the bedstead then sat panting among the pillows as the exertion took his breath away. He was as weak as a kitten. Staring at his hands he could pick out every bone.

A suspiciously short amount of time after he roused, the door opened. Millicent Bulstrode of all people strode or perhaps bulled in with a tray. Seeing him already sitting up, she put the breakfast across his lap and tucked a linen napkin under his chin. Draco had enough vigour to glare at her as she swirled a spoon through thin porridge. She met his eyes boldly.

"Yes, I'm going to feed you. This isn't my first sickbed, Malfoy." Her tone was brisk trying for clinical, the long Muggle shirt she wore was green hinting at a mediwitch's robe. He shook his head. "Don't be proud. The muscle wasting is a symptom from the Azkaban wards and we can't give you potions on an empty stomach."

"Feed myself." Draco croaked then sat astonished at the hoarseness of his voice. He could hear himself speaking in his own head perhaps not strong and sure but at least intelligible. Out loud he sounded like a frog at the bottom of a well.

"In a few days, certainly." Millicent agreed lightly. "Right now all you'll do is drop the spoon and make a mess on the bedding. We do enough laundry as it is. Pardon me for not wanting to have to change your sheets because you're stubborn."

"Magic." He asserted, his tone a wisp of a shadow of his old arrogance.

"Not for you. The Azkaban wards and guff stick. We have to be careful." She'd only seen it on screen, part of a briefing Rosier and Bones had put together for the helpers. A few of the Muggle-borns released from prison had consented to have their reactions to magic documented, mostly in hopes of getting into St Mungo's for access to regenerative magic. The waiting list stretched and the lingering stigma against ex-cons, even Registry victims, deprioritised them.

"Witch." He licked his lips and gestured towards the glass of water on the tray. Millicent helped him drink, steadying him when he gasped. "A witch brought me."

"Rosier got you out. No one expects you to be grateful." The bitter twist of her wide mouth was almost poisonous. She didn't comment any further and his silence let her get some food into him. The porridge was as bland as they could make it to guarantee feeble stomachs wouldn't reject it. Draco finished the small bowl then leaned back, sweating. Millicent mopped his face with the napkin and took the tray away.

Draco stared at the ceiling until he faded into a doze.