Upon opening his heavy-lidded eyes, Draco's head felt dazed, mouth dry, and bladder full. Slowly, he turned his head just enough to find the food tray untouched on the floor by his desk; he knew he had slept much longer than he typically did if he had missed the morning guard. He tried hard to keep up a routine in this place, to be up well before breakfast arrived; it was the only thing he could do to keep himself sane, but right now the thought of eating anything had his stomach rioting.
Although the concept of time was foreign in Azkaban, Draco had stayed up much later than normal the previous night writing his angry letter to Granger. The lights had been long extinguished, forcing him to squint as he penned every furious word as legibly as possible. If only he had the moon at his back as a light source, but instead it was more tempestuous clouds and random lightning.
Staring up at the ceiling, Draco focused on a breathing exercise his therapist had taught him to calm his thoughts and shake off the grogginess he had woken up with. He let out a sigh of relief, however, for not having woken up from a bad dream. These moments were rare, as nightmares seemed to happen more often than not, and he was thankful for it.
After calming his racing mind, he felt embarrassed by his overreaction to the letter he received from Granger. They were not friends; they've never had an amicable conversation, and the only times they had interacted, she would be on the receiving end of his torment and intimidation. He felt nauseous thinking about it. So, in reality, Granger shouldn't be compelled to respond in kind even if Draco's letter was more heartfelt than he thought he should have written. If the roles had been reversed, he wouldn't have even bothered to read the letter.
But Hermione Granger was not Draco Malfoy. Her heart was purer than his would ever become, and he didn't think she seemed to be the kind of person to hold onto a grudge. He, on the other hand, would hold on to it until the day he died. However, with the help of his mind healer, after years of sitting down with her and not giving her more than a generic answer, he had finally made peace with himself to move past them. His healer had helped him understand that if a change had to happen, he would need to start with himself, to forgive himself.
Draco had to admit, begrudgingly, that sending these letters felt liberating.
Ripping his eyes away from the food waiting for him, he noted the two neatly sealed envelopes sitting expectantly on his desk—one freshly written for Granger and one to the newest recipient of his letters: Luna Lovegood.
His frown deepened as he replayed the viciousness in which he had composed his letter to Granger the night before, feeling ridiculous that he had created something out of impulse. He had written things as they went through his mind without much thought about his words or the impact they could have. Although the words written were entirely true to him, that didn't take away that he had probably been absurdly rude. No, that letter couldn't be sent to her. He would need to shred it, tear it into pieces; if only he could burn it from existence. He would just consider it as a therapeutic exercise of putting down his feelings on parchment.
His mind started to race with conflicting thoughts, asking himself why he shouldn't send that letter to her. Draco truly felt that if anyone could further understand him it was her, and he really wanted to make her listen. But at the same time, now that he had awakened from his angry slumber, he realised that he had been highly immature on his part; expecting anything more from her was ludicrous.
She was kinder than he deserved, he probably read too much into her words and needed to lower his expectations on the responses he received from the people he planned on apologising to. Damn that Potter for giving him hope.
He shifted in his bed, uncomfortable with this realisation, and he didn't want to get up now. With the angry fog from the night before properly doused, Draco was left with the ugly realisation of just how quickly he had reverted to mannerisms from his youth—from before the war, from before the growth he had accomplished here. He'd rather lay on this uncomfortable bed for days on end rather than face that fact that he didn't have much to do except be trapped with the twisted voices in his head. He couldn't help the thoughts that swam in all corners of his mind about the things he had once done and the people he had once hurt.
But it was days like these that reminded him of the missteps in his life as well as the shifts he had taken since then. He had realised how thoroughly he had been manipulated by his parents and his pureblood upbringings. He spent the better half of his sentence resentful of his parents. If he were to ever cross paths with his father on the way to the showers, he would ignore him entirely. Lucius, who looked haggard and cadaverous, tried to corner him on every occasion, but Draco would have none of it. During her visits, his mother pleaded with him to at least give his father a chance to apologise, to hear him out, but Draco was too stubborn to be convinced.
Then, Draco spent the last year and a half of his sentence in miserable regret. His fathers passing had hit him like a stunner to the chest. For months, Draco would be found either crying and mourning the father he once had or thinking back and holding tight to memories of him. He hated his father for what he did and how he had permitted his son to be dragged down with him, but he hated him even more for leaving him behind.
His eyelids fluttered shut, memories rushing forth of his childhood that would forever be tainted with a dark lens.
He felt himself pulling into a tight ball as he remembered how he had always been afraid, never having the courage to stand up for what was right.
"Fuck off!" he whispered to himself, pulling the thin blanket up to cover his face. He had worked so hard to maintain the ideologies he was brought up to believe in, even when he knew deep down that something was not right with them. It was just a shame that that small voice wasn't truly heard until it was too late.
Hugging his knees to his chest, he felt ashamed of himself and the foolish child he had once been. Every time he sludged through his past, he would see himself as the villain of all the books he ever read. Of course a self-righteous Gryffindor—no matter how pure he thought she was—couldn't spare even a nice thought his way. Why would she have any words that would help him believe he was any more than the pitiful, cowardly, arrogant and insecure man he felt like at this very moment.
"I should have never written that stupidity," he sneered, as he remembered all the time he wasted on his first letter to her.
It had been too personal; none of the other letters came as close as the one he wrote Granger where his feelings were concerned. Draco didn't fully understand the reason for that either. But when he was writing it, amongst the hundred attempts he had and the frustration of not knowing what to say, he let his most sentimental and vulnerable part guide him between each word. He felt that perhaps this recipient, this person who had fought for the downtrodden, would be open to seeing a part of him that spoke the loudest to the witch and demonstrate that he was deeply remorseful.
He would have to stop being delusional and accept the short reply from Granger, letting go of the expectation of more. "Damn Potter, once again for getting my hopes up."
Before succumbing back to sleep, an image of a curly-haired girl appeared with tearful eyes, sniffing and wiping her nose before turning around and walking away. He wanted to call for her, apologise, plead she hear him out, but every time he opened his mouth to yell, no sounds came up his vocal cords. Perhaps he just felt that his debt to her couldn't be paid easily and that made him feel guilty all over again. The image of the girl was slowly disappearing within the mirage of his mind, and the familiar feeling of emptiness washed over him.
"Letters, anyone with letters?"
August's voice boomed and echoed around him, enough to rouse Draco from his hypnagogia. He didn't think he'd fallen asleep for more than a couple of minutes but felt lightheaded when he quickly rushed to stand and gather his letter to Luna off his desk for the guard. He held on to the bar cell to steady his shaky feet and dizzying head.
Draco should have remembered that August would be back today for any responses. It was a nice practice, giving the prisoners the chance of a quick turn around time rather than waiting until the following week when mail came again.
"Hey, mate. How's everything going with you today?" August was stuffing letters in his leather bag as Draco extended his hand to give him the missive, massaging his eyes with the other to fully awaken.
"Oh, it's alright; every day is a new adventure here." Although Malfoy was sarcastic, the guard laughed and took his letter. "I think it's the last one for a while now." His decision was sudden, but he realised he would need to pace himself with his apologies. He couldn't and wouldn't go through this cycle of hatred and irritation every day of his miserable life in the final year of this Merlin forsaken place.
"I understand. I'm sure you don't have much time to write anyways," he mocked, but Draco only managed to roll his eyes, refusing to engage in conversation. He was in no mood for jokes at the moment. August turned and smiled at the blonde, "Have a good day., but I do hope you have more letters for me later, this is a good thing, Malfoy."
If Draco did decide to send out more written apologies, he would just do them himself to avoid August's commentary. However, he needed to be careful and cover his tracks. It would look highly suspicious if he started receiving letters out of nowhere when he went almost 4 years without anyone writing to him except his mother and eventually, Theo.
Draco watched the guard walk off before sitting back on his bed, deciding to go back to sleep. He felt overwhelmed and sick with his thoughts, his body aching and unwilling to sit up a moment longer.
As he attempted some semblance of comfort in his cell, he focused on the only good thing that had come out of today—his letter to Luna. He had finally sent his apology to her. She had always seemed like a good witch, a little odd but innocent and harmless nevertheless. She had been another victim of his cowardness. He had not been able to save her when she was kidnapped and brought to Malfoy Manor all those years ago.
Although he personally never inflicted pain on the blonde girl, she was still tortured and starved in his dungeons. He knew the food that he would bring down to her was never enough and very sporadic. Draco sincerely regretted never trying harder to keep her well fed. So writing her letter was easier than the rest, and he felt freer now that he had been able to tell her how he felt about the entire ordeal.
Remembering to empty his bladder, Draco groaned and got up as he moved to the corner of his cubic room where a small white sink was attached to the wall and a toilet stuck to the ground. His nose wrinkled at the repugnant scene in front of him, but he had to remind himself that it had been much worse. He was thankful now that he didn't have to do his business in a bucket that was only emptied out on a weekly basis. Thank Salazar for Granger and her crusade to do better for the world that never accepted her nor wanted her.
He strode back to his bed but came to a halt when he glanced back at his desk where Granger's letter rested.
"I should read how absurd I was before ripping it into pieces." Draco smirked and made his way to the desk, only a few steps from where he stood. "It's amazing that I was going to…Luna Lovegood?!"
With quick, shallow breaths, he squeezed his eyes shut, wishing the words to change to the correct correspondent. Opening his eyes again, he tore the envelope open with trembling hands to read the contents. Shaking his head and trying to convince himself that he did not make a mistake, but alas, the damage has been done.
He backed up slowly as blood pounded in his ears and his heart thudded painfully against his ribs. He began to feel faint, tingles coalescing at his feet and slowly inching towards his upper body. Draco came to a halt when he felt his bed behind his knees and collapsed on the edge of the mattress. Grasping the sides of his head, letter creasing within his hands, Draco tried to regain control of all the emotions that were running through him all at once.
Releasing his head, he crumpled the letter in his sweaty hands. "No, no, no, this isn't happening," Draco whimpered. He had to calm himself down in order to make sense of the situation and think coherently, but the sensation of overwhelming dread was not leaving his body. He tried taking deep breaths, he clenched his hands so tightly that if he had had any nails it would have dug deeply into his palms and drawn blood. Breathing was hard, he wanted to escape but felt trapped and suffocated in his small cell.
What had he done?
The violent rain that had been pounding against the window pains all day, had calmed to a soft drizzle. The street looked quite empty from where she sat, and Hermione could see the empty tree branches dancing. The ground was covered in soft chocolate brown leaves with hints of gold, reds and yellows scattered in between.
The crackling sound of burning wood made her turn her head towards the curled flames that danced and swayed to their own tune, casting shadows on the rug. The smell of cinnamon from the candle had burned long enough to infuse the living room with its warm and spicy scent.
Hermione was bundled in a thick blanket drinking her hot chocolate filled to the brim with marshmallows. She was alone that night at Grimmauld Place and took her chance to be as comfortable as possible with her guilty pleasures.
Harry had been summoned for an emergency meeting during supper, and it had been hours with no sign of him returning. Hermione decided to curl on her favourite couch that embraced her in a hug with a book to pass the time until she was too tired to stay awake. If Harry had been around, they would be having a movie marathon all night with some pizzas and beer.
Hermione loved their movie nights and evenings when they would spend time together, however, as much as she loved the company she kept, Hermione also enjoyed being alone. Hermione appreciated the solitude, enjoying moments where she could walk alone and think or simply observe the world around her. Reading alone was ideal so she could drown in someone else's work and working alone was a given. However, there were times, more often than not recently, where she would be startled out of her solitude by a family, a loving couple, or friends enjoying time together and she realised that although she liked being alone she didn't love it enough to choose to be that way forever.
Hermione knew some people claimed to prefer their own company to anyone else's and it made her wonder. She was no stranger to loneliness, the single daughter of two working parents with magic and too much sense to be a silly child, but even she could admit that she wouldn't mind having a partner to go through life with. So certainly, even those who preferred their own company said it as a defence mechanism when they craved someone else's companionship as much as she did.
For this very reason, she had always been a believer that being isolated from society would be the most frustrating situation in which someone might find themselves.
Unsurprisingly, an image of Malfoy flashed through her mind.
Honestly, Hermione understood Harry's logic. She agreed that those who changed for the better deserved a second chance. But this specific case was difficult for her; having experienced his past behaviours towards herself and others, she could scarcely see the same man attempting to apologise sincerely.
Even at his trial, the last time she had properly seen him, she had seen flashes of emotions across his gaunt face before he closed it down once again. So presumably he may not be the childhood bully she once knew, which had her feeling further conflicted.
Bringing her warm chocolate cup to her lips, still in deep thought about the blond-haired wizard, Hermione felt guilt wash over her as the warm drink trickled down her throat.
Her logic was in a juxtaposition to her feelings. The part of her that hoped he had changed believed his letter to be sincere, yet a more significant part of her did not trust him completely, not enough to act any differently than her response.
"I shouldn't be worrying about this," she sighed heavily and massaged her brows.
"But should I…?" Biting her lip and focusing on her mug, Hermione looked for answers among the sea of floating marshmallows.
He was already alone in Azkaban paying for his crimes, and who was she to lay further judgement at his feet.
What crimes are you talking about? A small voice at the back of her head niggled once again; the voice had been getting more persistent lately. There were far more deserving people in that horrible place, people who have killed without question and tortured without thought. Her entire mission to reform Azkaban and implement alternatives to imprisonment was to provide an alternative for prisoners with lower criminal offences. They didn't deserve to be holed up in a high-security prison like Azkaban, but the wizarding world didn't separate sentences to different degrees, it was either Azkaban or walk free.
Hermione rose from the couch, setting aside her comfortable, warm blanket to climb the stairs to her room in search of a paper and pen. She needed to pen a new letter before she regretted it.
Smiling softly, she picked up Ginny's birthday present for her, a beautiful silvery fountain pen with a fine metal tip. She hadn't had it long, but thus far she had reserved it for special occasions, hoping the intricacy of its design would lend some positivity to whatever she set to paper. On this occasion, she hoped that it would clear her mind so that she could write something that would let Malfoy know that she did indeed forgive him. She knew she did, having let go of the hurt he had caused long ago, but this time perhaps she could come across more sincere, truly wishing him a good life after his release.
Settling down on her chair, completely engrossed with the words she would use to express her thoughts, the sound of increased tapping disturbed her concentration. Looking over her shoulder, she groaned internally when she saw her curtains drawn and remembered that she had forgotten her wand downstairs. To her surprise, when she separated the curtains, she found a beautiful grey owl with white spots perched on the frame of the window staring at her with a letter tied to his left leg.
She let the bird in and instantly decided to test a theory out. She carefully stroked the top of the bird's head, slightly scared of getting her fingers sliced off. When nothing happened, she shook her head and scoffed, "Ha, animals do like me too, Harry." She grinned and gave the owl a few treats as it extended its leg to present her with the letter.
The bird flew out immediately, and she thought back to the last owl that had delivered a letter and how cold and unfriendly it was.
Instantly noticing Azkaban's seal, her eyebrows flew to her hairline, shocked to receive another letter from Malfoy.
"What could he want now?" Hermione mumbled to Crookshanks, belatedly realising that her cat was no longer beside her. Her mind spun with possibilities; perhaps he had sent a second apology, or perhaps he took issue with her indifferent response. Her stomach churned with anxiety at that last thought and prayed it wouldn't be the case; she wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of Malfoy's anger.
This time, Hermione couldn't resist not knowing what was hiding inside the envelope. After closing the window, she sat back at her desk to read Malfoy's latest letter.
The involuntary emotion caused her to swallow dry at what she found inside the envelope; she was almost impressed to see not only one paper but two.
"What could—" But as she began reading, the first words caused her nostrils to flare and her teeth to grind.
Oh, Gracious, Supreme and Incredibly Intellectual Hermione Granger!
I see that my letter was read and replied to.
"Thank you, Mr Obvious," Hermione murmured.
I guess this is your favourite way of being greeted, at least that seems to be since you think you're better than everyone around you. You think someone as lowly as me isn't good enough to get a decent answer from you. I know I told you I didn't need a response to my apology, but even a blank page would have been better than what you sent. Your actions aren't on par with who you actually are; this decent witch image with your so-called pious heart must only extend to those that have not personally interacted with you in the past.
"So-called pious heart? What in the world is this man talking about?" Hermione's jaw snapped shut as she re-read his unfair judgement of her person.
It's a shame that the newspapers can get a more eloquent response than I can from a personal apology. Why stop the show now? Am I not worthy of your false charity and regard? I know we have never been remotely friends, but you'd think coming from a similar experience you'd have a bigger heart than that.
First and foremost, what sort of care do you think I'd ever receive outside these crumbling walls? Where's the fire, little Gryffindor? Have you so quickly forgotten how I treated you back in Hogwarts? How I made your life hell and always ensuring you, Potter and Weasel would always get in trouble? What about my hatred towards hideous Muggle-borns and how they're not worthy of magic and learning about our world?
"You're really making a great case for yourself, you bloody prat," Hermione hissed at the pages, flipping it over to the back so quickly it almost ripped.
How dare you be so cold. I was anxious for your response, I was ready to accept none, and then I get four lines dripping in contempt?
I expected more from the Golden Girl. You know who I was, what side of the war I found myself in, and how I stood there in cowardice and didn't help when it mattered most. On the contrary, I was directly responsible for allowing murderers and sycophants into our haven, Hogwarts.
I worked hard to stop you and your friends from doing what you needed to do, even when I knew what you had to do was so terrible, you couldn't leave Wonder Boy alone. I am not a good guy, I do not deserve a lack of response from you. I deserve anger and frustration and anything else you've held onto for years.
So, how are you not addressing those issues?
Hermione ran her hands through her hair, pulling at the strands in frustration. Hadn't this man learned anything about forgiving and moving on. If she spent the past four years holding onto what he had done specifically, she would be even more of a shell than she was now.
Perhaps, you think that my apology was not at all sincere or genuine, and the reason behind that letter was because my release from Azkaban is near? Really, Granger, what is it?
I understand I gave you the impression that being soft was not in my vocabulary― let alone apologising. Yet, here I am, staying up all night for days thinking of the right words to say to you, Granger.
"I am so sorry, Lord Malfoy. Should I be thankful for your time?" Hermione growled.
I know my faults when it comes to you. I have lived with them every day since I was thrown into this four-walled hell. I didn't want to mess up your apology because it wasn't a simple, I'm sorry. It had to be something that I believed because if I remember anything about you, it is how quickly you see through bullshit. I wanted to make sure you saw that my time here has not been wasted, that my efforts have not been wasted, and that all the contemplation that comes with my stay in Azkaban, which is just like solitary confinement, has not been wasted.
That being said, I can assure you that I am a grown man. I can handle whatever it is that you want to say, no matter how hurtful it may be. I see you're just another hypocrite who...
"Oh you foul, loathsome—" Hermione seethed, no longer able to stomach any further atrocities and inaccuracies Malfoy had written to her. The rage in her chest was blazing hot. Everything he said was absurd, and she couldn't contain her anger any longer. Malfoy had managed to single-handedly push her buttons all the way from the North Sea successfully.
She'd never assumed he would still be so immature. He was no longer a schoolboy and had in fact been locked up in a cage where he had nothing but time to think about every detail and mistake he had made in his life. She couldn't believe the mutton-headed response simply because she didn't instantly forgive him or give him the answer he wanted.
Hermione took the crumpled pages that had once resembled Malfoy's letter and set it aside. Placing her hands firmly against her wooden desk, attempting to ground herself, she took deep breaths to control her anger, regretful that her wand remained downstairs. She so badly wanted to blast the paper to flames. She wasn't going to tolerate him or anyone insulting her in such a way, let alone dare to speak on her behalf as if he knew her at all.
Draco Malfoy didn't have a shred of an idea who Hermione Granger was, but if he wanted a real response, then she would send him the response the pompous arse so rightfully deserved.
With deep satisfaction, Hermione picked up the previously kind response she was sending in her guilt clouded mind, balling it firmly in her grip and chucking it aside.
"You wanted an answer, Malfoy? Then let's give you exactly what you wished for," she hissed under her breath.