This story is heavily inspired by Shutter Island, borrowing many similar lines from the film. If you have read the book or watched the film, then you have a vague idea of how this story will play out. I say vague, because Draco Malfoy and Edward Daniels are two oddly similar characters in two vastly different worlds.

This fic is rated M for: depictions of mental illness, self-harm, drug use, murder and graphic violence. I will put trigger warnings when appropriate at the beginning of chapters.

I don't own the Harry Potter universe nor any of the characters.

[Azkaban Reunion]

North Sea

2013

The rocking and groaning is dizzying. Makes bile rise up his throat. As the man grips the porcelain, the glinting rings on his fingers digging into his skin, he takes several deep, calming breaths. A particularly nasty lurch tips the vial off the sink; the man catches it with seeker reflexes. Auror reflexes, his boss would insist. Uncorking the vial, he chucks the contents of the Draught of Nauseam Subsidio down his throat.

Even as the liquid pools in his stomach, it does nothing to prevent the uncomfortable bubbling there. The bile suddenly rises further. He collapses against the toilet and retches. Heaves until he's coughing up only acid. Drags himself back to the sink, hands ghostly pale. The mirror that sits above it is cracked, etching a line over his reflected, luminescent face. A pair of steely eyes are shuttered by strands of platinum hair which quake with his heavy breathing. "Merlin, Draco," he says hoarsely, watching the storm in his eyes, "this can't be worse than Apparation. It's just water."

His eyes slide to the right, where the mist fails to hide the ivory blue expanse. "A lot of water," he whispers. Clutching his stomach, he faces the mirror again. Turns the sink on and splashes his face with it. Watches the droplets cling to the fringes of his hair.

Finally, he composes himself enough that he can leave the cabin. Steps out into the open. The sea looks hungry. He averts his attention to the lone figure on deck; she's wearing a black cloak that sails in the wind, her chestnut hair cascading in restless ringlets down her back. Draco marvels in the way she stands bright against the gloom. It's been years.

"You alright, Malfoy?" she asks, once he reaches her side. Gripping the railing, and gritting his teeth, he nods. Another wave has threatened him to hurl right down into that fathomless cold expanse.

"Fine," he finally manages to croak, focusing on the way the emerald on his favourite ring glistens. "Fine. I just don't do well, with the water." He watches her from the corner of his eye. She's wearing this polite expression of which he isn't sure he wants to see directed at him, lips pursed, brows poised. "So, you're my new partner."

"Yes I am." Raising his head, he adjusts himself to his full height while regarding her. Her expression is set.

"Probably not the best way to meet again after all this time, chucking up last night's dinner."

She chuckles. "Not exactly living up to the legendary reputation of Auror Draco Malfoy, I'll tell you that much."

"Legendary?" He raises his brows, plastering on a smirk. It's as if she's forgotten his entire adolescence. What is it that the Muggles call it? A clean slate. "What did they put in your food over in the U.S, Granger?"

"Colombia," she corrects, with a rather familiar haughty tone, "I spent most of my office time in Colombia."

A puff of amusement escapes his lips. "How long you been working, now, like five years?"

"Same as you, I reckon."

He hums. "So you know how hectic it can get."

Granger looks down at what he's trying to avoid gawping at. With a nod, she goes, "Yeah." From this angle, he can make out the delicate curve of her jaw; he also finds himself rather fixated on the way the freckles smattered on her nose gradually fade into the creamy peak of her cheekbone. She turns to face him, a faint smile on her lips. "Not much time for anything, really. What about you? I heard you're married." Draco's jaw clenches, and his thumb slides over the emerald ring.

He looks away, towards where the ivory sea and heavily clouded sky meet. He'd bought their wedding rings because they were the same colour as her eyes: sharp and bright and breathtaking. He could drown in them. As the wind whispers in his ear, he closes his eyes briefly, her phantom lips against his jaw.

"I was," he responds, eventually. When he opens his eyes, he swears her spirit wisps away from him. "She died."

"God," Granger gasps, making him tense. "I don't —"

"It's alright," he cuts in, relaxing when she pauses. Draco sighs. "There was a fire at the Manor, while I was working on a case in Ireland. She had been having trouble sleeping because her panic attacks from the war were getting worse. So her Healer prescribed her with the Draught of Living Death for the month, that's why she didn't wake up. The house elves had fled; I wish they had done something… But she didn't feel anything, that's the important part."

"I'm sorry, Malfoy," she says quietly. He doesn't dare look at her face. Undoubtedly wearing the same pity everybody else does when they catch sight of him. Offering the same condolences. If anything, he's more grateful that Granger didn't preach to him for still having house elves.

Clearing his throat, he looks up at the horizon. A silhouette is beginning to emerge from behind the heavy mist. "Did they give you a description about the development of the island before you left?"

"Pretty much only know what I did before."

He hums again. "It's harder maintenance without the dementors. It's been a hard truth for the Ministry to swallow for years, now. Them lot on the island are especially struggling with the criminally insane, but they're more stubborn than the Ministry."

Scoffing, Granger says, "If it was just people with Cruciatus trauma and the Dementor's Kiss then they wouldn't need us. It should be more than us, really." As her words sail with the wind, the island becomes fully defined while the boat they lean on approaches steadily closer. A giant mass of rock, with a tall, triangular carving where he knows the inmates are all cooped up. But that's not all: it has been expanded, incredibly large, so that there are multiple infrastructures. Trees and ivy have invaded the island, coiling around it like a massive snake. The sea threatens to engulf it.

Some heavy footsteps break him out of his reverie, and Draco shifts his head with Granger. "Is that where we're headed?" she asks, pointing at what appears to be a dock (when he glances over at the island). The Captain, who is the owner of the heavy footsteps, halts by her side. The Ministry had hired a Muggle man because not only did it maintain discretion, but it was also very difficult to find a professional witch or wizard who could navigate a boat while being comfortable getting close to the island.

"Yes," he says, his moustache rippling. "The other side of the island is rimmed with spiked rocks, all the way down to the edge of the water." Draco looks back towards the mass of land interrupting the rippling sheet of the sea. No Apparation, no floos, heavy wards, so no broomsticks, either. The staff can't risk lifting anything nor leaving any spot uncovered — he can just make out guards dotted along the rocky coastline of the island. "The dock's the only way on or off. We'll be casting off as soon as you two are ashore… I'd appreciate it if you'd be quick."

Draco turns his head to the Muggle, brows furrowed. "Why?"

"Silence before the storm," he waves his hand to the sky. Draco's eyes flicker over to the looming clouds; they fall back to the Captain, and then Granger. For some odd reason he feels like she's shaking her head. But he must be dizzy, what with the very empty stomach he currently has.

When they reach the dock, there are two guards draped in grey robes with polished, dragonskin boots waiting for them. While Granger strides boldly after them, Draco has a moment of trepidation as he drinks in the unwelcome expressions glowering at him like pixies. He smoothly follows suit after the hem of her midnight cloak, but he notes that the modulators are not at all happy about outside help. They reach solid ground, accompanied by another three guards, and the leading one comes to a halt. There's a carriage waiting behind him, and Draco's eyes linger on the Thestrals snorting in the mist.

His arm brushes Granger's as they both stop, too. He puts his hands in the pockets of his robes. Glances at her; knows that she can see them, too.

The guard glances at the badges at their hips. "Been a while since I've seen an Auror's badge." He faces them as though he expects a response. "I'm Auxiliar Wulfric Eisenhower. Welcome to Azkaban. I'll be the one taking you to St Mungo's Zone."

There's a total of five guards accompanying them, including the guard in command, Eisenhower. With him and Granger, it takes a couple minutes for everyone to get seated on the carriage; as they do, Draco's eyes dart furtively over the set faces of other lingering guards, all with their wands out, fingers flexing over the wood. All with their attention pinned on the attendees of the carriage.

"Your employees seem a little unnerved, Mr. Eisenhower," he remarks, as he takes the final seat on the carriage.

"We all are, right now, Auror." Draco raises a brow faintly as he stares at him, but the Auxiliar appears more interested in the iron sky. The Thestrals' hooves start clumping against the damp earth, and the carriage rattles forward.