When Draco had first come to Azkaban, there had been a lengthy intake process that involved photographing, magical fingerprinting and being subjected to a number of tracking spells. During all of this, he had spent several nights in a cell for new arrivals until they were done with him and transferred him to general population.
This time, there was far less red tape involved. Williamson side-alonged him straight to the access platform, the only place on the island open to Apparition. From there, it was a ten-minute walk to the fortress itself, up the steep steps that had been carved into the cliff centuries ago. They were slippery, coated in seagull droppings and wet from a light drizzle. Draco was almost grateful to have his hands shackled in front of him, rather than tied behind this back. This way, he could at least brace himself when he lost his balance, instead of face-planting onto the rock. Williamson did not wait for him as he scrambled back to his feet. He simply climbed the steps at a quick pace, leaving Draco to stumble after him.
When they reached the entrance – a simple wooden portal, not the mighty iron gates one would imagine – Williamson lowered the wards with a flick of his wand and pushed open the door.
"Home sweet home, Malfoy."
They stepped into one of Azkaban's many long, twisting corridors, high-ceilinged and gloomy. Draco knew it quite well; he'd scrubbed every square meter of it several times.
"Albrecht." Williamson nodded at the Auror on guard. Albrecht, who had quickly straightened at his desk when the warden entered, eyed Draco curiously.
"Is that the Malfoy boy, sir? Back already?"
"He lasted longer than I thought he would," Williamson said, shrugging. "Don't know what Potter was trying to achieve, but far be it from me to question the Chosen One's motives."
He took a stack of parchment from his robes and tossed it onto Albrecht's desk. "His intake papers. Send those to Admin, would you?"
"Should I owl Mr Potter, sir? Let him know that Malfoy's back with us?"
Williamson shook his head. "Someone from the Ministry will inform him. Is Hammond on shift today?"
Albrecht flicked his wand, drawing up a schedule. "Yes sir. He's on until six."
"Good. I'll take Malfoy to Distribution. Tell him to meet me there. He can get him settled back on Level 2."
"Will do, sir."
Williamson nodded. "Come on then, Malfoy. You know the way."
###
Hammond, predictably, enjoyed himself immensely. He laughed when Williamson told him how Draco had broken parole, and stood by snickering while Draco changed into the set of baggy prison robes that had been tossed at his feet.
"I understand stealing a wand, Malfoy, I really do. It makes sense. But attacking a bunch of Potternuts? In the middle of Diagon Alley? Even you wouldn't be that stupid."
Draco said nothing. He knew that Hammond did not want answers to his questions; he simply wanted to hear himself talk.
"No need to put on that stuck-up face, now. Looks pretty pathetic, what with your eye all banged up. Tell me, who gave you the shiner, anyway?"
This time, the Auror did seem to expect an answer.
"George Weasley," Draco muttered, then winced when Hammond slapped the back of his head. "George Weasley, sir."
"That's right. Good on him, I should say, I'm sure you deserved it."
All things considered, he probably did, Draco thought, but remained silent. Hammond was having too much fun already. He wasn't going to give him ammunition to be even more of a wanker.
"Don't worry, princess, you still look pretty. I'm sure the blokes on Level 2 will be delighted to have you back."
Hammond banished the robes Draco had left on the floor, sending them to whatever place the inmates' personal belongings went. Probably the incinerator.
"Come on then. Time for the happy homecoming."
Draco followed Hammond out of Distribution and down the corridor towards the lift. He tried to block out the Auror's words, letting his thoughts drift until they settled on an image that caught his attention: the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, its strange mixture of old-fashioned furnishings and gleaming Muggle appliances. Making toast in the morning before he left for the clinic. More often than not, the electric gadget had burned his bread and he'd had to scrape off the black parts, glaring at Harry who seemed to find this immensely amusing. Strawberry jam, he thought. That's what he put on his toast on most mornings. Sometimes orange marmalade. Mr Weasley made the jam himself, from strawberries he'd coaxed to the size of apples using Charmed Muggle fertilizer. It was good jam. Better than the orange marmalade, which came from some Muggle 'supershop'.
The lift rattled to a halt. They were there already, it seemed. Hammond said something in a cheerful tone, but Draco managed not to listen. One of these days, he should ask Harry what a 'tesco' was.
"… that Malfoy? What's he doin' back 'ere?" McBlewitt was leaning against the bars of his cell, grinning as they passed.
Hammond did not reprimand him for speaking out of turn. "Little idiot stole a wand and tried to hex some people. Color me not surprised."
McBlewitt laughed. Draco turned his thoughts inwards again, back to the kitchen and the toaster that seemed to have it in for him and Ron. Harry, strangely, could always get it to work just right.
"Uh-uh, not that way, Malfoy!" Hammond's hand closed around his arm, jerking him back. "You're not going in your cozy little cell just yet. Over here."
He pushed Draco towards the broom cupboard. "Thought you didn't have to work because it's your first day back? Think again. Now get out your cleaning shit."
Draco opened the door. Inside were a number of old, dented buckets, cleaning rags, brushes and bottles of blue cleaning potion. No mop, but then, he'd never been given one of those. Cleaning Azkaban's floors and bathrooms was done on one's knees.
There was a thing at Grimmauld Place that Harry had called an 'eggtimer'. Draco had jumped a mile high when he'd first heard its loud, piercing alarm, amusing Ron to no end.
"Get a move on, for fuck's sake. Don't fall asleep there."
Hammond poked him between the ribs with his wand. Draco grabbed a bucket, bottle, brush and cleaning rag, just as he'd done hundreds of times before. He followed the Auror down the corridor, past a smirking McBlewitt, past the other cells and up a narrow flight of stairs.
Later, he had often used the eggtimer when he was cooking. It was quite useful, if one knew what to expect noise-wise. Its shape was rather odd; a little white dog with floppy black ears. The dog wore a red apron and was called 'Snoopy'. Dr Granger had given it to Hermione when they first moved into Grimmauld Place.
"This one," Hammond said, all business now. "From here to the corner back there. I'll be back in an hour to check your work. You better not let me catch you slacking off, boy. I want this place spotless. Holidays are over."
"Yes sir."
Draco watched him go, then went to the sink at the end of the corridor. He filled the bucket and added cleaning potion, watching it bubble and foam.
Bubble and Squeak. They'd made that one evening, and Ron had insisted on swapping the cabbage for brussels sprouts. "Gives it that special texture," he'd said.
He hefted the bucket and began walking to the corner Hammond had indicated. The corridor was empty, closed doors leading to empty rooms, most likely. There were a lot of empty rooms in Azkaban. And all of them had to be spotless.
He got down on his knees. There was some pain; probably the bruises from when he'd slammed into the pavement after George Weasley had booted him out of the shop. He knew it hurt, but at the same time felt strangely detached from the sensation, as if he had smoked one of Harry's Boudiccas.
That had been a good day. They'd smoked once or twice after that, mostly in Harry's room with the window open. It had never quite tasted like it did that first time, swaying in a giant hammock in the moorland breeze, relaxing after the exertion of flying.
He slapped the wet rag on the stone tiles and began scrubbing. It had been a good day. One of the best. He remembered the osprey they'd seen, how it had screeched at them. He remembered diving down towards the black loch and dragging his hand through cold water.
The rag went back in the bucket, his hand disappearing under the foam. The loch felt icy, like the Great Lake in spring. He splashed a spray of water at Harry, and Harry laughed, pulling his broom up and racing back towards the low-hanging clouds. Draco followed, his broom rising higher and higher until he no longer saw the loch or the glen, only white misty clouds and the tail end of Harry's broom.
It was cold and wet and his hands were growing numb, but who cared when you were having so much fun?
He could just stay here, weaving and diving through the clouds on his broom. He could do it for hours, and if his face and hands lost all sensation, well, that was a good thing, wasn't?
Because it meant that he felt nothing at all.