Word Count: 682

Easter Egg: Abstract Egg, Day: 27. Draco Malfoy

four months, three weeks and two days

Azkaban was cold. It seemed obvious, but it was a cold like Draco had never felt before, even in the worst of winter seasons. Even the destruction of the Dementors hadn't warmed the place.

He sat, shivering hard, listening to the crashing of the waves against the stone walls. It had been days, weeks, months… it could have been years for all Draco knew. Time didn't seem to have any meaning inside this place.

Food—if it could be called that—was delivered here and there, but Draco had given up trying to measure the days by the deliveries, because he didn't know how often they were fed. Sometimes, he was so hungry, he felt like his insides were crawling, and sometimes, he felt like he'd been overfed, stuffed and uncomfortable for hours.

The threadbare blanket they'd given him was neither use nor ornament, ugly as it was, and he'd stopped bothering trying to warm himself with it. He'd taken to lying on it, with the mattress—lumpy and uncomfortable—over him, to give some element of protection.

It didn't work, but it made him feel marginally better when he clustered himself against the wall with the mattress over him. It almost gave the illusion of safety.

Almost.

…

"Malfoy."

Draco peeked out from behind his mattress. It was up on its side today, like a fort. It had bent easily, and he'd draped the blanket over the top of it, making a little den just for him to curl up in.

The guard was unlocking the metal door, and Draco frowned. He didn't know what was going on, and it was too dim for him to see out into the corridor beyond the guard to see if anyone was there with him.

"I'm going to speak to Kingsley about this place," he heard a voice mutter, and his frown deepened, because he knew that voice. "The conditions, even for prisoners, are disgusting."

"They really are," a female voice replied softly. "I'll help you draft a proper complaint. Kingsley might be our friend, Harry, but he's the Minister. Everything has to be official with things like that."

"I know."

The gate swung open, and a body slipped past the guard into Draco's little cell.

"Draco?"

"Potter?" Draco's voice was croaky, the cold and disuse of it making him sound like someone completely different. "What are you doing here?"

"Come to get you out," Potter replied. "Are you ready to leave?"

"I can go?"

"Yes."

Draco pushed himself to his feet and then faltered. "Where can I go?" he asked, tilting his head. He had nowhere to go. His mother was in France, and the Manor had been claimed as Ministry property to go against the reparations from the Malfoy family. Not that Draco particularly wanted to go back to the Manor anyway.

"You're going to stay with me," Potter replied, his voice firm and warm in a way Draco had heard before but never aimed at him. "Until you're feeling better, and are getting yourself back on your feet. You don't belong here."

"How… how long?"

"Four months, three weeks and two days."

Draco blinked. That was oddly precise.

There was a feminine chuckle from the corridor. "Harry's been fighting to get you out of here for as long as you've been in here," came the explanation. Granger stood in the doorway to the cell. "He's been crossing days off the calendar and everything."

Potter rolled his eyes, and then held his arm out. "If you need a hand, grip on. I don't mind."

Draco hesitated but took the offered arm. He didn't know if he'd be able to walk out under his own power, and it would be more embarrassing to fall than it would be to accept the offered help.

"I can really leave?"

"We're leaving right now," Potter promised.

Draco let himself be led from the cell into the corridor. Slowly, one step at a time, they made their way to the exit.

Draco let himself hope for the first time in… four months, three weeks and two days, apparently.

Hope for warmth.