The fire crackled merrily in the common room, and Draco's chilled fingers immediately relaxed. Harry sprawled inelegantly across his favorite chair – unsurprising, really, for a Sunday afternoon – playing exploding snap with Dean and Seamus. Draco scowled. Harry was smiling that easy smile that he saved for his Gryffindork buddies, the one that never failed to stir the familiar jealousy that roiled in Draco's gut. Harry's smile melted into a frown as he watched; the cards were clearly not going his way. Dean high-fived Seamus, crowing with delight.

Right. Draco firmed his jaw, reminding himself what he had to do. He'd spent the morning sitting with the Thestrals, formulating a plan – and saying goodbye. He thought they'd understood. They'd each nuzzled against his hand for a moment before flying off into the Forbidden Forest. Often, one or two would approach him, especially if he brought treats, but never all of them. Yes. They knew.

Harry looked up; the beginnings of another smile tugged at his lips as he caught sight of Draco. He had to do it now. Before Harry spoke and he lost his nerve.

Draco squared his shoulders and stalked angrily toward Harry. "We need to talk."

Harry shrugged apologetically at Dean and Seamus, who immediately started arguing about which of them had won. "What's up?" he asked, as he attempted to shake some of the wrinkles from his robe.

"Not here," Draco said shortly, offended on behalf of the abused robe. He turned, robe snapping out behind him, and strode back into the corridor. Harry hurried after him, stumbling back when Draco rounded on him the moment them were out of the room. "How could you? I thought —"

"What?" Harry's forehead wrinkled. "Draco… you're not making any sense."

"I suppose it doesn't really matter now," Draco spat. "I hope she's everything you dreamed of!" He turned away. Now. Walk away now, before he has a chance to react.

"Draco —" Harry's voice trembled slightly, and it irritated Draco that the git could still get to him that easily.

Draco rounded on him. "No! You don't get to call me that, Potter, not anymore. You could have at least had the decency to tell me yourself, instead of having your Weasel do it for you. I thought I meant that much to you at least."

"Ron? What does he have to do with it?"

Draco smiled nastily. "I suppose he's not your Weasel now, is he? Or are you fucking both of them?"

"What?"

"Stop pretending, Potter. You're not that dumb – I know that now. I just wish—" He crumpled his robe in his fists, slumping into himself, then forcibly straightened, Malfoy mask descending over his features and turning them cold, impersonal. Like his father's.

"I wish you every happiness," he said stiffly, and turned and stalked away.

Harry ran after him, grasping at his robes. Draco twitched the fabric smoothly out of his fingers.

"What?" he ground out.

Harry was staring at him, confused and horrified.

"Where are you going?"

"Not that it's any of your business, Potter, but I'm going to drown myself in drink until I forget every last lie you sold me – and if that doesn't work, I'll try the Thames."

He turned away, then turned sharply back. "You know, if you'd only had the balls to tell me yourself… I know I'm not worthy of you, all right? Salazar, Potter. I could never, ever, be good enough – but I don't need your goddamn lackeys to remind me! Of course you wouldn't really choose an ex-Death Eater when you could have a war hero. I didn't ever believe you would, really – only I did, didn't I? You made me believe, somehow, and even though I knew it was all a pack of lies I – I bought it anyway. Because I thought that having you for a little while was better than not having you at all. Because I thought I was strong enough.

"But I'm not strong. I have never been strong enough, not when it mattered. And I did the one thing my father made me swear never to do – I let you in. And it turns out he was right.

"But what really gets me about all this isn't that you threw me away – I knew from the start I was disposable. What really gets me is how you could do something like that to Luna. Hasn't the poor girl suffered enough? I thought she was one of you – the war heroes, the shining ones who can do no wrong. How could you hurt her like that?"

And as Harry stood, stunned, Draco turned and walked away.

He packed his trunks, penned a short apology to McGonagall, and walked out the castle doors, toward Hogsmeade. He didn't look back.

He didn't get a drink, in the end. He considered it, but it didn't appeal. He didn't throw himself in the Thames either – though he considered that a bit longer. Instead, he used the floo at the Hog's Head and went first to the Manor – where he had tea with his mother and then hugged her very tightly and told her he loved her – and then flooed to Diagon Alley, walked into the Ministry, and turned himself in.

The very flustered secretary escorted him personally to Kingsley Shacklebolt's office and ushered him in.

Shacklebolt folded his hands and rested his chin on them, once the secretary had slipped out again, leaving them alone. "Now. Mister Malfoy. Tell me what this is all about."

"Minister," Draco inclined his head respectfully. "Sir, I find myself unable to finish out the year at Hogwarts. I ask that you please allow me to serve out the remainder of my original sentence."

Shacklebolt stared at him for a moment, eyes steely. "Your original sentence was a Dementor's kiss, Mister Malfoy," he said flatly.

Draco closed his eyes and swallowed, hard. "Yes, sir."

"And you're telling me you would rather take the kiss than finish out the year at school."

"Yes, sir."

Shacklebolt slapped both palms on the desktop, startling Draco and making him jump. "Good God – Why?"

"It's what I deserve."

Shacklebolt massaged his temples. "You really believe that, don't you?"

"Yes."

He sighed. "You know I don't have that kind of power – your request for a change of sentence will have to go before the Wizengamot. In the meantime, I'm afraid I'll have to lock you up."

Draco nodded, expecting it, and held out his hands. "Oh." He removed his wand and laid it on top of the desk, where it stood out, dull and lifeless against the polished mahogany surface. They both stared at it a moment, then Shacklebolt shook his head and called for an Auror escort.

"Azkaban," he said shortly, when the door opened. "Awaiting trial."

The Auror – a short, squat man with a shaved head and a hard glint in his eyes – grinned and hauled Draco roughly to his feet. "Come on, then."

Draco lowered his eyes and followed meekly. He didn't speak for the duration of the journey, didn't respond to the Auror's taunts and jibes. He'd heard it all before. But when the heavy grate clanked shut behind him, echoing hollowly through the stones, he curled into a ball, rested his head on his knees, and cried.


Morning brought watery light that served only to highlight the years of grime and the same Auror who shoved a bowl of watery gruel through a slot in the cell door, along with several new taunts and insults. Draco ignored the taunts and the food. He certainly wasn't hungry enough to eat that. Yet. He shivered, wondering how long it would take before he was. How long his father had lasted. They didn't bother to replace the food that evening – either prisoners were served only one meal a day or, more likely, they didn't see the point in replacing it if he wasn't going to eat it. Which he wasn't. He was, perhaps, a little less sure of that, after a day of nothing on his stomach… but in the end his pride won out.

He'd gone longer than this without food before, he reminded himself harshly. The thought wasn't comforting, as it only brought those horrid memories to the forefront. And here, in the bleak emptiness of his cell, there was nothing to distract him from them. He spent that night tormented by ghosts, trapped in the prison of his memories.

The second day dawned much like the first – the same watery light, the same grime coating the walls. The same guard. The same watery gruel.

And then the third. They bled into one another, jumbled in his mind with confused images from the war, half-remembered and terrifying. Draco blinked blearily at the door, frowning. He'd thought he heard— There. Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Not the guard, swaggering and beating on the bars as he passed. Powerful footsteps, sure and unhurried. Like his father's.

Draco felt his mouth go dry, and he searched frantically for some sign that he was safe. In Azkaban — not at the manor. His father was dead. Wasn't he? He tried to focus on something – anything – but the world wavered before him, confused and out-of-focus. The footsteps grew nearer.

They stopped outside his door. For a long moment, whoever it was just stood there. Draco strained to see who it was, but the figure's face was shadowed. He frowned. Even without identifying details, the figure looked familiar…

There was an ominous scratching of metal on metal, the creak of hinges badly in need of oil, and then the door opened. The figure didn't move for a moment. Then it extended a hand and let something fall to the floor in front of him. It rolled across the floor of the cell, coming to a stop beside his shoe. It was – it was his wand. He stared at the smooth wood, incredulous, and then up into Harry's unreadable eyes.

"Potter?" he croaked, feeling his inexplicably dry lips splitting, tasting the coppery tang of his own blood on his tongue – and Harry winced and summoned a glass of water.

"Thank you," Draco whispered, after he'd drained the glass, set it beside him on the stone bench. Harry nodded. He didn't speak – just stared, expression unreadable. It made Draco nervous, and he felt all the words he didn't want to say crowding forward on his tongue. He'd always been a babbler when he got nervous. Neither his father nor Voldemort had ever cured him of the habit – not for lack of trying. He jolted back to the present as Harry finally spoke.

"Why?"

Draco frowned. "Because you threw me over for Girl-Weasley?" It seemed reasonable to him. Well, mostly.

Harry stared, forehead wrinkling. "I just don't get it!" he exclaimed, finally. "I thought things were going well – better than. And then, out of nowhere, you up and accuse me of, what, cheating on you with Ginny?"

"Well—"

"And then, because you can't be bothered to actually hear my side of the story, you up and run off – to fucking Azkaban."

Draco winced again. When put that way, it did sound a little crazy. "You see—"

Harry's eyes flashed. "Let. Me. Finish," he bit out. "The Dementor's kiss, Malfoy? Really? Was that really the only thing you could think of? Even if I had decided I wanted Ginny – which I didn't, by the way – how in Merlin's name is that in any way a rational response?"

Draco felt the use of his last name like a physical blow. He couldn't look at Harry any longer, couldn't stand seeing the blazing anger in his eyes. "What are you going to do with me?" he asked, voice small, as he stared at the toes of Harry's shoes. They were scuffed. He really needed to tell him the charm for that.

Harry snorted and the anger drained out of his voice. He knelt down, took Draco's chin in hand and turned his face up. "I'm going to take you home. Idiot," he said fondly.

Draco blinked stupidly up at him. Too much had happened too quickly – he couldn't process the words, couldn't make sense of them. How many days had he been sitting here, without any food? The room shivered and danced before his eyes, and then it was spinning dizzily around him, and Harry faded away… and then everything went black.